No Strings Attached Read online

  Wednesday, the Beach Is Back.

  Mandy was jazzed. After three frustrating weeks, finally something was about to go her way. That her good fortune was coming courtesy of the slobo next door was an unexpected twist. But she was used to adjusting.

  Mandy could barely stand to look at her—let alone her repulsive rodent—but Alefiya Sunjabi was about to become Mandy’s bestest friend. At least until Porky Pig delivered a well-connected client capable of jump-starting her career.

  Wednesday, Ali’s day off, Mandy called in sick to Duck Creek Catering and invited her NBF to hang out with her. “I’m going to Craigville Beach, the meatpacking district. If you know what I mean.”

  Alefiya did not.

  Mandy winked conspiratorially. “An all-you-can-eat buffet of grade-A prime, guys with packages you would not believe. A girl could get lucky.”

  Well, she could get lucky—if she wanted. In her uplifting white-and-gold-studded bikini, Mandy was a guy magnet. Whereas Ali, she guessed, would be lucky not to be mistaken for a beached whale. It was win-win.

  “Sounds like good times,” Ali had said agreeably.

  Mandy’s description of Craigville Beach may have been crude, but it was accurate. She’d heard locals call it “Muscle Beach,” one of the few on the Cape not designated “family friendly.” For the buff and the beautiful, the predators and their willing prey, it was packed with hard bodies wearing smooth tans and skimpy swimwear. It was scope-out, hook-up city. Where better, Mandy thought, for the new “girlfriends” to get all confidential?

  Along with her lip gloss, Mandy packed several bottles of water, a Ziploc bag of celery stalks, the latest issue of Us magazine, sunscreen, and an umbrella for herself—she burned easily.

  Ali lugged a big picnic basket filled with messy mayonnaise-y salads, tuna sandwiches, and iced tea. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten the memo that Mandy didn’t do carbs. Ali had also toted some ginormous, scratchy-looking blanket, as if they were going to share. Yeah, right.

  Mandy snagged a strategic spot for them, midway between two groups of guys, tricked out with beer cooler, MP3 players, wandering eyes, and appreciative smiles. As she shimmied out of her cover-up, she watched Ali peel off her elastic-band shorts and T-shirt, hoping the plump girl hadn’t committed a fashion fiasco by wearing a two-piece. Even one of those old-lady types with a skirt would be better.

  Surprisingly, Ali wore a black V-neck maillot, as flattering to her figure as a girl her size could get. “Not what you expected, huh?” Ali said, reading Mandy’s mind. “Better, or worse?”

  “I … uh…,” she stuttered. “You look … good.”

  “For someone my size, right? That’s what you were thinking?”

  “No way!” Mandy lied.

  “Forget it. I don’t have body issues the way a lot of girls do. I’m lucky.”

  Looking to change the subject swiftly, Mandy nodded toward a toned and taut twosome on the next blanket over, one in a slinky Speedo, the other in tantalizing trunks. “Speaking of bodies, check it out.”

  Ali licked her lips. “I wouldn’t kick either one out of bed.”

  Mandy was, what, scandalized? Even knowing Ali brought home every stray on the Cape, Mandy didn’t believe she actually slept with any of them. A girl of her heritage and heft was more likely to be a guy’s friend, not his squeeze.

  Ali laughed, going all mind reader on her again. She laughed. “I’m Hindu, and big—so people assume I’m sheltered, a virgin. But”—she put her finger to her cheek—“I’m guessing people make wrong assumptions about you, too?”

  No way was Mandy going there—especially not with Buddha. There were limits to this newfound friendship.

  “It’s okay.” Ali shrugged, rubbing sunscreen onto her ample arms. “We’re all guilty of stereotyping, even me.”

  A perfect segue to gossiping about their housemates, and Mandy was just about to, only “Beep, beep!” Her “guy-dar” went off. The incoming hottie was mouthwateringly broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and tousled-haired. She shifted position to pose languidly for optimum cleavage effect.

  He was still several feet away when he waved. “Yo, Alefiya! Howzit hangin’?”

  Mandy nearly fell out of her top. He … knew … her?

  “Jeremy!” Ali jumped up and ran to hug him.

