All the World’s a Stage
“I must admit, I don’t know what Rhys is planning with the ridiculous costume he’s wearing, but I would love to film it for the show,” Lady Sterling said confidentially to Owen on Wednesday evening. Rhys had sprinted out of the locker room and asked Owen to meet him as soon as possible. He hadn’t said anything about costumes, though, and Halloween was weeks away.
Lady Sterling ushered him into the expansive foyer. “Owen, dear, please do tell your mother I would love to see her. So glad she’s come back to the fold, as they say!” She clicked down the hall, humming to herself.
Rhys appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairs. “Glad you could make it, man!” he greeted Owen enthusiastically. He was wearing a cheap, light green suit that looked like it had come from the sale rack at Kmart. A patchy mustache was taped to his already stubbly face.
“What are you up to?” Owen demanded nervously. Did Upper East Side boys enjoy playing dress-up?
Only when it involves Upper East Side girls!
“I told my mom this was a swim team initiation. It’s a little complicated,” Rhys explained cryptically. He gestured Owen to come upstairs. His bedroom was cluttered with heavy antiques, making it look more like a guest room in a British manor house than a sixteen-year-old boy’s room.
“First, clothing,” Rhys said, holding a powder blue suit up to Owen.
Owen shook his head in disbelief. “You have to explain what that suit is doing in your closet.” The suit was so stiff, it looked like it could stand up on its own. Owen held it up and looked at himself in the mirror in Rhys’s white-tiled bathroom, then noticed the shelves of neat products lined up in size order over the sink. He picked up a red tube called You Rebel by Benefit and sniffed it cautiously. What was it for?
Rebellion, obviously.
“The suit? It’s something my mom won from some charity auction. They auctioned off a complete Saturday Night Fever wardrobe.” Rhys shrugged.
“Okay, good.” Owen walked back into the bedroom, relieved Rhys hadn’t actually bought the suit. “So what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Well, you’re going to put it on, and we’re going to take a walk over to Kelsey’s apartment. Eees the perfect disguise,” Rhys said in a weird accent that sounded like he had drank six tequila shots after having his wisdom teeth removed. He pretended to scratch his balls and smiled broadly. “Dude, I just need to know what guy she’s with,” he explained in a normal voice.
“And then you’re going to take him on in pants that are twenty-three sizes too small?” Owen asked, looking at the hem of Rhys’s ridiculous pants. They were about six inches too short.
“No, it’s just that I don’t want her to recognize me,” Rhys said, as if it were the most logical plan in the world. “You said you’d come. Dude, I’ll buy donuts,” he offered.
Owen looked into Rhys’s imploring eyes, thinking about the e-mail Kat had sent him yesterday. God, he wanted to see her, but Rhys had actually cried into his beer the other night. What else could he do? “Okay,” he nodded, even though he knew it was a very bad idea.
“Thank you,” Rhys said, now all business. “So, I have this,” Rhys began, pulling out another fake mustache from a heavy chest of drawers. The hairs had matted together in several places and looked like a collection of mating spiders.
“This is supposed to go near my mouth?” Owen demanded. The hairs on the mustache looked suspiciously pubelike.
“Yeah.” Rhys grabbed it back and squirted a thin trail of a gluelike substance on it, then passed it back to Owen.
Owen shook his head and attempted to paste the nasty moustache to his upper lip. Next he changed into the awful suit. I’m doing this for my buddy, he reminded himself as he pulled the tight powder blue bell-bottoms over his striped cotton boxers.
“’Bye Mom!” Rhys yelled to Lady Sterling when they were at the front door. She was sitting in the living room, listening to loud bagpipe music while watching the dailies from Tea with Lady Sterling.
“If we’re doing this, I need some liquid courage,” Owen said, leading the way to the bodega they’d bought beer from before. They made their way past the wilted daisies sitting in buckets of muddy water and went straight to the back refrigerators. Owen picked out cans of Colt 45 and Olde English. The cans made wet spots on the sky blue fabric of his nasty suit.
The deli guy rolled his eyes at his costume, and Owen flashed him an embarrassed grin. Even though Rhys’s plan was weird and stalkerish, it was also kind of hilarious.
