Now Rachel’s wasn’t the only mouth hanging open. I had never heard words like these coming from Julie—and to Rachel! I thought my older cousin would defend herself hotly when she recovered from the shock, but to my further astonishment, Rachel went on the offensive. “You’re out of your mind! What do you mean by ‘carrying on’? And as for ‘looking like a total slut’—you should wash your mouth out, using a word like that when we’re going to church—”
“I’m talking about how you’re always going over to where he is and flipping your hair and, like, laughing at his jokes, and being all look-at-me—”
“I think his jokes are funny, you idiot. Not like you or this conversation.”
“And then that time you two were figuring out who was taller and you were all touching him—”
“I was not,” said Rachel, outraged.
“You were, too. You were all grabbing his arm and lining up your heads and everything.”
“Because we were comparing our heights, like you just said. That’s what you do. But this is the stupidest conversation. If that’s what you think’s going on, you’re just jealous! Uh-huh—Jealous that Eric Grant would flirt with me, even though I do already have a boyfriend! I can’t help it if he likes to talk to me and joke around with me. You just wish he thought you were cute enough to notice—”
“He does think I’m cute,” Julie cut in. “He told me so the other day when I had my hair down. He said it looked really nice like that.”
“Oh!” That took the wind from Rachel’s sails for a moment, but she recovered and switched tacks. “Well, I’m sure he was just being nice, though that would explain why you’ve been wearing your hair down so much.”
“You—”
“Face it. He’s a college guy,” Rachel went on ruthlessly. “You’re his friend’s little sister. He doesn’t care one bit about you that way. He’s just humoring you. I bet he doesn’t even think about you any more than he does Frannie here.”
“That’s what you think!” Julie choked, her face red.
“That’s what I think.”
“I should’ve told Dad how you’re behaving.” A clear bluff—I knew Julie dreaded conversations with her father and generally tried to lay low.
“Pick up the phone, then, and call him back.” Rachel tossed her chin. “I dare you. Because I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just having a little fun with Tom’s friend. It’s not like I’m married to Greg, or anything.”
“Then why don’t you break up with Greg?” her sister demanded. “I bet he doesn’t like you ‘having a little fun’ with Eric Grant.”
“I’ll handle Greg. You keep your nose out of my business,” Rachel fired back. She shoved her empty pancake plate away. “And you know what—if this is what’s going on in your petty little jealous head, I don’t need it. No one does. I’m disinviting you to Greg’s All-Star Carnival.”
Julie gasped. “You can’t disinvite me! The Carnival’s at my high school, so I can go if I want. You’re the one who keeps telling me you’re graduated you’re graduated you’re graduated you’re such a big shot—if you’re so graduated from high school, maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t go.”
“I’m the one dating the former quarterback and star pitcher, so don’t tell me what to do!”
“Well then, why did you invite the Grants and Tom and Jonathan?” Julie persisted. “The Grants didn’t even go to our high school, and Tom and Jonathan don’t care about your dumb all-star boyfriend.”
“I invited them because we’re all friends, you retard—”
“Now, who should wash her mouth out for using a bad word?”
“Girls, girls,” chided Aunt Terri when the escalating battle finally drew her attention. Even Aunt Marie was looking over. “What are you thinking—clear your dishes and finish getting ready. It’s time to go. Frannie, for heaven’s sake—what have you been doing all this time? Hurry up and eat—we can’t be wasting food around here. Think of all those children who would just die for those pancakes on your plate.”
My appetite was gone, but I dutifully shoveled in the remaining bites after Rachel and Julie stormed off. I didn’t know about starving children, but I bet Uncle Paul, at the very least, would love to find such standard, identifiable fare on his plate.
How he would appreciate the strife that accompanied the feast, however, was less certain.
