by Jayne Denker
I'm proud of the fact that I didn't spend every moment last night and today trying to figure it out. I'm also proud that I decided not to share the news with Hannah till I know exactly what I'm—er, what Conn is dealing with. Of course, it helped that I had to work on Bram's situation. First I got in touch with his parents and, as it turned out, I didn't even have to try to get their blessing. Mr. and Mrs. Westwood have been secretly worried about their son's social status, or lack thereof, for a while now, but they've been at a loss as to how to get him to connect with his peers.
Lucky for them, I've come up with plenty of ideas. Bram has been renamed, reclothed, and coached on how to be friendly and approachable yet be himself. Hannah and I canvassed the festival to locate some likely potential friends, and when Bram arrived we sent him over to approach the group. At the moment, however, he's hanging back uncertainly, keeping us in his sights through the crowd.
"The poor guy," Hannah coos.
"He's doing great," I insist while making an odd woop-woop fist-pumping gesture to show my support. He frowns, confused. I give him a never mind wave, directing his attention back toward his targets.
The kids we chose seem friendly and cool but not too racy—they're hanging out by Macomb's candy shop instead of under the pier smoking weed. Hey, I did my homework. I don't take this assignment lightly.
Hannah's wringing her hands. "Should we help him?"
"He's got to do this on his own." We're here to rescue Bram if necessary, but adults can't push teens together. It would have the opposite effect. I smile at my friend and drape my arm over her shoulders. "You are a bleeding heart, Clement, and I love you for it. I'm so glad you're here."
For some reason that makes her squirm uncomfortably. Then she manages to say, "I—I meant to tell you. I'm…going out of town for a little while."
I'm more alarmed at her news than I'd expect. "What? Where? Why?"
"I thought I'd go home for a couple of weeks, see what everybody's up to."
Everybody as in Marty. Now I know why she was squirming. Of course she has other friends in Ohio, but from the way she's avoiding looking at me, I know he's definitely on her agenda, and she knows I don't approve. The worst thing she can do is see him—she'll get all confused about her feelings, and all the progress she's made this summer will go right down the drain. Good grief, why do people ask for my advice if they're only going to ignore it?
Before I end up saying just that to her—and thank goodness because it wouldn't come out nicely—I feel a…presence beside me.
"What are we watching? Is this street theater?"
At least I think that's what Laura just said. Considering the level of noise overwhelming her tiny voice, she could just as well have said, "Come see my pet lemur." Which, come to think of it, wouldn't surprise me. I glance over at her. Then I do a double take. Laura looks completely ordinary—no funny hats tonight. However, hovering above and slightly behind her is a bright pink and yellow Chinese dragon. It's a kite.
The thing is, there's no wind tonight.
It takes me a minute to realize there's a stiff wire attached to it instead of a string. Good grief, can't this woman act normal for just five minutes?
"If this is street theater, it's kind of boring."
"Laura," I try to explain, sounding exasperated, "it's not…never mind." I don't have time for this. "You know what? I hear the food truck by Dipsy Doodle's, the kids' clothing store, is offering to deep fry anything you bring them."
"Ooh, I have my backup pencil sharpener in my pocket."
Of course she does. I wave as she scoots away, her pink and yellow dragon bobbing along energetically over the crowd.
When I turn back to Bram, I feel a little surge of panic in my belly. Hannah was right: it's not going well. Bram's shoulders are hunching, and he's fading into the background instead of engaging the other kids. Operation New Friends is starting to head south at an alarming rate.
"He's in trouble. I'm going in."
"Let me."
Let…what? Hannah? Do what? As I'm puzzling this out, she walks up to Bram and says in a loud, clear voice, "Aren't you Bram Westwood?" She ignores the boy's stunned look and adds, "The winner of the Golden Key Award in Orga—"
Tweaking to what she's up to, I mutter worriedly, "Don't say that part." Golden Key Award sounds cool and mysterious; Golden Key Award in Organic Chemistry is a bit too geeky for this crowd.
