The Complete History of Why I Hate Her

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  “Five years.”

  “In the big races?”

  “Some. But mostly I run for school. It’s not like I have a private coach or anything. How about you? Do you have a sport?”

  “Swim team.”

  “Oh, sorry. I should have known that,” I say.

  “What are you apologizing for—you’ve never seen me swim. You know, you apologize a lot.”

  “I do?” I’m not sure if I should take this as criticism or a sign that Harrison is interested enough to pay attention. I start shivering.

  He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and hands it to me. “Here.”

  I shake my head—he needs it as much as I do—but he puts it on me like I’m a little kid.

  “That’s enough, you two,” says Carly, coming back up the path. Dominic looks as confused as I feel.

  “Did you guys know that Nola is a star athlete?” asks Harrison.

  “Oh yeah?” Dominic asks.

  Carly drops down on the other side of Harrison. “She runs fast. She’s got reason to. She’s angry.”

  Whoa!

  Harrison looks at me.

  I don’t say a thing.

  “Her sister has a brain tumor. That’s how she deals.”

  “Really?” Harrison whispers.

  The rock beneath me turns sharp and cold. My chest feels exactly the way it did when my parents told me that Song’s tumor had returned. A life term extended.

  Carly just changed everything. Will Harrison share his own concerns, his personal fears, his worries with me now? Of course not. Everything seems trivial in light of a sister with cancer. There’s a sting in the back of my throat.

  He studies the jagged hem of his jeans. Any heat that might have been building has floated off into the ether.

  You would think that I’d have some remark—an optimistic quote, a funny retort—to ease the situation. You know, hit the ball over the net and then jump the net to hit it back to myself … that sort of thing. But I’ve never come up with more than a quick “Such is life,” and I use it now.

  And after a mumbled “Shit” and an “Oh, that’s tough,” we make our way back down the hill.

  “Why are you so pissy?” Carly asks when we get back to the barn.

  “Shhh. Some people are sleeping.”

  “Who cares? They’ve kept us awake plenty of times.”

  I whip off my clothes. “Why did you tell the guys about Song?”

  “Ugh,” she says, rolling back on her bed. “You didn’t tell me not to.”

  “Didn’t think I had to. That information’s mine.” I exhale for what seems like the first time since she opened her mouth.

  Carly sits up and, holding the bed frame with both hands, leans forward. “I thought we were friends, Nola. I thought you trusted me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I don’t imagine an invisible line down the middle of this room: This is Nola’s, this is mine. And I definitely don’t imagine an invisible line down the middle of our lives.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sitting on my bed across from her. “It’s just that—isn’t it possible that I might just be good at running?”

  “Of course you are,” she says, coming over to give me a hug. “Consider my saying anything a favor,” she says. “You have no idea how Harrison feels about you. If he was planning a quick hook-up, he’d think twice now, wouldn’t he? I didn’t want him messing around with you, Nolie. I guess I feel protective.”

  We get into bed and I let the knots unravel. What Carly said may make sense. But what helps the most is that she picked up on my interest in Harrison. What felt like a betrayal a minute ago now feels a little like a gift.

  I pull out my phone and text Kevin, letting him know I won’t be able to make it to the island after all.

  Chapter 19

  Castine, Maine, is like a postcard. We drive around for a few minutes so Carly can point out a few of the landmarks, and then we get out and walk. We wander down to the harbor and sit in the sun for a while. We’re both quiet. I hope Kevin got my text (so far no answer) and replay the best bits with Harrison from the night before. It feels all too familiar until it occurs to me that we don’t have to race up to the barn and throw on our uniforms for the next meal. Sweet.

  When I announce that I’m hungry, Carly says she knows just the place. That’s when I realize I really don’t know that much about Carly’s life—like how does she know Castine so well? How much time does she spend with each parent, and which one lives in Maine?