  Jeremy. Mandy did a mental Google. Wasn’t he the one who’d worked at Cove Landscaping for several years, knew all the celebs? She leaped to her feet.

  Ali made the intros. Mandy purred, “A pleasure to meet you, Jeremy Davis. Ali has told us so much about you. Come join us. We’ll make it worth your while.”

  A slow, if surprised, smile played across Jeremy’s lips. “You guys are friends?”

  Mandy laughed. “As of today, we are!” Then she added, “Seriously, we’ve got eats and drinks, way too much for the two of us.”

  Jeremy unscrewed a bottle of iced tea and settled on Ali’s blanket, which now seemed inviting to Mandy, and she squeezed in. She politely allowed them a few minutes of flower-speak, or whatever lawn-yawn stuff they were yapping about. Finally, she interrupted. “It must be so exciting in your job, getting to meet celebrities and important people.”

  Jeremy gave Ali a sideways glance and shrugged. “Uh, sure. I mean, they’re really just like everyone else. Once you get to know them.”

  Animated now, Mandy leaned closer to Jeremy. “That’s what I always say! I know I’d hit it off with them. I mean, take me, for example. …” She paused, lightly resting her hand on his muscled forearm. “You could probably tell I’m a model. But I have so much more to offer. Only, breaking into acting is so hard! It’s all about connections, who you know. That’s how everyone gets started.”

  After that, it hadn’t taken much time for Jeremy to agree to introduce Mandy to some guys he hung out with, friends of friends, sons of the quasifamous and connected.

  That was all she’d wanted. Her “bonding” with Ali? Over it. She sure didn’t need what came next. Ali, clapping her hands and bouncing up and down like a blubbery seal. “We should have a party! For the Fourth of July—you bring your friends, I’ll invite some other people from Cove, and we’ll mix it up. Saturday night at our place—you can introduce Mandy to everyone at the same time.”

  “But the Fourth was over a week ago,” Mandy noted.

  Ali shrugged. “It’s always the right time to celebrate independence, no? Fourth, fourteenth, twenty-fourth—what’s the difference?”

  “Works for me.” Jeremy was enthusiastic. “Give me the address, we’ll bring some fireworks.”

  “Three-four-five Cranberry Lane,” Ali told him. “Come around ten.”

  With a peck on the cheek for Ali and a nod to Mandy, Jeremy got up to rejoin his friends.

  When he was out of earshot, Mandy said, “You really think a party’s such a good idea? It isn’t really necessary, I could just—”

  Ali waved her away. “As long as we don’t tell Mitch. The poor guy is so uptight. What he doesn’t know won’t stress him.” She started rambling about baking Brie, making tostados, and stocking the fridge with beer, when Mandy tuned out. What would she wear?

  Mandy got up and stretched. “I’m going for a swim.”

  “In the ocean? For real?” Ali looked doubtful.

  “No, not for real. In the movie,” she deadpanned, turned, and ran toward the surf. The foamy water swirled around her ankles and, like always, made her feel safe. She rushed in and began strong, swift strokes that carried her out into the ocean. Mandy flashed back on the pool at the Dorchester Boys and Girls Club, where she’d learned to swim. The one silver lining in her otherwise crappy childhood: The exercise had peeled layers of fat off her.

  Thursday, Mitch Showers with Worry.

  Creeping worry. The knowing that something’s wrong—or about to be … only you don’t know what it is. It had plagued Mitch all his life. He’d learned to cope by swatting it away, peeling it off, beating it into submission until he could figure out what it was and
deal with it. Right now, as he took his post-jog shower, he tried to scrub it away like dirt before it got under his skin and infected him.

  This worry-bug had a name: Leonora. The morning his girl had shown up at the house had been such a sweet surprise. En route to a tennis game, she’d stopped off to see him first. She never did say why she needed to see him. Later, on the phone, she got angry and accused him of never giving her the chance to talk. “I came by because I needed to see you alone,” she’d said, growling when he’d chuckled suggestively.

  “Not for that reason!” she growled. “I didn’t have a lot of time, and you totally wasted it by showing me off to those people you live with, like some prize.”

