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  Mom just about died at that one. “We are coming!” she said immediately, before Mrs. Fairweather even had a chance to shut her mouth. “Naomi, I don’t care if you have school—I’m flying you out here, and we’re going to go. Delilah, will you be walking in any shows again this year?” All I had heard about from my mother the previous summer was how Delilah was going to make her runway debut walking around in clothes designed by a close personal friend of her mother’s. It was no one I’d ever heard of, and being around my mother for many years has forced me to learn a few things about fashion, if only through osmosis. Delilah looks like a skinny, gorgeous high school cheerleader, so I never imagined those high fashion people could make her look bad. But my mother emailed me a link to photos of Delilah walking in that designer’s show, and they had managed to make her look like a freaky ghost. Who puts white powder on a blond girl’s eyebrows, anyway?

  “Yeah, I’m gonna walk again this year,” Delilah said politely, her hand intertwined with Teddy’s. “In a couple of shows. Maybe three.”

  “And we just shot a mother/daughter feature that will be in the September issue of Vogue,” Mrs. Fairweather said proudly. “It was about models and their mothers.” My mother gasped with joy.

  Teddy spoke for the first time, letting out a snort of laughter. “Yes,” he said, putting one arm around Mrs. Fairweather and the other around Delilah. “She’s walked in one runway show and done one Gap ad, and that makes her a big supermodel.” Delilah poked him in the side and he jumped, laughing again.

  “Oh, Teddy.” Mrs. Fairweather sighed with an indulgent smile. “You always tease.”

  “We haven’t really spoken since you were a little boy,” my mother said, smiling at Teddy. “I’m Anne Rye. I catered a few of your birthday parties when you were small, darling.” She widened her eyes and her smile. I was instantly repulsed. She was flirting with some teenage football douche. Ew.

  “Of course I know who you are, Anne,” Teddy said smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t just want a handshake—I want an autograph!” They shook hands as Mom let out a happy squeak of laughter. Being completely obsessed with her career doesn’t give my mom much time to date, so I’m sure pressing the flesh with Teddy Barrington was her thrill of the month.

  “You’re the famous actor,” she purred. “I want an autograph, too!”

  “Only if I get a chocolate cake,” he teased. Ugh, I hate when guys work older women like that. It’s so obvious to everyone else. It’s embarrassing. Some guys do it at school with this one teacher, Mrs. Grey, and she always falls for it.

  They all went on chattering among themselves, and at some point Jeff inserted himself into the conversation and was introduced to my mother, who thankfully didn’t try to pull a Mrs. Robinson with him. I had enough issues with my mom without her trying to hook up with an underage hottie. (He was kind of hot, I had to admit.)

  We got into Mrs. Fairweather’s huge SUV, and Teddy insisted on getting behind the wheel, which I guess was standard operating procedure when he was around. I can just imagine what my mom would say if I had some boyfriend and he tried to pull that move. Anne Rye is not a woman who knows how to give up control.

  “Baxley’s for dinner? Or the Living Room?” Teddy asked casually, steering out of the airport parking lot.

  “Well, yes to Baxley’s,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “You know what Senator Fairweather says about the Living Room.”

  “Well, lucky for us, he isn’t here to have heard me suggest it! Or, really, anything else I might suggest later,” Teddy said, winking at Mrs. Fairweather. My mother tittered. I looked at Jeff, who rolled his eyes back at me. Jesus, Teddy knew how to play women.

  Delilah, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the interplay between her mother and her boyfriend. She sat with her head against the window.

  On the way to Baxley’s, we drove past the creepy new version of the notorious billboard advertising Dr. Zazzle, New York’s most famous plastic surgeon. It was the only billboard in town and was the source of some controversy—apparently, the locals felt it didn’t fit with the community’s “character.” It showed a cartoon version of a smiling Dr. Zazzle standing beside a buxom blonde in a bikini. She was holding a sagging, gray pile of flesh—presumably, her own old skin. I saw it approaching and blanched.

  “Ew!” I exclaimed, surprising myself and everyone else in the car with the first word I’d spoken since we started driving. “What the hell is that?”