Chapter 11
The Warm Springs High School All-Star Carnival was the athletics program’s annual fundraiser. Before Aunt Terri dreamed the Carnival up, the high school teams raised money individually in sporadic, largely unsuccessful car washes and bake sales, bolstered by candy bar drives. Then, in Tom’s sophomore year, Aunt Terri lobbied for an annual carnival, organized by a special committee of the PTA. It was a modest enough affair that year: a few booths, an athletes’ exhibition, hot dogs for sale, and a ride or two, but the Carnival made more money than all the other efforts combined. The next year Aunt Terri spearheaded it, doubling its size, quadrupling its attendance by marketing it to the community, and sextupling its financial haul. It was never that big again, but, each successive year, headed up by some poor mom who drove herself to nervous breakdown, the Carnival highlighted the last weekend in June.
It made no sense, really, for Rachel to disinvite Julie or Julie to complain that the Grants didn’t belong. People directly related to WSHS athletics programs accounted for only a fraction of Carnival attendees by this point. Besides, Aunt Terri would never have countenanced Julie staying home—she had signed each of us up for shifts working various booths. Julie whined her way from two shifts down to one, and Rachel exempted herself because her boyfriend was the star All-Star, but I could look forward to one shift at the potato sack slide and another at the dunk tank.
Carnival Day dawned hot, sunny and unusually muggy. I woke up early because I forgot to shut my blinds and the light streamed in. Aunt Terri dictated the thermostat be kept at 78F in the summer, but in my front bedroom temperatures frequently climbed above that, and I was already sticky. I took the quickest shower possible and downed a bowl of cereal, but Aunt Terri beat me anyhow and was waiting outside, foot tapping. “Let’s go, honey. I promised we’d be there fifteen minutes ago. I suppose you didn’t remember to put on sunscreen. The least you could do is find a hat—when will you learn that protecting your skin from sunburn is your responsibility? Blondes like you do wrinkle horribly, not to mention risking skin cancer—”
Grabbing one of Jonathan’s old baseball caps from the rack, I climbed in her ancient car. “Isn’t Julie coming early with us?”
My aunt waved this away. “Oh—she said she was getting a headache last night and needed some extra sleep. Probably a good idea in this heat. She wouldn’t have been much use, complaining. You’ll just have to take up some of the slack, Frannie.”
And then some. In the four hours before the Carnival opened, I sliced watermelons and pies, lettered and taped and pinned up signs, placed cones and ropes, set out trash cans and napkins and condiments, made sure each booth had one-dollar bills and rolls of quarters to make change, and called the volunteers whose last names began with M-Z to remind them of their shifts. By the time they swung the field gates open I was a flushed, sweaty, itchy mess. Even Aunt Terri took pity on me and said she would take my shift at the potato-sack slide so I wouldn’t have to be in the sun. “Go help with the drink stand, Frannie, until they need you at the dunk tank.”
With relief I obeyed, filling cups of root beer and 7-Up and Hawaiian Punch for Mrs. Hernandez while she handled the cash. Because of the heat we ran a busy stand, and I didn’t see my cousins until they were nearly at the counter: Rachel, looking proud of Greg in his WSHS Trojans baseball uniform, Tom and Jonathan and the Grants. Caroline was wearing super short cut-offs and an off-the-shoulder top, her curly dark hair in a bouncy ponytail. When she waved at me, I caught a whiff of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil. No Coppertone SPF 12 for her.
“Where’s Julie?” I asked, without th
inking, as I pushed Rachel her root beer. There had been cool tension between the sisters since their argument.
Rachel only laughed. “She’s here, but she probably wishes she wasn’t. Aunt Terri spotted her right off the bat and dragged her over to fill in at the pony rides. You should’ve seen her face! You got lucky, Frannie, here in the shade, with all the drinks you want.”
“Don’t you have any beer?” Tom demanded. “What kind of carnival is this?”
“A family one,” said Mrs. Hernandez firmly. She was fond of Tom, having a son his age who had been one of Tom’s teammates. “But you can have a free refill later.”
“Why should Tom get a free drink, Mrs. Hernandez?” Rachel mock-protested. “Don’t you know Greg is the star of the show today?” Her glance met Eric’s over Greg’s strapping shoulder and there was something triumphant in it. Eric gave her a lazy grin.
