Part 27 (1/2)
”I hereby lift your punishment and return all privileges. Which leaves only one important item to discuss: American or provolone?”
The answer was obviously provolone. As we huddled over the steaks and cheese fries, Karl told me he had already faxed my report card to Dean Jaffe at Northwestern, who was very impressed. The dean had cemented his plans to come to Philly, and we were officially on his books for lunch April twenty-fifth. I did my best to give lip service to what I knew should be some of the greatest news ever.
Truthfully, though, I had no room in my head for anything but visions of my new life as a fully functioning member of the Populazzi.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
”Oh my G.o.d, you could not possibly be any cuter!” I squealed. Yes, squealed. I defy any human being not to squeal when faced with a twenty-pound love-pig of a black fuzzy mutt with little white paws, a little white bib and chin, and wide pointy ears that moved completely independently of each other, and either flopped down or perked straight up depending on his mood. This was Riley, Trista's dog, and at the moment he was lying on his back, begging with his front paws for me to go back to scratching his belly. Of course I obliged.
My grounding had been lifted yesterday, and today was our day of celebration. I had already done a little celebrating last night: I'd used my freshly returned credit card to buy the laundry list of clothing and accessories Trista had been e-mailing me. I was smart about it, though. I had my mom come check out all the links first. Given Trista's impeccable taste, Mom loved everything. She was especially impressed by Trista's responsibility in suggesting lower-cost alternatives to each item. She gave her explicit approval of every purchase and had even been inspired to do some shopping for herself.
Today the guys had an away game, and Gemma had gone off for several weeks to play in some tournaments. That left Trista, Ree-Ree, Kristie, and me. We caravanned to Trista's house, but I had to call Claudia, so I put her on speakerphone and kept the cell in my lap so Kristie wouldn't look through her rearview mirror and wonder if I was hiding a secret cache of other friends.
I was especially thrilled to have Claudia on the line when we pa.s.sed through an automatic gate and pulled into Trista's driveway-or more accurately, Private Road.
”Uh, Claude? The street is named Trista Way.”
”Of course it is!” Claudia gushed. ”Is it a shallow road? Is it beautifully paved in gold but rotting away underneath? Is it lined with street signs telling you what to do?”
”Okay ... I see goats.”
”Goats?”
”Goats. There is a pen of actual goats to my right.”
”Do you think they eat the goats?”
”I do not see Trista eating goat.”
”What would you do if she served you goat? She's Supreme Populazzi. You'd have to eat it.”
”Ugh!” I made a formal declaration that when and if the time ever came that I was Supreme Populazzi, I would never make anyone eat goat.
”Hey, Claudia,” I said as I neared the end of Trista Way, ”remember how I told you Nate's was pretty much the biggest house I'd ever seen?”
”You take it back?”
”I take it back.”
It honestly seemed silly to refer to Trista's house as a ”house.” It was more like three or four houses pushed together, all united by a network of columns and ma.s.sive turrets. Seriously, turrets. If we were living in another century, I'm fairly certain the place would have qualified as a castle.
Of course it had its own parking lot. As I pulled in behind the other girls, I hung up, swearing to call Claudia back the second I left. I walked toward the three-story archway hooding the entrance and wondered if Trista's room was in a turret. Had it been me, I totally would have chosen a turret room.
”Cara!” Trista called. ”This way! My house is over here.”
”Your...” I jogged to catch up with her, Ree-Ree, and Kristie as they walked down a cobbled path. ”I'm sorry, did you say your house?”
”Present for my sixteenth birthday. I got to move into the guesthouse.”
The guesthouse was down a long hill from the main house, and the pool sat between the two buildings. Trista's place was a perfect miniature of the main house, complete with mini columns and an arched entranceway. No turrets, though. The grand tour took all of five seconds and included two rooms: The Hang and The Hole.