“For the road.” He handed Rhys a sweating can in a brown bag as they exited the bodega and walked past the town houses over to Fifth. The sidewalks were filled with moms and strollers, but no one gave them a second glance.
He cracked a can open for himself and chugged it, appraising his friend. “You do know how gay we look, right?”
“Yeah, you can be the boyfriend I met in Miami, okay?” Rhys laughed, but Owen could tell he was distracted.
They reached the corner of Seventy-sixth Street and crossed Fifth Avenue. They sat down on one of the concrete benches lining the high stone wall that separated Central Park from the street. From here they had a perfect view of the large apartment building Kelsey lived in, just across the avenue.
“I promised donuts.” Rhys walked to the metal coffee cart on the corner. Owen surveyed his surroundings. The air had the promise of fall in it, and Owen noticed one lone maple leaf slowly make its way to the ground, where an overzealous five-year-old wearing a dinosaur-imprinted hoodie stepped on it.
“So, I’m guessing your buddies in Nantucket didn’t make you dress up like Borat and stalk their exes.” Rhys plopped a paper bag into Owen’s lap. He slid companionably next to him on the wood bench.
Owen grabbed a cruller from the bag. “I actually didn’t really have any guy friends in Nantucket,” he admitted. He blushed a little, wondering if he’d revealed too much. “I mean, I guess I was just busy with girls and stuff.”
“I always wished I could be more like that,” Rhys said thoughtfully, taking another swig of Olde English. “I’ve always just liked one girl at a time.” He gestured to the apartment building, where a formidably tall doorman was standing at rapt attention. Ten stories above, a sheer lilac curtain fluttered in an open window. Owen wondered if it was Kat’s room, and how much time she and Rhys had spent there together. If Kat had cheated on him that summer, probably not that much, he thought. But then he felt bad for even thinking it.
“It’s the small things I miss,” Rhys said after a moment, self-consciously pulling down the legs of his pants, so they covered at least part of his ankles. “Like, she would always bring me Gatorade after practice. I know that’s stupid. It was . . . just nice.” Rhys scratched at his pant leg, embarrassed. He liked Kelsey because she brought him Gatorade? Rhys hoped Owen didn’t think he was a total loser. He’d already dragged him all the way out here and made him wear a ridiculous costume.
Owen nodded politely, not taking his eyes off the window. As much as the topic made him uncomfortable, a part of him was curious to know more about Rhys and Kat. How long had they gone out? How far had they gone?
A group of middle-schoolers carrying skateboards walked by. They stared at Rhys and Owen and burst into laughter. Owen cringed, ready to take the suit off and forget this whole stupid thing. But then he realized, This is what guy friends do. They’re there for each other.
Pube mustaches and all.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, man,” Rhys said. “But I guess since you’re my boyfriend and all . . .” Rhys cracked a half smile. “Kelsey and I never did it. I wanted it to be special,” he finished quietly, staring straight ahead.
“Oh.” Owen paused in surprise, mid-bite, then took another bite so he’d have time to think. So Kat hadn’t lied on the beach when she’d said it was her first time. Owen wasn’t sure if he should feel guilty or relieved. Or overjoyed. Or ready to kill himself because he was such an asshole.
“Well, maybe this was the best time for a breakup. You know. The fall is full of fresh starts and . . . and the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new?” It came out sounding more like a question than he’d meant it to. Maybe if Rhys got over Kat—Kelsey—he would be fine?
“Have you ever been in love?” Rhys asked, ignoring Owen’s raunchy suggestion and looking deep into his eyes.
“Oh my God, you’re so fucking gay,” Owen laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. It was way too serious a conversation to have with the guy whose dumpage misery he was responsible for—especially in a polyester suit.
“Seriously. Like when all you want is to hold the other person. Like you can’t stop thinking about them in the morning and at night, and dreaming about them,” Rhys gushed, looking totally sincere except for the mustache that was half falling off his face and hanging over his teeth.
“Yeah,” Owen agreed. He did know that feeling. He felt it for the same girl.
“I thought we’d get married someday. Have kids, you know?”
“Are you sure those pants won’t make you infertile?” Owen asked, desperately trying to change the subject.
“Fuck you,” Rhys said good-naturedly, taking another swig of his beer.
