acting like a lunatic, and the fund-raiser you’ve been planning for a month isn’t probably falling apart, and you’ve eaten something other than a fifteen-dollar cupcake.
“He said what ?” my best friend Isabelle asked a few hours later. “Hold on, I need to fortify myself.”
She reached over and grabbed the carafe of sangria from the coffee table and filled both of our glasses.
“I’ve been fortifying myself since I got home,” I protested, gulping down another huge sip. “If I get any more fortified I’ll fall over.”
“Luckily you’re sitting,” Isabelle said. “Besides, this is basically fruit salad with a little kick. We’re being virtuous.” She tucked her long legs beneath her. “Now, tell me again, from the top.”
She leaned back against the couch, her glossy black hair a stark splash against the white cushion. I knew I could confide in Isabelle; these days, she was my only real friend. That was another complication I hadn’t foreseen when Michael suddenly became so wealthy. You couldn’t always trust the motivation behind people’s kindness. I’d learned that the hard way.
“He said he understood everything now.” I waved my hand around and barely avoided sloshing ruby-colored sangria on my couch. Funny how things like that still made me flinch, even though we could buy a new couch any day of the week. You can take the girl out of West Virginia …
I took a gulp and felt the tangy sweetness of the raspberries and blood oranges explode against my tongue. Isabelle was right; they should sell this stuff in health food stores.
“He understands everything? How annoyingly vague.” Isabelle raised one perfect eyebrow. She was the one who’d sent me to Sasha, the eyebrow-shaping guru. I was convinced Sasha was able to charge such outrageous prices because he wielded pointy little instruments an inch away from your corneas. Who would be brave enough to tick him off by questioning the bill? It would be like mocking your brain surgeon’s toupee seconds before the anesthesia took effect.
“Oh, and he apologized for everything bad he’s ever done to me,” I said, frowning. “Suddenly he thinks he’s Mother Teresa.”
“But the whole idea about an afterlife … I mean, doesn’t it intrigue you?”
“Look, I know other people have said it happened to them,” I said. “But I can’t even think about that part of it. I’m too busy worrying about Michael. He’s acting so strangely.”
“What if there really is life after death?” Isabelle mused. “What if what happened to Michael was real?”
I spun my heavy crystal wineglass in gentle circles, watching my drink turn into a miniature whirlpool. “It seems so freaky,” I finally said. “Why would it happen to a nonbeliever? Wouldn’t whoever’s in charge say, ‘Hey, you don’t believe, so you don’t get in’?”
“I doubt there’s a bouncer in heaven,” Isabelle said, swatting my knee with a pillow. “Did Michael feel a presence? Did he see anything?”
“He didn’t say.” The sangria was warming me from the inside as the fear and strangeness of the day receded. Isabelle never questioned her place or her right to belong, and when I was with her, her confidence rubbed off. Being born into money could give a person that kind of poise, I supposed. Her family owned a frozen-food empire—“From vegetables to apple pie,” Isabelle had said when I first met her at a dinner party. “Brussels sprouts paid for my years at boarding school.” I hadn’t known how to respond. Was this rich people humor? Michael’s company had publicly issued stock the previous month, netting him all sorts of media coverage, and we’d been thrust into a new world so quickly I was still trying to figure out which of the four forks to use—but then Isabelle had winked. While I was gaping over her long eyelashes, she’d completely disarmed me.
“You know how every kid hates Brussels sprouts?” she asked. “For me it’s
“He said what ?” my best friend Isabelle asked a few hours later. “Hold on, I need to fortify myself.”
She reached over and grabbed the carafe of sangria from the coffee table and filled both of our glasses.
“I’ve been fortifying myself since I got home,” I protested, gulping down another huge sip. “If I get any more fortified I’ll fall over.”
“Luckily you’re sitting,” Isabelle said. “Besides, this is basically fruit salad with a little kick. We’re being virtuous.” She tucked her long legs beneath her. “Now, tell me again, from the top.”
She leaned back against the couch, her glossy black hair a stark splash against the white cushion. I knew I could confide in Isabelle; these days, she was my only real friend. That was another complication I hadn’t foreseen when Michael suddenly became so wealthy. You couldn’t always trust the motivation behind people’s kindness. I’d learned that the hard way.
“He said he understood everything now.” I waved my hand around and barely avoided sloshing ruby-colored sangria on my couch. Funny how things like that still made me flinch, even though we could buy a new couch any day of the week. You can take the girl out of West Virginia …
I took a gulp and felt the tangy sweetness of the raspberries and blood oranges explode against my tongue. Isabelle was right; they should sell this stuff in health food stores.
“He understands everything? How annoyingly vague.” Isabelle raised one perfect eyebrow. She was the one who’d sent me to Sasha, the eyebrow-shaping guru. I was convinced Sasha was able to charge such outrageous prices because he wielded pointy little instruments an inch away from your corneas. Who would be brave enough to tick him off by questioning the bill? It would be like mocking your brain surgeon’s toupee seconds before the anesthesia took effect.
“Oh, and he apologized for everything bad he’s ever done to me,” I said, frowning. “Suddenly he thinks he’s Mother Teresa.”
“But the whole idea about an afterlife … I mean, doesn’t it intrigue you?”
“Look, I know other people have said it happened to them,” I said. “But I can’t even think about that part of it. I’m too busy worrying about Michael. He’s acting so strangely.”
“What if there really is life after death?” Isabelle mused. “What if what happened to Michael was real?”
I spun my heavy crystal wineglass in gentle circles, watching my drink turn into a miniature whirlpool. “It seems so freaky,” I finally said. “Why would it happen to a nonbeliever? Wouldn’t whoever’s in charge say, ‘Hey, you don’t believe, so you don’t get in’?”
“I doubt there’s a bouncer in heaven,” Isabelle said, swatting my knee with a pillow. “Did Michael feel a presence? Did he see anything?”
“He didn’t say.” The sangria was warming me from the inside as the fear and strangeness of the day receded. Isabelle never questioned her place or her right to belong, and when I was with her, her confidence rubbed off. Being born into money could give a person that kind of poise, I supposed. Her family owned a frozen-food empire—“From vegetables to apple pie,” Isabelle had said when I first met her at a dinner party. “Brussels sprouts paid for my years at boarding school.” I hadn’t known how to respond. Was this rich people humor? Michael’s company had publicly issued stock the previous month, netting him all sorts of media coverage, and we’d been thrust into a new world so quickly I was still trying to figure out which of the four forks to use—but then Isabelle had winked. While I was gaping over her long eyelashes, she’d completely disarmed me.
“You know how every kid hates Brussels sprouts?” she asked. “For me it’s
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