Pool Boys (6 page)

Charlotte decided to make the call at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning.

Georgia would be up by now. Knowing her, she would have already stretched and worked out to a Pilates video. The entire Palmer family always went a little exercise-crazy over the summer. Charlotte could picture the scene in their Martha Stewart-perfect kitchen: the three of them, all goddamn perky, bustling around in their tennis whites, brewing the first pot of coffee.

Not quite the von Klaus family, was it?

“Honey?” Charlotte’s mom called from downstairs.

Crap.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. She was in her ratty tank and boxers, flopped back on her four-poster bed among all the ragged stuffed animals she refused to throw out. She clutched her shiny silver cell phone to her chest. “Yeah?” she yelled back.

“Did you walk Stella?”

Charlotte groaned. “Later, Mom. I promise.”

Thank God the house was so big. Since the divorce thirteen months ago, it had grown even bigger. Charlotte and her mom could literally go days on end without
bumping into each other. As for Dad, he was trouncing around Manhattan with Little Miss Graduate-Degree-in-Business, otherwise known as Rachel Monroe, who because of her “brains” (not because of her size-D cup), had made Dad “feel like a man again.” Those were the exact words Dad had used.
To Charlotte.
(Even Dr. Gilmore had been appalled.) But at least he’d had the decency to leave Mom and Charlotte this fine eighteenth-century manor, once featured in
House & Garden
, while he played out his mid-life crisis in an apartment Charlotte refused to visit. Charlotte had already transformed his “study” into a “blast-My-Chemical-Romance-loudly room.”

“Okay, then, sweetheart, I’m off to the club,” Mom called back. “That darling Ethan is giving me a special tennis lesson! Do you want a ride?”

“No, thanks!” Charlotte yelled, thinking she’d rather walk there barefoot.

A moment later, Charlotte heard the blessed sounds of the garage door opener.

Ah.

A paw scratched at her door, followed by a plaintive whine.

“I would sell my soul to Satan for some quiet,” Charlotte said out loud. “Satan? Are you out there? Do you hear me? I’ll offer bargain rates!”

She hopped out of bed and stormed over to her door, allowing Stella to shamble in. The dog could never stand to be alone. He jumped right up on the covers, nestling in among the stuffed animals with a contented sigh.

Too bad you’re so cute
, she thought angrily.

Charlotte tossed her hair over her shoulders, tugged up the strap of her tank, and dialed Georgia’s cell.

“C?” Georgia answered on the first ring. She sounded out of breath.

Suddenly, Charlotte felt a twinge of nerves. She sat on the edge of her bed. “G, what’s going on?” She jumped right into it.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you ditch us at dinner last night?” Charlotte asked, chewing on her thumbnail. “Why didn’t you just tell us you went to meet Valerie and Marcus?” Charlotte still remembered the shock she’d felt while watching that random trio. She and Caleb hadn’t stayed for much longer once Brooke had left, so Charlotte didn’t know what the three of them had ended up doing.

There was a brief silence on the other end. “You
followed
me?” Georgia asked, incredulous.

“I thought you were going to see Ethan.”

“I was going to meet Valerie,” Georgia stated tersely. “Just Valerie. And you guys were being so weird about her that I—”

Charlotte laughed. “Of course we were being weird. We don’t
know
her. And isn’t it obvious that she’s trying to get Marcus?”

There was silence. Then Georgia spoke up. “Maybe she was just being friendly.”

“Well,” Charlotte replied, fiddling with her friendship bracelet. “He’s not such a catch anyway.”

Georgia cleared her throat, then gave a nervous laugh. “Hey, how about instead of going to the club today, I pick you up and we go shopping? We can look for outfits for my July Fourth picnic.”

“Well, okay. Sure.” Charlotte managed a smile. “That sounds like fun. I’ll call Brooke—”

“Wait. That’s my other line,” Georgia cut in.
Click.

Charlotte’s smile faded. Something was going on with Georgia, but she couldn’t figure it out. Something in her voice was different—edgy—
click.

“Hey, C, I gotta run,” Georgia said. “I’m sorry. It turns out I can’t go shopping today. I really am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Charlotte said quietly. “It’s okay. We’ll shop next week.” She held her breath, hoping that Georgia would come clean with who was on the other line, and why she’d broken her plans as suddenly as she’d made them.

“Cool,” Georgia said.

There was another click, then silence.

Charlotte stood and began pacing her bedroom. She was half-tempted to get extremely pissed off, call right back, and give Georgia a piece of her mind…But then she thought better of it. Maybe she should take the Zen, calm, Dr. Gilmore approach, to give Georgia time to express her side of the situation. Still, why
not
get pissed? Georgia had pretty much hung up on her. In the seventeen years they’d been friends—well, at least since they’d been old enough to talk on the phone—Georgia had only hung up on her one other time, and that was by accident.

