Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters (3 page)

JANE AND SASSY WERE WAITING FOR ME IN MY ROOM AS USUAL
when I got home that night.

“It’s freezing in here,” I said. Jane had the window open for smoking, of course. I snatched her clove cigarette from her hand, tossed it outside and shut the window.

“Hey, I was smoking that,” Jane complained.

“You could set the whole house on fire,” Sassy added.

“There’s no respect for privacy in this family,” I said. “Every time I walk into my room, it’s full of people.”

“We’re not people,” Sassy said. “We’re us.”

“The Tower Room has always been the official clubhouse,” Jane said. “It has been since St. John.”

“Things change,” I said. “The new rule is you have to ask permission before you can burst in here and fill the place with clove smoke.”

“Speed Reading really is messing with your head, Norrie,” Jane said.

“Remember that rope ladder St. John had so his friends could climb up for late-night parties?” Sassy said. She’s often a few steps behind in conversation. “Whatever happened to that?”

“He took it to college,” I said. “Maybe Sully has it.” It occurred to me that the ladder could come in handy again. If I—or somebody else—I wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular—should ever need to sneak in and out of my room, for example. I reopened the casement window and stared into the darkness, four stories down to the ground. It’s amazing none of St. John’s drunken friends ever fell and broke their necks.

“Look at her, Sass,” Jane said, nodding at me. “Don’t you think she looks different lately?”

I turned my face toward Sassy so she could study me carefully.

“Yes,” Sassy said. “Norrie, you’ve got cheekbones.”

I went to the mirror. Sassy was right. Where only last summer—the last time I’d really checked—I’d still had puffy baby-face cheeks, now I suddenly had sharp angles in my face. I was beginning to look a bit like Ginger. I still have mixed feelings about that.

“I must have lost weight.” I ran my hand over my face.

“It’s the Speed Reading class,” Jane said. “Something happened in that class that changed you forever, and now it’s showing up in your face.”

“What happened in Speed Reading?” Sassy asked.

“She won’t tell us,” Jane said.

“Yes I will,” I said. “Just not yet.”

“What?” Sassy jumped up and down on the bed. “You have to tell us! Now!”

“No.”

“Let me guess,” Sassy said. “You met a boy!”

“No I didn’t,” I said. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Sassy said. “Throughout history, big changes always start with a girl meeting a boy.”

“No they don’t,” Jane said. “They start with somebody being assassinated.”

“But that starts with boy-meets-girl,” Sassy said.

“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.

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.

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.”

“Bull—” Phoebe said. “They give you grief, but you and your sisters do what you want in the end.”

“’Cause we’re not afraid of them anymore,” Lily said. “What can they really do to us?”

“That’s true,” Phoebe said. “It’s not like getting a time-out is a big threat.”

Near the keg, Dr. Gornick put his arm around Shea’s shoulders. “You’re the sexiest girl out of this whole bunch, you know that?” he said. Shea swayed slightly.

“Shea Donovan is wasted,” Phoebe said.

“I’m so shocked,” Lily said.

Ilsa came out from the kitchen with her plate of brownies, looking for victims. She crossed the patio to her husband and offered everyone treats. Then she put her arm around Shea’s waist. Dr. Gornick let her go, and Ilsa led Shea to a picnic bench.

“Looks like Shea’s in for one of Ilsa’s pep talks,” Phoebe said.

“Oh God, poor girl,” Lily said. “‘Where do you see yourself in ten years? You don’t want to be dependent on a man.’”

“She should talk,” Phoebe said. “If she married that creepy Dr. Gornick for any reason other than money, she’s crazier than I thought.”

“
Joe
,” Lily corrected. “Call him Joe.”

We all laughed. But then Ilsa waved us over.

“Jesus. What does she want?” Phoebe said.

“Girls! I need your help for a minute. I’ve got brownies….”

“Enough with the brownies,” Lily said. But we all got to our feet and joined Ilsa and Shea at the picnic table.

“I’m trying to explain to Shea that she doesn’t have to behave in this self-defeating way,” Ilsa said. I half expected Shea to burst into a rage and yell at Ilsa for humiliating her in front of everybody, but Shea just sat and swayed. She looked more than drunk, like maybe she’d taken some pills or something.

