That Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

  Lily/Lila sighed, as if Beatrice was describing paradise, and not forays to drink warm vodka in the laundry room, or outside, if it was warm enough (between October and March in New Hampshire, she’d learned, it was hardly ever warm enough). “You could get expelled if you got caught.”

  Julia cut her eyes at Cade, who gave her a blank look before turning to Beatrice with his toothy Kennedy smile.

  “So why’d you leave?”

  “I got kicked out,” Beatrice said, after she’d chewed and swallowed her cracker. That got the table’s attention. All the girls were looking at her. Cade pulled back his chair for a better view. Even Ezra had put down his energy drink.

  “Really?” asked Finn.

  “What’d you do?” asked the girl who was either Lila or Lily.

  Beatrice swiped her tongue over her front teeth to remove any traces of food. She could lie, and say that her expulsion had something to do with drinking or drugs or boys, and probably impress these kids. But she didn’t think that these were kids she wanted to impress, so she said, “Part of it was that I was running an Etsy shop. I do a lot of crafting—crochet and needle-felting, mostly—and I was spending more time doing that and not”—she hooked her fingers into air quotes—“ ‘focusing on my academics.’ ”

  “How much money were you making, doing that?”

  “Oh, like four or five hundred dollars a month. It depended on how much work I took on.” She pulled out her phone to show a few of the dogs she’d sculpted. “That’s so cool!” said Lily or Lila, and Finn asked, “You get a hundred dollars for each one you make?”

  “Sometimes more.”

  Finn looked impressed. Then Julia tossed her hair and said, “You guys remember Kenzie Dawes? Well, she makes bank on Instagram. She gets, like, older guys to tell her things to say to them, and then she says it. She doesn’t, like, take her clothes off or anything. She just whispers stuff. ‘You’re my daddy,’ or whatever, and they Venmo her, like, fifty bucks.”

  The other girls murmured approval at Kenzie’s ingenuity. Beatrice felt herself scowling. She took a bite of carrot, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Another reason I got expelled was that two of my friends and I painted the word ‘rapist’ on a boy’s door.”

  The table went very quiet. Julia’s face was flushed, and the girl who was either Lily or Lila was glaring at her. “Why?” asked Finn.

  Beatrice stared at him. “Because,” she said, speaking slowly, “he raped one of my friends. And the school didn’t do anything about it.”

  Julia nudged Cade, giving Cade a meaningful look, one that Beatrice couldn’t read. But Cade’s toothy smile was firmly in place when he turned to Beatrice.

  “So you’re an activist.”

  Beatrice patted her lips with a paper napkin. Looking right at Cade, and only at Cade, she said, “I think it’s important to do the right thing.” If this boy was really, actually interested in her, it was better that he knew who she was and what she believed in, right up front.

  Cade looked impressed. But the girls, and most of the guys, all seemed to be varying degrees of shocked. Ezra and Finn both looked angry. Lily and Lila were whispering to each other, and Julia was glaring at Beatrice with unmitigated hostility.

  “What?” Beatrice finally asked.

  “I have a brother,” said Julia, as if that was all the explanation required.

  Beatrice shrugged. “Well, as long as he doesn’t rape anyone, I won’t spray-paint anything on his door.”

  “What if some girl just says that he did?” Julia asked. She turned to the other boys in appeal. “That’s all it takes, these days, right? Some girl makes an accusation, and then the boy’s guilty until proven innocent.”

  Beatrice made herself take a breath before she spoke. She kept her voice mild. “I don’t think it’s something girls lie about.”

  Cade clapped his hands. The color in his cheeks seemed, to Beatrice, even more pronounced than it had been at the start of the lunch period. She wondered what he was thinking, if he was flustered, or embarrassed. She wondered, again, what she was doing there, when he said, “Hey, how about we change the subject?” He turned toward Beatrice, and ran his hand through his dark hair. “A bunch of us are going to the movies Friday night. Want to come?”

  * * *

  “I don’t get it,” Beatrice told Doff after school as they sat on the steps in front of the school. Doff’s fine blonde hair was drawn up into a ponytail, and she was using her tongue to push her mouth guard in and out of her mouth.