  Wincing at her condescending tone toward “those people you live with,” Mitch nevertheless conceded. “You are my prize. Of course I want to show you off. I love you. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Your timing, that’s what!” She hung up on him.

  Lee was normally sweet-tempered, so he figured the outburst might be PMS-related. Growing up with a twin sister, he knew about female moodiness. Leonora’s had not been pretty. She stayed annoyed with him, punishing him by canceling their date that night. That same night, the stupid ferret had broken the lamp, which led to his own outburst. He’d charged Ali for the damage, but felt guilty all the same.

  Ah well, another weekend was a couple of days away, and Lee had softened, promising to spend it with him. She did need to talk to him, she’d said.

  “About what?” he’d asked.

  “About us.”

  Creeping worry. Mitch scrubbed harder. Whatever she was mad at, he’d make it right. He was her boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé. Making things right with her was his job. And his joy.

  Friday, Harper Runs Into Leonora.

  TGIF! The Rebel Grllz had decided to have a weekly “Thank Goddess It’s Friday” event. The idea had been Katie’s—big surprise—but they had done the democratic thing and voted on the plans. Katie’s crew always united in opting to shop every week. Harper had tried, and failed, to urge her bunch to widen their horizons, see a play, attend a concert, a trip to Provincetown: some culture.

  “Shopportunities.” Katie coined a word, and won. Again.

  Today marked the third Friday they crammed into the resort’s minibus and headed out to satisfy the primal needs of the eager little consumers. Harper was still holding out hope that eventually she’d have some positive influence on the group, but times like these, they were all about the tops, the shoes, the ’cessories.

  Harper had won the smallest of battles. At least they weren’t going to another brain-numbing Galleria, but into the town of Dennisport, checking out funkier shops, vintage clothing, local arts and crafts.

  On the bus, Harper sat next to her favorite camper, Gracie Hannigan. Shy Gracie wasn’t as superficial as the others, but that wasn’t the real reason Harper took to her. The child had issues: self-esteem, body, braces, geeky glasses—the usual tween traumas—only she wasn’t very good at hiding them. Which made her prime prey for the others, who delighted in making themselves feel good by making her feel bad. Gleefully, the baby fashionistas pointed out that stripes, tights, baby tees, or flip-flops were so over! And didn’t Gracie know—hello!—that capris were played? And who cut her hair, the lawn guy?

  The taunts weren’t new to the kid; she’d suffered verbal poison darts in school, too. But that didn’t make them hurt less. If only, Harper caught herself thinking, Gracie was thin. She wasn’t.

  Gracie reacted by trying to blend in. As Harper had read in a book somewhere, she’d turned self-effacing to self-erasing. She never spoke up for herself.

  Harper’s strategy was to bring out Gracie’s talents, her artistry, her musical chops. Good idea, in concept. In the real world of eleven-year-olds? The only way Gracie could hope to survive was to fight with the same ammo: Harper secretly hoped they’d find something on this excursion—some necklace, or top, or hair accessory—that’d boost the kid’s self-esteem.

  Luck was with them. Just a few hours into the shop-op, Harper scored better than she’d dared hope. She’d found Gracie this boho retro outfit—cute top and pants—and it fit! All the girls complimented her, told her how rad she looked. Harper spent her own money to add a necklace, and bracelet to match.

  The little girl was truly aglow for the first time all summer. And so was Harper.

  On the bus ride home, two of the other campers decided to style Gracie’s hair so it’d go with her new look. So psyched, Gracie could barely wait to get back to the Luxor. “I can’t wait to show my mom. Harper, you have to come with me!”

  Harper didn’t want to—she was tired, and what if Gracie’s mom didn’t approve or something? But she couldn’t say no to Gracie’s pleas. “You have to be there when my mom sees me. Pleeeze, puleeze, pretty please.”

  What ensued was neither, Harper would think later, pretty nor pleasing. When they got back, she followed the kid into the hotel and waited outside the ladies’ room in the lobby while her camper put on her new outfit and accessories. Counselor and camper took the elevator up to the ninth floor, down the corridor to Suites 909–910, the executive area where Gracie’s family resided for this summer. Because she wanted the surprise to be total, Gracie didn’t knock, but used her key.

  There was a surprise all right—on them.

