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As if I even need to tell you this is Vivienne Westwood! The asymmetrical collar should've given it away, loves. The best 18th birthday present I could've asked for was a new box of Viv for—and you know I'll always be honest with you about this—free, free, free! So yes, they wanted me to blog about it, and yes, I'm doing it, but only because it is actually this fabulous. For those of you who've been accusing me of sporting too many high-fashion freebies lately: I thrifted the shoes, socks, and the blouse with the incredible lace collar. And you can't see my makeup (anonymity is the spice of blogging, angel faces), but it's cheapy-cheap stuff from the drugstore. Just so you know I'm still your down-to-earth fashionista! All my love, Jacinta.

And there, at the bottom, was her beautiful signature.

“I like what she's doing,” my mother said a little dreamily. “Her branding is fantastic. A mix of high-end and DIY. Aspirational yet accessible. Fresh.” I could tell my mother was going into one of her marketing term fits, when she stops speaking like a human and starts spouting terms that she and her business associates throw around.

“And of course,” Mom added, “I love the lavender. It's not my style, but it's very young and now. Oh, darling, I'm
so
thrilled she's invited you to her party! You are going, aren't you?” Through the kitchen window behind her, the Ferris wheel suddenly lit up with a dazzling panoply of twinkling white lights. It seemed party time was drawing nigh.

Maybe it was the almost pathetic look of hope in my mother's expression. Maybe it was my natural curiosity about this fabu fashion goddess next door. More likely it was the fact that I've always loved carnivals. Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “You know what? I am gonna go.” My mother followed me upstairs, jabbering all the way.

“Now, don't wear all black like you did yesterday,” she said. “My God, you looked like you were going to a punk-rock funeral. Let me see what you've packed.” Uneasily, I let her go through my suitcase. As she combed through T-shirt after T-shirt, she heaved several disappointed sighs in a row.

“Do you possess
anything
that doesn't have a cartoon character, a band, or a snotty saying on the front?” she asked, holding up one of my favorites, a green shirt that read, “I'm a big fan of your work.”

“Not that I'm aware of,” I said.

She opened her eyes wide and met my gaze with a steely determination. “I knew something like this would come up eventually,” she said, straining to remain calm. “So you know what I did, dear? I stocked up on some Marc Jacobs basics, just for you.”

I groaned. “I hate when you shop for me,” I said.

“It's for your own good,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed downstairs to get the bags. “You dress like you're mentally unstable. You're seventeen years old, Naomi. It's time to start dressing like a woman, not an angry child.” In a flash, she was back upstairs with her bags.

“At least it's not Lilly Pulitzer,” I said, and my mother blanched. Lilly Pulitzer dresses look like the most boring person in the world barfed on some fabric and fashioned it into a frock. When I was a kid, my mother was a Lilly Pulitzer devotee until some socialite whose event she was catering told her she ought to change into her real dress before the guests arrived. (I'm not kidding—this actually happened.) Ever since then, Mom has hated Lilly Pulitzer with an all-consuming passion.

“Watch your mouth,” she said, and for a moment her Chicago accent came out. Then she pulled out a dress and showed it to me.

I had to admit, it was actually nice. Marc Jacobs does good stuff that isn't too flashy and embarrassing but still manages to be pretty. My mother had selected a color-blocked twill sheath dress that was dark blue on top and green from the waist down. It had an empire waist, which looks fine on me because I've got no curves to speak of. The straight up-and-down thing suits me just perfectly.

“How much was it?” I asked suspiciously.

“You are your father's daughter,” she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Four hundred.”

“For
that
?” I was incredulous. “I mean, it's pretty, but it's so simple. It probably cost seventy-five cents to make. And the three-year-old in Indonesia who sewed it probably made, like, a nickel.”

“It's perfect,” my mother said. “And you're going to wear it.”

