The Real Real (24 page)
face. “And I’m going to have the hottest date there.” I squeeze her knee. “But remember, you can’t tell anyone who’s hosting it—”
“Can I say a
certain
hip-hop mogul? A
certain
hip-hop mogul with a penchant for changing his name?” I laugh, nodding. “I’m so psyched. To be an actual guest at one 246
of those mansions instead of helping my cousin cater. I’m going to take two of everything and look every server in the eye when I say thank you. Oh God, I think I’m getting sick.” She rubs her throat. “Or we talked that much this weekend.”
“We talked that much this weekend,” I confirm.
“I don’t want to go.” She drops her head to the dashboard. “It sucks not having you to take breaks with.”
“Tell me about it! Mine consist of me wedged between Trisha’s cleavage and Jase’s cologne. Factor in Trisha’s new obsession with American Spirits, and it’s like every day is Casino Day.”
Caitlyn’s boss pulls the eyelet curtain back in the front window, fingering her three-stranded pearls as she peers out at us.
“Ugh. Call you later.” Caitlyn leans over for a quick hug and gets out. I grin as she rounds the car, waving to her boss with a false cheer only I can detect, and shift the gear into drive. But Caitlyn slaps her forehead before she makes it inside and comes running back over. I lower my window.
“I forgot! I got this for you, like, last November. Sorry it’s a little rumpled—and dusty.” She digs in her bag before dropping a package wrapped in paper with illustrations of ladybugs into my lap. “The plastic package said it was called Happy Bugs. That’s the name of the paper. The paper has a name and it’s Happy Bugs.”
“They look happy.” I reach up through the opened 247
window to hug her. “Thank you!”
“I want
that
job.” She holds on to the shoulder strap of her bag with both hands and jogs backward up to the store. “I want to get paid big bucks to give titles to wrapping paper. I want to judge its emotions.”
“You’re the
best
best friend!” I yell.
She does a little bow and pushes inside.
Shifting the gear back to park, I carefully open the paper, separating it from itself along the clear tape so that I can save it in my Caitlyn box. Catching sight of the white Georgetown logo, I shake out the navy-blue T-shirt in front of me. I whip off my seat belt, shrug out of my jacket, and pull it on. As my head clears the collar, I see her smiling in the window with a feather duster in hand. I cross my arms over my heart and mouth, “I love it!”
She gives me a thumbs-up in front of her chest and then returns to dusting the pastel bonnets on display with a comical amount of care.
Pulling back into Main Street, I see my reflection in the rearview. For a second it’s unfamiliar . . . because I’m not wearing makeup? Or jewelry?
Because I’m a Happy Bug.
“
Nice shirt, Georgetown.”
I pivot in my Tretorns, shielding my eyes against the rising sun bouncing off the car hoods in the Stop & Shop lot, to see Drew jogging up with his red apron in hand. I quickly dart my tongue across my teeth, checking for Eggo flakes. Cleared to smile, I pull the fabric away from my abdomen, to tilt the emblem up to him. “You like? Caitlyn gave it to me a week ago, and I haven’t taken it off since.”
“Tasty.” He laughs.
“I figure as long as I have another T-shirt under it I’m good.”
“You should totally wear that to the finale party tomorrow.”
“I’m sure Fletch would love that. So, what’s with the park job?” I point to where his Lexus sits by its lonesome way over near the drive-through ATM.
“No one ever parks over there—so it should stay nick-free. I’m getting money from that thing, even if it’s a year from now.” He cups the brim of his baseball hat. “But not having to drive me to work frees up my mom. And I can bring groceries home; there’s only so much you can balance on handlebars.”
“Kara didn’t quit your job for you, too?”
“No such luck. I will be gladly bagging through the summer.” He falls into step with me. “Sweet day.”
I lift my bare arms to the sun. “I never thought I’d count natural light in my Top Ten List of Awesome.”
He laughs. “And personal space. And my own clothes.
And, oh, this is my new favorite, watching
other
people do stuff on TV.”
“You too?” I stop short.
“Anything.” He folds his arms over his T-shirt. “Renovate a kitchen. Raise a dog. Solve a murder.”
“Yes!” I reach out and we high-five as a minivan rolls past, the father scanning for a space, the kids scanning us.
“I’m having a weird thing for the Food Network. Nobody talks about shopping or who they hung out with or what party they’re going to. Just beat an egg and layer it over the Robiola.”