"Golden Key Award?" she repeats and ends there. I let out a little breath, suddenly a believer in telepathy.
Bram is only sweating a little bit. "I…uh, yes?"
The other kids are looking at him, curious. I hold my breath. Hannah's ploy might work.
"Do you mind?"
Hannah whips out her phone for a selfie, and I'm captivated by her impressive acting ability. She's all sincerity as she holds it at arm's length, putting her head close to Bram's. He shifts from stunned to only semi-stunned, plus a touch flattered. I can see his chest puffing up from here. The other kids watch as Hannah takes the photo, squeals her thanks like she's just met a member of the hottest boy band, and heads back over to me.
"Genius," I whisper, truly impressed.
"I know!"
Where did this unexpected, outspoken Hannah come from? She's grinning from ear to ear, and the whole situation is so ridiculous that I start laughing as Bram runs up to us.
"They're talking to me! They're talking to me! They invited me down to the beach. What do I do now?"
"You go, obviously!"
"But they said something about playing Frisbee. I don't know how to play Frisbee!"
"Fake. It."
After a few moments to give them a head start, Hannah and I follow the group down to the beach to make sure they really are playing Frisbee and it wasn't code for smoking weed under the pier. It doesn't take long before we find out that Bram isn't kidding about his lack of Frisbee skills. We arrive just in time to see him get clocked in the nose by a particularly fast-moving disc.
* * *
"Okay, so maybe they weren't the best kids to approach," I say as I blot some blood from under his nose.
"You think?"
"Well, it's not like they took you out on purpose."
"They didn't stick around once I was out of the game either."
He's right—they weren't very gracious. I sit back on my heels with a sigh. This is my fault. An error in judgment. It doesn't happen often, but once in a while I might—might—drop the ball. Or, in this case, the Frisbee.
"I should have known this would never work," he mutters, his voice thick from the tissues stuffed up his nostrils. "I guess I don't have what it takes."
"Come on, Bram. You're immensely likeable."
"I think you're great," Hannah offers.
Bram just shrugs and looks more dejected than ever. A couple of old ladies' good opinions carry no currency in the teen years. I whisper to Hannah to get some ice. She nods and dashes off with her flip-flops in her hand, her bare feet flinging puffs of sand behind her. I peer down the beach, trying to locate the kids Bram had been talking to. There's no sign of them. No matter. I can find him other friends. What's more important is getting him motivated again.
"Am I going to have a black eye?"
"Maybe two. But they'll make you look like a badass."
"I don't want to look like a badass," he groans, struggling to his feet. "I want to go home."
"Are you kidding? The night's barely started! You've got to get out there and—"
"Ms. Abbott? If it's all the same to you, I think I'd like to give it up. For now, anyway."
I start to protest, but he looks so defeated I don't have the heart to argue with him. This might be the very first failure I've had with Your New Best Friend. Even Petey Fagle managed to ask out his crush, the young woman who works at the bait shop on the pier, after a few sessions with me. I saw them together earlier tonight, which means they've been dating for two whole weeks now.
Bram is heading up the beach
toward home, already far enough away that he's fading into the darkness. I can't let this happen. I trip to my feet and take off after him, veering onto the packed, wet sand close to the water so I can move faster. My phone pings with a text. It's either Hannah asking where she can get some ice without battling the crowds, or it's my dad, who I last saw handing out campaign buttons by the food trucks. I wrestle the phone out of my purse without slowing down and hold it up to see the screen—and then my shoulder smacks hard into someone else's arm. My phone is pitched out of my grip and flies backward several feet, as though someone's hooked it with a fishing line. It lands on the sand with a plop.
"I've got it!" A woman in a pale dress scoops my phone up before a lapping wave reaches it.
"Oh God, thank you so—" Then she stands up, smiles, and holds the phone out to me. "Sasha. Hi." Yeah, my voice isn't stilted. Much. Suddenly I sound about as wooden as I feel.
