Would I Lie To You (4 page)

“There you are!”

Babs Michaels stood at the cheap Formica counter of her ramshackle kitchen, artfully arranging slices of cantaloupe on a plate of scrambled eggs and buttery toast. Nate rubbed at his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand and yawned— for a second the sight of a very tanned woman preparing breakfast gave him a weird flashback to when he was a kid. He used to stumble downstairs to the kitchen of his Upper East Side town house to find Cecille, his parents’ Barbadian chef, preparing cinnamon wheat toast or a bowl of Irish oatmeal for him before he headed off to St. Jude’s in the morning.

But he wasn’t a kid, he didn’t have to go to school any-more, and Babs, in her tissue-thin pale purple robe, with her tight, leathery skin, was definitely not Cecille. Besides, he’d already eaten two strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts at his house in Georgica Pond.

“Morning,” Nate muttered, watching suspiciously as Babs set the loaded plate on the table, humming throatily.

“You need a big breakfast today, don’t you, Nate? All that sweating and straining in the hot sun.” She sidled over to Nate, placing her cool hand on his right bicep, which was peeking out of his navy blue Ben Sherman polo.

“R-r-right.” Nate pulled out of her determined grip, tak-ing a seat at the table. He was kind of hungry, and the plate of scrambled eggs and lightly browned toast looked sort of tempting, but even in his early morning stupor, Nate could see where this was headed. He’d start eating, Babs would pour him more orange juice she’d just made from the can, ask him to rub more ointment on her tattoo, then suggest that maybe they should take a soak together in the hot tub that Coach never stopped talking about. And before he knew it, she’d handcuff him to her bed and rub the slimy leftover cantaloupe slices over his naked body or something.

The way to a man’s heart is said to be through his stomach.

The thought of being naked in bed with Babs made Nate completely nauseated, but he could still feel a certain longing in the pit of his stomach. It definitely wasn’t for Babs fluttering around in a purple nylon robe that was barely long enough to cover her half-fit, half-middle-aged-flabby ass, though. It had more to do with the memory of Blair, wearing only the lightest sheen of sweat and lotion, grinning at him naughtily when he discovered her the day before in his extremely gay neighbor’s yard. He’d seen her naked lots of times, but standing there in the broad daylight, her delicate shoulders a little browner that the rest of her, she’d never looked more beautiful. He’d spotted the tiny familiar apple-shaped birthmark on her hip and had had to will himself not to grab her and kiss it.

“What’s the matter, hon?” Babs wondered, stepping behind his chair and leaning over him so that her weirdly hard boobs were sort of rubbing against his upper back. “You’re not hungry this morning?”

Bursting out of his chair as if he’d been electrocuted, Nate’s voice came out much more loudly than he’d planned: “You know, I should, um, well, I need to make a telephone call.”

“A phone call?

“Yeah.” He blushed deeply. “Is that okay? I mean, can I have your permission? I know I’m technically on the job and all.”

“You don’t need my permission,” she whispered. “There’s nothing I would ever forbid you to do, Nate. Nothing.”

“Thanks!” He practically sprinted out of the kitchen and onto the back deck. Fumbling in the deep pocket of his cargo shorts for his Motorola Pebl, he started scrolling through his address book and quickly dialed the first entry: Anthony Avuldsen, his lacrosse teammate and the guy who’d already saved him once that summer, when he’d found him-self entangled in a complicated romance with a hot townie chick who’d turned out to be more trouble than she was worth.

Don’t they all?

Nate was on the verge of hanging up after five rings, when Anthony answered with a friendly, exaggerated shout. “Whassup?”

“Dude.Where are you?”

“On my way to the beach,” Anthony yelled over the car stereo, blasting AC/DC’s “Back in Black” so loud that his phone shook. “Can you hang out?”

Nate stared out at the small, shimmering, rectangular-shaped pool and the slightly overgrown lawn beyond it. The idea of mowing that grass made him want to cry; the thought of turning around and going back into that house and getting molested by Babs made him want to hurl.

Talk about a rock and a hard place.

“Hang out,” Nate repeated slowly. “Yeah, let’s do that. I’m at Coach’s place in the Bays. Pick me up?”

“Pick you up?” screamed Anthony. “Cool, yeah, what-ever. Give me ten minutes.”