  “Naomi!” my mother exclaimed in the voice she uses when I’ve embarrassed her. “Where did that tone come from?”

  “Mom, that billboard is even grosser than last summer’s version. She’s holding her skin.”

  “Well, it isn’t her real skin, obviously.”

  “Hello? I know that? But it’s a totally disturbing image.”

  “It is pretty weird,” Jeff said mildly, and I knew for sure I liked him.

  “I can name two people who’ve spent some time with Dr. Zazzle,” Teddy said playfully, looking at Mrs. Fairweather.

  “Don’t you start, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather nearly squealed. “You are bad.”

  “One of them,” Teddy said meaningfully, glancing in the rearview mirror at Delilah, “really nose a lot about him. She really nose what it’s like to go into his office one way and come out another.”

  “Teddy,” Delilah said without taking her gaze from the window, “I will beat you.” He erupted into laughter, even though she didn’t sound like she was kidding.

  “See, Naomi,” my mother said. “I told you blondes can be tough.”

  “You never told me that, Mom,” I said wearily, closing my eyes.

  “I did, dear. You just don’t remember.” Her voice had a tiny edge.

  “Okay. I don’t remember.” Die die die die die.

  “I’m always trying to get Naomi to go blond,” Mom said. “You should’ve seen her when she was twelve, and Jonathan Astoriano did her highlights. She looked so much better.”

  “Did you?” Jeff asked in an urgent tone of voice, grabbing my arm. “Did you really? Tell me the truth, Naomi!”

  “I really did,” I said dramatically. “I really, really did.” We both laughed, and my mother looked at us in confusion, not sure what the joke was. Jeff’s hand was gone, but I had liked the warmth and the pressure of his touch.

  Before long, we pulled up to Baxley’s. Teddy flipped the keys to a valet he greeted by name, and we all filed into the restaurant. Teddy marched a bit ahead of us, and when he approached the thirty-something hostess, he asked her a question in a low voice the rest of us couldn’t hear.

  “Folding napkins,” the hostess responded loudly, and Teddy winced.

  “Folding napkins what?” Delilah asked sharply, her seemingly permanent languid attitude momentarily gone.

  “They were just folding napkins at our table, and now it’s ready for us!” Teddy answered without missing a beat.

  Delilah nodded coolly.

  On the way to the table, we passed the bar, behind which stood a good-looking Italian kid. He had what they call a Roman nose, and it stood out from his face like a giant sail.

  “Giovanni!” Teddy said, reaching out for a fist bump. Giovanni obliged and grinned. He wore the regulation Baxley’s white button-down shirt and tie, but he seemed as if he were wearing a costume. I got the feeling this was a guy more accustomed to sleeveless cotton T-shirts and spotless sneakers.

  “Best bartender on the island, this guy,” Teddy said with hearty enthusiasm. Giovanni smiled and replied, “Naw, man, just doing my job. Go have a nice dinner.”

  “You know, we’ve got a great deal to celebrate,” Mrs. Fairweather said once we were all seated. “The Vogue photo shoot this past week; Teddy, Delilah, and Jeff finishing up their junior year at Trumbo; Naomi visiting; and of course, the good news from Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.” Mom blushed with happiness and was momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Yes, Mrs. Rye,” Teddy said. “I follow the financial news
pretty closely to keep an eye on our stock price, and I’ve heard so many reports recently that you’re basically taking over the world.”

  “Our stock price” meant the price of Barrington Oil, Teddy’s family’s little global multinational mega-corporation.

  “You may all call me Anne,” she said. “I haven’t been a ‘Mrs.’ in years, and I only kept the Rye so that Naomi and I would have the same last name.”

  “Although you can still change it back to Gryzkowski,” I offered dryly. My mother looked fleetingly as if she wouldn’t mind if the Hellmouth were to open beneath me and swallow me whole. I smiled sweetly.

  “Well, Anne,” said Teddy, “tell us about what’s happening with the business.”

