“It hasn’t started yet.”
“For me it has. Started training last month.”
“God, I can’t wait for Evan to come back,” Oliver said, shaking his head in disgust. He took the joint from his ear and faced the group. “Any takers?”
Two boys stood. “Baruch Hashem,” Oliver said. “Was nervous everyone spent their summers getting neutered.” The two of them—one blond and Hispanic, the other bespectacled and flat-nosed—trailed Oliver to the side of the house. Following Noah’s lead, I found an open seat, keenly aware of everyone’s stares. Sophia, I noticed, wasn’t present. The anticipatory whirling in my chest subsided.
“Everyone,” Noah said authoritatively, clearing his throat. “Meet Ari Eden. He’s just moved from New York.”
I nodded politely, gave a regrettable wave. There were brief, disinterested smiles, then nothing. The girl to my right, however, extended her hand. She was blond and had a long, thin nose and eager eyes. “Gemma.”
“Ari.”
“Nice to meet you. You just moved here?”
“Yes.”
She eyed me skeptically. “Wow. But you’re not, like, in a semicha program or something, are you?”
“I’m not.”
“Isn’t there one in Coral Gables?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s just, you know, the way you dress.” She gestured at my clothing—baggy khakis, my ill-fitting polo. Others, it seemed, followed some sort of unspoken uniform: slim-fit jeans, white sneakers, V-necks or T-shirts bearing some defiant graphic.
“You mean I’m unfashionable?”
“Sorry if that’s rude.”
“Fair enough, I’m only kidding. You should’ve seen me before I changed into this outfit.”
She smiled charitably. “So how do you know Noah and the boys?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“I mean, I’ve only just met them.”
“Oh. And what about Evan? Where is he anyway?”
“I hear that name a lot.”
“Yeah, but who doesn’t, right? Like, he’s Evan Stark. Where’d you say you were from—Upper West Side?”
“No. Brooklyn, actually.”
“Hm.” She surveyed her phone for texts. “Well, people from New York definitely know him.”
“I don’t.”
“How’s that possible? He’s the smartest kid in school. They say he has an IQ of, like, I don’t know, one hundred and ninety.”
“That’s—impressive.”
“Yeah, teachers are always in awe of him. Apparently he’s best friends with the principal. Not to mention the fact that he used to date—”
“—we’ve never met,” I interrupted.
Her face fell. “Oh.”
“But I am neighbors with Noah,” I said, trying to combat her disappointment.
Boredom receded slightly from her eyes. “Well, Noah’s the best. Everyone loves Noah.”
“Seems that way.”
“No, I mean it. Literally everyone.”
“I can see why.”
“You know he’s captain of the basketball team? He’s, like, historically good.”
“Figures.”
“Runs in the family, I guess. His sister plays college volleyball. But anyway.” She inched closer. “Are any of the rumors true?”
“What rumors?”
“I don’t know, there are a bunch. Like, that they once threw Rolexes into the ocean. Or that their dads—well, not Amir’s, obviously—have trade wars. Okay, yeah, they’re probably made up, people say crazy things, but who knows, right?”
“Really,” I said politely, “I couldn’t tell you about any of that.”
“It’s just they’re . . . well, exclusive, you know? Normal people don’t just show up to a party with them, is what I mean, especially if”—she sized me up—“if you’ve just moved to town, let’s say.”
I took no offense at this insinuation. She was right: a half minute of conversation was sufficient to uncover the extent to which I was categorically unexceptional. During those first days in particular, I often imagined how I must have looked to others, those for whom social capital was a direct function of wealth, wit, beauty and romantic achievement. Picturing myself as an external onlooker, I watched as I sat there with Gemma, fumbling for words, dabbing at sweat stains. From the comfort of this secondary self, I enjoyed two novelties: my proximity to normalcy and my association with exclusivity.
I looked over at Noah. He was gesticulating madly, telling some story with Amir’s help. Rebecca was perched on his lap. Those around him were laughing wildly. The hookah arrived at Gemma. She took a long, exaggerated puff before passing it my way. I declined. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “This isn’t smoking, so.”
“It’s not?”
“You don’t get high.” She puffed again and thrust it toward me. I waved her off once more. “Suit yourself,” she said crossly. “It’s not carcinogenic.”
Oliver reappeared suddenly, standing over us with painfully red eyes. “Eden?”
“Yeah?”
“My bag?”
I picked it up from the ground and handed it to him, feeling the weight of the bottle inside.
“Care to join me for an ill-advised number of drinks?”
Gemma launched herself to her feet. “Of course.”
Oliver blinked impatiently. “I meant you, my new friend,” he said, fixing his attention on me.
Gemma gave me a jealous glare.
“No,” I said, nearly stuttering at this alien proposition, “I don’t really—”
He rolled his eyes, turned to the others. His interest in me had dissipated. “Anyone trying to get plastered?” His words were well received: the people around me took last drags of the hookah, and then we all shuffled into the kitchen, where Oliver passed around the Jose Cuervo from his backpack. He nudged a red cup into my chest. “Drink up.” He smiled stupidly, eyes glossed. “If Amir indulges, so can you.”
“Ignore him.” Amir grimaced from a shot. “He can be an asshole.”
Oliver took a long gulp. “Between you and me,” he whispered when Amir’s head was turned the other way to greet someone, “I’d be on crack by now if I were Amir. It’s no wonder he drinks.”
“Pardon?”
“His family situation. His mom, his grandpa. You’ll see.” Oliver raised his cup and left me.
Two girls sauntered over. The first, short with straight brown hair, wrapped an arm around Amir, completely ignoring me. The other was taller, fairer, her hair a blondish-red. She regarded me with momentary interest. “What’re we drinking?”
“Nothing, actually,” I said.
“Oliver’s tequila,” Amir said.
The girl with her arm around Amir snatched his cup. “Oliver’s got good taste.”
“Highly debatable,” Amir said. “And easy on the gulping. We don’t want a repeat of last week.”