Page 23 of Old Money
T he game began at dinner. I didn’t start it, but it was my fault. Everything that happened between dinner and the pool was my fault.
Through sheer luck I wound up sitting with Caitlin, at a different table than the rest of our group.
At most parties, club protocol required guests to sit boy-girl-boy-girl, and never beside a relative—but July Fourth was meant to be “informal.” The dinner bell was rung at the end of cocktail hour, and everyone scattered from the yellow ballroom and into the green and blue rooms, hoping to claim one of the tables by the open terrace doors.
Theo had scurried ahead and managed to nab one for us.
He beamed with pride as the rest of us followed, Caitlin whooping and Uncle Greg applauding, holding out a chair for Mom and then for Aunt Barbara.
Only then did we notice the table was two seats short.
The awkward moment passed in a flash as Caitlin took me by the hand, saying we needed some girl time anyway.
“Are you sure?” I asked as she walked us across the room.
“ Bien s?r , babe.”
She squeezed my hand, pointing to a pair of open seats at the corner of a long table by the fireplace.
I felt like a contest winner. An intimate dinner with Caitlin— not just my incredibly cool older cousin, but the topic of endless, fawning speculation among all the lower-school girls.
I would play it cool, obviously , but this was my chance to get answers to our many important questions.
For instance, how did she make her hair look like that—messy but not dirty?
And what face wash did she use? And was it true she shaved her legs with men’s BIC razors?
Maybe she could show me how to shave mine if my mom said yes?
And was she in love with Patrick yet? Did they have sex?
I took my seat, cringing at myself and my perverted brain.
“Hey,” Caitlin whispered—not sitting herself, but bending down. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Oh, uh-huh,” I said, my dream deflating before my eyes.
Caitlin was scanning the room—for Patrick, I realized. As if hearing my thoughts, she looked down and gave me a little wink. Then she turned to go, fluttering her fingers in a covert wave. Excitement bubbled up again, buoyed by the sort-of secret she’d sort of let me in on.
She came back quickly that first time—maybe ten minutes later.
I remember, she said something about the salad not being out yet, and that she’d just pop out again real quick.
By the time she returned, they were serving the soup.
Even then, she didn’t take her seat. She just leaned over it, resting her forearms on the back of the chair.
“All good?” she asked. “You need anything?”
“What? No.” I was instantly defensive.
“Aw, babydoll, I’m standing you up,” she said in a wheedling tone. “Are you lonesome over here?”
“No,” I protested. “No, I’m totally fine.”
She leaned closer, glancing at the others at the table—all ensconced in their own conversations.
“Patrick’s just having a bad night,” she said, dropping into a whisper again. “Fighting with his mom or something.”
“About the martini?”
She paused.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.”
A server brushed by with a tray of soup bowls. Caitlin stood, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
“Listen, five minutes,” she said. “For real.”
It was more like forty. The soup was long gone by the time she returned, and half the table had finished their entrees. I sat before my untouched slab of pale chicken breast and oversteamed vegetable medley, sinking into what my mother called a “grade A sulk.”
I felt the cool weight of Caitlin’s arm on my shoulders as she slid around the back of my chair, finally taking her seat.
“Honey, I’m home!” she trilled. “Aw, sweetie, you didn’t have to wait for me to eat.”
“I didn’t,” I groused. “I’m just not hungry.”
My tone was so sullen that it would’ve gotten me a warning at school. It didn’t seem to register with Caitlin. She took a long drink from her sparkling water.
“I don’t blame you,” she said, eyeing the pallid chicken on her plate. “Gag me.”
It stung, somehow—the way she wasn’t noticing my foul mood. I crossed my arms, although it made the dress feel even tighter. I turned my face away, in case I started crying.
“You don’t have to keep checking on me,” I said, not looking at her. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Anxiety pinched me between the ribs—I’d gone too far.
I’d let my mouth get away from me again, and said the most babyish, embarrassing thing.
No wonder Caitlin kept running away. Of course she didn’t want to sit chatting with me.
She probably couldn’t stand me. And now I’d made it worse by deliberately being rude.
I whipped around, already spewing apologies—but Caitlin wasn’t even looking at me.
She was grinning at Patrick, who was two tables away, reclining in his chair, the way boys did in class.
He mouthed something to Caitlin that I couldn’t make out, and she tossed her head back in peals of muted laughter.
She replied with a silent “No way!” and gave him a scandalized look as she reached for her glass and took another deep sip.
I saw then how flushed she was—blushing all over, from her cheeks to her clavicle.
My stomach tumbled over as I caught a glimpse of a small, ruddy mark on the side of her neck.
“Do you and Patrick have sex?”
Again, the words flew out of my mouth of their own volition. Caitlin lurched forward, eyes popping, as though I’d just vomited all over the table.
“Did you really just ask me that?”
I shook my head, speechless. It made Caitlin laugh even harder.
“What is this?” she cackled. “Truth or Dare?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, all the blood in my body surging up to my head. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“Are we doing Spin the Bottle next?” Caitlin said, still overcome with laughter.
It happened then: a hot flood of tears streamed from my eyes, and I looked into my napkin, unable to stop them.
“Oh!” Caitlin cried. “Oh, honey!”
She scooted her chair closer.
“Alice! Oh my gosh, I’m kidding. Hey, shh, it’s okay.”
It was too late though. I was crying for real, like the baby I was. My shoulders trembled, tears plop-plopping on the skirt of my dress, leaving small, silvery stains.
“Come on now, hey.” Caitlin put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Deep breath.”
A white-haired woman was looking at me from across the table, her gaze somewhere between concerned and repulsed.
“Does she need her mother?” the woman asked Caitlin quietly.
Yes , I thought. I needed mom to take me home, help me get out of this awful dress and sit on the couch watching the Twilight Zone marathon in pajamas with me until I fell asleep.
“Oh no,” Caitlin answered politely. “She’s fine.”
She waited for the woman to look away. Then she picked up her glass of sparkling water.
“Here,” she murmured. “Have a little sip.”
Without thinking, I took the glass and did as she instructed. My head jerked up as a sharp, floral flavor hit the back of my throat.
“It’s nothing,” Caitlin said before I could ask. “Just gin and soda.”
I looked at the glass, putting a hand to my mouth.
“Don’t worry, it’s pretty light,” Caitlin said, smiling at me. “Just a couple sips. It’ll help.”
I looked at her—the pity all over her face. I could have broken into sobs. Caitlin would’ve gone to fetch Mom, and I’d have begged her to take me home, and she would have, there and then. And none of the rest would’ve happened. All I had to do was cry.
But I didn’t. Instead, I took a breath and looked Caitlin in the eye. I pictured Patrick—the way he’d drained the martini glass—and leaned my own head back, taking a long, dramatic drink.
“Um, okay,” said Caitlin. The pity was gone from her face. Now she watched me with slightly nervous eyes.
Good , I thought. The alcohol spread warm across my chest. I remembered what she’d said to me in her bedroom earlier—that movie-dialogue line. I leaned over and put on my best Caitlin voice.
“Do not tell my mother.”
Caitlin laughed again, but it was different this time—a laugh at my joke, not me.
“You got it,” she said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Caitlin took her glass back and raised it for a sip. She paused, holding it just short of her lips, considering. Then, instead of taking a drink herself, Caitlin extended the glass back to me. She raised her eyebrows.
“Dare?”