  “You’re the new girl,” Doff said, as if this was totally obvious. “Most of the kids here have known each other since kindergarten. When Lily got here freshman year, it was like a movie star showed up.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “There’s no way he actually likes me.” Still, there was that prickle of excitement, a buzzing sensation at her knees and the small of her back. The smooth, handsome rich boy falling for the artsy girl from the wrong side of the tracks—or, in her case, the girl who just looked like she was from the wrong side of the tracks—that was the kind of thing that happened in old movies, the kind her mother watched. From her limited experience, it never happened in real life. Things that happened in real life were like what had been done to her friend Tricia, back at Emlen. She could still remember Colin Mackenzie sitting down next to them, at Chapel, putting his arm around Tricia and having the nerve to look confused when she shoved him away. She’d known then that nothing would happen to Colin. He’d just say he’d gotten mixed messages, or that he’d been confused, and he’d get to stay, and Tricia, who was on scholarship, would get sent home.

  “Invite him to poetry club,” Doff said with a smirk. “See if he asks you to take a look at his Emily Dickinson.”

  Beatrice snorted. “How long did it take you to think that up?”

  “Most of lunch, and the rest of G block,” Doff said, shrugging modestly. “I started with ‘read his Charles Dickens,’ but Charles Dickens is a novelist.”

  “What about his Philip K. Dick?”

  “Who’s that?” asked Doff.

  “He wrote the book that got turned into Blade Runner.”

  “Ah.” Doff pulled on her shin guards. “Do you like him?”

  “Who, Philip K. Dick?”

  “No, dummy. Cade!”

  Beatrice considered. Cade looked like the worst kind of boy who ended up at places like Emlen, or Melville: preppy and privileged, entitled and swaggering. Once, at one of her mom’s annual clam bakes on Cape Cod, she’d overheard her uncle Danny telling Uncle Jesse about someone he’d known at Emlen, someone he and his husband had run into at the Provincetown airport: He’s always been one of those born-on-third-base-and-thinks-he-hit-a-triple types. That saying fit most of the boys she’d met there to a T. They thought they’d gotten where they were: at Emlen, on their way to Williams or Princeton or Yale, with nice clothes and straight teeth, because of how hard they’d worked, and not primarily because, as Tricia used to say, they were lifetime members of the Lucky Sperm Club.

  Cade was yet another member of that club. But still, there’d been a moment when Cade, with his flushed cheeks, had looked at her, and his cheesy smile had fallen away, and she’d thought that maybe there was something there, something that wasn’t detestable, a boy she could actually like. There was also the social capital an association with Cade like that could guarantee. If she had a popular jock boyfriend, it wouldn’t matter what she wore, or if she said weird, abrupt things, or had absolutely no desire to get into a top-tier college. She would belong at Melville, her position secure. Her mother would approve. Not that she cared, one way or the other, only it might be nice to see something besides the frown that seemed to have established permanent residence on her mother’s face since she’d come home.

  “I don’t know if I like him,” Beatrice said to her friend. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really,” said Doff. “If he likes you, though. That matters. Gotta go,” she said, and jogged off toward the
Lower Field.

  14

  Daisy

  If Diana Starling had only looked mostly like what Daisy had imagined, her apartment in Rittenhouse Square was exactly what Daisy had pictured: bright and airy and modern, on the top floor in an expensive new building, with enormous glass windows facing north and east, to give her views of manicured lawns and flower beds and the fountains of Rittenhouse Square Park, and beyond it, the grid of the city, narrow streets lined with brick row houses, and, finally, the Delaware River.

  Diana hugged her at the door. Daisy felt the warmth of the other, taller woman’s arms, and smelled her musky-sweet perfume. “Come on in!” Diana took her arm, smiling. “I’ll give you the tour.” Diana was dressed casually, in dark-rinse jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt, with her hair hanging in shiny waves and her short, oval nails polished pink. A fine gold necklace with a diamond pendant hung at her neck, matching the diamond stud earrings she’d worn the night they’d met. Her magenta suede flats with gold buckles were the most colorful thing in the place, which was done in cream and beige, with the occasional daring foray into peach and pale gold.

