“Next,” I said, out of breath.
We did the same thing for the girl referred to as Swiss cheese at a perky yellow house with impressive hydrangeas and a Volvo parked in the driveway. I almost chickened out when I saw the dim flicker of a TV through the porch window. But I dropped and ran.
It was exhilarating.
“What if they don’t get the bags? Like what if their little brothers take them or something?” Val said.
“Then we’re out three ninety-nine for nothing,” Alice said. “Who cares?”
We texted pictures of me sprinting in my poncho and baseball hat to Gordie and Jean. Five minutes later, we got a cryptic message from Gordie: Meet me at the farm stand as soon as you can get there. I have something to show you all.
NINE
CURIOSITY DROVE US to the farm stand. On the way, Alice assaulted me with questions about Gordie, beginning with “Is he one of those people who raise their hands in class every five seconds?” and ending with “So why haven’t you guys hooked up? It’s so obvious he’s into you.” To which I had no choice but to out Gordie Harris.
“I was obsessed with him for two years until I found out the ruffians from my class saw him making out with some guy at the pizza place. They were the biggest homophobic assholes. They called him Gay Gordie for a long time on the slam pages. I have to say, he handled it all really well.”
“Do you guys ever feel like the assholes are taking over the earth?” Val said.
“Not anymore,” Alice said. “’Cause… revolution.”
Jean parked next to the willow tree just as Gordie was pulling in. I had a feeling that it was going to be a long night.
Maybe even an epic night.
Gordie got out of his car looking really good in his dark jeans and gray fitted T-shirt. I, on the other hand, was in my dowdy funeral dress, with matted hair and a sweaty back from the poncho-and-hat disguise.
“Did your concierge arrange an excursion for us?” Jean said in his butler accent.
“Cut the shit, Jean. I don’t make fun of your short refugee ass,” Gordie shot back. Gordie Harris was very sensitive about his richness.
We piled into the Range Rover and headed down Montauk Highway with the windows down and the music blaring as night swallowed up the last of the sunset.
Alice tried to text Izzy, then threw her phone into her satchel and cranked vintage Red Hot Chili Peppers until Gordie turned down a narrow, unpaved road marked PRIVATE.
“Where are you taking us, Gordie?” I said.
“He’s having us killed to sell off our organs. I knew there was something sketchy about this guy,” Jean said.
We continued past the shadows of craggy trees bending away from the sweeping dunes. Gordie turned down a smaller dirt road. A stately mansion popped up out of nowhere. Voices echoed and music floated through the haphazardly parked sea of cars.
“Um. Where are we?” Val grabbed my sweaty hand.
Gordie turned off the car. “This, my friends, is Speakeasy, mythical haven for the socially advanced.”
“What?” we all said.
“Come on. You’re going to love it.”
I smoothed down my wrinkled funeral dress and wished I had taken a few minutes to get myself together. Alice, Val, and I were dressed to buy care package supplies at the pharmacy, not attend a “mythical haven for the socially advanced.”
I felt the vibration of the music as the people milling around the front gardens came into focus.
Gordie stopped before we got to the marble steps. “Just so you know, this place is invite-only. We don’t want the poseurs and the wannabes showing up,” he said, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Why are you looking at me?” I said, flicking the back of his neck.
He gave me his Oh, come on, Sadie. You and I both know how much Shawn Flynn partygoers suck expression and led us up the long stone staircase to the main house.
Inside, we stopped to listen to two guys playing “Blackbird” by the Beatles on guitars on a landing overlooking a crowded foyer. It was awe-inspiring.
Gordie motioned for us to follow him through a bar area to a kitchen, where a blond guy with jagged bangs and pink cheeks was pouring champagne into glasses and arranging them on a tray.
“Gordie, I was looking for you. You playing tonight?”
“Later. These are my friends.” Gordie draped his arms around Jean and Val.
Blondie was apparently a twenty-seven-year-old trust fund kid named Jack who had turned his inherited estate into a haven for musicians and social justice world-changers.
“Champagne?” He held out the tray.
Gordie shook his head. “Nah. I’m driving.”
“Where’s Keith?” Jack looked around.
“Home. He’ll be here next week.”
We sipped the champagne, which tasted cold and crisp and delicious. Jean burped loudly and grabbed another glass.
We wove through the hallway and emerged in a massive ballroom, the size of my school gym, where a stage stretched all the way across the back wall. The ceilings were painted a coppery gold, and cavernous chandeliers hung above us.
“People are going to be playing soon.” Gordie reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a harmonica, and played a few bars.
“I didn’t know you played the harmonica,” I said, surprised.
“You don’t know a lot of things about me.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“I play the viola,” Val said.
“Yeah? I’ve never seen a viola jam, but I saw an incredible fiddle thing here once.”
“Who’s Keith?” Alice said to me after another girl ran up asking for him.
I shrugged. “No clue.”
“Come on.” Gordie gestured to us. We walked up a back staircase and Gordie opened one of the doors on the second floor. I expected to find couples making out on piles of coats. But ten or twelve people were sprawled out on couches drinking from red Solo cups and laughing raucously.
“These are the chat rooms,” Gordie said. “Let’s see if there’s a free one.”
Gordie led us through a maze of corridors and up a flight of narrow steps to a rectangular alcove. “Score,” Gordie said, opening a closet and grabbing a bottle of champagne from a mini fridge. He popped the cork and filled our glasses as we settled onto two side-by-side leather sofas facing Long Island Sound.
“You should see the stellar view during the day,” Gordie said, leaning back.
I felt the buzz of the champagne and slung my legs over Val’s lap.
“You guys,” Val said in her quiet voice, “I really like hanging out with you.”
“Val’s shitfaced,” Jean said.
“No, really, Jean. I just do.”
“Sadie, can you believe Gordie from your class was hiding this whole double life?” Alice said.
“No. I mean we all know Gordie Harris will be Most Likely to Succeed in the yearbook and probably invent something genius, but I didn’t know he was actually cool.” I looked over at Gordie.
“I don’t want to be Most Likely to Succeed in the yearbook. It’s too much pressure,” Gordie said.