Nate shoved the phone back into his pocket and inhaled deeply, steeling his nerves.

“Everything okay?” Babs opened the sliding glass porch door and trotted outside. Her purple robe had come undone and was hanging off her shoulders like a cape, revealing her complicated, lacy, animal-print underthings. They reminded Nate of the kind of bathing suit his eccentric French now-dead grandmother had worn during a family trip to the Turks and Caicos when he was a kid.

Oh, how alluring!

“I’m actually not feeling that well.” He wasn’t even lying, really, since the thought of what might happen if he didn’t get out of there made him feel totally queasy.Wincing in pain— but trying not to overdo it—Nate let out a pathetic cough.

“Poor boy,” she cooed, using one hand to cinch her flimsy robe closed. She placed her other palm against his furrowed brow. “You do feel a little warm.”

Maternal instinct and Basic Instinct—what a disturbing mix.

“Yeah.” he agreed, backing away. “I don’t know if I can tackle the lawn today.”

“No, of course not.We should get you out of those clothes and right into bed. I can make you some nice herbal—”

“I should really just go,” Nate interrupted the disturbing quasi-porno scenario Babs was describing. He didn’t want to trade her Mrs. Robinson fantasies for some skanky nurse setup. “In fact, I think I hear my ride outside.”

“You just rest and take it easy,” Babs cooed. “Don’t you worry about work. I’ll tell Coach you need a rest. He’s wearing you down.”

“Thanks Mrs. M.” Nate nodded gratefully as he bounded off the porch. Forgetting that he was supposed to be sick, he whooped with delight when he heard a car horn and saw Anthony’s black BMW turn recklessly into the coach’s driveway. Saved.

“You sure you’re just playing sick?” Anthony momentarily took his eyes off the road to study Nate, who was sunk low in the cream-colored reclined leather seat, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight with his hand.

“No, dude, I’m fine,” Nate assured him, fiddling with the dashboard vents so that the cool blast of AC was aimed directly at his face. “Babs was just, you know, coming on kind of strong.”

“No shit!” Anthony laughed, turning down the stereo, which was blaring the latest Reigning Sound album. “This I have to fucking hear.”

“Nothing to hear,” Nate mumbled, grinning despite him-self. “Believe me, it’ll give you nightmares for fucking weeks.”

Nate stared out the window at the landscape whizzing by: the fields of green grass, the rich blue sky, the weather-beaten, enormous shingled houses, all of it blurred together, a rush of images he couldn’t separate into their various parts, almost the same way that the summer had been nothing but a stream of various moments he couldn’t separate into distinct events. He sighed. There was just something incredibly depressing about realizing that the only memorable moments of the summer had been a total bust of a party in the city where he’d been abandoned by his date, and yesterday, when he’d caught Blair and Serena skinny-dipping or whatever the hell they were doing.

“I saw Blair Waldorf and Serena van der Woodsen naked yesterday,” Nate announced suddenly, reaching for the joint he had prerolled and stashed in somebody’s leftover pack of Marlboros that morning. He rolled down the window and lit it up.

“Threesome?” Anthony asked, nodding at Nate to hand him one of the cigarettes. “You are one lucky fucker.”

Nate shook one loose and passed it to his left. “Nah,” he explained, though a very intriguing mental picture was starting to take shape in his head.

Oh, really?

“They were, like, skinny-dipping in my neighbor’s yard,” he continued, exhaling a cloud of pot smoke out the window. “It was so weird.”

“Skinny-dipping?” repeated Anthony, deftly lighting his cigarette and making a left turn at the same time. “No shit.”

“Blair, man, she’s just . . .” Nate trailed off as the image of Blair, naked, a little sweaty, laughing at him, clouded his vision. He just wanted to hold her again.

“I hear you, dude,” Anthony agreed, nodding vigorously. “I mean, you’ve got, like, a thing. And it’s our last summer. It’s like . . . fucking carpe fucking diem, right?”

“Carpe diem....”Nate pondered this. Seize the day. He took another deep drag and swallowed, closing his eyes. Carpe fucking diem. What an idea. It was downright . . . inspiring. He turned and smiled appreciatively at Anthony. He was a genius.

Or maybe he was just high?

“Seriously, man,” Anthony continued, holding the roach. “I’ve been telling you, haven’t I? It’s time to get serious about having a good time.”

