But tell me all about tonight, promise?
“I promise,” I say. “I will narrate fully and even act out entire dialogues.”
“Good.”
After minute of quiet I hold up a dress for potential wearing then put it back in the closet — too plain. Then another one — too little black dress, not enough interest. “If you liked someone, though, would you tell them?”
Arabella asks. “Why, considering doing that yourself?”
I shrug, even though I am considering that — always considering that, actually. I could tell Charlie my lingering feelings despite his couple status with Hippie Beautiful Mike or I could just march up to Henry and tell him he’d be a first on my list of casual hook-ups, or even call Jacob, profess my feelings and see what happens, but it’s all too dramatic for me, all too much attention-seeking. Or fear. Or whatever.
“You mean if I had the kind of crushes you do? On whom?”
“I don’t know — on anyone — what if you liked….” I can’t think of anyone whose name doesn’t carry weight.
“Fine — say I liked Henry? Would I blab about how I feel?” Arabella squints. “Never!” She stands up on her bed so she can check out her whole body and outfit in the mirror — it’s the only way to approximate a full-length mirror in the apartment. “Whoever the guy is, if he wants me, he knows where to find me. Otherwise, forget it. I chased Toby all over the place, I’m not about to make that same mistake again.”
“Fair enough,” I say. And I’m glad for her. I am. The thought does occur to me that maybe she does actually like Henry but won’t admit it — even to me. And the reality is that she and Henry make much more sense together than he and I would. He’s much more in the game and center of attention than I usually go for, and he’s got that money issue lurking in the background. Not that I’m convinced I’ll wind up with someone who is penniless, but somehow it feels like we’d click better, have a better understanding of the real world. Or maybe that I wouldn’t have to blend into his world, or he into mine, we’d just sort of meet in the middle.
“Promise me I can do you hair before you leave?” Arabella asks when she’s near the door.
“Yes, fairy god mother, I’ll stop by the café on my way out,” I curtsy for no reason.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” she says and then she leaves me alone so I can pick some music to put on, so I can get ready for the dinner party, so I can admit to myself that I am actually hoping for some kind of romantic evening — not a lot, just a little. Is that so much to ask?
Chapter Eight
The entrance to The Manor Club is marked by a two enormous white statues. Curved and smoothed to polished perfection, they are meant to look like two curved hands welcoming you inside the property. Welcoming you in, that is, if your personal worth is upward of one hundred million and your family name is known in the business sections of The New York Times or financial papers worldwide. Staring at the white comma-shaped behemoths now, I think that they are far from resembling hands (even though yes, art is open to interpretation): instead they resemble fangs.
Set back from the ocean with lawns enough to play football (though that would be most unacceptable), The Manor Club is host to many an island wedding and gala event. That Henry is having a dinner party here shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Money seems to bite me in the back when I’m least expecting it, or when I nod off — like with the Hadley students who hang out at lunch and eat the same crappy deli meats as I do but then when spring break roles around they’re not holed up watching reruns like I am, they’re off jet-setting to Istanbul or Ibitha. Even Arabella every once in a while seems plucked form another (more profitable) planet.
The wind swirls my thin dress around my legs and I pull my gauzy wrap close to my shoulders as I walk in between the white fang
“I promise,” I say. “I will narrate fully and even act out entire dialogues.”
“Good.”
After minute of quiet I hold up a dress for potential wearing then put it back in the closet — too plain. Then another one — too little black dress, not enough interest. “If you liked someone, though, would you tell them?”
Arabella asks. “Why, considering doing that yourself?”
I shrug, even though I am considering that — always considering that, actually. I could tell Charlie my lingering feelings despite his couple status with Hippie Beautiful Mike or I could just march up to Henry and tell him he’d be a first on my list of casual hook-ups, or even call Jacob, profess my feelings and see what happens, but it’s all too dramatic for me, all too much attention-seeking. Or fear. Or whatever.
“You mean if I had the kind of crushes you do? On whom?”
“I don’t know — on anyone — what if you liked….” I can’t think of anyone whose name doesn’t carry weight.
“Fine — say I liked Henry? Would I blab about how I feel?” Arabella squints. “Never!” She stands up on her bed so she can check out her whole body and outfit in the mirror — it’s the only way to approximate a full-length mirror in the apartment. “Whoever the guy is, if he wants me, he knows where to find me. Otherwise, forget it. I chased Toby all over the place, I’m not about to make that same mistake again.”
“Fair enough,” I say. And I’m glad for her. I am. The thought does occur to me that maybe she does actually like Henry but won’t admit it — even to me. And the reality is that she and Henry make much more sense together than he and I would. He’s much more in the game and center of attention than I usually go for, and he’s got that money issue lurking in the background. Not that I’m convinced I’ll wind up with someone who is penniless, but somehow it feels like we’d click better, have a better understanding of the real world. Or maybe that I wouldn’t have to blend into his world, or he into mine, we’d just sort of meet in the middle.
“Promise me I can do you hair before you leave?” Arabella asks when she’s near the door.
“Yes, fairy god mother, I’ll stop by the café on my way out,” I curtsy for no reason.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” she says and then she leaves me alone so I can pick some music to put on, so I can get ready for the dinner party, so I can admit to myself that I am actually hoping for some kind of romantic evening — not a lot, just a little. Is that so much to ask?
Chapter Eight
The entrance to The Manor Club is marked by a two enormous white statues. Curved and smoothed to polished perfection, they are meant to look like two curved hands welcoming you inside the property. Welcoming you in, that is, if your personal worth is upward of one hundred million and your family name is known in the business sections of The New York Times or financial papers worldwide. Staring at the white comma-shaped behemoths now, I think that they are far from resembling hands (even though yes, art is open to interpretation): instead they resemble fangs.
Set back from the ocean with lawns enough to play football (though that would be most unacceptable), The Manor Club is host to many an island wedding and gala event. That Henry is having a dinner party here shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Money seems to bite me in the back when I’m least expecting it, or when I nod off — like with the Hadley students who hang out at lunch and eat the same crappy deli meats as I do but then when spring break roles around they’re not holed up watching reruns like I am, they’re off jet-setting to Istanbul or Ibitha. Even Arabella every once in a while seems plucked form another (more profitable) planet.
The wind swirls my thin dress around my legs and I pull my gauzy wrap close to my shoulders as I walk in between the white fang
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