Chapter 8
Eight
ISABEL
Chiara and I unpack our bags in our room after dinner. As the newest addition to their friend group, I feel safe enough to ask her questions—things like what she thinks of them, and what a typical night out in New York with them looked like.
She asks me about Rocío, and I tell her that Rocío earned the tomboy moniker for her no-nonsense approach with boys, and her penchant for wearing loose shirts and baggy pants on casual dress Fridays when every other girl would sport their favorite dresses and flats.
The frustrating thing is that Rocío had no issues with dressing up—she definitely indulged Tita Irene when she felt like it—she just didn’t think school was worth it, and for some reason that got her ostracized and labeled a pick-me.
As if noncompliance with the status quo meant you were desperate for male attention.
That school year, Rocío quoted Margaret Atwood’s paragraph from The Robber Bride over and over again: male fantasies, male fantasies…
Chiara asks me for more stories about the girls of Pretty and Rich, and after prefacing her that this conversation never happened, I divulge all the high school drama I can remember: they traded boyfriends (an incestuous friend group, as Rocío called it).
They leaked each other’s nudes. There was constantly a power struggle between Kelsey and Natalia, and when they were bored, they picked fights with Rebecca.
There was no reason those girls should have been friends, if not for class solidarity.
In return, she tells me that this friend group is a lot like that. With the exception of Cisco, who is a reformed playboy wholly dedicated to her; and Kieran, who they’re convinced is asexual, everyone else plays musical chairs with each other’s genitals.
“And me, of course,” she says. “Though Erin and I did make out for a dare. That made the boys very happy.”
“Cisco didn’t get mad?”
She shrugs. “I’m straight. He knows girls don’t count, even if Erin’s bi.”
I grimace. I can already hear Rocío’s machine gun tongue rattling off her frustrations and criticism of straight women fetishizing lesbian relationships for men’s pleasure. Reminds me of why she’s my best friend, and not Luz or Natalia.
“Where is everyone from?” I ask.
“Well, my dad’s from Italy, but I grew up in San Diego.
Cisco’s Brooklyn-born and raised. We’re both Italian-Americans.
Erin’s from everywhere in Los Angeles—seriously, they have houses in Beverly Hills and Calabasas—who needs that many houses?
—and then Ravina’s family is originally from Hyderabad before they moved to London after she was born.
” I make a mental note to write that down later so I don’t forget.
This overemphasis on and concern over familial background is a hallmark sign of someone raised in the upper crust of society.
Being able to trace your lineage meant you were of good breeding, that you had a stellar childhood and upbringing, and therefore the people you rub shoulders with can trust you.
That’s good material for character development.
“Bo is from the South, but nobody knows where specifically. We’re split between Georgia and South Carolina, but Jaime insists on Alabama.
Nobody knows. He doesn’t talk about his family much, but we’ve met his parents at, like, school events.
Galas and stuff. They’re very private. They hardly spoke to anyone, but rumors say they were one of the richest families there.
Something to do with oil or weapons is our theory. Crazy, right?”
“And Kieran?” My heart races as I ask this question.
“Oh, he’s from Dublin,” she says. “Cool accent, right? God, I love Irish accents. Cisco used to beg me not to leave him for Kieran.” She laughs. “I think all the girls in the group had a crush on him at some point.”
I dance around the one question I really want to ask for two reasons: I don’t know why I want to ask it, and I don’t think I even should. Still, it comes out of me anyway. I can’t help myself.
“So, what’s the deal with him?” I ask. “He left dinner pretty abruptly.”
“Oh, that’s just Kieran,” she says. “He’s married to his work. A total night owl. He always ditches us mid-party to work. It wasn’t uncommon for him to miss classes in the morning ‘cause he was up all night.”
“What does he do?”
“Paintings, mostly. But he’s sculpted some stuff here and there.” She eyes me. “Between you and me, his paintings are much better than his sculptures. I think he knows it, too. He had one exhibit that was all sculptures and then never again.” She laughs.
“And he’s dating Natalia?” God, I sound like I’m fishing. If Chiara detects my tone, she doesn’t bring it up.
“It’s complicated. Natalia’s crazy about him—can you blame her?
He’s so artsy and mysterious. And, you know, we all think there’s definitely feelings there.
He wouldn’t waste his time with her otherwise.
But like I said—he’s married to his work.
I don’t think he’s ever dated anyone as long as I’ve known him, and I’ve been with Cisco for five years now.