Sasha, however, lights up in recognition, crying, "Oh my goodness—Melanie!"
She grabs me in a tight hug that I try to return enthusiastically, even though I've been totally blindsided, and I'm not talking about having physically collided with someone on the beach. Sasha lets me out of the hug but keeps a grip on me as she studies me at arm's length.
"Look at you," she practically sings. "So beautiful. It's such a shock seeing you all grown up. I can't help but think of you as a teenager even after all these years!"
I'll return the compliment as soon as I find my voice. There's plenty to praise. She's still gorgeous and perfect. Even in the dark I can tell she's tanned—but not too much—by the contrast of her skin against her white, gauzy dress. Her fine blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun again, which emphasizes her sharp cheekbones and pronounced jawline. Her whippet-thin, muscular arms only remind me how fleshy mine are.
She hasn't changed—still ageless and perfect, the queen of everything and the only person who can render me speechless. She continues smiling down at me from her several-inch height advantage. I'd better say something. Something clever, preferably. Or, you know, anything at all, because this silence has gone on a few seconds too—
"Hey, Abbott, nice linebacker move."
OhthankGod. I've never been so happy to see Conn in my life…even if his proximity means he was with Sasha. On the beach. In the moonlight.
He comes up to us, rubbing his arm. I was so fixated on catching up with Bram, I didn't even notice it was him I ran into. He stands with his back to the water, the three of us forming a neat little triangle.
"I've been asking Conn where you were! I wanted to see you," Sasha says, glancing from Conn to me and back again.
"Guess now you have," I say lamely, holding my hands out and then letting them drop in a weak ta-da gesture.
"I'm so glad. We have to take some time to catch up while I'm here. How long has it been?"
Five years plus however many months since the last holiday Conn and Sasha spent together in Abbott's Bay before the divorce, I think. But I just say, "Too long." Ugh, her cadence is contagious.
"Absolutely!"
"What…uh, what are you doing in town, anyway?" I ask, wincing at my own bluntness.
Sasha is too classy to call me on it. She half smiles as she glances at Conn. "Well…" she begins uncertainly, but Conn answers for her.
"Visiting. You know. Vacation. Where were you off to so fast that you had to knock me over?"
Nothing knocks him over, least of all five-foot-three me. I smirk at his hyperbole. "Business," is all I say.
"You have a client? Tonight?"
"I can mix business with pleasure. Happy birthday, by the way." It comes out coldly, and I'm not sure if I mean it to or not. I texted him first thing this morning with a birthday greeting like I do every year. And every year he replies with the rudest emoji he can find. He didn't text me back this morning though, and now I know why. I still play dumb, however. "I thought you'd be knee deep in New York strippers and blow by now."
Sasha laughs musically. "I love the way you talk, Melanie. You're so cute and funny, and you don't care what you sound like."
Before I can ask what that's supposed to mean, Conn makes a face and says, "I'm a little too old for that, don't you think?"
"You let Jack down? I've got to admit, I'm shocked."
"An early dinner in Boston was good enough. I wanted to get back to keep an eye on the restaurant during the festival."
Sasha clucks adorably and latches onto Conn's arm, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "He did. I managed to pry him loose from the place eventually. It's such a beautiful night. I couldn't let him hole up in there."
Vaguely I realize it's my turn to say something, but I'm stuck staring at the tableau in front of me: Sasha all clingy, and Conn standing there, not really minding.
Conn fills the silence by circling back to my earlier comment. "So…you had a client?"
"Yes—"
"Ooh, Conn was telling me about your new business! Congratulations!"
"I kind of lost him though. Did you see a kid go by? About thirteen but looks younger, kind of skinny, dark hair?"
"You're advising kids now?"
Uh-oh. Is Conn doing warmup stretches for a "scold Melanie" rant? I don't need that right now.