Nate nodded. It was time for him to get serious about having a good time. Fuck Coach Michaels and his horny wife, fuck the lawn, and fuck responsibility. He was going to seize the fucking day.

And maybe someone else, too.

FROM: Steve N.

TO:

Subject: Re: Announcing Inaugural Meeting,

Song of Myself (Manhattan)

Date: 9 July, 16:37:07

To whom it may concern:

It was with great delight that I read your announcement. I desperately want to be surrounded by like-minded peers who are as passionately devoted to the power of the written word as I am.

In the spirit of true iconoclasm, I decline to answer any of your questions. I suspect that you’re only really interested in independent spirits who aren’t willing to submit to your silly queries. Rest assured, I live by the book and I shall die by the book.

Regards,

Steve

FROM: Cassady Byrd

TO:

Subject: Re: Announcing Inaugural Meeting,

Song of Myself (Manhattan)

Date: 9 July, 20:04:39

I couldn’t believe it when I saw your posting. Right on, motherfuckers! I’m really looking forward to getting together and talking . . . maybe more!!!!

My fave verb is “to love.” My least fav verb is “to hate.” You’re gonna hate how much you love me. Burp!

My pic is attached. . . .

xoxo

CB (aka Charlotte Brontë)

FROM: Bosie

TO:

Subject: Re: Announcing Inaugural Meeting,

Song of Myself (Manhattan)

Date: 9 July, 22:31:14

Saw your ad. Violently intrigued.

My favorite books:

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde Interview with the Vampire, Anne Rice

Favorite movie: Party Monster starring Macaulay Culkin

Favorite song: “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed

Favorite word: Bite

Least favorite word: Choke

I bit him and choked.

As you can see from my pic, I’m a guy who likes to dress up.

“Here we are!” announced Ms. Morgan as she navigated her cream-colored Mercedes into a circular pale-pink crushed-seashell driveway.

Finally. After a grueling four hours stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway, they had finally arrived at the James-Morgan-Grossmans’ gray-shingled nouveau-Victorian Amagansett mansion. Vanessa stepped anxiously out of the car, feeling the foreign crunch of the seashells under her feet. The sky overhead was turning a dusky sunset pink, and the air smelled like a far-off barbecue and freshly mown grass. She felt a sudden wave of relief—maybe getting out of the city really was just what she needed.

Ms. Morgan stepped ahead of her, pushing the heavy antiquered front door open. The boys scrambled inside, jostling Vanessa, who was smiling goofily at nothing in particular. Not that Vanessa cared about these things, or usually even noticed, but she couldn’t help but gape at, well, all of it. The double-height windows framing the front entryway. The preppy blue-and-white nautical-striped bins filled with beach supplies just inside the front door. The massive living room spilling out in front of her. The inviting turquoise pool just beyond it. It was all so unlike her—but then again, every-thing that was like her had totally sucked lately. Maybe she should embrace the easy, sunny life that was right here, right in front of her? Maybe all that dark thinking wasn’t helping anything?

Vanessa followed the boys into the massive kitchen, where Ms. Morgan was checking the notes the maid, gardener, and pool boy had left behind. Everything was so . . . taken care of. Vanessa could just see the hot summer days ahead of her: Reading The New Yorker poolside, occasionally stopping to photograph its glistening surface in black and white. She’d trot inside and fix herself a smoked gouda sandwich from the stocked kitchen, then eat it while wandering the perimeter of the well-manicured property, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Home, sweet home.

“Mommmmmeeeeee, we’re hunnnnggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry,” Edgar whined, snapping Vanessa out of her reverie. Oh right, them.

“Vanessa will fix you something.” Ms. Morgan smiled and patted his head, without bothering to glance at her.

“Right. Sure.” Vanessa set down her black army-navy duffel bag on the polished blond-wood floor and opened the heavy stainless-steel fridge. Inside were piles of fresh produce, containers of orzo salad, and curried salmon filets garnished with yellow currants. Where were the cold leftover chicken nuggets, or at least the PB and J?

Behind her, Edgar and Nils began a wrestling match in the middle of the floor. Vanessa usually let them do this, hoping they would tire themselves out like the puppies she’d once filmed at the Union Square dog run. She’d been hoping to catch a dogfight or see one of those rat-eating hawks the city had released swoop down to pick up a Chihuahua, but had been forced to settle for puggle playtime instead. She figured that eventually the boys would flop onto their backs like the dogs, their tongues hanging out to the side, panting.