Charlotte immediately dialed Brooke.

“Hello?” Mr. Farnsworth answered.

“Oh, hi!” Charlotte hadn’t expected
him.
But the snooty Mr. F never intimidated her. “I thought I called Brooke’s cell phone. Did I dial your home number by mistake?”

He gave a grunt that, from a more pleasant person, might have been a chuckle. “No, Charlotte. You dialed Brooke’s cellular phone. It was sitting on the kitchen counter, so I picked it up.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Brooke, dear? It’s Charlotte. In the future, can you please inform your friends that nine-twenty on a Sunday is a little early to be calling?”

Charlotte groaned inwardly. Brooke’s dad took supreme pleasure in acting like a royal tightass.

“What’s wrong, C?” Brooke answered, her mouth full.

“Sorry to call so early,” Charlotte mumbled.

“Oh,
please.
Don’t pull that with
me.”

Charlotte sprawled across the bed beside Stella. “I called Georgia and she was really bizarre.”

Brooke laughed. The sound was short and brittle, without any humor. “Shocker.”

“Then I think she got another call from Valerie Packwood.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Valerie called to gossip about how hot Marcus is—”

She stopped herself. That was a dumb thing to say. She didn’t want to add to Brooke’s woes. But on the other hand, Brooke didn’t even really
know
Marcus. Maybe she
shouldn’t
be interested in him. True, he was hotter than anyone who’d ever passed through the Silver Oaks gates since like 1922, but that was no reason to lose all perspective.

“Well, I for one intend to do something about this,” Brooke stated.

“You do?”

“Hell, yeah. But don’t worry. Nothing too bad. I’m Snow White, remember? I’m pure and innocent.”

“Brooke, you’re freaking me out,” Charlotte said, halfkidding.

“Come on,” Brooke groaned. “Listen, what does Valerie what’s-her-face have that I don’t have? So she’s stunningly gorgeous. So she just moved from Manhattan, so she has that mystique and glamour and all that crap. But she does have a strike against her: She’s friends with Robby Miller.”

It was a punch line. Obviously. Brooke was waiting for Charlotte to laugh. You couldn’t mention Robby Miller and
not
laugh. But even as Charlotte tried to muster a chuckle, the sound died in her throat. “You know what’s weird, B?” she confessed. “Last night, I asked Robby Miller if he knew Valerie—you know, because Ethan said that her family was friends with his family—and he said that he’d never even met her.”

Brooke didn’t answer.

“B? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, C. I heard you. I’m just figuring out how to incorporate that juicy little tidbit into my master plan.”

Click.

Before Charlotte could inquire about the exact nature of this master plan, her other best friend had hung up on her, as well.

Charlotte tossed the phone aside. It bounced on the mattress, landing between Stella and a stuffed penguin.

Two hang-ups in one morning: not the cheeriest start to a day.

Brooke wouldn’t do anything rash or crazy, would she? She wouldn’t do something she’d regret later on, right? No. Of course not.

As Charlotte slid on her flip-flops and ambled out of the room to shower, she remembered those stupid words Dr. Gilmore had told her while wearing that stupid paisley bow tie.

“Lying to yourself is never a solution.”

Georgia nudged her SUV along the Silver Oaks driveway.
9:53.
That didn’t leave her a whole lot of time. Valerie was due to arrive for their tennis date at ten. Still, Georgia could catch a quick few minutes with Marcus alone by the pool, and explain a couple of things to him.

Namely: They were going to be friends. That was all.

Georgia had deliberately pulled her hair into a sloppy bun and worn her most drab tennis outfit: a sleeveless, white, collared jumper that her mom always sneered at.
“I don’t know why you wear it, dear; the design just isn’t becoming.”
Which was the point. She didn’t want to be “becoming” today. Not in Marcus’s eyes.

Under any other circumstances, Georgia would have parked her car herself. But if she did that, she knew that she would just sit alone in the lot, and crank a cheesy Top 40 Sunday morning countdown, and lose her nerve. There was a precedent for this: Last summer, after Ethan had dumped her, she’d parked and listened all the way to song
#5
—some rap ballad about a “mack dissing his shorty,” and it was so dumb and perfectly apropos that she’d ended up weeping.

With a quick punch on the gas, she swerved up in front of the main doors. There was just something so…
country club
about valet parking. Brooke and Charlotte never had a problem with it. Of course they didn’t. They were comfortable with
being
country club. And why shouldn’t they be? Actually, the real question was: Why couldn’t
Georgia
be?