  Mom launched into a recitation of all the exciting things happening in her sugar-and-cinnamon-sprinkled world: an end-of-summer celebrity photo shoot for Bake Like Anne Rye! magazine’s inaugural issue; planning the next season of her award-winning Food Network TV show; being a guest judge on a very special dessert episode of Top Chef.

  “And of course,” she added, “launching our very own line of branded food products. Cake mixes, baking tools, and my favorite, Bake Like Anne Rye! Secret Recipe Perfect Frosting.”

  “What’s in this ‘secret recipe’? What exactly makes your frosting so irresistible?” Teddy asked, wiggling an eyebrow and leaning forward.

  “Oh, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather giggled. “You make me glad I never had sons! I couldn’t have handled it!”

  “Well, you might have to handle it, if this one plays her cards right,” Teddy said, putting his arm around Delilah. She seemed entranced by her napkin and gave no sign of affection in return.

  “You’re too young to talk about getting married,” my mother chided him.

  “We Barringtons marry young and mate for life,” he said, and Mrs. Fairweather smiled adoringly.

  “Yes, he did actually just say that,” Jeff whispered in my ear. I gave him a look that expressed everything I wanted to say but couldn’t, and he nodded in agreement.

  Our waitress approached the table. She had dyed blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her skin was tan in that orange way, and her French manicure was studded with tiny rhinestones. She was prettyish, with a big chest and a perfect teen girl body. Skags, who is more judgmental than I am when it comes to women’s looks, would’ve said she had a major case of butter face. (Everything is pretty. . . but her face.)

  “Hi,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her ample chest. “I’m Misti, and I’ll be your server tonight.” Her Long Island accent was pretty thick, and I thought I saw Jeff’s mouth twitch at the way she pronounced “SIR-vah.”

  “Hello, Misti,” Mrs. Fairweather said with a warm smile.

  “Hi, Misti,” said my mother.

  “Misti,” Delilah piped up. “Is that with a ‘y’?”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Teddy said heartily. “Let’s order!”

  Delilah looked at him, and there was a steeliness in her gaze that I’d never seen before. He seemed to shrink into himself.

  “It’s an ‘i,’” Misti said nervously, twisting her hands together.

  “Of course it is,” Delilah said, smiling very slowly.

  “That’s lovely,” Mrs. Fairweather said with the same expression she’d worn when assessing my clothing.

  “Anyone in the mood for some drinks?” Misti asked quickly.

  “God, yes,” said Teddy.

  “Now, Theodore,” Mrs. Fairweather said mock-sternly, “you know that I cannot in good conscience allow you to order a drink.”

  “I’m more interested in your bad conscience,” he said, winking.

  I looked at Jeff. He mouthed, I know.

  We ordered drinks (wine for the mothers, soda for us), and my mother demonstrated some actual social niceties by drawing Jeff into the conversation. I learned that he was on Trumbo Academy’s golf team and was, according to Teddy, good enough to make Stanford’s team.

  “That’s where Tiger Woods played, Naomi,” Teddy said, addressing me directly for the first time since we’d been introduced.

  “Ah,” I said. “Well.”

  I learned that Teddy was on Manhattan’s only private school football team and would be the captain heading into his senior year, just as Jeff would be the captain of the golf team.

  “What about you, Naomi?” Mrs. Fairweather asked. “What do you like to do at school?”

  “Naomi gets straight A’s,” my mother interjected with what I think was pride, or maybe she’d already had too much wine. (“Your mother’s always been a lightweight,” my dad would say. “I mean that literally, and with the booze.”)

  “Whoa,” Jeff said. “You’re, like, a genius.” I looked for sarcasm in his expression and couldn’t find any.

  “Seriously,” he continued. “I’m good for A’s in English and humanities, but you get A’s in math and science and everything else? Pretty impressive, Naomi.” I liked the way he said my name.

  “It is very impressive,” Mrs. Fairweather agreed. “Do you play any sports, do any clubs?”

  “I’m in the LGBT-Straight Alliance,” I said. It was true. Skags made me join because she said if I didn’t, it meant I was homophobic. And, anyway, she needed my vote for president. It ended up that no one else ran against her, so she automatically won. But I’m still glad I joined. It’s like the only fun club at our school.