  “Come on.” Carly leads me into a bookstore called the Compass Rose. We pass books and toys and gifts on the way to the café, and I notice the cutest baby bib. My chest tightens. It reminds me of Bridget. Like, I still feel I did something wrong, but …

  “What?” asks Carly.

  For some reason—avoidance of the subject, I guess—I move my fingers over to a little silver frog. “I want this,” I tell Carly.

  “A frog?”

  “I don’t know why,” I say.

  “It’s those long legs,” she says.

  We both order tomato bisque and crab quiche, and I ask Carly about her family.

  “My mother lives in Boston,” she says, “and so does my younger sister.”

  “You have a younger sister too?” I feel selfish about not asking until now.

  “Wendy,” she offers, “and we don’t get along. She’s crazy, Nolie. She has this wild temper and will go after me—physically—for the littlest of things. So I basically spend most of my time with my dad.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No, my dad’s pretty cool. And this way I get to keep my eyeballs in their sockets. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there’s something seriously wrong with Wendy.”

  “God, that sounds really hard.”

  “Well, yeah,” says Carly. “But having a friend like you makes up for it.”

  I smile, thinking about the ways in which our lives are alike.

  We finish our lunch and browse the books. It turns out that Carly and I have another thing in common: We were both huge fans of the Little Sister books when we were young—we can even recite the part about Karen having two of everything. I go in search of a book to buy, one to read when I’ve finished Pride and Prejudice (I may even choose another Jane Austen), but Carly keeps interrupting me to show me a book that she loved, loved, loved, and in the end I get nothing.

  The day seems implausibly bright as we finally leave the store. While Carly hops into a shop to price some sandals she saw in the window, I check my phone. I finally have a message from Kevin:

  ok, hiked, swam, ate homemade

  rhubarb pie at fabulous

  roadside stand. can finally

  forgive. your loss

  I don’t know Kevin well enough to know if he’s kidding. I start to read it to Carly … and then decide not to.

  As we’re driving back to Rocky Cove, she suddenly pulls into the parking lot of Hair Extraordinaire. “I’m tired of this bale of straw,” she says, pulling on her long hair. “Let’s go see if they take walk-ins.”

  Sure enough, they do. I sit and watch Carly get her hair cut, my thoughts turning first puzzled and then as confused and dark as they’ve ever been.

  Later wanting to avoid everyone in the barn, I write to Song:

  Song, Song, Blue—

  I just tried to call you, but your phone is off, and I don’t want to talk to Mom at the moment. I really wish you and I were sitting in the hammock right now and I was telling you about my day, and you were able to say all the right things that make me feel like I’m a stupid fool, but nevertheless better.

  Carly and I visited a little coastal town for the day and had a GREAT time. On the way home, we stopped so she could get a haircut. You know how sick I was of my long hair, so I totally got this.

  While she had her hair cut, I sat in the corner reading People. (Reminded me of you. How many of those do you think we’ve read in doctors’ offices, anyway?) I could hear Carly saying things like
, “Can you cut it shorter here? How about making this part a little spunkier?” I was getting more curious by the moment.

  But here’s the thing. Carly got the same cut as mine. Not close … exactly the same! She even had red added to her bangs. Is that weird? It felt weird. She thought I would love it, but I don’t. (Song, this is where you can tell me I’m an ass.)

  Of course, Carly being Carly (she misses nothing) knew I wasn’t thrilled. “You really don’t think you discovered impish, do you?” she said, and then pointed out that the hairdresser in Castine suggested the very same cut as a hairdresser in Walpole, Massachusetts. “Something tells me there are others out there looking like us,” she said.

  Are my feelings absurd? I admit that Carly has a point. It’s not as if I designed the cut. And what’s the quest to look different about, anyway? Annie and I have the same jeans. Lucy and I have the same Gap sweatshirt. This doesn’t bother me. So why am I exasperated by the haircut?

  And now as I write this letter, I think of you, Song, and the fact that you’ve lost all of your hair and I can’t believe I’m being so utterly self-centered and ridiculous. (God, I’m crying.) See? We don’t even have to be in the same state and you set me straight.