For some bizarre reason, Jimmy the Bartender was handling valet duties.

He waddled over to the SUV, dressed in the perennial rumpled Silver Oaks polo-and-shorts uniform, his socks pulled high—then opened the door for her and extended a hand to help her out. She scooped her racket off the passenger seat.

“Hey, Jimmy,” she greeted him. “What’s going on? Where’s the usual guy?”

“He’s coming in late,” Jimmy answered hoarsely. “Probably hungover.”

Georgia shrugged. Hangovers after the first Saturday night of the season were practically expected.

Jimmy climbed in and handed her a ticket stub. “Hey, your friend Snow White is looking for you.”

Georgia frowned. “Brooke? She’s
here?
She never gets up before ten on Sunday.”

“Yeah, she seemed to be in a big hurry to get into the water, too. She drove up in her bathing suit! I told her she would catch cold. But you kids seem to play by your own rules. Hell if I understand.” Jimmy closed the door and drove off toward the parking lot, disappearing around the bend.

Georgia absently crumpled the parking ticket in one hand.

Hell if she understood, either. She hurried through the front doors, breaking into a jog in the main hall, past the sitting room and the parlor, and through the empty dining room. Finally she dashed out onto the patio, where she jerked to a stop.

There was Brooke all right, lounging poolside in her striped Shoshanna bikini, but at her side, in a lounger of his own, was Marcus Craft. The lifeguard station was abandoned, but it didn’t matter—there was no one in the pool at this early hour. From the way that Brooke and Marcus were positioned, with their loungers so close they were practically touching and Marcus’s hand resting ever so casually near Brooke’s thigh, they looked as if they might be lying in bed together. Brooke’s face was turned to Marcus, and her expression was rapturous. Georgia’s stomach gave a jump; maybe it was Brooke she needed to talk to, even more than Marcus.

She padded over to them, her flip-flops thwacking, and took a deep breath. It was Marcus who looked up first, shielding his eyes from the sun and flashing her a grin.

“Georgia on my mind,” he crooned, his voice singsongy. Instantly, Brooke’s head snapped around, her hazel eyes like ice.

Georgia felt her throat catch. She wished her cheeks weren’t turning pink quite so rapidly. Last night had been
crazy.
Soon after Marcus had joined them on the golf
course, it had been obvious that he was into Valerie—he kept touching her curly hair and teasing her about her ratty hoodie. But after the three of them had chatted for a while—just bullshitting—Georgia grew paranoid, thinking that she heard whispers coming from the shrubbery just beyond where they sat. Valerie announced that she was beat and needed to get back home. She kissed a disappointed looking Marcus on one cheek, asked Georgia to meet her for tennis at ten, and flitted out into the night like some blonde, Juicy-clad pixie.

Georgia and Marcus remained alone, regarding each other in the bright starlight. Georgia could no longer hear any noises in the shrubbery, or much of anything. Her chest hurt every time she took a breath, and she found herself noticing the sharpness of Marcus’s cheekbones, the way his upper lip curled slightly. She wanted to say something to him about Brooke, something about the fact that her friend said that he was sweet, but then Marcus was taking a step closer to her.

“I noticed you at the pool this morning,” he murmured. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Really?” Georgia asked, her voice high-pitched. She hadn’t remembered Marcus even glancing her way. But then she wanted to kick herself. Why did she always sound so stupid around boys?

“There are so many beautiful girls at this club,” Marcus had gone on, his voice still low. “But there’s something…different about you.”

Georgia had wondered if Marcus would be saying the exact same thing to Valerie had
Georgia
been the one to flit off into the night.

“I guess I
feel
different,” Georgia found herself saying, in the nervous, rambly way she sometimes spoke around boys. “I mean, not like I feel like I don’t fit in, but Brooke and Charlotte—those are my best friends—they’re so a
part
of things here, and I’m just this sporty girl who…”

“You’re not
just
anything,” Marcus protested, his hand now coming to rest on Georgia’s arm. And then, before Georgia could say anything, or stop him, he was inclining his head toward her, and coming in so close, and his lips were almost on hers.

As she felt his mouth approach, her immediate thought was of Ethan, the last boy she had kissed. Sadness welled up in her, and then she thought of Brooke. Her best friend. Hadn’t
she
kissed Marcus tonight? Brooke had implied as much at dinner.

This was all wrong.

“Marcus,” Georgia gasped, giving his chest a shove and taking a step back. “No—I can’t—we need—we can be friends, but we can’t be anything more…”

The corners of Marcus’s mouth turned down, and he’d begun to protest, but Georgia, by then full-time freaking out, asked if they could just talk tomorrow at the club. Her head was spinning and she knew she needed to go home and try to sort through everything. To make sense of it all.