  “And what is that?” Mrs. Fairweather asked. My mother looked less than delighted.

  “It’s the lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender-straight alliance,” I said. “We march in the Gay Pride Parade every year in Boys-town, and we make ‘It Gets Better’ videos and stuff.”

  “How nice,” Mrs. Fairweather said dryly.

  When we ordered appetizers and our entrees, Delilah made Teddy order for her, whispering into his ear. It creeped me out only slightly more than his flirting with her mother did.

  Misti brought our food out, carefully balancing the plates of lobster and sautéed scallops and fried oysters and popcorn shrimp and, for the mothers and Delilah, three undressed arugula salads.

  “You all get started without me,” Teddy said abruptly, rising from the table. Delilah didn’t look up from the arugula she was halfheartedly pushing around her plate.

  “Guess I drank that soda a little too fast,” he added offhandedly, and headed in the direction of the bathroom.

  Suddenly all I could think about was all the bottles of water I’d drunk on the plane, and on the SUV ride to the Downtown Manhattan heliport, plus a Coke at Baxley’s, and how it was all kind of straining my bladder. I tried to sit still and listen to Mrs. Fairweather talk about Senator Fairweather’s diplomatic trip to Canada, but I honestly couldn’t concentrate. My mother had drilled into me at a young age that it’s customary for only one guest to excuse him or herself to the bathroom at a time, “because more than one guest missing interrupts the flow of conversation.” I knew that rule as well as I knew her other etiquette lessons, like the one about leaving your napkin folded on your chair when you went to the bathroom, and of course, the classic no-elbows-on-the-table rule. But my need to pee was rapidly approaching emergency status, and there was no sign of Teddy returning.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out finally in the middle of Mrs. Fairweather’s criticism of the Canadian health care system. “I just—uh, I really need to excuse myself for a minute.”

  My mother waved me away dismissively, never breaking eye contact with Mrs. Fairweather. Relieved, I got up from the table and fairly dashed to the ladies’ room. I inherited my tiny bladder and my tiny boobs from my mom—although she got the latter surgically enhanced the first time her catering business turned a profit.

  Here’s another thing I got from my mom: a terrible sense of direction. It’s the only thing that explains why I took a left out of the bathroom instead of a right. Baxley’s is in a big old Victorian house, so it’s got some twists and turns to it. Anyway, I took a wrong turn out of the bathroom and e
nded up in the wrong dining room, so I just kept going and ended up in the wrong corridor, which concluded with the wrong glass door, which looked out at the back of the restaurant, and with my luck it was the exact wrong moment because there was Teddy Barrington shoving Misti hard against the wall. She staggered a little.

  And I swear to God, at the exact freaking second I realized what was going on, Misti-with-an-i looked up and locked eyes with me. I immediately spun around and started walking away, but I heard the door crash open behind me and felt a big paw on my shoulder. I jumped and spun around to look at Teddy. He looked panicked, but he seemed to relax when he saw how afraid I was of him.

  “I’m not—I didn’t—” I tried to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just got lost coming back from the bathroom.” I saw Misti the waitress behind him, looking terrified. Half her face was a little red.

  “It’s okay,” Teddy said soothingly, putting his other hand on my other shoulder. He turned his head to Misti. “Why don’t you get back to work.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. Misti obediently scurried past us, shooting me a nervous glance.

  I was trapped.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Teddy said, frowning. “The last thing I want to do is put you in an uncomfortable position.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. This seemed to please him.

  “Look, Naomi,” Teddy said, staring so deeply into my eyes I felt really exposed and uncomfortable. “Delilah and I are going through a rough patch. We’ve talked about being in an open relationship, and I think that’s really what she wants. But it isn’t official yet, and Misti’s upset because, well, she wants to be with me. But Delilah tends to get depressed, and I really think it would be unhealthy for her to hear about this. It could really cause some serious problems for her. With her health. Do you know what I mean?”

  I just wanted to get the hell out of there, so I nodded vigorously and said, “I won’t say anything. It’s none of my business.”