“Boys!” Ms. Morgan barked, and then smoothed her knife-pleated khakis. Her ivory tank top was trimmed with a thick brown satin sash. Looking at her weirdly taut face and defined cheekbones, it was hard to tell if she was thirty-two or fifty-five. “You can head upstairs to get ready for dinner.”

She turned back to Vanessa, the wooden heels of her huarache sandal wedges clacking on the floor. “Vanessa, we’ll be having the salmon filets, and if you could just throw together a little fresh salad, maybe a dill-yogurt sauce for the fish? That would be lovely.”

Wait. Throw together? What did Vanessa look like, the . . . the ...

Help? Oh. Right. Except she’d never cooked anything but boiled ziti with jarred Ragu in her life.

“You got it,” Vanessa told her as she started searching for dill in the produce drawer. Upstairs she could hear the boys making explosion noises and then screaming. She turned around to hold up a pile of leafy herbs—was this dill? cilantro? crab-fucking-grass?—when she was met with a frightening sight.

Ms. Morgan’s pale, skinny, dimpled ass. Oh. My. God. Vanessa quickly swiveled around again. Even with the refrigerated air hitting her in the face, she could feel her cheeks burning. Loudly clearing her throat—had Ms. Morgan just forgotten she was there or what?—she turned back, holding the herbs directly in front of her face.

She peeked out from behind the greens only to see her employer, arms akimbo, standing in only her wooden huarache sandals, a sheer applered thong, and a lacy black bra.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Um, no, of course not.” Vanessa began a sudden, uncharacteristic cuticle examination. Her hands sure were rough! But she couldn’t help sneaking a sidelong glance as Ms. Morgan, liberated woman of the twenty-first century, tugged off her bra and let it fall, oh-so-casually, onto the arm of a kitchen chair.

Vanessa willed herself to look her boss in the face. “Um, could you excuse me for a second? I’d like to put my things in my room.” She had to get out of there.

“Top of the third staircase.” Ms. Morgan started rooting around in her monogrammed canvas boat bag, presumably for something to wear.

Let’s hope so!

Vanessa threw her army-navy-store duffel over her shoulder and took the wide wooden staircase two steps at a time. She tried to shake the image of Ms. Morgan’s thong from her mind. Who even wore thongs, besides overeager thirteen-year-olds who liked them peeking out above their low-rise jeans?

Tres passé.

And whatever happened to boundaries? It was as if Vanessa were the family cat, not an actual human being. She needed to be back in the real world, among people who respected her and didn’t just act like she was a piece of furniture. She’d been in the picture-perfect Hamptons for no more than fifteen minutes, and she was already ready to leave.

Arriving at the third set of stairs, Vanessa climbed toward her attic suite. At least she’d have some privacy and maybe even a little luxury up here, right? She reached the top step, and glanced around, looking for a door she could shut. But no, the stairs went straight into the attic-room, where the pitched ceiling was so low, she had to duck to step inside. What.The. Fuck.

Taking heaving, pseudocalming breaths, she walked straight down the middle of the hot, stuffy room—the only possible route she could take without ducking. She dropped her bag on the floor and tried to push the one small window open. Stuck. More than stuck. Painted shut. Shit, shit, shit.

Vanessa stripped off her suddenly sweaty faded black T-shirt and unzipped her duffel. She pushed aside her hair trimmers and the yellow-and-black bumble-bee-striped one-piece bathing suit that she’d swiped from Jenny’s underwear drawer, looking for her black ribbed cotton tank top.

“Great, you found it.”

She turned to see Ms. Morgan, now thankfully wearing a white sundress, standing at the top of the attic stairs. Good, she was dressed.Vanessa, unfortunately, was not.

This wasn’t quite the hot summer she’d had in mind.

Air Mail - Par Avion - July 10

Hey Dan!

How’s everything going in the city? I loooooove Prague. I’ve been spending my afternoons at little outdoor cafés, pretending to sketch but really checking out all the European boys—I mean sights! (There’s no harm in looking, right?) So really the only thing I miss is you and Dad. Please write back. Don’t worry, you don’t have to send a novel, just a few lines. Knowing you, you’ll probably send a haiku.

Love you!

Jenny