Of course, then I wanted to wear literally anything
but
the dress. My mother's tone made me feel for a moment I'd actually prefer wrapping myself in toilet paper and sashaying across the lawn. But the truth was that I looked good in it. For the first time in years, I let her brush my hair. She pulled it into a simple low ponytail and wrapped a piece of hair around the elastic band to hide it, then curled the tail with one of her eighteen thousand beauty appliances. She would've put makeup on me herself, but I howled in protest when she pulled out the medieval-looking eyelash-curling contraption. I just used some of her Guerlain mascara and put on a little lip gloss. She insisted I borrow a pair of simple pearl earrings and a strand of pearls. I drew the line at heels, so she gave me a pair of dark blue Ferragamo jelly flats with a peep toe. I watched her try unsuccessfully to hide her horror at my lack of a pedicure, but I guess she figured she'd won the sartorial battle and didn't need to push her luck by demanding I paint my toenails.

We both looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside her enormous walk-in closet. For the first time since I got those highlights back when I was twelve, I saw my mother's eyes light up with pride.

“See,” she said triumphantly. “You really
can
be a pretty girl when you try.”

“Um,” I said. “Thanks.” It was as close to a genuine compliment as I was going to get from her.

I waited in the kitchen and watched through the window as the first hour of the party unfolded. Thankfully, my mother was holed up in her home office on a conference call with her lawyer about something or other and didn't nag me about arriving on time. Everybody knows you don't get to a party right when the invitation says it starts. You run the risk of being the first person there, with no one to talk to, which is even worse than getting there when all the other people have gathered. Then at least you might have the chance to strike up a conversation with someone you know.

Of course, it occurred to me that I might not know anyone at this party. I tried my best to make out the people parking in Jacinta's long driveway and along our street, and I thought I saw some of the regulars from the clambakes at Baxley's. I grabbed my mother's binoculars (she claims to be a birdwatcher, but I think she just spies on people across the pond) and peered through them.

There were the Fitzwilliams sisters, Audrey and Katharine, who were notable for being Kennedy cousins and for getting drunk at every clambake or garden party I'd ever seen them at. Their parents never seemed to notice or care, which is probably why they kept drinking. They had each paired off with a Stetler brother, neither of whose first names I could recall, and they all made a beeline for the bar tent as soon as they rounded the corner of the house and entered the backyard. None of them seemed particularly surprised or delighted by the carnival surroundings. I saw Audrey Fitzwilliams give the Ferris wheel a dispirited glance before downing the first of what would undoubtedly be many shots that evening. One of the Stetler brothers put his hand on her butt as if that were perfectly normal public behavior.

I didn't recognize any of the other people streaming into the backyard. The girls all wore pretty dresses and sported perfect tans, while the boys wore polo shirts or short-sleeved button-downs with khaki pants or shorts.

“Naomi!” My mother's voice behind me startled me. I turned around, and she folded her arms in disapproval. “Are you going to just stand there and watch, or are you going to join in the fun?”

I looked at the clock, which read 7:55 p.m.

“I guess it's time for me to join in the fun,” I said. “But I might be back in five minutes, if it sucks.”

“Give it an hour at the very least,” Mom said. “Anything less would be terribly rude.”

She stood on the back deck and watched me as I walked across the lawn and, my heart beating extra-fast, rang the bell at Jacinta Trimalchio's castle door. In the gathering darkness, the lights shone bright through the windows. Though I could hear a crowd chattering inside the house, no one answered the door. Nervously, I looked across the lawn at my mother, who gestured that I should ring the bell again. I obeyed, but still no response. Somewhat relieved, I was about to turn around and head home when the door swung wide open, and Jeff Byron greeted me.

“Jeff!” I said in surprise.

“Naomi!” he said, mocking me—but with a big flirtatious grin. “Come join the circus.” He put his arm around me and put his hand on my back, leading me inside.

“Oh my God,” I said, staring at the luxurious, crowded foyer in which we found ourselves. “This is—”

“Tacky? Fun? Ridiculous?”

“All of it,” I said in wonder.

