Great (19 page)

“You don't believe me?” she asked, sounding crushed.

“Of course
I
believe you! But who do you think they're going to come looking for first?”

Jacinta shook her head vigorously. “Delilah will give herself up,” she said. “She'll tell the truth. Her father will get a good lawyer, and she'll tell the truth and no one will get in trouble. It was an accident.”

“Jacinta, Delilah was drunk.”

“She wasn't
that
drunk,” Jacinta said defensively. “No one can prove she was drunk.”

“Giovanni knows how much she had to drink,” I said. “You really think he's going to lie for the girl who almost killed his girlfriend?”

“I'll say she wasn't drunk,” Jacinta said. “I'll say he's lying and she wasn't drunk and the bike came out of nowhere and she was scared and it was an accident and that's all there was to it. That's the truth.”

“That's not the truth,” I said.

“Yes it is!” she nearly shouted. “That's what I'll tell them and they won't know any different and that makes it the truth!”

I rubbed my temples. I was beginning to develop the kind of headache that usually only happened when I read a book while riding in a car.

“We should both go home,” I said. “I'm calling a cab.”

“I'm staying here,” she said resolutely. “I need to be nearby in case Delilah needs me. I told her to call me if she needs me and I'll be over right away.”

“How are you going to get home?”

“I'll wait and see if she calls me. If she doesn't, I'll get a cab.”

I was quiet for a long moment, looking at her while she looked at Delilah's hulking, enormous house in the distance.

“Okay,” I finally said. “I'm leaving. Just—text me when you get home, okay?” I wasn't sure exactly why I still cared about this girl who had lied to me all summer, but there was something in me that believed in her, that wanted to see her win—whatever that meant.

“Sure,” Jacinta said without taking her eyes off the house.

I left her there, in the darkness, my way off the property lit by the late-summer full moon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
managed to sleep, thanks to this stuff my mom has called valerian root. It smells awful, but it works. She wasn't home, so I went into her bathroom and got one of her two medicine kits. She's got an herbal one with hippie-dippie stuff and then a regular one with pills. The valerian root was in the first one. I fell asleep in the living room with a cable news network on. I just needed something to keep me company.

I woke with a start the next morning and saw my mother's face on the morning news. Flanked by her business partners, she was ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange.

“And just moments ago, cooking and lifestyle guru Anne Rye celebrated the initial public offering of stock in Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.,” the news anchor said over footage of my mother ringing the bell. “But the Food Network star and frequent morning talk show guest wasn't the only one to benefit from her company's IPO. Everyone on the floor at the NYSE this morning was treated to a cupcake buffet—a first in the Stock Exchange's more than two centuries of existence.” And there was a shot of my mother serving cupcakes to an endless line of smiling men in dark suits.

I felt a tiny bit of pride well up within me, and for a moment I was kind of psyched for her. I could say a lot of things about my mother, but I couldn't say she was lazy. The woman worked harder than almost anyone I knew, even my dad—and he was utterly devoted to his students and players.

When the segment on my mom was over, I flipped the channel to the local news, turning it up loud so that I could hear it when I padded into the kitchen. It droned on in the background while I made coffee. It was just white noise until I heard the anchor say, “And in Long Island news, a Babylon girl critically injured last night in a hit-and-run in East Hampton died early this morning.” I rushed back into the living room and saw a high school yearbook photo of Misti flash across the screen. “Nineteen-year-old Misti Carretino was riding her bicycle along Route 27 when an unknown driver . . .” I sank into the couch and watched the rest of the report.

“Shit,” I whispered. I grabbed my phone and texted Jacinta,
Misti died.
I knew I should feel something for Misti, and I
did
, but the stronger emotion churning inside me was a growing sense of alarm about Jacinta. What was she going to do?

I know,
came the immediate reply.
Am watching news. Come over.

I threw on an outfit that would've given my mother nightmares (ratty T-shirt and drawstring shorts that said “HOT” on the butt—Skags got them for me as a seventeenth-birthday present as a joke). When Jacinta let me into her house, I was surprised to see that she was basically wearing the same thing—a frayed Seminoles T-shirt and what looked like a pair of old gym shorts. They hung so loosely on her lean frame that I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd fallen off in front of me. Jacinta's hair was messy, and she wore no makeup. She looked like the world's tallest, palest eleven-year-old.

“Hi,” she said, sounding tired. “I made breakfast.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said. “I didn't eat yet.” We walked through various rooms, their glamorous luster dimmed somewhat in the daytime, and reached her magnificent kitchen. On the table, she'd laid out two bowls, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice, a carton of milk, and three boxes of cereal.