  Your jerk sister who loves you,

  Nola

  Glistening blue eyes

  Laughter flows over boulders

  Song is not her hair

  “Give me a piece of your notebook paper,” Carly says.

  I didn’t realize she’d come into the room. I do a double take every time I see her. Her hair makes her look that different. I tear out a page, wondering if she can tell I’ve been crying.

  “Dear Song,” she says as she writes.

  I sit right up, expecting her to write something mean, something sarcastic: Dear Song. Your sister is having a bird over my new haircut.

  Instead, she reads: “I’m your sister’s friend Carly. She has told me so much about you—what a cool kid you are and how brave you’ve been. She’s also told me that you love to draw. I’m looking forward to seeing your art one day.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I thought Song might appreciate getting more mail. It’s got to be incredibly boring sitting around in hospitals.”

  She continues: “Your sister, Nolie, is a pretty great kid too. Except when she makes that face like the one she’s making right now. I bet you know it, Song. It’s that face that says, ‘Are you picking on me?’ But we wouldn’t do that to Nola, would we?”

  Carly goes on to tell Song all kinds of details about our lives up here—things I haven’t thought to tell her. Like how there’s supposedly a ghost in one of the cabins and how one of the guests used to be in a famous band. Then she begs an envelope, writes my home address (how the hell does she know my address?), and asks for a stamp.

  As I walk down to the office with both envelopes, I imagine Song reading these letters. She’ll smile at Carly’s description of each staff member, especially Cheffie. Wish I could say the thought makes me happy.

  It occurs to me that I don’t have to send Carly’s letter. I could pocket it—no one would be the wiser.

  But then I remember the contents of my letter. I swing open the office door, drop Carly’s letter into the out-box, and guide mine through the office shredder.

  Chapter 20

  I cannot sort out my Carly feelings, and I’m so tired of trying after a while that I practically sprint to acting practice, where I can focus on what I’m learning and forget everything else. I like acting a lot. Especially rehearsing. The others are helpful and supportive, and I’m beginning to feel I might be good at this. I’ve felt accomplished before. I do fairly well in school and I usually place in cross-country and track races. But this feels different somehow. There is a more collective feeling of success. It’s a rush to see Lucy and Nigel so excited. And the excitement is catchy. The better each of us gets, the better all of us get. The guests are already telling us that they’re looking forward to the performance.

  There is this one scene when Kevin touches my shoulder and I’m supposed to jump a mile. Even though we’ve practiced this moment a hundred times, I’m still genuinely startled when he does it.

  “Nola, you make me laugh every time,” Brita says. “You are so friggin’ real in that scene!”

  “A natural,” says Annie.

  Carly, sitting on the sidelines ready to cue our lines if we forget them, pipes up. “Nolie loves to be the center of attention.”

  I don’t laugh. I don’t contradict her. I pretend not to hear. But the words go to that deep place where barbs stick permanently. They grow into a tangled, thorny bush in which one vine is no longer distinguishable from the others.

  I avoid talking to anyone after rehearsal. Instead, I run upstairs and dig through my growing pile of dirty clothes for something to run in. I grab my trainers and, damn it, the left lace breaks off in my hand. I fashion a crude knot, pull the laces as tight as I possibly can, and take off.

  Center of attention. Center of attention. My feet pound out the beat.

  I remember a time soon after Song had a relapse. I’d been fretting about not making high honors my fourth quarter of sophomore year. But my last quiz in American history must have bumped me up; I’d received an A after all. As I danced around the kitchen, my mother stared at me with a totally blank look on her face. How could I celebrate something as stupid as a grade? How could I be acting so big when my sister’s life hung in the balance?

  Carly is wrong, I think as I sprint up the hill before me. The center of attention is a target. A place for others to direct all of their anger or worries. Or, in Carly’s case, jealousy. No, let someone else be the center of attention.

  I run, and run, and run—run until all my anger, my fuel is depleted.