They turned back to the green-awninged building. A flash of blue appeared. It was a girl.
“Shit! It’s her!” Rhys dropped the can of beer in his lap in panic. He grabbed it and put it on the ground next to him before any more could spill on the starchy green material of his suit. He already looked like he’d peed his pants.
Way to go deep under cover.
Kat was wearing a form-hugging blue dress, totally oblivious to their presence. She started to cross the street, her tan legs hurrying across before a car came.
“She’s coming this way! Fix your ’stache,” Rhys whispered furiously, brushing off his pant leg with one of the tiny white napkins from the donut bag.
Owen did as he was told, straightening his mustache and feeling the scratchy whiskers against his face as Kat walked closer and closer. She was twenty feet away, then ten, then five, and it seemed impossible that she wouldn’t recognize them.
“Ahhh, yeah, baby. So, I’m thinking we can have our commitment ceremony on the beach, just the two of us, and then partay!” Rhys blurted out in a terrible accent. He turned to face Owen, a wild look in his eyes.
“Can you confirm my six-thirty pedicure today?” Owen heard Kat’s lilting voice two feet away from them as she walked past, holding an arm up to hail a cab. He watched her blue dress swirl around her knees. A taxi pulled up almost instantly, and she got inside.
Rhys and Owen waited in silence until the taxi was out of sight.
“Aww, yeah, baby!” Owen yelled, high-fiving Rhys. It had been a close call. Kat had almost seen them. “These disguises are fucking awesome!”
“Nothing happened.” Rhys shook his head despondently.
“Well, she wasn’t with a guy, right?” Owen clunked his can of beer awkwardly against the one Rhys was holding. “Listen, I’ll help you find a new girl. You know, just someone to have fun with. Take your mind off things,” he added hopefully.
Rhys took a swig of Olde English and tried to ignore the dull pain in his heart. Maybe Owen was right. Maybe he did need to find a new girl. Actually, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. As soon as Kelsey saw him with someone new, she’d be so jealous she’d beg him to come back. A smile spread slowly across Rhys’s face. It was such a perfect plan. “You’re right,” he said, feeling better than he had all week. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.” Owen watched Rhys’s face light up, feeling pretty good himself. He’d clearly overestimated how broken up Rhys was. Rhys had been through the worst of it, and just getting him out there, meeting some new girls and having a good time, would do the trick. Soon Rhys would be over Kat, and she and Owen could be together. Everyone would be happy. Owen was so excited he couldn’t resist giving Rhys a beery hug.
“Get the fuck off me, dude,” Rhys burped cheerfully.
Next on Tea with Lady Sterling: my gay son’s big fat gay Key West wedding!
J is Shaken, Not Stirred
Jack rode the M4 bus up Madison to J.P.’s apartment late Thursday afternoon, trying not to touch any possibly germy surfaces, silently cursing her father for leaving her so destitute she couldn’t afford cab fare. She and Genevieve had gone to Bergdorf’s after school to buy party outfits, but Jack had quickly discovered that shopping knowing she couldn’t buy anything was like being on Atkins, surrounded by pastries.
There was no way Jack could have gone home, where Vivienne had been chain-smoking Gitanes in bed for three days straight, wearing an eye mask and speaking loudly on the phone in French to pretty much anyone who would listen, including the second of Charles’s three ex-wives. Jack hated all of the pathos and ennui of it, which she knew her mother secretly loved. Vivienne had even suggested that Charles was right, and that Jack did need to learn how to suffer. Well, fuck them.
Once she saw the sign for Sixty-eighth Street through the driver’s window, she pressed the dirty yellow tape strip for the bus to stop, holding her hand away from her body in case she contaminated herself. She shook out her auburn hair and walked regally down the bus’s black rubber steps, hoping the Cashman Complex doorman didn’t happen to be looking down the street. She bounded into the ornate entrance, her black Tory Burch flats thwacking against the polished marble floor, and nodded confidently to the doorman.
“Miss Laurent,” the doorman acknowledged as he waved her in. Jack felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t as if she looked poor. She pushed the button for the private elevator and hurriedly stepped in, eager to feel J.P.’s arms around her.