“These girls get plenty of attention from boys—right, girls?” Ilsa waved a hand toward me and Lily and Phoebe. “But they don’t have to resort to wearing their blouses unbuttoned or doing whatever boys want.”

Shea gaped at us under her blond eyebrows as if she was trying to figure out who we were.

“Ilsa, I don’t think she’s getting it,” Phoebe said.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time for a lecture,” I said.

“Lecture? I’m not lecturing her. This is girl talk. Right? A heart-to-heart.”

Shea started crying. She just sat there with tears running down her face, her nose dripping, quietly sobbing. She kept her hands at her side, not bothering to wipe away the mess on her face.

“Oh my God.” Lily turned away.

Ilsa put her arm around Shea. “That’s right. Let it all out.”

“Let go of her,” I said. “You’re embarrassing her. I’ll take her inside.”

The party had stopped dead. Everybody was staring at Shea. Brooks ran over. “What’s wrong?”

“Shea’s upset,” I said.

“Shea, do you need a ride home?” Brooks said. “Because Norrie and I are leaving, and we can drop you off if you want.”

Shea moved her head, but I couldn’t tell if she was shaking it or nodding.

“Where’s Caitlin?” I asked.

No one seemed to know. Tim Drucker made a rude gesture and pointed toward one of the upstairs windows.

“Forget it,” Brooks said. “Caitlin will find a way home. Let’s get Shea out of here.”

“There’s no need for that,” Ilsa said. “I’ve got this under control, kids.”

Brooks helped Shea, still crying, to her feet. “I really think she should go home.”

Ilsa rose and towered over us. “Young man, we’re the adults here, and this is our house. I’m a professional. I can handle this.”

“I’m a dude man!” Dr. Gornick, oblivious, was howling the lyrics to a song.

Brooks and I helped Shea to his car. I gave her a Kleenex and she finally wiped her wet face.

“Thanks, you guys,” she said. “For a few minutes there I felt like I couldn’t talk. Like I had a gym sock on my tongue.”

“Are you okay?” Brooks asked.

“I think so. I think Tim slipped something in my beer.”

“That jerk,” I said, only I used a stronger word than “jerk.” We eased her into the backseat of the BMW. “Do you want some water or something? Are you sure you’re all right?”

Shea shook her head. “I’m okay. I dumped the beer when I noticed it tasted funny.”

“We’ll drive you home,” Brooks said. “Where do you live?”

“In Lutherville,” Shea said.

Lutherville was not on our way home, but Brooks didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t mind either. I like driving down the dark, winding roads out in the country at night. There’s something romantic about it—even with a drunk girl passed out and snoring in the backseat. Maybe especially then.

“It was nice of you to come to Shea’s rescue,” I said to Brooks.

“Ilsa’s always doing that, trying to psychoanalyze girls in the middle of a party.” He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes on the road. “It’s not right.”

“They’re both jerks,” I said. “Ilsa and Dr. Gornick.”

“I used to wish my parents were cool like Dr. Gornick,” Brooks said. “But now I’m glad they just stay on their side of the fence. Who wants your dad singing classic rock at your parties? I don’t care if he does supply half your friends with Valium.”

“Dr. Gornick gives kids Valium?”

“That’s what Tim Drucker says.”

We drove in silence for a few miles while the dark wooded road morphed into a commercial strip. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” I asked.

“No. Better wake up Shea and ask her.”

I shook Shea gently. “Hey, Shea, how do we get to your house?”

She groaned and opened her eyes and dragged herself up to a sitting position. She stared out the window as if she didn’t recognize this landscape at all. But she did.

“Turn left on York Road,” she said. “Then left on Othoridge.”

She slumped back down on the seat. When we stopped in front of her house she tumbled out the door, muttering, “Thanks, guys,” and stumbled toward the ranch house. We lost her for a minute on the lawn, but then she reappeared in the pool of light on the porch. The door opened and she vanished into the world beyond it.

We headed back to the city, a good twenty-minute drive. I didn’t know what to say to Brooks so I turned up the radio.

When we got to my house he kissed me on the cheek. He didn’t try anything else, and I didn’t expect him to. He is a well-known gentleman, and I must admit, Almighty, he deserves his good reputation. I sometimes suspect that he’s extra-careful
around me, though, since anything that happens between us is sure to get back to you and Mamie.