  Daisy held her breath as she turned the corner, but it turned out she didn’t have to worry. The kitchen was all stainless steel and black granite, with glass-fronted cabinets, and a wine refrigerator. There was a good set of German knives on the counter, a new Cuisinart, and, thank goodness, a stand mixer, which meant Daisy wouldn’t have to haul hers along when they started making breads and pastries.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Daisy.

  “Well, it’s better than what I’d expected. I’ve been in places where there’s, like, a microwave and a bar sink.” At Daisy’s expression, Diana shrugged. “Mostly men do this kind of work, and they’re either eating out, with the clients, or ordering in. Which…” She held up her hands with a self-deprecating smile. “… not gonna lie, is what I normally do.”

  “You don’t need to learn to cook,” Daisy said. She nodded at the window. “I mean, you’re right across the street from Parc, and they make the best roast chicken in the world, and they also have this amazing walnut-cranberry bread. If I lived here, I’d probably eat there all the time.”

  “Oh, no!” Diana put her hand on Daisy’s forearm, looking right into her eyes. “I one hundred percent want to do this. I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how cooking’s like a meditation.” She gave a small, wry smile. “Well. I could use some Zen these days. This job is going to be a bear. The firm’s stuck in R and D with this new breast-cancer drug. They’re going round and round with the FDA, and meanwhile, the marketing people don’t have anything to do.”

  “Well, as long as you’re sure…” Daisy handed Diana an apron and set her bags on the counter. “I thought we’d start with an easy dinner. Roast chicken, risotto, green vegetable. You can cut it in half, if it’s just for you; you can double or triple it to feed a crowd. It looks impressive, and it’s super flexible.”

  “And easy?” asked Diana, who sounded a little nervous as she regarded the uncooked chicken. “Like, foolproof?”

  “Easy,” Daisy said. “I promise.” She could tell that Diana would be her favorite kind of client: willing, motivated, eager to learn. She had already tied on her apron and started tapping notes into her phone as Daisy laid out the ingredients: a whole kosher chicken; a bottle of olive oil, a pound of butter, a lemon. Onions, garlic, shallots, shiitake mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, and a container of arborio rice; fresh rosemary and thyme, a bag of carrots, a half-pound of asparagus, and a half-pound of sugar snap peas. That was for dinner. For pantry staples, she’d gotten flour, white and brown sugar, kosher salt and Maldon salt, pepper, chili, and paprika; for the refrigerator: milk, eggs, and half-and-half, and, for a housewarming gift, a copy of Ruth Reichl’s My Kitchen Year and two quarts of her own homemade chicken stock.

  “You’re going to do great,” Daisy said as she washed her hands. “Anyone who wants to learn how to do this is a person I’m happy to teach.”

  “Do you ever end up with people who don’t want to learn?” Diana asked.

  “Only all the time. There are the college kids whose parents gift them my services. They don’t always see the point of cooking when they can order any food ever invented on their phones and get it in twenty minutes, and they’re more than happy to share that opinion.” She could still remember her last such assignment, a girl who’d brandished her phone in Daisy’s face, saying, Like, hello? Grubhub? DoorDash? Uber Eats? Why do I even need to learn this? “College kids are bad. Widowers who’ve never cooked and are angry that their wives had the nerve to die on them are bad.” Daisy told Diana the story of the older gentleman who’d quit on her, mid-lesson, shouting, “She was supposed to be here to take care of me! That was our deal!” before leaning over the counter to clutch the food processor as he’d cried.

  Diana shook her head. “I can’t even imagine what my mom would’ve done to my dad if he’d ever said something like that.”

  “Hah. Maybe someday you’ll meet my father-in-law. He acts like it’s a woman’s job to handle anything related to the kitchen, up to and including getting him a glass of water.” Even after their cooking lessons, even after she’d become his daughter-in-law, Vernon Shoemaker would summon Daisy to the kitchen from the den or the bedroom and wave his empty coffee cup, not even bothering to verbalize the request, let alone slap a “please” on the end of it. “I’m sure Hal can help you,” Daisy had learned to say.

  “What about your husband?” Diana asked. “Does he think it’s your job to get his coffee?”

