There’s something I don’t know.
I push myself off the bed and shudder, suddenly chilled.
Yes, I’m sure of it. Even though my sixth sense is too vague and sketchy to discuss without risking making a fool of myself, I totally trust it. I’ve always had a connection to Brian that clues me in when something’s wrong. I can feel it.
There’s definitely something I don’t know.
six
“Sorry. You go.”
“No, you.”
“No, really … ”
I don’t have the energy for another round of which one of us gets the seat belt clasp that Olivia and I have both inadvertently laid claim to. I let go of my seat belt buckle and watch the strap get sucked back into the seat.
“Put your seat belt on,” Brian tells me testily as Olivia, sitting in between us in the back seat, primly buckles up. “You were using the wrong clasp.”
I toss my hand dismissively in Brian’s direction, then turn toward the window, press my pillow against it, and settle in for a welcome bout of unconsciousness as Dad backs the car out of the driveway.
I guess my vibes are frosty enough to put everyone on notice, because no one, not even my neurotic mother, reiterates the demand for me to buckle my seat belt. Mom can only push her luck so far, you know: first I get blindsided with the news that I’ll be sharing a beach house with OMG-livia for a month, then I get sardined by her side for the three-hour car ride. Apparently Mom is willing to take her chances that Dad will drive safely enough to avoid flinging me onto the pavement.
I feel Olivia inch as far away from me as possible, but how far can she go without climbing into Brian’s lap? It must drive her nuts that our thighs will be plastered together for the next hundred-and-fifty miles. With her poof-tastic ponytail, hint-o-blush rosy glow, and painted-on Daisy Dukes, I’m guessing that intermingled thigh sweat is a Fashion Don’t.
From the front seat, Mom cranes her neck in my direction long enough to shoot me a Significant Glance. Until recently, Olivia’s Daisy Dukes alone would have been cause for a convulsive round of throat-clearing and brow-furrowing, but suddenly I’m the problem. I don’t know what caused Mom’s change of heart. A new reading of the Riot Act by Brian? A particularly home-hitting episode of Dr. Phil? An attack of conscience? (Mom has fretted before that Olivia desperately needs a mother figure.) Who knows. But for whatever reason, Mom is definitely aboard the O-train now, and O seems to sense it, squeezing Brian’s hand possessively as Dad cruises down the street and heads for the interstate.
I punch my pillow and plug in my earbuds. Elliott Smith’s plaintive song fills my head as my eyelashes flutter shut: “Going Nowhere.”
“Get Mom.”
Brian’s voice is calm despite the blood streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. The gash on his head has already matted his brown curls. His gold-flecked eyes are solemn but stoic; he holds my gaze, no doubt sensing that if I look away, I’ll crumple to the ground.
That can’t happen. The greenway is pretty isolated right now; Brian and I got an early start this Saturday morning to walk the path to the riverbank in search of arrowheads, and no one’s in sight right now. An hour from now, a steady stream of bikers, skaters, and runners will fill the path, but our only current company is a bird chirping overhead, its perky tune sounding downright sadistic in light of the carnage below.
The greenway was built over train tracks, and this section is a ravine with steep, jagged granite on either side. It was typical of Brian to opt for a leisurely journey to the riverbank—I’m more of a direct-to-destination kinda girl—so I was already tromping well ahead of him when I heard him scream. I spun around and saw him lying face down on the pavement a hundred or so yards behind me. He’d clearly attempted what he’d done a hundred times before—shimmying up the rock as far as he could go before lowering himself, foothold by tenuous foothold, back to the greenway—only this time, he’d fast-forwarded the trip back down, apparently twisting around in midair and falling onto his chest.
As I ran toward him, my eyes blurry with tears, I saw the gash on his forehead. His palms and knees were bloody and gravel-flecked too. By the time I reached him, he’d lifted himself up, then flopped backward onto his butt, dazed but steady. Brian’s always steady.
Mom. Get Mom.
