Ahem. I mean, it’s going to be okay. There was that time we went on a family trip to Nepal to see Everest Base Camp, and you can’t exactly take a shower there, and I still looked pretty damn fierce even after a wet-wipe bath.
I sit down on one of the beds for a second. Is this the one Momma slept in? I know they used to stay in the carriage house when they came up here. It said so in Momma’s journals. And there’s this one photo of the four of them lying on their bellies with their chins in their hands and their legs crossed behind them. I think they’re in the clubhouse Momma’s journal mentioned. They’re definitely lying on a wooden floor, and—if you scan the photo and digitally enhance it (not that I did that)—you can just make out a stack of notebooks next to a candelabra. I wonder where that clubhouse is. Or if there’s anything left of the club. I know it’s a long shot, but even a burn mark from a candle would be exciting. The air in here smells like sunscreen and old wood, but there’s something else. A feeling I can’t shake. It feels like possibilities.
Amelia Grace
HOLY CRAP I AM SHARING A BEDROOM WITH SCARLETT.
Skyler
Watching Ellie unpack is like watching the folks at NASA prep for a space mission. Only, with fewer tampons. (Did you know they thought that packing a hundred for Sally Ride would be a good idea because they weren’t sure how many she’d need for seven days? And also that they tied them together by the strings? I will never look at space travel the same way again.) It only takes Ellie, like, seven minutes, and then there are dresses in the closet and clothes in the drawers and suitcases stuffed under the bunk bed.
“I feel like efficiency is key to sharing a small space,” she says when she notices Amelia Grace and me watching. “This room is super cute, by the way. Are you guys as obsessed as I am with T. Swift’s Fourth of July extravaganzas?”
We shake our heads blankly. Ellie shrugs. “Okay, you need to get on that. Don’t worry. I’ll totally help. We’re going to have so much fun rooming together! Do you care if I take a top bunk?”
More headshaking from me and Ames.
“Oh! I’ll take the bottom one,” I say, bouncing over and setting my sunglasses on the pillow. I don’t know how well a top bunk would work out for me right now.
Ellie positively beams at me and bumps her hip against mine. “Sounds good, roomie.”
I smile back and sit on my bed and take a couple slow yoga breaths. The pain in my fingers and wrists is worse than it was this morning, worse than it’s been all week, but I try not to let it show on my face. It hits me that this is what my entire summer is going to be like. At home, I can keep it in until I get to my bedroom, and once I close the door, I know I can lie on the floor and cry if I need to, and knowing that helps me get through. There won’t be anywhere to hide here.
Amelia Grace is still standing in the doorway looking lost. I feel you, girl.
Amelia Grace
But seriously, they just picked the beds, and we are sharing one, and THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I am sharing a bed with the girl I love. Okay, yes, it’s a bunk bed, and we’ll be separated by three feet of space, so it’s not like we’re going to accidentally spoon each other, but still.
I have zero chill left. ZERO. There is a zombie apocalypse taking over my body and heart and brain (braaaains), and the part of me that’s in love with Scarlett keeps multiplying/intensifying/electrifying. It’s a piece of me that feels too big to hide. But we live in a world that’s either/or. Be in love with this girl or be a junior youth minister. Pick a piece of yourself to give up.
But how do I do that? And which one do I choose? And how do I take care of what’s left of my heart after?
Ellie
Okay, so I think Skyler might finally be warming up to me. She’s going to be the key—Amelia Grace and Scarlett will be a lot harder to crack. There’s something about Scarlett that really draws me. I know, I know, she’s kind of being a jerk to me, but I like how confident she is. That she’s not afraid to let the ugly things out in the open.
I slip Momma’s friendship bracelet under my pillow and grab my purse. “I’m gonna go touch up my makeup before dinner,” I say.
Amelia Grace nods. Skyler says, “Cool,” and goes back to staring out the window like she’s about to solve world peace if she can focus on the horizon hard enough.