Mrs. Hernandez tapped Greg on that strapping shoulder. “For you, Mr. Greg Perkins, two free refills. What do they have lined up for you today?”
He beamed. “I’m running the Little League Pitch Contest and then doing a double shift in the dunk tank.”
“That oughtta be a real moneymaker,” said Eric blandly. Caroline pinched his arm.
“How long is your shift, Frannie?” asked Jonathan.
“She can go now,” said Mrs. Hernandez, giving me a little shove. “Your aunt has been working her like a slave all morning. Go along with your family, Frannie. My next helper comes in ten minutes anyhow.”
I could only go, as she requested, but no one looked especially eager for my company. I chose to tag along with Jonathan and Caroline, knowing I was safest from rejection there. While the others made their way toward the baseball field where Greg would be showcased, Jonathan and Caroline had no itinerary. They wandered, stopping here and there before a booth, talking and enjoying each other’s company.
“This is some production,” Caroline said. She waved her hand to encompass the entire, sprawling event.
Jonathan nodded. “Well, you know. Anything my Aunt Terri touches becomes some production.”
“No way! Is she in charge of all this?”
“Not this year. But she was the first time it was held. She’s still on the committee every year. I think whoever takes it on feels pressure to out-do the person who did it the year before.”
“And when you were a student here…?” she prompted. “Did you have to stand in the spotlight like Greg for the greater good?”
My cousin laughed. “I was never the jock Greg is.”
“That’s not true,” I spoke up. “You were the best on the swim team. Jonathan still has the school records for the 50 Fly and the 100 IM,” I added to Caroline.
“I believe it,” breathed Caroline with mock admiration. “A regular Rowdy Gaines.”
“Rowdy Gaines is a freestyler,” I said. “You mean Pablo Morales.”
Neither one appeared to hear me.
Jonathan and I were both blushing, he from modesty and me from vexation. “Other than Frannie,” he replied, “the rest of the world remains blissfully ignorant of my athletic prowess.”
“No, no,” Caroline said, “your legend is growing, since now I know, too. I might’ve guessed you were a swimming champion. You teach me with such sureness, such confidence. I feel so safe in your hands.”
You would never know it, from the stranglehold she always put on his neck.
Jonathan glowed even more brightly. I was sorry I ever brought it up.
“What about you?” he rejoined, as we continued walking. “Besides singing and orchestra, did you cultivate other talents in high school?”
She tilted her head and smiled up at him. “Eric would tell you I was the drama queen, but don’t hold it against me. Every adolescent girl is an emotional handful. Like being physically awkward isn’t bad enough.”
“It makes life colorful,” he declared. “The emotional part.”
She peeked around him at me. “I shouldn’t say that, though. Frannie here seems pretty even-keel.”
Seems colorless enough, she meant. Nor did she retract the bit about adolescents being physically awkward.
“Frannie’s steady as a rock,” agreed Jonathan. “The whole world might go up in flames or be swallowed in an earthquake, and she wouldn’t crumble.” He meant it as praise, but what fourteen-year-old wants to be compared to the Rock of Gibraltar when a vibrant butterfly flits along next to her?
Speaking of which, Caroline returned the focus to herself. “I’ve never been the steady kind, sadly. Maybe it’s because I did Debate in high school.”
“Really!”
“Uh-huh. Team captain. So you see, I can’t be steady. You never know if you’ll be assigned Pro or Con, so a good debater prepares to argue both sides of a topic. Especially we practiced arguing the side we didn’t believe in. Our team took district my senior year.”
“What was the topic?”
“School prayer—would you believe it? So-o-o boring, but Reagan had just made that statement about Nazis and the KKK marching on public property while children were ‘forbidden’ to say a prayer in school, and I think the officials thought it was a hot button.”
There was a short pause, and then Jonathan asked, “Which side did you get?”