So I’m running to get her, and here’s where things get weird, because in real life, six years earlier, I’d actually done just that—gotten Mom—and Brian was in the emergency room by the time Scooby-Doo was on. But now, in my dream, and even though I’m vaguely aware it’s a dream but am still terrified as crap, I get home, then forget to tell Mom about the crisis I’ve rushed home to report. Instead, I go about the urgent business of a ten-year-old on a Saturday morning, which mostly involves going to Shelley’s house three doors down and playing Barbies. Hours pass before I realize OMG, I forgot all about Brian and he’s lying there bleeding and I was supposed to get Mom, and OMG OMG, how many hours have passed and is he even still alive and will he ever forgive me and how can I ever make this up to him and …
“Forrest!”
“I’m coming, Brian!” I cry as I race back onto the greenway.
“Forrest! Forrest … ”
“Forrest!”
My eyes open slowly, my head still pressed against the window of the car.
“Forrest!” Brian repeats.
“What … ” I mumble.
“Time for breakfast,” he says.
My eyes squint against the white-hot morning sun. I blink a couple of times and sit up straighter to survey the Golden Arches we’re approaching.
Dad pulls into a parking space. Even as we pile out of the car, I can’t shake the dream and keep glancing at Brian for confirmation that he’s alive and well.
“Wait up,” Olivia tells him with a pout as we head inside. But instead of putting her prissy ass in gear to catch up with Brian, she puts a hand on her hip and plants her feet. Brian has no choice but to turn back around to collect her. He sheepishly trots to her side, then takes her hand and leads her inside.
That’s right, bro: she’s got you moving backward. It’ll be the story of your life if you stay with this princess.
I need to pee, but Olivia heads for the bathroom when we get inside, so I’ll wait.
“Put your seat belt on when we get back in the car,” Brian mutters as we stand in line, and you know what? I’m touched. It’s been driving him crazy that I’ve logged a hundred miles without a seat belt.
“Yes, Forrest,” Mom chimes in, craning her neck to get a better look at the menu in case oh, I dunno, McDonald’s has suddenly started serving brioche. “I insist you wear your seat belt.” Now that’s just annoying.
Olivia emerges from the bathroom and sidles up against Brian.
“Whatcha want, baby?” Brian coos, and omigod is this gonna be a long month.
“Ummmmm … ” She holds a French-manicured fingertip against her plump bottom lip. “Do you think they have yogurt?”
Her lashes flutter as she looks up at him, all baby-blue-eyed preciousness, and it occurs to me to direct her attention to the menu, but really, who could bear to spoil this adorable Kodak moment?
“They have parfaits,” Mom tells her, breaking the spell. If Olivia hasn’t learned by now that Mom is the ultimate buzzkill, well, there’s no time like the present.
“Do you like parfaits?” Mom persists, just in case Olivia isn’t yet clear that intimate moments will be hard to come by for the next few weeks.
But Olivia keeps gazing into Brian’s eyes (you’ve got to give her props for at least trying to blow Mom off, and good luck with that), conveying some kind of subliminal message that it’s now his responsibility to translate to us.
“She’d rather have plain yogurt,” he tells us, as solemnly as if announcing that North Korea has opted for democracy.
“Well,
all you have to do is spoon off the fruit,” Mom says, a subdued hint of ya gotta be kidding me flashing across her face. “Or just eat around it.”
Olivia’s urgent eye contact with Brian is still speaking volumes.
“I’ll take care of it,” Brian says, and now it’s our turn to order, so he’s asking a polyester-clad teenager if she can hold the fruit on Preciousness’s yogurt.
The teenager looks confused, so Brian leans into the counter to more fully explain why he’s giving her something besides a friggin’ number, seeing as this is McDonald’s for crying out loud.
Olivia, of course, hangs back, not wanting to suffer through the tedious details of her specialized McDonald’s order. Just give me what I want, her pouty, dismissive expression seems to convey, and against all odds I have no doubt that fruit-free yogurt will soon emerge, miraculously, from Brian’s loving hands.
