Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters

  “No, it’s not love that starts trouble. It’s greed,” Jane countered.

  “Shut up, you two,” I said.

  “Norrie!” Sassy looked shocked. You know Ginger—she has seizures if anyone says “shut up,” “heinie,” “wiener,” or “booger” in her presence. She’d rather we talked like sailors than like ill-bred suburban first graders. We’ve been trained to find those words shocking.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just got tired of hearing you two talk about me as if I were about to start World War Three. Sassy is right. I met a boy.”

  “I knew it,” Sassy said.

  “Ho-fucking-hum,” Jane said.

  But Sassy was excited. “In Speed Reading? Who is he?”

  “His name is Robinson Pepper,” I told them. “Isn’t that the loveliest name you ever heard?”

  “Robinson Pepper?” Jane said.

  “It’s spicy!” Sassy said. “Where does he go to school? T&A?”

  Did you call St. Thomas Aquinas “T&A” in your day, Almighty? Did you call the boys who go there “T&A-holes?”

  I didn’t think so.

  “No, thank God,” I said. “He goes to Hopkins.”

  “A college boy?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  The buzzer buzzed. Ginger has a button right next to her bed that rings a buzzer in the Tower Room, left over from the olden days when a maid slept here. I don’t know how often she buzzed St. John and Sully but she loves to annoy me with it.

  “Ginge must have heard us knocking around up here,” Jane said. “Better go see what she wants.”

  I wearily pushed myself off the bed. Ginger almost never wants anything interesting or important. It’s usually something like “Have you seen my Chinese silk robe?” or “Be a love and scratch my back,” or “Darling, do I smell smoke?”

  “I know what she wants,” Sassy said. “Brooks called tonight.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jane said. “Bachelor Number One.”

  In all the years we’ve known each other (our entire lives), Brooks never called me at home—until that night. He texted me and e-mailed me and maybe called my cell to tell me about a party. So I pretty much knew this had something to do with the Bachelors Cotillon. It was only September but I figured he was laying the groundwork like a good escort should. Your friend Mamie raised him well.

  “You could do worse,” Sassy said.

  “Hardly,” Jane sniffed. “Brooks Overbeck is a raging bore.”

  “I think he’s nice,” Sassy said.

  “Exactly,” Jane said.

  The bell buzzed again. “Better go see what she wants before she comes up here,” Jane said, stubbing out her second cigarette.

  I went downstairs to Ginger and Daddy-o’s room. Ginger sat in bed propped against about a hundred pillows, bracelets dangling, reading Vanity Fair. Daddy-o was downstairs in his study, writing a monograph on images of virginity in late medieval painting.

  “You rang?” I said to Ginger.

  “Yes, love, I didn’t know if you were home yet. I wanted to tell you that Brooks Overbeck called for you tonight.”

  “You could have left a note on the kitchen table,” I said.

  “I know, darling, but I wanted to make absolutely sure you got the message.” She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. “It’s too late to call him now, but you might want to ring him tomorrow after school. Don’t call him from school on your cell; that’s rude.”

  “How is it rude?” I asked. Ginger has made up her own etiquette to cover new technology like texting and e-mails. She has all these rules but she’s the only person who follows them, or even knows about them. “Wouldn’t it be even more rude to make him wait all day until I call him back?”

  “Now that you put it that way, definitely don’t call from your cell,” Ginger said. “You don’t want to seem overeager.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not.” The words just popped out. They even surprised me. Just a few weeks earlier I would have been excited to get a call from Brooks.

  “You’re not? But darling, you need an escort to the Cotillon, and I can’t think of a better one than Brooks. Aren’t you thrilled?”

  “I’m not sure I want to go to the Cotillon,” I told Ginger.

  She dropped her magazine in horror. “Not go? Darling, you have to! You’re the first girl in the family. We haven’t had a deb yet, and already you want to drop out?”

  “I just don’t see the point of it.”

  “There is a point, a big point,” Ginger said. Then she paused.

  “Well?” I said. “What is it?”