  Gracie’s mom wasn’t in. Her dad was. In bed, undressed, and uh … cuddling. With someone who wasn’t Gracie’s mom.

  But who was Leonora.

  Alefiya Gets This Party Started—The Fireworks Go Off!

  “I’m comin’ up, so you better get this party started. …”

  The sky over the ocean outside 345 Cranberry Lane was clear and quiet. Its annual gig as host to the big fireworks display was over weeks ago.

  This night, the fireworks were indoors.

  It was close to midnight, and Ali’s Not-the-Fourth-of-July party was off the hook, slammin’! There were easily, she calculated, a hundred people—and their dancin’ feet—crammed in. Music rocked the rafters; food and drink flowed generously. Everyone was dancing, drinking, eating, and socializing. Interesting combinations of legs, arms, and other body parts intertwined as people squished together on the couches, chairs, tabletops, fireplace mantel, any inch of space they could find. The kitchen, where the bar had been set up and where she’d stashed most of “Alefiya’s Incredible Edibles,” was just as crowded. Hook-ups were happening in the bedrooms—she’d seen couples sneaking off—even the bathrooms were “occupied.”

  Ali, wearing a traditional sari with a red, white, and blue do-rag on her head, was sandwiched on the sofa between Jeremy and Sharif. She had never been this ecstatic—or, for that matter, stoned—in her entire nineteen years. This, she thought, deeply inhaling the joint the trio were sharing, is exactly how she’d imagined her summer, back when she’d planned it. “Schemed” was maybe the better word.

  For the first time, she’d been able to get away from her parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings—her great big, colorful, opinionated family. She loved them all to death, and basically, totally respected their values, her heritage. But there were certain issues. Like the fact that her family insisted she become a doctor, and forbade her from fraternizing with any boy who wasn’t Indian.

  What could a wholesome, assimilated girl do? She was all about helping people, but preferred buds and stems to blood and stem cells. As for guys, she fell in and out of love every day; she was color-blind.

  When the time came, maybe she would marry a “respectable” Indian boy, as her parents wished. But the time wasn’t now. These three delicious months she’d fashioned into her own personal rumspringa, an Amish concept she’d brazenly co-opted. This was her first true Independence Day, her taste of real freedom. It tasted better than anything she’d ever tried. Even hot-from-the-oven Cinnabons.

  “ … Pumpin’ up the volume with this brand-new beat …”

  Jeremy’s arm was flung around her shoulder
s, and Sharif was leaning into her side. Ali felt incredibly connected to every single person in the house, especially her roommates.

  The one twinge of guilt: Mitch. She’d pulled this fiesta off behind his back, and against his big-ass rules. She wished she hadn’t had to go covert, but he wasn’t likely to show up tonight. He was finally spending the weekend at Leonora’s.

  Neither Katie nor Joss had arrived yet, but Ali was sure they’d dive right in. How much fun was this? She noticed Mandy, swathed in some hot pink confection with a daringly deep V-neck, animatedly chatting up someone she assumed was Jeremy’s friend. Ummm … chatting up? More like brushing up against, curling herself around. Soul-patch dude seemed familiar, but Ali was in no shape to nudge a brain cell awake and attempt recall.

  Ali saw Harper leaning against the far wall, surveying the room. Her fists were shoved inside the upper pockets of her cargo pants. She was wearing a T-shirt with the slogan, PAIN WAS TOO GOOD FOR HIM. It matched her sour expression. Uh-oh, Ali ought to go see what was wrong, but du-u-u-ude, as Jeremy would say, she was just soooo comfortable exactly where she was.

  “It’s gettin’ hot in here … so take off all your clothes.”

  Jeremy licked her ear, which made her giggle. And Sharif—or “Reef,” as he liked to be called these days—had just made room on his lap for his girlfriend, Lisa. Ali leaned over Jeremy to pass the joint, when something disturbed her full and total inner peace moment.

  “Alee-fee-ya.” Someone was calling her, someone whose bouncy tone belied a disapproving ’tude.

  “Excuse me, but what exactly is going on?” There it was again. Through her sweet and savory haze of marijuana, she realized (a) that line was not part of Nelly’s party anthem, and (b) she should know the person asking the question.