The Hang was Trista's bedroom/hangout room. It was carpeted in plush blue s.h.a.g and housed her queen-size bed, covered with layers of brown and blue patterned comforters and pillows, one small worktable and a chair, plus several brown and blue beanbags and oversize pillows. The wall opposite the bed held a wide shelving unit filled with books and keepsakes, all surrounding a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV. A small but beautiful bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower/ tub branched off The Hang. When I fantasized about my ideal dorm room at Northwestern, I dreamed it would be exactly like The Hang.
The Hole was technically a kitchen, but as Trista explained, her parents hadn't bothered renovating it for her, since they knew she couldn't cook. They also hoped she'd go to the main house and sit with them for meals. Everything in The Hole was stark white, which showed off every smear and stain, both new and ancient. You had to enter The Hole single file; it couldn't hold more than one person across. Still, it had a working sink, fridge, oven, a fully stocked pantry, and two stools that put you at the perfect height to munch on a bowl of cereal at the end of the counter.
There was more. A full wall of sliding gla.s.s doors along the far side of The Hang opened to a tented cencrete patio filled with electric tiki torch heaters and padded double chaises. It was like an additional room. There was a small doggie door built into the sliders, which is how I first met Riley. The pooch bounded in the second we arrived, ready to leap all over us and lick us to pieces.
That cemented it for me. Trista's place was perfection. I never wanted to leave.
”And now,” Trista said, ”the Liberation Celebration Libations!”
Trista ducked into The Hole and emerged with a stack of red plastic cups and a bottle of champagne. She handed the bottle to me. ”Pop the cork?”
I had never popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, but it wasn't a problem. The girls cheered and Trista poured ... and I started to panic inside.
I couldn't drink champagne. I'd be driving home in a couple hours. If champagne made me feel anything like the beer I'd had with Nate did, I'd be a swimmy mess in about two minutes. Still, I'd look like a complete loser if I was the only one saying no to the champagne, especially since it was in my honor.
Kristie must have seen the look on my face. She leaned in close and said, ”We're all driving, so we're just taking the tiniest sip to celebrate.”
”Yeah.” Ree-Ree lounged back in her beanbag and gazed wistfully at her red plastic cup. ”We don't really raid The Hole unless we're staying over.”
”Which they do every Sat.u.r.day,” Trista said. She plopped down in a beanbag next to me and clinked my plastic cup. She drained her drink-she was already home. ”Sat.u.r.day's club night. Friday sometimes, but Sat.u.r.day for sure. Always okay to crash here Sat.u.r.day night, so it's cool to GYBO.”
”Get Your Buzz On.” Kristie giggled.
”Grab her cup, Cara!” Ree-Ree said. ”KBG!”
”KBG?” I asked.
”Kristie Buzz Giggle,” Kristie said, shoving her cup in my hands. ”Don't let me drink any more.”
”I'll take it.” Trista downed the little bit of champagne left in Kristie's, Ree-Ree's, and my cups.
”Shall we bring out ... the List?” Ree-Ree asked. Without waiting for an answer, she walked to The Hole and came back with a creased piece of yellow legal-pad paper. The front was split into four columns with the scrawled headers ”Trista,” ”Ree-Ree,” ”Kristie,” and ”Gemma.” Under each was a list of names, and next to each name was a small H or S.
”The List of Conquests,” Ree-Ree said. ”All the guys we've ever fooled around with. 'H' means hookup; 'S' means s.e.x.”
I ran my eyes over the sheet of paper again. Gemma's and Ree-Ree's lists were far longer than the others' and peppered with far more S s. Kristie's was next longest, and every name was followed by an H. Trista's had only four names, ending with Brett's, the only name to be awarded an S.
”Gemma's pulling way ahead of me.” Ree-Ree tsked. ”Marsh and I might need to take another break. Or who knows?” she said to me. ”Maybe you'll beat us both out.”
She flipped over the paper, and for a second I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge looking at his own tombstone. Next to the fresh column Ree-Ree created for me were three other columns, all scratched to oblivion with ballpoint ink. I wondered what my predecessors had done to earn their excommunication.