  “Tradition. Generations. All that. What were all those dancing lessons at Miss Claremont’s for? If you don’t come out, Almighty will be very disappointed. And no one wants Almighty to be disappointed.”

  I sighed. I don’t know if you realize it, but you are often used as a threat in our house.

  “I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” I said. “But I’m not excited about going.”

  “Not excited? Cue the violins.” She resisted pantomiming a violinist, and for that I was grateful. “Poor Norrie. You’ll be the girl of the season—especially if your escort is Brooks. I hope you’ll call him tomorrow, lovey dove.”

  It’s just a party, I told myself. It’s just a party.

  I didn’t always feel this way about the debutante thing, I swear. When I was younger I looked forward to dancing waltzes and fox-trots with handsome boys in white tie and tails, and practicing my curtsy in my white gown and gloves. But somewhere along the line the Cotillon lost its romance for me. I know everyone—the boys, the other girls, the “bachelors,” and the older socialites—too well. Maybe that’s the trouble.

  I wanted to be more enthusiastic; I really did. It worried me that I wasn’t. I worried about Brooks too. I liked him. I still like him. But whenever I’m with him I feel detached, like I’m watching myself be with him instead of just being with him.

  “Call him tomorrow,” Ginger repeated, gazing at the glossy pages of her magazine in a lustful trance.

  I left her room and went back upstairs, where my two side-kicks were waiting for me.

  “Was it about Brooks?” Jane said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m supposed to call him.” I fell onto my bed, knocking my head against Sassy’s foot.

  “But what about Robinson Pepper?” Sassy asked.

  “What about him, indeed,” I said.

  I didn’t know then what would happen, Almighty. And I wasn’t planning anything yet. But I do admit I had a feeling the road to the Bachelors Cotillon was not going to run as smoothly as I’d once thought.

  FIVE

  I DISOBEYED GINGER AND CALLED BROOKS FROM SCHOOL THE next afternoon. Claire wanted to coach me.

  “Keep your options open, that’s all I’m saying,” Claire said. “I’d kill to get a phone call from Brooks Overbeck. The only reason you’re resisting him is because your mother likes him.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a red flag?” I said. “What kind of boy does a mother like? Never an exciting boy or an interesting boy. Always a nice boy. Nice to the parents—which can be the fakest kind of creep there is.”

  “Look, just call him and see what he wants,” Claire said. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to say yes.”

  I got out my cell and called Brooks. He didn’t pick up. He was probably in class. I left a message: “Hi, Brooks, this is Norrie. My mother said you called last night so I’m, um, just calling you back. Okay, bye.”

  “Dork,” Claire said.

  “What?”

  “You just are.”

  We went to the library to read magazines. I was in the middle of an article about how to survive an alien invasion—not that I was worried, but I like to be prepared for anything—when I felt my phone vibrate.

  “It’s him,” I told Claire.

  “Take it,” she ordered.

  I took the phone outside the library. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Norrie, what
d’ya know?”

  “Brooks?” Who else?

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up?”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “So, you called me last night?”

  Claire materialized by my side to eavesdrop and nudge me with her elbow.

  “Right,” he said. “My school’s having a thing this weekend, like a dance thing. Want to go with me?”

  “Um—” A dance at Holman? Would that be fun or hellish? “Which night?” I had promised to see Vertigo with Robbie on Saturday night.

  Claire double-poked me with her bony elbow. Ow.

  “Friday night. We don’t have to stay if it sucks. Ryan Gornick’s having an afterparty.”

  “Friday night?”

  Claire nodded vigorously to indicate that I should say yes.

  “Okay, sure,” I said.

  “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s not formal or anything.”

  “All right,” I said. “See you then.”

  “Ciao.”

  Ciao? I clicked off.

  “What did he say?” Claire asked.

  “He said ‘ciao,’” I told Claire. “When did he start saying ‘ciao’?”

  “I don’t know. He must be going through a phase. So?”

  “He said ‘ciao.’ Instead of ‘hi,’ he says ‘What d’ya know?’ and instead of ‘bye,’ he says ‘ciao.’”

  Claire frowned impatiently. “Did he ask you out?”