And now here she was, confronting Marcus and Brooke, unsure of how to begin. She tried not to stare at
Marcus’s body. His stomach looked as if it had been carved from Sheetrock.

“What’s up?” Marcus asked, still grinning.

“N-not much,” Georgia stammered. “I’m going to play tennis with Valerie.” She began to tug on her racket strings. She wished Brooke would stop staring at her with such naked hostility. What did she
know?

“Hey, G, I wanted to ask you something,” Brooke suddenly said, her voice stony.

“Mmm-hmm?” Georgia could feel her face getting hotter.

“Do you know if Valerie knows Robby Miller’s family?”

Georgia glanced up from the strings.
That
certainly hadn’t been the question she’d been expecting. “Yeah…didn’t Ethan say that she knew the Millers?”

Brooke trailed a hand through her black hair, stretching her petite, flawless body across the cushions. “That’s what I
heard,”
she replied slowly. “But Charlotte said that Robby Miller told her he never met Valerie. Don’t you find that sort of weird?”

“I, uh…I don’t know,” Georgia said. She shook her head, growing increasingly flustered. “What are you getting at?”

“The point is, Valerie must have been lying,” Marcus replied.

Georgia glared at him.

What the hell? Where had
that
come from? He sounded pretty sure of himself for somebody who’d only known
Valerie for, like, a day. And pretty sure for somebody who seemed happy not only to
scam
on Valerie, but on Georgia, as well…and now Brooke. Besides, who
cared
what Robby Miller said? When had
he
become a pillar of honesty? The most likely scenario: Robby had tried to get in Valerie’s pants once during some summer in New York, and had been rejected, so now he wanted to protect his reputation with the Pool Boys.

“Hey, your tennis partner is here,” Brooke stated in a cold, dry voice. She nodded toward the patio doors.

Georgia turned. She never imagined she’d be so relieved to see a girl who was hotter than she was, more stylishly dressed,
and
carrying a superior racket to her own. But then, she’d never imagined a lot of things that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

“Well, I guess I’ll catch you guys later,” she mumbled, hurrying away. She beckoned Valerie toward the tennis court path.

“Hey, are you all right?” Valerie asked, peering at Georgia from under her visor. “You’re all flushed.”

“It’s nothing.” She hurried across the pavement. “Just psyched to play a good solid set.”

“Um, okay.”

Georgia turned the corner—and froze.

Ethan was out on the far court with Charlotte’s mom.

Georgia knew that over the summer, he conducted a few special lessons on Sunday mornings for “beginners.” She watched, holding her breath, as Ethan volleyed the ball as politely as he could, smiling encouragingly the whole
time, the way one might play with an eager but not-so-coordinated toddler. He’d shaved, too, his tennis whites were pressed, and his brown eyes were sparkling. Mrs. von Klaus, decked out in a tight tennis outfit, was practically drooling over her racket, and Georgia could see why.

In that moment, Georgia wondered how she could have ever let herself be attracted to Marcus. Really, when looking at Ethan, she felt like there was no competition. And all at once, for no reason whatsoever, her eyes began to burn.

“Hey, Georgia?” Valerie asked.

Georgia opened her mouth, but the words caught.

“You know, we don’t have to play tennis,” Valerie went on. “I’m happy to go for a swim or leave you alone, or whatever.”

“I…” Georgia drew in a brief, shaky breath. “No.” She wiped her eyes and managed a strained laugh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just don’t really want to play tennis right now.”

“Sorry for what?” Valerie arched an eyebrow. “Honestly, I didn’t feel like getting my ass kicked again, anyway. If I’m gonna forge some kind of rep at Silver Oaks, I can’t be
losing
all the time, can I?”

Georgia laughed again.

“Oh, you find that funny, do you?”

“No. Well, yeah. It’s just—thanks for letting me freak out for a second.” Georgia wondered if Brooke or Charlotte would have been as supportive.

Valerie shook her head. “If that’s what freaking out means around here, then I’m in big trouble,” she said.
“Where I come from people have breakdowns and meltdowns and every other kind of ‘downs’ you can imagine all the time. Your freakout
so
isn’t on that level.” She paused by the green. “Hey, I have an idea.”

“What’s that?” Georgia asked shakily.

“How do you feel about golf?”

Georgia stared ahead at the course through her misty eyes. Just last night, they’d been there. With Marcus.

“I gotta tell you, I’m really bad at golf,” she finally muttered.

“So am I.” Valerie patted her shoulder. “All the more reason to play. It’ll be much more fun, right? No competition.”