"It's a special case," I explain. "A one-time thing. Don't worry."
"No, no—I was going to say kids need help too. I mean, Hannah said you changed that Zoë kid's life with a two-minute consultation. It could be a genius move. As long as you handle it right."
Well, that's a surprise. I try not to think he's sounding noble and supportive because Sasha's standing here.
"Of course I'm handing it right."
"Except you lost him?"
I knew he wouldn't be able to keep Judgy Conn buried for long. "We had a minor setback, and he headed home. It's not like he's lost at sea. He lives right over there." I point at the bank of houses looming over the thin strip of sand.
"The kid there? In the plaid shorts?"
I squint in the direction Conn is indicating, and sure enough I can see a familiar figure in the light of the nearest bonfire. Hands in his pockets, he's fidgeting exactly the way I coached him not to, but he's also talking to a girl.
A familiar-looking girl.
"Bram!" I wave energetically until he spots me and runs over.
"Ms. Abbott! It worked! Everything you told me? It worked."
"Of course it did," I say. "But that's not someone from the group you were talking to earlier."
"No. Is that okay?"
"It's fine. I know Zoë. She's great. I wholeheartedly approve."
Why didn't I think of Zoë in the first place? This is perfect. They're perfect together. Both a little shy and awkward, both in need of a friend—what could be better?
"There's only one problem," Bram says. "I told her about my telescope."
"And?"
"She wants to try it out. But I can't bring it down to the beach. It's delicate equipment. I don't want any sand getting into it."
"Then invite her to your house. Your parents are home, right?"
"Yes."
"All right then. Have Zoë call her mother and tell her where she is. Or better yet, have your parents call her. They might even know one another already. A little stargazing, some refreshments—how could she refuse? You're a magnificent host, Bram. She'll love it."
"Uh, Ms. Abbott?"
"Yes?"
"Can you call me Vernon again? 'Bram' is different and all, but I don't think it's exactly…"
"You?"
"Totally."
"Gotcha."
"Thanks." He fidgets again, drawn by the pull of his new friend but politely staying with me to wrap up our conversation properly. I decide to cut him loose before he spontaneously combusts.
"Go on then…Vernon."
He grins, nods at Conn and Sasha like the well-bred kid he is, then takes off again. I raise my eyebrow at Conn, silently daring him to argue against any of this.
"Nic
e," is all he says.
"I know," I reply, more than a little smug. Out of the corner of my eye I see even Sasha is looking impressed, which is just gravy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Then again, any advantage I think I've gained—hey look, I'm a grownup! I have my own successful business! so stop calling me cute!—is ripped away on the brisk night breeze only minutes later. I text a reply to Hannah and she meets us on the beach, clutching a baggie of ice for Bram's—er, Vernon's—nose. Her arrival should give me the perfect excuse to take my leave of these possible lovebirds (urk), but Hannah's natural sweetness charms Sasha, and pretty soon they're deep in an animated chat. Every once in a while Hannah glances over at me guiltily, aware that Sasha is supposed to be the enemy, but then Sasha draws her back in with another question about Hannah's life, and they continue their bonding session.
Which leaves me with Conn. He and I make small talk: what Sasha gave him for his birthday (a book), where he and Jack went for dinner (a Summerville bar they frequented when they attended Harvard, for nostalgia, chicken wings, and beer), even a little bit about how my dad's campaign is going. Nothing of substance. A good thing too, because I'm terribly distracted, wondering what Sasha's presence means. Is she visiting for his birthday? She hasn't come to Abbott's Bay once since their divorce. Have they gotten over their differences—or rather, has Conn gotten over his bitterness toward her? Most important, does he see Sasha's blatant attempt to cozy up to him again, both figuratively and (shudder) literally? Because it's crystal clear from where I'm standing.
"Conn, sweetie?" Sasha calls from a few feet away, where she and Hannah have drifted. "I'm chilly."
"Pick a bonfire," I suggest. "It's what they're there for."