  “He asked me to the Holman dance Friday night.”

  “The Lily Hargrove mob. That will be fun.”

  “Are you being sarcastic or serious?”

  “I’m not sure. What’s wrong? You don’t seem excited about your date.”

  “I feel like he’s asking me out for the wrong reason,” I said.

  “He likes you. What other reason could there be?”

  “His parents could be making him ask me,” I said. “Just like my parents are making me say yes.”

  Which they were, because of you, Almighty. Because Brooks’s grandmother is your best friend, and because you’ve been planning this since I was born.

  SIX

  AT EIGHT, BROOKS DROVE UP IN HIS BMW. HE CAME INSIDE TO say “What d’ya know?” to my parents, who were on their way out to dinner. Daddy-o shook his hand warmly and Ginger kissed him on both cheeks. Sassy and Jane hovered in the foyer, watching.

  “Ready to go?” Brooks asked. I had to admit he looked nice. He has very regular features and straight teeth. I’d just read that even, regular features are universally recognized as beautiful. So no matter what I think of Brooks as a person, I’m genetically programmed to find him attractive. I resent that.

  “Bye, you guys,” Sassy said, her voice dripping with insinuation.

  “Have fu-u-un,” Jane said, even more suggestively.

  “Ciao, girls,” Brooks said.

  “Bye,” I said to my sisters. “Have a good time stuck in the house watching TV and texting your friends.”

  “Oh, we will,” Jane said.

  We went outside and got into the car. It was a pretty night, and warm. Brooks had the sunroof open. I was wearing a dress—not a fancy one, since the dance wasn’t formal—and a beaded cardigan. Brooks wore jeans, a button-down shirt, and a blue blazer, no tie. It felt strange sitting next to Brooks alone in a car. I didn’t know what to say to him. I glanced at his hand on the gearshift and fixated on the wiry golden hairs on his fingers. When did Brooks get so hairy?

  “So, I guess you’ve been taking Italian lessons, huh?” I finally said.

  He grinned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I noticed you’ve been saying ‘ciao’ all over the place. I don’t remember you doing that before.”

  “It’s just a little thing I picked up somewhere.”

  “Cute,” I said.

  We pulled into the Holman School lot and parked among all the other shiny cars. There was no band, just some guy with a playlist programmed on his laptop, which was plugged into big speakers. The auditorium had been halfheartedly decorated with red streamers and a sign that said HOLMAN HARVEST PARTY. A few boys stood behind a long table, ready to serve soft drinks and pizza. The utter lameness was no surprise. Boys’ schools give terrible dances. St. T&A’s are the worst. But I’d never been to a Holman dance before and I’d thought it might be a little cooler since Holman is the fanciest boys’ school.

  Brooks shook his head in disgust. “We’re not long for this dump.”

  I nodded noncommittally, but I was relieved. The dance looked like the outer waiting room of hell.

  Brooks led me to a back corner, where his friends and their dates had exiled themselves. Brooks’s best friend, Davis Smith, was with Lily Hargrove.

  “Gornick already left to pick up the kegs for the party,” Davis said. “We’re so out of here.”

  Lily sighed and propped her long body against the windowsill. “I don’t know why you guys even bother pretending to have dances.”

  “Yeah, sorry we don’t have Chanel gift bags and take-home flower arrangements like you get at Radnor,” Davis said.

  “At least our auditorium doesn’t feel like a hospital cafeteria,” Lily said.

  “Oooh, now you’ve really cut me to the bone,” Davis said.

  “You should hold your dances off campus, like at the Peabody Library or someplace,” Lily said, ignoring her date’s sarcastic tone.

  “Are we leaving or what?” said a pouty girl I didn’t know.

  “What do you think, Norrie?” Brooks asked.

  “Well, do you want to stay?” I didn’t, but I didn’t want to drag him away from his own school dance if he wanted to stay longer than five minutes.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  Lily rolled her eyes. “We’re leaving.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I told Brooks.

  “It’s just that, you know, I asked you to a dance, and we haven’t even danced one dance.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind.” I really didn’t.

