Page 31 of Bad Summer People
Jason Parker: Jen, what’s happening? What’s going on with Sam? Does he know anything?
He kept the app open to see if she was typing. No response.
Jason Parker: Jen, I love you.
Nothing.
16Lisa Metzner
Lisa Metzner’s life had been changed by mushrooms. Every three days, she swallowed a thumbnail-size amount of gray powder, just the right dosage of crushed psychedelics to make her feel alive. She’d discovered microdosing last year, through a mom friend from Horace Mann, a granola-loving woman in the model of Gwyneth Paltrow. She’d sworn that microdosing would cure Lisa of her headaches and her minor depression and had passed along her dealer’s info. Lisa, curious, in need of a jolt, tried it immediately. She’d never looked back.
Mushrooms made her feel alert. Happy. She could focus on her life coach coursework in a way she’d never imagined possible. She loved Brian more. She enjoyed being a mom.
She was particularly grateful to be tripping when Brian had told her, a month ago, that his fund had gone to shit. They’d made some bad bet, and now Brian was paying for it, to the point that Lisa was worried they’d have to sell their place in Salcombe. It hadn’t come to that yet, but Brian, between his blustering lies to everyone else, was in total panic mode. Lisa was trying to keep it together, to stay upbeat for Maryloo and Myrna, but it had been tough. The mushrooms were getting her through.
So, when she’d seen Sam Weinstein jump into the bay, for a moment she’d thought she’d mistakenly taken too much. Was she hallucinating? But no, Sam was really in the water. Doing a back float while the rest of the village watched in surprise. Jason had gone in after him, their twoheads bobbing up and down as the sun set. Maybe she and Brian weren’t the only ones with things to hide.
Lisa was generally an open person. She’d risen in the celebrity PR world in her twenties and thirties, representing spoiled, demanding movie and TV stars. She was adept at handling difficult personalities, stroking people’s egos, and allowing them to think they were in charge.
Brian liked that Lisa was fine with him being the center of attention, so long as she was steering the ship. She treated him like a client; hyping him up, turning the other way when he made a fool of himself, and ultimately making peace with the idea that he was providing her income.
She’d stopped working when the girls were small, but when Myrna went to school full-time, Lisa needed something else. It was too late to get back into the PR game, an industry for which the off-ramp was final. She’d heard of a friend of a friend becoming a life coach and, after some wine-drunk online research, had signed up for a course.
“Life coaches are the new real estate agents,” she’d heard someone scoff at a cocktail party soon after. Lisa didn’t care about the bored-housewife connotations. She liked talking to people and having something to focus on other than the kids and the gym.
Coming into the summer, Lisa had felt better than ever. The microdosing, the new career, plus she’d gotten a great refresh from Dr. Liotta, the most talented Park Avenue plastic surgeon, and now she looked younger than she had in years. And then Brian had told her about his fund.
A short that didn’t pan out, he’d said. It wasn’t his fault, he’d said. Lisa didn’t really understand the details, but she knew it was bad. In the month since, Brian had pulled away from her. He was acting normal in public—doing his Brian thing, talking too much, amusing the crowd. But in private, he’d gone quiet, and Lisa couldn’t break through, as much as she tried. She was worried about what it meant for them. Because she did love Brian. She made fun of him, sure, and rolled her eyes at his jokes. She cringed when he said something crass. But he was her big lunkhead, and he took care of her and the girls. Brian had always reminded her of her father, who died of a stroke when she was twenty-two, a first-generationItalian American who ran his own plumbing business in Fairfield, New Jersey, where Lisa grew up. They were both warm, generous, slightly ridiculous men.
Lisa thought about her dad as she watched Jason and Sam climb out of the bay, fully clothed, big babies, dripping wet. What would he make of these men? These rich guys with their soft hands and their therapists and their expensive linen shirts.
She and Brian had walked over to chat with Jessica and Max Leavitt, who’d separated from their picnic group. Everyone was rehashing the drama.
“What on earth was that?” said Jessica.
Lisa noticed that Jessica looked five years younger than she did last summer. She’d have to remember to ask who her doctor was.
“Oh, who knows. Boys being boys,” said Brian diplomatically.
Brian had a soft spot for Sam and Jason. It made Lisa sad, because she could tell they didn’t like him as much as he did them.
“Did you hear Sam ranting about being fired for sexual harassment?” said Max. “And about Jen cheating on him? It’s all too good to be true. Turns out perfect Sam Weinstein isn’t so perfect. Ha!” Max had a long neck and a prominent Adam’s apple; when he got excited, it bobbed up and down like a bouncy ball.
Lisa thought about what it would be like when everyone heard about Brian’s fund. The spiteful schadenfreude they’d all spew at dinner parties and the yacht club. She put on her best, barking PR voice. “You know what, Max? Everyone has stuff. I’m sure you and Jessica have stuff. Brian and I have stuff. Just have a little fucking sympathy for people.”
Jessica’s eyes nearly rocketed out of her head. Max looked down, embarrassed, his bird neck arching awkwardly.
Brian took Lisa’s hand and squeezed it appreciatively. They walked away, back toward their real friends. Lisa couldn’t wait to get home. Her mushrooms awaited.
17Robert Heyworth
Robert Heyworth had already stolen $5,000 from the Salcombe Yacht Club. Not a lot—just about two months’ rent for a no-frills studio apartment in Manhattan. But enough to make him feel like a criminal. Was he a criminal? He tried not to focus on it, distracting himself with work and sex.
Maybe too much sex. Lately, the thing with Lauren was getting out of control. They were acting reckless. Earlier in the day, they’d slept together in the maintenance closet of the yacht club, where the cleaning supplies were stored. It was late morning, and no one was inside the club, but it had been a risk. Someone could have come in to use the bathroom and seen one of them leaving, or Micah could have popped in to get some bleach to clean the bar.
The closet was tight, and it smelled like chlorine. Robert had pushed Lauren up against a shelfful of paper towels and toilet paper. She was in a black tennis skirt, which he’d lifted before realizing the built-in underwear meant he had to push it down to her knees.
Now it was 8:30 p.m., still a slight glow in the sky, and Robert was walking home, hands in pockets, looking down at the boardwalk’s slanted wooden slats. The picnic had been a disaster. If Robert were rich, he’d stay far away from scenes like that. He’d liked how Julie and her family had been. Understated, private. They couldn’t be bothered to compete with others, because they knew they were superior. Julie would have hated Salcombe—how everyone tallied each other’s wins, how men measured themselves by their net worth and women by their tennis games.