  Then, as I jog my way back to Rocky Cove, I wonder.

  Could Carly be right? Do I like attention? (Doesn’t everyone? Well, maybe not the truly shy.) But didn’t I come to Maine so I could be, just for a brief time, the center of my own life? Is that a terrible thing to admit? Maybe.

  Maybe yes. Because if I’m really honest, rock-bottom honest, I’m sick of every single minute of every single day being about Song.

  My eyes well up with tears. But there, I’ve said it. Might as well be honest.

  I’m surprised, I think, as I walk down to the barn, that Carly doesn’t know this hateful thing about me.

  Or … maybe she does.

  Chapter 21

  I find myself looking for ways to put a little space between Carly and me, which is confusing. I mean, she has been my road into this amazing world—and without her, Harrison may not have given me the time of day. But I can’t help it. I feel alternately disloyal, stupid, and … well … stubborn.

  So, instead of going down to the ocean docks after breakfast, I head to the lake. The sun won’t be on the beach, but it will be nice for swimming, and anyway, I should be doing more cross training for the fall.

  When I get down there, I’m surprised to find I’m not alone. Annie is standing on the shoreline. She turns pink as Nigel pops out of the hut in his swimsuit. Huh. I’ve never seen Nigel swim.

  “His day off,” Annie is quick to tell me.

  I realize the two of them had probably counted on the beach being empty first thing in the morning, and I try to figure out a way to excuse myself.

  “It’s a half mile across the lake,” Nigel says. “Swim it with us.”

  “You guys don’t—”

  “No, really,” says Annie. “It’ll be fun.”

  “By the time we get back,” Nigel adds, “there will be families on this beach. It will look better if Annie and I have a chaperone.” He smiles.

  As I swim beside these two, I think about Nigel. Does he embody all things Rocky Cove, or is he afraid of the consequences of breaking out? (What are the consequences?) Does he mind the choices he has to make?

  The swim is exactly what I need. But it isn’t long before my freestyle break
s down and I do a steady breaststroke to the opposite shore, every now and then doing the backstroke to give my knees a break. We reach shallow water together and scramble up on a patch of sunny sand.

  On our backs, musing about random things (like how I’m going to get the sand out of my hair in time for lunch), I come right out and ask Nigel what it means to be Pete’s nephew. “What would happen if you got caught doing something—say, drinking?”

  I expect him to say that Pete would send him packing like his brother or that his parents wouldn’t forgive him.

  He sighs. “Everything is mapped out for me: where I’ll go to school, what I’ll do when I graduate, how much money I’ll make. I’m saving my energy—and their disappointment—for the bigger battles.”

  “Yeah, sure,” says Annie. “You’re just a wimp.”

  “A wimp?” Nigel sits up to see if Annie’s kidding. “A wimp?”

  She’s smiling, but in a challenging way.

  He extends his foot to push her on the shoulder.

  She gets up to thump him on the head, and then there is yelping and tumbling … resulting in Annie sitting on Nigel’s lap.

  Forgotten, I get up and stroll into the water. The thought of warm arms and legs entangled, and noses nuzzling into salty necks, makes my whole body ache.

  Thankfully, it’s not long before they join me again, and the three of us, with a good strong pace, make our way back.

  “Looks like someone is waiting for us,” says Annie when the Rocky Cove beach is in clear sight.

  It’s Carly, wearing my favorite shirt.

  “I had no idea where you were!” she cries. “I thought you might have gone for a run, but your sneakers were still in the room.”

  Before I can respond, Nigel does: “I have seen you before, Carly Whitehouse. I remember now. You were at the American Legion dance last summer. You danced with—”

  “Don’t even get me started on your brother,” says Carly, laughing, forgetting all about my abandonment.

  Chapter 22

  And Then There Were None is about ten people trapped on an island with no chance of escaping one another’s company—and I’m beginning to feel as if it’s mirroring my reality. I like the people I’m trapped with (though I am getting increasingly tired of one), but I sense summer is on the downslope.