“Oh,” I said. “How nice.” I realized that I sounded the way my mother sounds when she wants to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation.

“I love cereal,” Jacinta said, dropping into a chair and motioning for me to do the same. “It's basically all I ate growing up. I mean, not in New York but—after. And microwaveable dinners. But mostly cereal.” She poured herself a bowl of Froot Loops, and I poured myself a bowl of Kix. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had plain old cereal for breakfast (or orange juice that wasn't fresh). Even back home in Chicago, I liked to at least have a home-baked muffin in the morning. I'd make a batch each week and put in all kinds of nuts and grains and good healthy things. My dad called them “fiber bombs,” which I guess they were, but they were still delicious. And I always cooked at sleepovers—huevos rancheros, French toast, real easy stuff.

Kix tasted better than I remembered, though I kept thinking we should add a protein and a fruit to round out the meal. I guess that's just my weird programming.

“So what happened last night?” I finally asked. “I mean, after I left you.” I didn't really know what else to say to her, so I figured I'd start with that.

Jacinta stirred her Froot Loops with her spoon. “I stayed in the bushes and texted Delilah, but she didn't text back. So I sneaked up to the house and looked in one of the windows, and she and Teddy were sitting down and talking.”

“How did they look?”

“They looked calm. No fighting. I don't think he did anything to her. So I figured I should leave before they saw me, and I did.”

“How'd you get home?”

“I walked.”

“You
walked
?” I asked in disbelief. “From the
other side
of the pond? That'd take, like, an hour.”

“It did,” she said. “But I didn't mind. It was nice to walk. Helped clear my head.”

We ate in silence for a couple more minutes, our spoons clinking against the bowls. It occurred to me then, for the first time, that I might get in all kinds of trouble if the police ever found out that I knew what I knew. Awkward silences sometimes give rise to uncomfortable realizations, I guess—especially when you're maybe in danger of being an accessory to a hit-and-run. My heart started beating faster, and my palms began to sweat. I felt a little surge of fear rise within me.

“Jacinta,” I said, putting my spoon down and looking right at her. “When are you going to tell the police about the accident?”

She looked startled.

“It's been over twelve hours,” I said, my voice rising a little bit. “She's dead. They're going to start asking questions.”

“You know I can't go to the police,” Jacinta said. “They'd put Delilah in jail. I can't let them do that. She'll do the right thing when she's ready. She's been through a lot.”

“Been through a lot,” I said. “Like drunk driving over some girl on a bicycle and just going home?”

“It wasn't like that,” she said. “It was more confusing than that. And then after she broke up with Teddy . . . it must've been a difficult night.”

“Wait, what? When did she break up with Teddy?”

“Well, last night. Remember I said she was going to?”

“Yeah, but—I mean, did she call you or something?” I was confused.

“No,” Jacinta said. “But I assume that's what they were discussing when I saw them through the window.”

I just looked down and resumed eating my Kix. She was living in a dream world.

Then again, what did I know? I'd never taken Delilah Fairweather for the type of person who could run a girl over and just keep going. Maybe she was also the type of person who could break up with her longtime boyfriend immediately after committing vehicular manslaughter. I just couldn't imagine any breakup conversation with Teddy ever being a calm one.

I poured another bowl of Kix, at a loss for words. Jacinta had lied to me, but for some reason I couldn't identify, I still cared about her. I was still rooting for her, somehow, to make it out of this thing unscathed.

The doorbell rang then, and Jacinta looked at me, her eyes wide with fear. My heart jumped.

“Do you think it's the police?” she whispered.

“I don't know,” I said. “But if it is, you have to tell them the truth.”

She got up without a word and walked through the maze of rooms. I followed her.

When she opened the door, it was a maintenance guy dressed in work clothes, carrying some equipment.

“Pool man,” he said by way of greeting. “I'm here to close it down for the season. You the renter?”

“No one told me you were coming,” Jacinta said.

He shrugged. “Owners sent me. I do it every year. Okay if I head on back?” Without waiting for a reply, he started around the side of the house. Jacinta turned around and rushed through the house, going out on the back deck. I got to the deck in time to hear her plead, “Won't you please wait another day? Everyone's gotten to use it, but I've never had it all to myself.”

“I heard about the everyone part,” the guy called up to her. “Heard you had a couple of real ragers out here.”

“You heard that from the owners?” Jacinta asked, sounding alarmed.

“Naw,” he said, chuckling. “Word around town. Owners barely check in except with the broker and with me, twice a year. You ever met 'em?”

“No,” Jacinta said.