Frances, the Cashmans’ unsmiling maid, let her in. Jack glanced around the entranceway at the shiny black marble floors, the huge plate glass windows, the gold umbrella stand. She used to cringe at the penthouse’s mishmash décor and tacky pieces, wishing that J.P.’s family could be more subtly rich. But today the opulence just felt overwhelming. She tried to steady herself as she climbed the spiral staircase that led to J.P.’s top-floor bachelor pad.
“Hey.” He was wearing a red Lacoste polo and pressed Ralph Lauren chinos. He smiled, irresistible dimples forming in both cheeks. “You’re looking pretty. Did I get it right?” J.P. teased as he ushered her into his bedroom and closed the door. Every time she saw him—floppy brown hair with a perfect side part, intelligent brown eyes, chiseled jaw, and a body made for rugby or squash—Jack felt like everything was right in her world. He was the prince to her princess. And this weekend they’d be hosting a party, showing all the world how together they were.
“Are you okay?” J.P. asked, brushing a lock of auburn hair off her face.
“Fine,” Jack lied. “Just stressed out with ballet.” She ignored the momentary flash of guilt that shot up her stomach. J.P. had fallen in love with her before she got all moody and depressive and poor. She needed to be the girl she was just a few days ago. That was the girl he loved. And surely she’d be that girl again soon.
She hugged him, inhaling his usual scent of Ralph Lauren Romance, and then gave him a slow, smoldering kiss. She took a step toward the bed and slowly unbuttoned her cardigan, locking her green eyes with J.P.’s brown ones and giving him what she hoped was a sultry, come-hither look.
Just then, the door flew open and Dick Cashman burst in. A skinny, bespectacled male assistant trailed behind him, wearing cowboy boots that matched Dick’s.
“Holy mother of hell!” Dick twanged when he saw Jack hastily pull her cardigan around her shoulders. “I’ll let you kids get decent!” He slammed the door as Jack hastily smoothed her blouse. It wasn’t like they were doing anything.
Not yet, anyway.
“I guess I should see what Dad wants.” J.P. shrugged and opened the door.
“I’ll come,” Jack groaned. It would be supremely slutty to just hang out in her boyfriend’s room after
being discovered in a compromising position. She pretended that she was Grace Kelly. Surely the Prince of Monaco’s father had walked in on her and the prince back when they first hooked up, right?
Would that have been the afternoon Princess Grace drove off a cliff?
“So, about the crapper,” Jack heard Dick’s voice boom from down the hall as he gave his assistant the grand tour. “NASA designed it. Normally, they’re only on space shuttles. I saw a documentary about them and thought, ‘Fuck me, I’ll buy one!’ Custom made just last week!” J.P.’s father loved to buy ridiculously expensive toys and useless gadgets. But, unlike her father, at least he supported his wife and family.
“Hey, Dad,” J.P. interrupted as he descended the steps from his suite into the foyer. Jack lingered up above. Even from ten feet up, she could see Mr. Cashman wink at his son. Jack buttoned her cardigan all the way up to her neck, trying not to feel embarrassed.
“Sorry about the interruption,” Dick chuckled, striding toward J.P. His male assistant’s cowboy boots made loud clicking sounds on the newly polished floors. “But I wanted to show you what the dogs dragged in.” Baby Carlyle, her high cheekbones streaked with dirt, peered from behind Dick’s bulk.
Surprise!
“Hey!” Baby greeted J.P. enthusiastically. She pulled her tangled hair into a ponytail on top of her head and grinned mischievously. “Sorry I’m late to pick up the dogs, but I found the best place for them to run. It’s Fort Tryon Park in the Bronx, and it’s awesome. Nemo would love it! I was just telling your dad about it.”
“Sounds great for the bitches!” Dick Cashman leaned down to pet Nemo. “Want to take the chopper up there?” Dick offered.
“No!” J.P. said awkwardly. Jack narrowed her green eyes at Baby, who hadn’t even noticed she was standing at the top of the stairs. What the hell was that skinny nobody doing in her boyfriend’s apartment?
“Okay, well, whatever you kids want,” Dick Cashman sounded disappointed as he tromped away toward the labyrinthine hall that led to his office. His assistant practically ran after him.