Having never had an actual boyfriend, I briefly ponder what it would be like to have some sap fawning over me, granting my every desire, arranging for a fruit-free parfait upon command, and truthfully this scenario would make me gag even if I were on the receiving end of this Bounty of Love.
“Fruit’s good for you, you know,” Mom says under her breath, no longer able to withhold her disdain.
“Olivia likes cantaloupe,” Brian says as the rest of us place lowly, uncomplicated orders. “Mom, can you make sure we have lots of cantaloupe at the beach house?”
I’m tempted to volunteer my interpretative dance skills for Olivia’s entertainment at the beach house, should that be to her liking, but now I’m too hungry to be catty. Olivia’s order has caused quite a stir among the McDonald’s staff, with lots of murmuring and scuttling about involved. We may not eat for another forty minutes at this rate. Damn her fruit-free parfait!
Mom is doing that Cher thing where she runs her tongue slowly along the outline of her mouth, but whereas this gesture makes Cher look sexy, it makes Mom look homicidal. She’s gripping her arms across her chest and digging her fingernails into her flesh. It seems entirely possible that her head might explode. Still lovin’ on Olivia, Mom? Still thinking it was a swell idea to invite her to our beach house for a month?
Dad is whistling “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Nothing rains on Dad’s parade. You gotta love that about him.
The food eventually materializes (Brian looks insanely pleased to present Olivia her fruit-free parfait), and we settle glumly into a bright-yellow booth. Brian and Olivia share one side, or rather I should say that Brian, Olivia, and her huge Prada bag share one side. I sit on the other with Dad, Mom, and Mom’s fanny pack.
I wolf down my food, casting furtive glances toward Olivia as she takes dainty bites, wrapping her luscious lips around a plastic spoon turned arch-side up. Is there anything normal about this girl?
Dad is sharing the five-day forecast he’s committed to memory, noting the pros and cons of scattered afternoon thundershowers (a shame if we get chased off the beach early, but if we hit the showers by four p.m., we’ll have a good chance of catching an early bird special), and I’m playing trivia on my smartphone. The question is how many times the Beatles say “yeah” in “She Loves You,” so I’m singing the song in my head and counting the “yeahs” on my fingers. Olivia curls her lip at me.
Yeah, sugarlips, I’m the weird one.
Then Olivia suddenly springs to her feet. “Restroom,” she says, her eyes widening.
Brian jumps up. “Do you need help?” he asks as she bolts past him, and my imagination would go into overdrive wondering how he might help her in the restroom except that I’m too busy counting “yeahs.”
Thirty, I type into my phone.
Wrong. Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine “yeahs.”
“What’s the matter with her?” I ask absently, still staring at my phone.
“Nothing’s the matter with her,” Brian snaps, and don’t think it’s going unnoticed how much he snaps at me lately.
Then my eyes widen.
Maybe it’s true, that whole bulimia rumor.
I’m tempted to text Shelley—Olivia just bolted to the bathroom after finishing her breakfast!—but Mom’s always looking over my shoulder and besides, I really meant what I said about not liking to dish dirt, so it’s just as well that I continue my trivia game while Dad moves on to day four of the five-day forecast.
Let’s see: How many five-day forecasts will factor into our beach trip? My heart sinks at the answer (and this one I get right): six. Six five-day forecasts.
I used to love every minute of our trips to Spackle Beach, but that fruit-free parfait has wreaked serious havoc on my attitude.
It’s gonna be a long month.
seven
Salt.
I sniff deeper.
Yep. We’re here.
I open my eyes, groggily sit up straighter, and look out the window. Palm trees. Crepe myrtle. Sea gulls.
We’re on Spackle Beach.
I love this place … a tiny, perfect little slice of heaven. When we first started coming here when I was little, it was quiet and pristine. Now that the tourists have discovered it, it’s cramped and congested.