I don’t think he’s asexual, though—not that there’s anything wrong with that.
He’s got very tender eyes, the way he paints women—or people in general, really.
So, there’s a lot of love there. I think he just chooses to put it into his work than in people. ”
When Chiara heads out to smoke with the others, I reach for my journal. I can’t help it. My hands itch to chronicle the day’s reflections, plus Kieran and Natalia’s dynamic is ripe with plot potential: the girl who has everything, and the boy she can’t have.
I always thought a girl like Natalia would be like catnip to men.
Then again, some men might feel emasculated about the fact that there is literally nothing they can give her that she doesn’t already have, save for their one specific dick—sorry, I mean personality—which might even be of little value to a girl who has her cherry pick of men.
I scratch that out of my notebook. Reductive, I write over the scribbled out “dick”. Do better.
I list down my impression of Kieran so far, or rather, I build out a character based on my impression of him: that archetypal quiet, brooding artist, dead serious but tender at his core.
Keeps to himself, leading many to believe he thinks he’s above everyone, but later revealed to have a heart of gold. Like Mr. Darcy, but better.
What a fascinating character. Not one you’d typically expect to be hanging around people like Luz and Natalia.
If he were the more flamboyant sort of artist, an Andy Warhol of this age, I wouldn’t give him a second thought.
But he didn’t exude any of that look at me energy that even Jaime does.
If anything it seems like he doesn’t want anyone looking at him.
I can’t bring myself to write down his name. I start, then scratch it out. To write it feels like an admission to a secret I can’t have.
I stare at my own handwriting, judge my own reinterpretations of clichés.
My heart thump, thump, thumps. I decide, for my own sake, to keep him entirely off-limits, in real life and on the page.
My thoughts and my notes are to be completely Kieran-free, or else I might not write about anything else.
* * *
It’s several hours of tossing and turning in bed—with Chiara already several miles ahead in dreamland—before I tiptoe out of our room, down the stairs, and into the night.
All the lights are off in the house, but a warm glow seeps out of the pool house, a sign that Kieran is in there, working like Chiara said he would be.
There’s music, too. A sultry alternative rock, all electric guitar and heavy bass. A sharp contrast to the acoustic singer-songwriter songs I listen to.
I’d only come out for a breath of fresh air, maybe some notetaking on my phone under the moonlight.
It’s only been a day and already my head is swimming in ideas: what would it look like, for a tight knit group like theirs to fall apart?
What sort of betrayal would it take, or what kind of person would make for the weak link that blows their whole house of cards down?
To be a writer is to live half in delusion. The mind is a mere funnel to reinterpret reality into fiction.
But it isn’t enough to have the details. What would I even be trying to say, if I wrote about similar people?
I linger outside the pool house door. What is he doing in there? Why do I care? Surely, he’ll come out at some point? Then we’ll have to talk, because we’re the only two people around. What would we even talk about?
I plop down on a lounge chair. Stare up at the night sky, speckled only by a few winking stars, the rest obscured by the city lights. The moon is full. It strikes me that I haven’t looked up in so long. I always stared straight ahead, or otherwise at my feet.
I last five minutes before I realize I’ve been waiting for Kieran to come out, before concluding that it won’t be happening any time soon.
Should I knock? I could ask him what he’s doing.
I could say I’m playing with the idea of writing about an artist and ask if I can shadow him.
For research. Ah, fuck. Why would I even want to do that? I need a better excuse—I mean, idea.
Leap and the net will appear, right? I march toward the pool house and knock on the door. There’s movement behind it, then it opens just a smidge. Kieran peeks out, then blinks when our eyes meet.
“Chiara mentioned you were a night owl,” I start.
He doesn’t say anything. Just clenches his jaw.
Okay. I can work with that, maybe. “I can’t sleep either.” This net is made of single hair strands knotted together. I am crashing straight into the ground. “Do you—Can I come inside?”
“You should try to get some rest,” he says, his tone monotonous. Okay, so he’s definitely brooding and private. Or just not interested in making my acquaintance; either way, it makes sense why he’s friends with the rest of them.
I need to stop romanticizing people in my head, especially when they’re hot. It’s a recipe for the double D’s, and not the fun kind: disappointment and disaster.
“Okay,” I mutter dumbly. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything. I feel even lamer with every passing second.
“Good night,” I say, backing away from him. Still nothing. When I turn toward the house, I hear the door shut behind me.
It’s not like I wanted to write about you anyway!