He leans into a stray grocery cart. “Hop on. I’ll coast you the final mile.” I step onto the back rail, and he rolls 250
me toward the double doors. “Truth: Are you here for the
OK!
?” he asks.
“I just want to see how the photo shoot came out.”
“What’d you have to do?”
“I was on a horse in full Hermès dressage gear.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“Oh, it was. Especially when Fletch’s cell rang at air-raid volume, spooking the horse, and I was then on a big pile of shit in full Hermès dressage gear. I’m still bruised.”
“That sucks. Get this, I heard Trisha’s publicist dude insisted they shoot her at the nature preserve to show how ‘environmentally friendly’ she is. The whole thing’s ridiculous. And yet my mom wants copies for every family member. She’s more excited about this than my Stony Brook aid coming through.”
“Wooo!” I jump off the cart. “You got it?”
“Yup.” His cheeks redden. “A cross-country scholarship.”
“Drew! That’s so great!” Before I know it I’ve thrown my arms around him. And his are around me. And here we are. I smell the spice of his deodorant and the salt of the skin on his warm neck.
“Thanks,” he says into my hair.
“Yeah.” I reluctantly pull back. “Of course, I mean, I’m so happy for you. You know, because you’re my friend.”
“Right,” he says, fingers resting on my elbows. Here, next to the handful of candy for twenty-five cents machine and the free
PennySaver
. “Jess . . . ” He leans into me, his 251
nose practically touching mine.
“Yes?”
“Race you to the magazines—loser buys all.” He takes off across the parking lot with me at his heels.
Ten minutes later, I have my solitary copy tucked under one arm, while Drew lugs two stuffed plastic bags behind me as we amble toward my Lexus.
“You want a lift to the hinterlands?” I ask as I press the unlock button, hoping my
whatever
tone masks my eagerness to get him in my car.
“Just ’cause you won, doesn’t make me a weakling.” He lifts the straining plastic and makes a muscle. But then he opens the passenger door as I open mine and we both get in. He lowers the bags to his feet as I start the car and ease back out of the spot.
“So . . . let’s see what the real stars of the
Real Hampton
are like!” He slides my copy onto his lap and flips through as I drive us over to his car. “Wow, it’s long. Aw, look at Trisha, sad and naked on a moss bed.”
“It’s her eating disorder. She goes there to think about it. Naked.”
“No way! Jase with a surfboard? That kid never went surfing a day in his life.”
“You’re kidding! Let me see.” I brake to a stop behind his car and lean over the armrest. He slides the page to my lap, and all at once our heads are side by side.
He turns to me as I stare down at the shiny picture, not 252
seeing it, too acutely aware of how close he is. How can he not feel this?
And then I watch as his right hand releases the magazine and lifts to turn my cheek to him. Is this it? Is he going to? His lips land tentatively on mine. Oh my God—
this is it. We’re really—we’re kissing. Deeply kissing. And everything that has come before slips away. My hands reach up around his neck, his hands spread to slide around me. We can’t get close enough.
And suddenly—ringing—Drew’s cell.
“Sorry.” He heavily exhales into my hair, and I don’t want him to let me go. But his hands slip from my lower back. He looks past me and across the crowding lot to a man in a red vest standing outside the entrance talking angrily into his cell and staring straight at us. “Shit. That’s my boss. I gotta get in there.”
“Yes, go,” I manage.
His cheeks flushed, he pulls out his keys from his pocket and pops his trunk with his key chain. I force myself to sit back in my seat. Even though what I want to do is rip off my Georgetown shirt. Rip off my everything.
“I’m sorry I’ve gotta go.” You are? How sorry? This-is-no-longer-complicated sorry? We’re-more-than-friends sorry? He opens the door, gets out, and flings the bags into his trunk. He jogs around to the driver’s side, and I lower the window as he asks, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the party?”
“That’s my contractually obligated plan.”
“And we could hang out after?” He smiles deliciously.
“I think we should, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah.” I nod rapidly.
“Take in some Food Network?”
Or get naked. Whatever. “Sure!”
He reaches in to slide his finger gently across my lips.
“Cool.”
“Cool,” I say, breathless.
Grinning broadly, he pivots to jog away. “Hey, O’Rourke, I’m glad we finally got that straightened out!”
he yells up to the sky.
