Free The Summer of Naked Swim Parties by Jessica Anya Blau Page A

parents’  aura-reading party as there was a good chance it would eventually turn into a swim party. Lately, Jamie had come to realize that every moment with Flip was not perfect.
    The boredom of an isolated surfing beach with no friends wasn’t perfect; the discomfort of Flip licking her in search of her orgasm, until she was as raw and swollen as a diaper-rashed baby, wasn’t perfect; the idea of being with Flip while her parents frolicked naked wasn’t perfect. But Flip called on the night of the event and said he could come, of course, as he had no more obligations that summer than Jamie did. Betty had slipped him the invitation one afternoon while Jamie was in the bathroom. Jamie said nothing to her mother about her discomfort with Flip’s attending as Betty’s and Allen’s usual reaction to anything that caused their daughters embarrassment or shame was to boldly continue the embarrassing or shameful act in the hope that their daughters would become desensitized to it.
    “There’s really nothing to do,” Betty told Flip, who showed up an hour early, offering to help out. Betty was  standing in the kitchen wearing bell-bottom jeans and a maroon silk blouse, untucked, flowing.
    “Mom hired caterers,” Jamie said.
    “Chumash,” Betty said.
    “Chumash?” Flip said. “That is totally gnarly. I didn’t know Chumash catered.”
    “Chumash are beautiful people,” Betty said.
    “Chumash believe in four celestial gods,” Jamie said.
    Allen walked in. “Chumash are ripping me off,” he said.
    “No way,” Flip said. “Chumash wouldn’t rip anyone off.”
    “It costs a fortune to have Chumash. I don’t know why your mother wants Chumash.” Allen looked at Jamie as if she could explain. “Since when are Chumash known for their culinary skills?”
    “Allen,” Flip said, “it’s way cool to hire Chumash. I mean, man, we owe them.”
    Allen looked over at Flip and contorted his mouth as if he’d just bitten into an orange seed.
    “Thank god Renee’s not here,” Jamie said.
    “Why don’t you want your sister here?” Allen asked.  “Your sister’s a wonderful person.”
    “She thinks aura readings are fake,” Jamie said. “Remember when you went to that aura reading at the Gants’  house?”
    “How could you fake an aura reading?” Betty said. “It’s right there. You can see it.”
    “Does your sister have blond hair?” Flip asked. “I think I maybe remember seeing her at school.”
    “Black hair,” Jamie said. Unlike her friends’ homes, where framed photos of the family covered grand pianos and corner tables whose only apparent purpose was to hold frames, there were no pictures of Jamie and Renee   displayed in the house. Jamie often felt that photos of herself and Renee might be a good thing—something to remind her parents that they had two people in their charge, two people to keep track of, to come home for, to lock and unlock doors for.
    “You know how you fake an aura reading?!” Allen said.
    “The same way you fake being a Chumash. If you say it, everyone believes it.”
    “I believe in the Chumash celestial gods,” Jamie said, although she had never really thought about whether she believed in them or not.
    A knock sounded from the kitchen door. Betty gave hush-up eyes to everyone and went to let the caterers in.
    Betty was overly friendly, as if she were making up for some past wrongdoing, as she showed the sturdy, thick woman and toreador-looking man around the kitchen.
    Allen, Flip, and Jamie watched.
    “Well,” Betty said, “let’s let them do their stuff.” The lights were off and the living room was lit with candles perched on every flat surface: the grand piano, the windowsills, the coffee table, the hearth. Jamie had always found the living room a little ominous with its worn Persian rugs, black leather chairs, and massive unframed paintings.
    That night, lit only by candlelight, she thought it could have been a room in a haunted house. There were