Dreamland by Sarah Dessen

he said, pounding me on the back. “Watch out there. Sorry about that.”
    â€œWhat is that?” I said, still coughing.
    â€œBreath spray,” he said, shooting two quick squirts into his own mouth. “Breakfast of champions.”
    â€œNext time,” I told him, still coughing, “warn me.”
    â€œGotcha,” he said. “Let’s go.”
    We got out of the car and started up the driveway, walking around three Mercedes and a Jaguar on the way. As we walked Rogerson was making fast business of tucking in his shirt and smoothing back his hair. This struck me as funny, for some reason.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked him. Everything seemed kind of fuzzy and mild, as if I was actually standing off to the side watching but not really involved.
    â€œIt’s the hair,” he said seriously, pulling it back at the base of his neck and fastening it with something. “It scares them.”
    I laughed out loud and it sounded strange, fast and sharp: Ha! “Scares who?” I said.
    And at that moment he reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it just as above us, up the rolling curve of the thick green lawn, the huge front door opened and I saw Bobbi Biscoe, star of a million For Sale signs, standing there. Up close, I could see she had the same dark coloring as Rogerson—I found out later that she was Greek—and the same thick, curly hair.
    â€œRogerson Biscoe!” she called out. She was smiling but her voice sounded angry, irritated, and the contrast was strange. Rogerson pulled me close to him, locking his fingers tighter into mine. “Where have you been?”
    â€œMom,” Rogerson said.
    â€œYou were supposed to be here to meet and greet,” she scolded him between clenched teeth—still smiling—as we got closer. She was in a short black cocktail dress and heels and in person she looked older than her picture. There was a half ring of pink lipstick on the mouth of the glass in her hand, which she took another big gulp of as she narrowed her eyes at Rogerson. “Your father is not pleased, and for once I do not feel like sticking up for you when—”
    â€œMom,” Rogerson said again, calmly, “this is Caitlin O’Koren.”
    She looked at me quickly, as if she hadn’t even noticed I was standing there, then made no secret of looking up and down once, as if sizing me up.
    â€œIs Margaret O’Koren your mother?” she asked me, and I swallowed hard, aware of how dry my mouth was.
    â€œYes,” I said, standing up straighter. “She is.”
    She nodded, finishing off her drink and reaching around her back to stick it on a small table behind her, then took her fingers and fluffed a small piece of hair over her forehead, drawing it out. “Well, come in, then,” she said to Rogerson in a tired voice, pushing the door the rest of the way open. “He’s in there.”
    The house was enormous, the entryway opening up into a huge room with high cathedral ceilings, where the voices of the fifty or so people chatting and eating canapes rose up and mingled overhead into one musical sort of buzz. There was a thick pack of people straight ahead of us, all centered around an older man with ruddy skin who was holding a drink and appeared to be telling a joke that hadn’t yet reached the punch line.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Rogerson said into my ear, then let go of my hand and started down the stairs, leaving me there. There was a sudden loud burst of laughter as the joke finished, and then his mother appeared at my elbow.
    â€œCaitlin, honey, come help check on the spinach phyllo,” she said smoothly, hooking her arm in mine and walking me down a short hallway to the kitchen, where a group of people in white shirts and black ties were all bustling around arranging fruit and cheese on various platters. Everything seemed to be going in fast forward, while I felt like I