Great by Sara Benincasa Read Free Book Online Page B

a power adapter was plugged in. I could see now that the adapter cord ran to an outdoor outlet on the castle’s deck, and she had set the laptop down on a small table before her.
    I felt a little stupid, but my embarrassment was soon overwhelmed by fascination with what I beheld. The girl was beautiful, with a white-blond bob and blunt-cut bangs that glowed in the light of the computer. Her big, thick-lashed eyes were trained intently on the screen, which I couldn’t see from my vantage point. She had high, prominent cheekbones and full lips. She was so ethereally thin that she looked as if she might blow away in the light evening breeze and turn into a firefly, or a star. She could’ve passed for a teen angel, or maybe a fairy. Illuminated as she was by the computer screen, she didn’t look entirely of this world.
    Maybe it was because she didn’t seem real, but I actually thought about talking to her. It would’ve been completely out of character for me, and chances are I would’ve just freaked her out, probably, and then had to hide from her scornful gaze every time I sat on my mother’s deck. She didn’t look like the type who could generate scorn, but if she was anything like every other girl I’d met during my East Hampton summers, scorn was her second-favorite feeling, after boredom. Instead, I stood, frozen and silent, and watched, for what must have been several minutes, as she read and typed on the computer.
    Then she did something I’ll never forget. The girl stood up, facing the lake. The white light from the laptop screen lent her face an unearthly glow from below as she stretched out her arms toward the twinkling houselights in the distance. She held it for a long moment, like some kind of yoga pose, just reaching and reaching for something I couldn’t identify. Then, after what seemed like hours, she scooped up the laptop and went into the house, leaving me alone in the moon-drenched yard. I lingered for a moment, listening to the sound of the spring peepers and other frogs calling to one another from the muddy banks of Georgica Pond. I turned back toward my mother’s house. I knew it was time for me to go inside, too.

CHAPTER FOUR
    S kags and I have an issue with the term “brunch,” as in, we think it’s stupid. I mean, if you’re having a meal and it’s in the a.m., that’s breakfast. If you’re having a meal and it’s in the p.m., that’s lunch (or dinner, if it’s after 5:00 p.m.) I don’t care what you eat. French toast at 1:00 p.m.? Lunch! Hot pastrami sandwich at 6:00 a.m.? Breakfast.
    Naturally, my mother loves brunch.
    I will say that the woman can cook. By the time I got up at 10:00 a.m., she already had a spread laid out on the table on the back deck—popovers, strawberry-flavored butter, mixed berries, scrambled egg whites with local (of course) goat cheese, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. She’d done it all herself in the space of about thirty minutes, probably less. She may fall short of the mothering ideal in most regards, but when it comes to whipping up a fantastic meal, she’s just about perfect.
    â€œHey, Mom,” I said blearily, blinking my eyes in the bright sunshine as I joined her on the deck. “Thanks for breakfast. This looks awesome.”
    She turned toward me with a smile that faded quickly as she took in my ensemble (a ratty basketball T-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered drawstring shorts.)
    â€œStill in your pajamas?” she asked, a clear note of disapproval in her voice. I was, but I decided to mess with her a little.
    â€œNaw,” I said breezily, sitting down and buttering a golden-brown popover. “I figured I’d go over to Baxley’s for lunch by myself, then maybe stop by the Marc Jacobs in the village and drop by the Fairweathers’ for tea.” Her look of horror was so classic that I snorted, cracking up.
    â€œDon’t joke