to someone I couldn’t see, “Do you have to be such a complete wanker?” In reply, a voice I was sure was the driver’s answered, “Blow me.” Both of them sounded pretty annoyed, but my driver didn’t bother investigating.
“Look, I don’t know you, but are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. Immediately, to my complete and utter humiliation, my eyes started to well up.
He took a step toward me. “Jesus,” he whispered. He patted the pockets of his cargo shorts, and on the third try extracted a couple of napkins. “They’re clean,” he assured me, pressing them into my hand.
“I’m really …” I blew my nose. “I’m really okay.” Since I was still crying, I probably wasn’t making the most convincing case for my okayness.
“Can I help you find your friend?” he asked.
I balled up the napkins and stuffed them in my pocket. “I’m just … I’ve had a really hard day. I’m sorry that … I’m really okay.”
He studied my face, not rudely but curiously. “Well, okay then,” he said finally. “I hope everything’s … okay for you.”
“Yeah,” I said again. “Thanks.” I suddenly remembered his name. “Thanks, Declan.”
He gave me a two-fingered salute. “Anytime.”
Feeling like a total ass for losing it in front of Declan, I headed toward the main house, which rose up over the parking lot like a mountain. There was a sign above the glass-and-wooden door I’d been walking toward that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. I opened it and went inside, where I found myself in a long, low-ceilinged corridor lit by fluorescent lights. It was nothing like the wide, carpeted hallways with their rococo moldings and wall sconces holding faux candles that I knew from upstairs at the club. I passed metal carts piled high with dirty coffee cups, used plates, and crumpled napkins, following the sound of loudly banging pots and pans, and then, pushing through another glass-and-wooden door, I found myself in the enormous kitchen.
There were at least a dozen people running around, all wearing hairnets and black aprons with elaborate white script Ms on them. At first I didn’t think Sofia was there, but then I spotted her over in a relatively quiet corner, standing in front of an enormous tray of pastry puffs that she was methodically filling with cream from a pastry bag.
I crossed the kitchen, half expecting someone to stop me, but everyone was too intent on whatever they were doing to care about who I was. Sofia jumped and spun around when I tapped her on the shoulder.
“Juliet!” She popped out one of her earbuds. “What are you doing here?”
Having started bawling when Declan asked me if I was okay, I was surprised that I delivered my news to Sofia without a single tear.
“My mom’s in the hospital,” I said. “She … she swallowed some pills.”
“Oh my God,” Sofia whispered. She put down the bag of cream she’d been holding and wrapped her arms around me.
I hugged her back for a long minute, then stepped away. “I’m okay,” I said, even though she hadn’t asked. Suddenly I didn’t want sympathy and I didn’t want to be hugged. “They’re not sure what happened. They won’t know until … I don’t know when, actually.” As I realized I had no idea how they were going to figure out what had happened with my mom, I gave a weird laugh, almost like a bark. Were they just going to ask her? Mrs. Newman, you were found passed out on the floor of your bathroom. Did you mean to take too many pills, or was it an accident?
Sofia watched me with an odd look on her face, waiting for me to explain, but all I said was, “I just … I don’t want to go home.”
“No, of course not.” She started to untie her apron. “We’ll go to my house.”
“Let’s go, Taylor,” said a thin guy with a beard carrying another tray of cream puffs. “This is no time to socialize.”
“Frank, I have to go,” said Sofia, pulling off her hairnet. “I have an emergency.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Taylor,” said the guy, carefully placing the tray down. “We’ve got two hundred people for dinner. Two seatings. You’re here until midnight.”
He sounded harsh, but it didn’t seem to frighten Sofia. “Frank, I’m serious. I have to go.”
Frank pushed the tray of pastry shells farther back on the table and turned to face us. Now I could see why she wasn’t scared of him. He was a big guy and he had a beard, but he probably wasn’t much older than we were.
“Look, Taylor, I want to help you and, you know”—he glanced at me—“your friend. But I can’t let you go. Seriously. Mitch will have my ass.”
“Frank—” Sofia started.
But I interrupted her. “Sofia, it’s okay. Really. I’ll just … I’ll wait for you.”
“Juliet, that’s like”—she checked a clock on the wall—“five hours.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Do you want to go home and wait for me? I’ll give you my keys. My mom will be there.” She turned to get her bag.
“No!” I grabbed her arm, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be. I didn’t want to sit with Sofia’s mother. Suddenly, all I wanted was to be by myself.
“Juliet, what are you going to do until midnight?” she asked, so anxious I almost thought she was about to start crying.
Sofia’s being upset only made me more calm. “I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want to just stay here? They’ll never notice you. There’s like a thousand members here tonight. You could say you’re a guest of the Robinsons.”
“Taylor,” snapped Frank, “we’ve got to get this tray finished. Let’s go.”
Sofia ignored him. “Seriously. Just stay here.”
“Sure,” I said, but I couldn’t really imagine saying I was a guest of Jason’s family when I wasn’t. Grace and Mark weren’t chill about things like that. If I called and told them where I was, they’d probably let me have whatever I wanted. But they wouldn’t like it if I started signing their names for stuff without asking.
“Just go to the library and take a book or something, okay? I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She hugged me again. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered in my ear.
I hugged her back, then recrossed the kitchen, walked back down the long, empty corridor, and stepped outside into the sticky summer evening. Even though my phone was in my pocket, I’d missed three calls, one from my aunt Kathy and two from my dad. They’d both texted me, too. My aunt’s text said she was taking the red-eye and she’d be at my house in the morning. My dad had just written: Where are you?
I didn’t want to text my dad back. Why should I have to tell him where I was? He was a smart guy; let him figure it out himself.
I