But still beautiful. The island enforces strict codes regulating things like architecture and signage. No billboards are allowed on Spackle Beach; even signs outside stores have to be discreet and downsized; unless you know the island like the back of your hand, you can’t tell where a restaurant or gas station is until you’re right in front of it. No towering golden arches on Spackle Beach. Everything that God himself hasn’t erected on the island is tucked into the background as unobtrusively as possible.
That’s why, even though a zillion floppy-hatted tourists now roam the island on car, foot, boat, and bicycle, it still looks lush and tropical. I feel a rush of exhilaration every time we cross the gleaming, mile-long bridge connecting the mainland to the island.
We’re crossing that bridge now.
Once we’re on the island, we ease unconsciously into tourist time. Dad slows the car to a crawl as sunburned people in bathing suits, shorts, and flip-flops ride bikes, jog on paths adjacent to the highway, or trot across the street lugging rafts, beach chairs, and coolers. Dad whistles along with the radio as Mom retrieves a to-do list from her purse, scanning it hastily. She’ll whip out her cleaning supplies within nanoseconds of pulling into the driveway of our house. Occasionally she’ll assign a few chores to the rest of us, but nobody can scrub a tub or mop a floor or dust a room like Mom, so, hey, what are you gonna do.
We turn onto a bougainvillea-lined street, then take another right, then pass one house, then another, then another …
and here we are. I can hear the ocean even from the driveway.
Dad parks the car, pops the trunk, and starts handing us luggage. Bri’s the first one to the front door. He fumbles with the key for a second, turns it, and lets the door swing open wide.
We pile in behind him, and I breathe in the two-month accumulation of mustiness that will soon be replaced with pine-scented disinfectant. I scan the house from the foyer. Even Mom on a budget makes things prettier than most interior decorators could manage with a blank check. Scarlet-
red and lemon-yellow pillows accent overstuffed sofas in the great room. Cozy afghans are draped casually over chairs. Gleaming utensils hang from the kitchen ceiling. And you know those hideous things people make with stuff from the beach, like seashell lampshades? Mom does that too, but with inexplicably classy, pretty results.
But the biggest draw is the floor-to-ceiling windows against the back of the house, revealing an OMG view of the Atlantic Ocean. The redwood cedar deck that runs the length of the house is a perfect place to sleep in the fall and spring.
I’d eat peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of my friggin’ life to be here.
We’re at Spackle Beach.
We’re home.
eight
“Top or bottom?”
Say what ?
Why did it not occur to me that Olivia and I would be sharing a room? Up until this morning, the news that she would be joining us on our beach trip seemed kinda, I don’t know, conceptual. Like if you win a date with a movie star and spend so much time chewing over the very idea of it that you never give a thought to the details until there you are, sitting in a restaurant with a stranger, wondering what on God’s green earth to talk about.
Where did I think Olivia would sleep? I don’t know, I don’t know … I guess I just couldn’t envision her in a bunk bed. Yet here she is.
“Top, if you don’t mind,” I say.
She nods. “That’s fine.”
“I mean, if you want the top bunk … ”
“No, no, the bottom one’s fine. I’ll be able to get to the bathroom easier.”
I start transferring clothes from my suitcase into the dresser as I ponder her need for unfettered bathroom access.
“I love Brian, you know.”
Whoa. Where did that come from?
“What?” I ask, even though I’m clear on what Olivia just said.
“I love Brian. I want you to know that.”
As I face her, holding a pile of folded T-shirts, I try to read her expression. Is this a challenge, an in your face declaration of her territory? Is it a truce, a we have nothing in common but we both love Brian so pass the sunscreen and let’s move on kind of moment? I have no idea, and Olivia’s face is inscrutable. With her Bambi eyes and plump, moist lips, maybe she’s too pretty to look anything but bland.
Or maybe she likes being inscrutable. Maybe she loves that right now I’m wondering whether she’s offering an olive branch or a kick in the stomach.
“Okay then,” I tell her. “You love him. That’s … great.” I know I sound snotty, but really, what am I supposed to say?
She’s still standing there, still looking at me. “And he loves me too.”
Thirty Sunsets Page 3