  “I’d stay for a while if you wanted to.”

  “I know.”

  We all went outside to the parking lot and got back into our cars. I touched the hood of Brooks’s BMW. The engine hadn’t even had time to cool yet.

  “Sorry about that,” Brooks said. “I should have known it would be a waste of time.”

  We drove out to Ruxton. Ryan Gornick’s house looks like a fancy farmhouse, with a small pond out back and even a windmill. People were already swarming around a keg on the back patio, kids who didn’t go to Holman or just hadn’t bothered with the dance.

  Ryan’s father—I guessed he was Ryan’s father; he was the only person there over forty, including his wife—stood by the patio door greeting the kids as they came out through the kitchen. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt that said THUG LIFE. He nodded his head to the hip-hop music playing not too loudly through the outdoor speakers. His wife, Ilsa—Ryan’s stepmother—brought him a bottle of German beer. She’s in her thirties, tall and leggy and vaguely Scandinavian-looking.

  “What d’ya know, Dr. Gornick?”

  “Brooks, dude, good to see you.” Dr. Gornick patted Brooks on the back and shook his hand. “You playing soccer this year? We need you, man. Who’s this lovely young thing with you?” He grinned at me, his white teeth glowing in the twilight.

  “This is Norrie Sullivan,” Brooks said. “Norrie, this is Ryan’s dad, Dr. Gornick, and Ilsa.”

  “Hi, Norrie.” Ilsa smiled warmly at me.

  “Brooks, please, call me Joe,” Dr. Gornick said. “Grab a seat, relax, have a beer.” He waved us toward the patio, where a cool breeze blew the tiki torches.

  Dr. Gornick is notorious for hanging around at Ryan’s parties. Ilsa is a psychologist and likes to talk to the girls about their self-esteem and their feelings.

  I sat on the cool stone wall, and Brooks brought me a plastic cup of beer.
Lily and Davis and some other kids stood nearby, warming themselves by the fire in the outdoor stove.

  The patio was slowly filling up with people. A tall, brawny boy I didn’t know walked in with his arms around two girls from my school: Shea Donovan and Caitlin Evers. The boy looked around the yard as if he expected recognition, as if he wanted to crow, “Hey, everybody, I’m here! And I brought two hos with me.” Shea was wearing a blouse unbuttoned low enough to see her electric-blue lace bra, and Caitlin seemed to have had eyeliner tattooed to her face.

  “Oh God,” Lily said. “It’s Tim Drucker. And look who he dragged in.”

  Phoebe Fernandez-Ruiz made a face. “Why are Catholic school girls so slutty?” Then she looked at me as if she just remembered I was there. “Whoops. Sorry. I don’t mean you, of course, Nora.”

  “It’s Norrie,” Brooks said, playfully tossing his empty beer cup at her to show he didn’t take her infraction too seriously.

  She smiled and stood up. “I’ll get you a refill. Nora?”

  “No, thanks.”

  People got drunker as the night wore on, especially Dr. Gornick. He and Brooks, Davis, and Tim Drucker were reliving every shot of the previous year’s championship lacrosse game. Dr. Gornick was everybody’s buddy. When a song he knew came on, he sang along at the top of his lungs. Whenever a girl walked by he would stare at her ass. Ilsa didn’t seem to notice. She sat in the kitchen having heart-to-hearts with whichever girls she could corral as they passed her on the way to the bathroom. “Brownie?” she’d say, holding out a plate of them. “I just took them out of the oven.”

  Lily and Phoebe got friendlier too. “You live in that big house with the tower, right?” Lily said. “My older sister said she went to a secret party there once in the Tower Room. St. John lowered a rope ladder and everybody had to climb up four stories in the middle of the night.”

  “I was there,” I said. “I was twelve, but I heard the noise and sneaked in and St. John let me stay.”

  “Didn’t your parents hear it?” Phoebe asked.

  “Guess not,” I said. “My mother sleeps with a mask and ear-plugs, and my dad snores. They can be pretty out of it sometimes.”

  “They must be,” Lily said. “I wish my parents were like that. They watch us like prison guards.”