The Summer We Read Gatsby by Danielle Ganek Page B

something.”
    And then with a loud groan he threw up. A puddle of beige-and-pink chunky vomit splattered the floor.
    Peck put the gun on the counter and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”
    Biggsy rolled over onto his side and held up a hand. “Wait.” He lolled on one shoulder, looking down at the puddle of puke he’d deposited on our floor. “I feel better now.” Peck clicked the phone shut. “I’m so sorry,” he said, running one hand through his disheveled hair. “So sorry. I made such a mess. I’ll clean it up.”
    We were all three staring down at him as he flashed us an insouciant grin and pulled a fork from the chest pocket of his jacket. He propped himself up on one elbow and held up the fork as we watched, completely bewildered. Then he lowered the fork to the pile of vomit on the floor, scooped up a big bite of it, and shoveled it into his mouth.
    Peck and I exploded in disgust. “What the hell?”
    “Are you crazy?”
    That’s when he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he started to choke on what was in his mouth. “Dudes,” he managed to squeak out, sitting up and doubling over in spasms of hysterical guffaws. “You shoulda seen your faces.”
    At first we didn’t know how to react. We both just stood there, frozen, as he laughed at us. He took a deep breath and was able to contain himself enough to speak. “That was one of Lydia’s favorites.”
    “You just made yourself throw up?” I stared down at the very believable vomit on our floor. “And then ate it? Are you crazy?”
    “Literally? I almost threw up myself,” Peck exclaimed. I could hear her already turning this into an anecdote, shaping the story in her mind in order to repeat it.
    Finn looked unimpressed, as if he’d seen the vomit trick before, while he rinsed out the bowl he’d used for the eggs. Biggsy pulled aside his jacket and shirt to reveal what looked like a hot water bottle with a tube that he’d snaked up through the top of his shirt. “Cream of mushroom soup.” He sat back on his heels and nodded, a proud grin lighting up his face. “Among other things.”
    Trimalchio nuzzled up next to him, licking his face.
    “Trimalchio likes you, Fool,” Peck said to him. She seemed to have made a decision about the young artist. She always had a weakness for a pretty face. “And he doesn’t like anyone.”
    The dog looked up at her in agreement. True, not anyone , his expression indicated.
    “He does like soup, though,” I said, watching Trimalchio move on to the mess on the floor, lapping at it eagerly.
    “Let’s go, kid,” Finn said to me. “Show me the safe.”
    “Safe?” Biggsy glanced over at him. “What safe?”
    As Finn followed me up the stairs I could hear Peck telling the Fool-in-Residence about Aunt Lydia and the wording of the will, in which she spoke of finding a thing of utmost value. It occurred to me that it was bad form to talk about this with too many people. But it was only a brief flash of a thought, surprise that my half sister with her obsession with manners would speak so loosely about something that should be kept private, and then it was gone.

3
     
     
     
     
    T hat night, as was tradition, we held the Fool’s Welcome. Our first party on the porch started as a summer vacation does, giddily hopeful. The early part of the evening, with its fragrant, darkening air, held such expectation, like the beginning of summer: this is going to be fun.
    First, there were dressing drinks. “It’s important to mark these moments in life,” Peck said as I joined her in the living room, where a brass bar cart had occupied its spot in the corner since Lydia had moved in to Fool’s House. For a few seconds I wondered what Lydia would be wearing for the party that evening, before I remembered in a rush of emotion that stung my eyes with tears that she would not be joining us. God, I would miss her. “Record this moment,” she might have told me. “Paint it with your words.”