The Accidentals(31)

And you don’t like his friends?

I don’t know most of them, I admit. Ernie is downstairs, though. I could probably talk him into another game of rummy.

Is there food? Jake asks. I’ll put up with anyone for food.

I laugh aloud in my empty bedroom. Then I sniff the air. I think there might be. Maybe Chinese? Something smells good, damn it. The idea that they’re eating down there makes me feel even grumpier and more invisible.

You’d better investigate, Jake suggests.

I will. But I’m not ready to let Jake go. Talking to him is the easiest thing in my life. What are you up to?

It’s almost time to go to work. For once I’m happy to go and smell like fried clams because my mother has been chasing me around with catalogs, trying to get me to weigh in on khaki pants for school.

I’ve been worrying about school clothes too. The Claiborne student handbook confuses me. Can I ask you a question about the dress code? I’m not sure I understand it.

Sure!

Incoming…

I touch his avatar and hit “call.” He answers right away. “Hi,” I say, feeling a zing of self-consciousness.

“Hey. The dress code reads strangely, right? I’ll tell you why—it was just redone to eliminate any reference to gender. The girls made a big stink about having to wear skirts a couple years ago. And then the guys piled on saying that ties were sexist.” Jake snickers. “A move of pure brilliance, if you ask me. So it was redone in those vague terms to show no gender preference.”

“So what do girls wear?”

“Well, you have to stay away from jeans or anything that looks like it’s sloppy on purpose. This is my personal rule—if the outfit says ‘Fuck you,’ they’ll call you out. But if it says, ‘I tried,’ you’re fine.”

“Okay?” That really doesn’t tell me what I need to know. “But what do girls really wear?”

He gets quiet for a second. “You mean, like, where do they shop?”

“I only own shorts and T-shirts, Jake. Help me out here.”

He laughs. “Well, I don’t have sisters, and I don’t pay much attention to clothes. That’s my disclaimer.”

“Noted.”

“But J. Crew is sort of ubiquitous. There’s plenty of Abercrombie. The super preps like Vineyard Vines. But not everyone is preppy. There are artsy people who wear a lot of black. No idea where they shop, though.”

“Okay. I can work with that. I don’t have any winter clothes at all.”

“The stores on Main Street have coats. Claiborne is right on the Appalachian Trail, so outdoor gear is the one thing you can always buy.”

“That is a good tip, Jake. I don’t know where I would find a winter coat in Manhattan Beach, anyway.”

“I’ve never been to California. Are there movie stars everywhere?”

“Um, no?” I giggle nervously. There are probably rock stars downstairs, though. “I haven’t spent much time here. As far as I can tell, it’s like Florida, but even more expensive.”

“Yeah? I’d better go. Time to serve clams and beer.”

“Good luck out there.”

“Thanks! Talk later?”

I agree and we disconnected. But now Jake has me thinking about school clothes. I’d seen a J. Crew catalog in Frederick’s pile of recycling by the front door.

With the catalog as my mission, I finally venture downstairs.

The scene in the living room is lively, with a dozen or so people standing around talking. The lights are low, and everyone holds a drink, including a handful of unfamiliar women. In spite of all these guests, Frederick stands against the piano talking to his drummer.

“Hey, kid!” Ernie tugs on my ponytail as I take in the scene. “There’s a whole lot of Thai food in the kitchen,” he says.

“Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

“Ernie, honey. Come back here.” A woman beckons to him from the sofa. Apparently Ernie has other games besides rummy on his mind tonight, because he hustles over to her.

I lean down and dig through the stack of newspapers until I find the catalog I’m looking for. Tucking it under my arm, I head for the kitchen.

Nobody stares at me, like on my first day in California. Tonight they do the opposite. I’m invisible.

The kitchen counters are covered with takeout containers. Two young women in tiny shorts huddle in front of the microwave, their giraffe legs accentuated by impractical platform shoes.

Ignoring them, I grab a paper plate and begin to peer into the various plastic tubs. I pocket a can of Diet Pepsi before a giggle turns my attention toward the girls in the corner. When one of them straightens her back, I glimpse a straight line of fine white powder on the black surface of the countertop.

Fascinated, I watch as the second girl bends low, inhaling powder through a little paper tube.

“We might share,” the first girl says, and that’s when I know I’m staring. “Who are you here with?”

I just blink at her, shocked by both her hobby and the question. I grab a paper carton full of some kind of steamed dumpling and flee the kitchen without answering.

Upstairs again, I eat dumplings and flip through the catalog. And it’s really a shame I’d been too stunned by the cocaine on the kitchen counter to grab any dipping sauce.