“Against, thank God!” Caroline said. “I only said we practiced debating both sides. We knew our facts, of course, but it helped to have some fire behind us. Not that school prayer lights anyone’s fire, but if a spark is all you have…”
“My uncle is very disappointed that President Reagan doesn’t fight for school prayer,” I put in again, when I saw Jonathan was still wrestling with what to say. “After saying he supported it in his campaign.”
“Oh, honestly! I think the Leader of the Free World has bigger fish to fry. Reagan just said that to get the religious right onboard.” She fluttered her fingers at Jonathan. “From what Tom says, it sounds like your dad is even to the right of Reagan, politically. What’s your opinion, Mr. Former-Swimming-Bigshot?”
“You tell me you’re a debate champ, and then you want me to argue with you?”
“It’s only an argument if you’re on the opposite side.”
“Let’s just say that, legal or not, I did plenty of praying in school. Calculus was a bear.”
We were standing by now in front of the booth where people were throwing rubber baseballs at weighted milk cans with varying results.
“Oh, you won’t be serious,” she chided. “Well, I’ll let it pass because, like I said, I don’t honestly care either way. Religion is, of all topics, the most boring to me. So freshmen dorm.”
Another hesitation. “Why do you say that?”
“Because what’s the use of debating something that can’t be proved? Everyone just digs in with their opinion, nonsense or not, and shouts at each other.”
‘Nonsense’! It was an open-and-shut case which side Caroline Grant was referring to. The sounds around us—laughter, milk cans tumbling, music drifting from the field—faded, I was listening so hard to what Jonathan would say. As if I could will him into speech. He was torn, I knew, as he had been that day by the pool, between wanting to keep things light and wanting to share sincerely.
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Those kinds of discussions aren’t very fruitful. I’m not interested in debating the existence of God just for the sake of debating. But when people have genuine questions—when they’re really looking for answers—I’d have to say there’s nothing I love talking about more.”
Caroline was shaking her head. Not in the belligerent way Tammy would when she and Jonathan got into it, but gently, regretfully, as if she was sorry such things had to be talked about. “I know. Or, at least, I suspected. You are one of a kind, Jonathan Beresford. Most of the Bible-thumper types I met at Santa Clara gave it up by Spring Break, if not by Thanksgiving. They were cured of their thumping once they met other people who didn’t think exactly like their parents and priests. And then, after they recov
ered, they settled into a—a happy double life: behaving themselves when they went home and doing what they liked when they were at school. You, on the other hand—”
Jonathan ran a hand through his hair. Gazed absently at one of the inexperienced dads, who was twisting and torturing a skinny balloon into the semblance of a wiener dog. It came out with two tails and no head.
“Caroline,” said my cousin, “I can’t tell if you’re serious or just having fun. You can’t really think anyone would be happy leading a double life. I know I couldn’t. I guess some people might catch faith like the measles and then get over it—and be inoculated against it for the rest of their lives—but I—I don’t view it as a sickness. Or something that invaded me, that I have to fight off. My faith…is me.”
I wanted to skip and cheer for him, I was so proud, but I confined myself to giving his arm a squeeze. Jonathan didn’t acknowledge it. He was looking steadily at Caroline to see how she responded.
She colored briefly, looking back at him just as steadily. Then she shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say I had a problem with religion. I only said it bored me. You can be as religious as you like.”
“As long as I don’t bore you with it.”
“Exactly.”
“And how would I do that?”
Now a note of impatience crept into her voice. I almost thought she would stamp her foot. “I already told you! By talking talking talking about it or thinking you have to convince others of something. Religion is fine,” she said again, “as long as you don’t—I don’t know—go off the deep end and become one of those weirdos wearing a sandwich board or—or join a monastery or go crazy and become a priest.”
I gasped at this last, my eyes cutting to Jonathan’s face. His was impassive. Only by his complete stillness did I know he was stricken and waiting for his mind to catch up with the blow it had received.
“Jonathan! Yoo hoo!” Caroline waved a hand before his eyes. “He’s been turned to stone. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”
The Beresfords Page 9