It was a soaring three-story foyer with a white marble floor and an enormous crystal chandelier that had been fitted with pink lightbulbs. A huge white marble butterfly staircase dominated the space, its white marble balustrade resplendent with bright red bunting. Everywhere I looked, I saw red roses: garlands of them hanging from the chandelier, draped around gilt-framed mirrors, peeking out from behind the ears of New York's wealthiest young women. White-jacketed cater waiters with red flowers in their lapels circled among the dozens of guests hanging out in the foyer, offering raw oysters and fried oysters, glasses of red wine and glasses of white wine, flutes of pink champagne, and bits of fruits and meats and cheeses intermingled in complicated, fancy haute cuisine ways that my mother would've identified and judged immediately. And up on the landing of the butterfly staircase, where the stairs met the second floor of the house, sat a white-and-red-clad full band banging out old-fashioned music that sounded like something from Skags's other favorite Netflix show,
Boardwalk Empire
.

“How many people our age do you know who'd throw a party set to Jazz Age standards?” Jeff said, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter's tray and handing me a flute.

“Is that what that music is?” I asked, taking a big gulp of my champagne. I'm not much of a drinker, but the dazzling lights and sounds and colors had me feeling like some kind of relaxing substance was in order. I made a split-second vow to myself that I wasn't just going to be Naomi the confession receptacle at this party. I was going to—participate, whatever that meant. Champagne seemed like a start.

“Yup. I know it sounds pretentious, but I love jazz.” He pressed his hand into my lower back and led me up the staircase, so we could stand closer to the band. “This is ‘Always' by Irving Berlin,” he said into my ear. I shivered a bit and drew a little closer to him.

“How do you know so much about music?” I asked.

“My dad owns a record label,” he replied casually. “He's into all kinds of music, but he loves 1920s and 1930s jazz the best of all.”

“My dad coaches a public high school basketball team,” I said, taking another swig of champagne. Already, I felt less awkward than I usually did at these East Hampton parties.

“Your dad sounds like more fun than my dad.”

“Your dad sounds richer than my dad.” I was kind of tipsy already.

“Maybe, but he's kind of an asshole,” Jeff said with a hint of bitterness. “You'll never meet anyone more obsessed with the size of his house or the price of his car. Everything is like a trophy to him. You wouldn't believe how superficial the guy is.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised,” I said, swallowing more champagne and thinking for a moment about how cute Jeff's floppy brown hair was.

“So what kind of record label does your dad own?” I finished my champagne and reached out for another as a waiter passed.

“Hip-hop,” Jeff said.

“Naturally,” I replied. “It's clear that you lead a thug life.”

“Absolutely. See these pants? Ralph Lauren. My mom bought them for me. Hard. Core.”

“I assume you're in a gang—I hear Trumbo is full of them.”

“Oh, it's a dangerous place. Our school motto is ‘Ride or die.'”

“Let's go outside,” I said suddenly, grabbing his hand without thinking. I downed more champagne.

Jeff looked at our hands in amusement. “Whatever you say, madame.” I led him back down the staircase and through a palatial living room and an epic dining room—no, a dining
hall—
both of which were a blur of red and white flowers and table runners and tablecloths and cushions and vases and also, of course, shiny gorgeous people. The rear wall of the dining room was made of floor-to-ceiling panels of glass, one of which was an open sliding door. We walked out onto the crowded two-level deck, where another band was playing more of that jazzy, bubbly music (“‘Doin' the Raccoon,'” Jeff said. “Late twenties.”), and gazed at the extravaganza unfolding in the backyard.

“So this Jacinta girl—do you know her or what?” I asked, taking another generous sip of bubbly.

“Not at all,” Jeff replied. “I didn't even think she was real, and then when we were done with tennis today, I got this handwritten note back at my house.”

“With the most incredible handwriting, right?”

“Yeah, it was like John Hancock or somebody had written me the Declaration of Invitation.” It wasn't that funny, but I found myself giggling inanely. Champagne and a cute boy will do that to anyone, I guess, even a smartass girl from Chicago who knows better.

“For a while, people thought she was one of the girls at Trumbo, but I guess she's not. All of the girls and some of the gays—like the stereotypical gays—are obsessed with being her Facebook friend. But even her Facebook doesn't show her face, or where she really lives.” I could hear an irritated Skags inside my head going, “And what
exactly
is a ‘stereotypical gay,' you heteronormative fascist?” but I knew what Jeff meant.