  Daisy closed her lips on her first answer, a reflexive, “Absolutely not.” Hal would never say that it was her job to take care of him—at least, not out loud—but she couldn’t ignore the way that their lives broke down along gendered lines, with Hal as the provider and Daisy in charge of child and home. He went out to conquer the world while she made a nest for him to land in, and she liked it that way. At least, most of the time. “Hal isn’t much of a cook,” she said, answering carefully. “But he’s good on clean-up.” When he doesn’t disappear. “Let’s see what you’ve got for pots and pans.”

  In addition to the knives and the mixer, there was a deep roasting pan with a removable rack; pots from extra-large to extra-small, cutting boards and graters, a garlic press and a lemon reamer and even a cast-iron pan—unseasoned, but better than nothing. Daisy set out what they’d need for the chicken: a stick of butter and the herbs, lemons and garlic, onions and carrots.

  “This is a no-fail, can’t-miss recipe. Unless you forget it’s in the oven, it’s almost impossible to ruin.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Diana muttered, but she rolled up her sleeves and followed Daisy’s instructions. Daisy had her preheat the oven, remove the chicken from its plastic, rinse it, and pat it dry. “Dry skin is crispy skin,” Daisy said, encouraging Diana to blot the chicken skin until there was no moisture remaining. “Some recipes have you leave the chicken in the refrigerator, uncovered, for the moisture to evaporate from the skin. Some chefs even use a blow-dryer on the skin.”

  Diana looked at her skeptically. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hand to God,” said Daisy. “It probably looks ridiculous, but I’m sure it works.”

  Daisy showed Diana how to rock the flat side of her knife against a garlic clove to loosen its skin. She had her season the bird with lots of kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper, and mix chopped herbs and garlic into the softened butter, then loosen the chicken’s skin and work the butter underneath. Some people got squeamish at touching gizzards or raw meat, and Daisy was relieved when her student managed it unflinchingly, poking carefully, almost apologetically underneath the chicken’s skin. “You’re a natural,” Daisy said, and Diana scoffed, looking pleased.

  Diana asked Daisy how far away she lived, and about nearby grocery stores, and told her that she’d already found two bookstores and the La Colombe coffee shop on Nineteenth Street.

&n
bsp; “How’s your daughter?” she asked, after Daisy had her stuff a lemon and some onions into the bird’s cavity, and showed her how to truss the bird’s legs with twine.

  “Oh, Lord,” Daisy sighed. She gave Diana the brief version of the mice-in-the-freezer fight. “It’s not that I was actually worried the mice were going to contaminate our food. It’s more of the principle of the thing.”

  Diana nodded. “She invaded your space.”

  “With dead rodents!”

  “I get it,” said Diana. She was smiling, which made her look younger. “I had a boyfriend once who was a fisherman. He’d leave his worms in my fridge, in a mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the top. I remember once when I went to get the orange juice they were all there, wriggling around. That was traumatizing.”

  Daisy was wiping off the mushrooms, gathering Parmesan cheese and white wine. “Was this a serious boyfriend?”

  Diana frowned. “He was,” she said, but she didn’t seem inclined to offer details. “You told me your husband went to boarding school with your brother. Did you meet him then? When you were a little girl?”

  “Hal says he remembers meeting me when I was six. I don’t remember this at all.” Daisy couldn’t recall many specifics of the occasions when her brothers had brought friends home from boarding school or college. It was more of a remembered sense of how busy the house got, her mother’s mood of mingled excitement and exasperation. She could picture Judy bustling around with tablecloths and armloads of sheets for the guest-room beds; and how their cleaning lady would come for an extra day that week to help get ready. She could recall the roar of the vacuum cleaner while she and her dad worked in the kitchen, the smells of roasting turkey and pumpkin pie; the feel of powdered sugar on her fingertips as she snuck the almond cookies her bubbe would bring. In her memory, the boys themselves were an undifferentiated mass of loud voices, tall bodies, winter coats and hats and boat-sized sneakers left unlaced by the door. When she and Hal had started dating, she’d asked her brother. Danny had just shrugged, saying, “Must’ve been senior year. I brought—let’s see—Hal and Tim Pelletier and Roger McEwan.” He’d looked abashed as he’d said, “I had a crush on Roger.” She’d wanted to push for more details—about the Thanksgiving visit, about what Hal had been like back then—but Danny’s face was shuttered… and the next morning, Jesse had called.