Wow. WOW! I tug out my phone to call Caitlyn—then realize I have to pull out of the lot or it’ll look like I’m waiting for him.
I rest the magazine on the steering wheel and, putting the car in drive, maneuver to the exit. Mesmerized by the spread I idle there, waiting for the light to change. Surreal.
There we all are. But it’s like I’m looking at other people.
People who are in magazines. God,
are
my boobs uneven?
I turn the page to see a huge headline across a shot of me leaving the lunch buffet in Mexico. My stomach is circled like a football replay.
Jesse O’Rourke pregnant with Jase
McCaffrey’s baby!
My whole body goes cold all at once. I look up to see in my rearview my last glimpse of Drew smiling as he waves good-bye to me from the sliding door.
“Jesse?”
I lift my head from my knees to look at the crack of 254
light coming in under my closed closet door. “Yeah?”
Dad clears his throat. “Are you . . . uh, pregnant?”
“Dad, no!” I push the door open and blink into the slanting afternoon sunshine, my eyes adjusting to see him leaning against my bed, tie askew. “Did Mom call you at work? Oh my God!”
“Can you come out?”
“No,” I say, back to my small voice. The pull is too strong to remain here, tucked in where no one can take a picture of me and say it’s something else. I just need to stay here. Here with my clothes rubbing the top of my head and my shoes piled around me, a bag of old stuffed animals at my back. Here feels good—better. Better than out there.
“Jess . . . ” Dad rubs the bridge of his nose. “Hiding in the closet is not a solution.”
“Okay,” I murmur, returning my forehead to my knees.
I reach out to pull the door closed, but he leans over and catches the knob.
“We need to talk about this.”
“Really, Dad, really, do we need to talk about
this
?” I hug my legs tightly.
Silence.
I turn my head to rest my cheek on my knee and look out at him. “Did you read it?”
He tilts his head. “Did you?”
“No. Mom was already crying on the phone with Aunt Pat when I got home so I just ran up here, where I intend 255
to stay until I’m dead. Fuck the finale.”
“Jesse.”
“So?” We both turn to see Mom appear at the top of the stairs, a tumbler of Maker’s Mark in one hand, the magazine in the other, and the phone under her arm.
“We’ve got the closet door opened.” Dad waves her in.
“And I’m not pregnant.”
Her shoulders slump in relief. “Jesse, I just need to know.” Mom walks over to him and sets the phone on the bed. “Why you would tell
this
to a magazine. All these sexual details. Why would you think that’s appropriate?”
“I told them I want to major in psychology and my favorite movie is
Don Juan DeMarco
! I never talked to them about . . . about something that didn’t even happen!”
“So you didn’t, uh, sleep with Jase McCaffrey?” Dad purses his lips and asks the ceiling. Kill me.
“No, I did not sleep with Jase McCaffrey,” I moan.
They both stare me down, question marks in their eyes.
“Or anyone! Please, just
please
leave me alone.” I pull the door closed.
“Jesse!” Mom screeches with exasperation.
“Can’t!” I yell back.
“Fine! Fine.”
I feel something getting shoved under the door into the side of my Tretorn. “Then you read it and tell me what I’m supposed to tell Aunt Pat and everyone else,” Mom says curtly from the other side of the wood.
I wait a moment for them to leave and then snake my hand up through my shirts to feel for the little metal clip on the light string. Tugging it, the bulb clicks on, the yellow light filtering down to where I’m crammed into the free inches of floor space. I push the hanger of skirts back as hard as I can, and a shaft falls directly onto my lap.
Nauseous, I turn the shiny pages past
real
celebrities doing
real
things—like revealing their cellulite in the Maui surf and holding Macchiatos in parking lots. I get to the photo spread and stare at the shot of Drew leaning against Ralph Lauren’s pool table. Drew and his family and his forty-two copies.
I turn the page.
And here I am. Straddling that horse in a way that is downright unseemly. My eyes dance over the page, not wanting to land on any of it. “A source close to Jesse says that when things got too hot in Cancun—” A
source
? What source? I’ve never talked about Jase. “The two shared illicit nights of steamy passion. The source says Jesse readily admits that ‘she played Drew, using him just to get to Jase.’ Jesse also called her costar ‘one big cell of testosterone’ and ‘just what she thought she needed.’”