“Me neither,” the guy said.

“Anyway, could you wait a day?” she asked again. “Please? I want to go swimming.”

He paused for a moment and looked her over.

“Why the hell not,” he said, relenting. “I got another job to get to this morning, anyway.”

“Oh, thank you!” Jacinta exclaimed, jumping up and down and clapping with girlish glee.

My cell rang then, and I stepped away to answer it. It was my mother.

“Hello, Madame IPO,” I said. “Is that what I should call you now?”

“I need you to bring me my bag,” she said. She sounded frantic and out of breath, as if she'd been running.

“Well, hello to you, too,” I said.

“I'm not screwing around, Naomi. I need you to bring my bag.” Her voice cracked on the word “bag.” Quickly, I walked into the first-floor bathroom and shut the door behind me.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked. “You sound like you're losing it.”

“Dammit, Naomi! I just need you to bring my bag.”

“Which bag?”

“My bag with my two medicine kits,” she whispered.

“Bring them where?”

“To New York.”

“
Now?
”

“Yes, now! Call a cab. A helicopter will be waiting for you in thirty minutes.”

I was bewildered. “Are you sick? Don't you have anything up at the apartment you can take?”

“Why would I call you out on the island if I had my pills with me in Manhattan?” she snapped. “I am in the midst of a severe frosting crisis, and I don't need your
stupid
attitude. Don't question me. Just do as I say.”

“Well, you don't need to be a bitch about it,” I said.

Silence. I figured I'd get in trouble for that one.

But then she surprised me.

“Naomi,” she said quietly. “Please. I need you.”

It got me, the way she said “I need you.” I'd never heard her speak to me that way before. I'd never heard her speak to anyone that way before.

“Okay, Mom,” I said. “I'm coming. Don't worry.”

“Thank you,” she said, and I could tell that she really meant it.

I paused before I got off the phone.

“Hey,” I said. “I love you.” I felt completely weird saying it to her, but something told me she needed to hear it.

“Oh,” she said, her voice catching. “Oh, me too. Me too.” Then she hung up.

When I left the bathroom, Jacinta was clearing off the table.

“He's not coming back until tomorrow, love,” she said brightly. “Isn't that lovely?”

As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, I felt uneasy.

“I need to go,” I said, my stomach beginning to turn over. “My mom needs me in the city.”

“Oh,” Jacinta said, looking disappointed. “Well, I hope she's all right.”

“I'm sure she'll be fine. She always is.” Something inside me, that same voice that said I ought to tell my mother I loved her—well, that something told me I shouldn't leave Jacinta there all alone.

“Maybe you should come with me,” I said, even though it didn't make any sense, even though my mother would've absolutely freaked out if I'd brought anyone with me.

“Oh, that's sweet of you,” Jacinta said over her shoulder as she resumed cleaning up our breakfast. “But I've got to stay here and wait for Delilah to call. She'll probably want to spend the day here.” She began washing the dishes in the sink.

“Delilah's not coming over,” I said, but the rush of water was too loud and she didn't hear me.

“Delilah's not coming over,” I said louder. She turned off the water and looked at me quizzically.

“What's that?” she asked. “I didn't catch that.”

I hesitated.

“Nothing,” I said. “It was nothing. I better go.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel and came over to hug me tight. She smelled like roses.

“If you're back tonight, let's go for a swim,” she said.

“All right,” I said. “See you later.” I left her there, in the kitchen, looking like a kid playing dress-up in a grown-up's gym clothes. She fairly exuded hope, that most unreasonable thing.

I changed before I went to the city, of course. If my mother's “severe frosting crisis” had nearly put her in hysterics, then my raggedy outfit might actually cause her to go completely and utterly mad. I picked out the only one of the Marc Jacobs dresses she'd bought me that I had yet to wear. It was her favorite and, of course, it was the one I liked the least—it was pink, with lacy, girly frippery and frills around the neck, short sleeves, and hemline. It looked as if it were made out of candy. I even put on the kind of subtle makeup of which my mother approves—lip gloss, neutral shadow, mascara. I thought that if I looked pretty for her,
her
kind of pretty, I might make her feel better. As I ran a brush through my hair, I remembered the last time I'd tried to please her with my appearance. I was ten, and she was fighting with my father all the time. I found her crying in her room one day, and even though I was already a little too old for it, I asked her if she wanted to have a dress-up tea party. She wiped away her tears and said that she did. So we got dressed up in these matching Laura Ashley dresses she'd bought us, and we put on hats and had tea in the living room. It was the first time I realized I could change her mood if I tried.