I shut the door to the teeny-tiny bathroom behind me (holy wow, are all four of us really sharing this thing?!) and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. In addition to being tiny, the bathroom is painted a pretty washed-out blue, and over the back of the toilet is one of those stencil-painted wooden signs that Southern people always have in their houses. This one reads HEAVEN IS A LITTLE CLOSER IN A HOME BY THE WATER. I ponder the validity of that statement. I also ponder the fact that someone hung it over the toilet. I try to imagine for a minute someone painting a dua on a piece of wood and hanging it in a bathroom. Yeah . . . no.
I check to see if there’s anything SBDC-related in the bathroom cabinets. I’ll need to check the other two rooms thoroughly later. I fling open the last little white door with a flourish. Toilet paper. Not exactly what I was hoping for. I know I’ve got all summer to search, but with the way things are going, I feel like I need to find something sooner.
I dab under my eyes with a tissue—my mascara got all smeared in the heat. I redo my eye shadow and add a touch of bronzer, because really, what else do I have to do right now? I’m just deciding between bee sting lip balm and sugar gloss when I hear voices in the bedroom.
“You okay?” says Skyler.
“Yeah.” It’s all Scarlett has to say. Her tone says not to ask her anything else. “Where’s Ellie?”
“In the bathroom putting on makeup.”
“She’s pretty enough already.”
I can hear her eye roll through the door.
For the first time, I think about giving up. I close my eyes and try really hard not to cry as I screw the cap on my lip gloss. This was supposed to be easier than tennis team. But maybe it’s not the tennis team girls or the seventh-grade girls or any of the girls. Maybe it’s me.
I could leave. Book a flight home and spend the rest of the summer knocking around the house and playing tennis while Dad’s at work. The only thing that keeps me from picking up the phone is the feeling of failure that would come with it.
So, okay. Failure is not an option. Leaving is not an option. I’ll just do what I do best, i.e. Make a plan for how to make this summer not suck, which will obviously include a bulleted list. I stuff my makeup bag back in my purse and root around for a pen and my daisy-print notebook.
Step 1: Make friends
Step 2: Locate the nearest tennis court and also a trainer
Step 3: Study for the PSAT (goal: 1500+)
Step 4: Have my first kiss
Step 5: Write one letter a week to a Muslim woman who is changing the world
Step 6: Try a ton of new healthy recipes and post the results
Step 7: Go to some Instagram-worthy parties
Step 8: Find the remains of the SBDC. Tonight.
Skyler
Everything is fine.
Scarlett and Ellie totally hate each other, but I’ll fix that when Ellie gets out of the bathroom.
Mama keeps doing weird things like stopping me in the hallway so she can hug me and cry into my hair, but the aunts will fix that. I hope. Ever since they descended on Mama in a cloud of hugs and chocolate and booze, she seems a little better.
Daddy keeps calling me, and I don’t know how to talk to him yet, but it’s okay. I’ll fix that too.
And my fingers and wrists won’t stop screaming at each other, and that’s not really something I can fix, but I’m sure it’ll be better when I wake up tomorrow. I don’t really have the energy to worry about it today.
“Are you okay, Skyler?” asks Amelia Grace.
I realize I’m cradling my right hand in my left.
“Everything is fine,” I say.
Scarlett
&
nbsp; The door to the carriage house opens.
“Dinner!” calls Aunt Val.
We file down the stairs. She tucks a flower behind each of our ears. Ellie looks entirely too excited about it. Ten bucks says she takes a selfie and Instagrams it.
None of us says much on the way to the house. We are a stark contrast to the kitchen, where our moms are listening to the Backstreet Boys while simultaneously doing a weird dance/drinking wine/operating dangerous things like stoves. It is possible we will be visiting Urgent Care tonight.
I pull out my phone to see if Carter posted any new pictures. She hasn’t. Probably because you can’t use Instagram if you’re busy making out with someone.
“Scarlett, baby, can you put this on the table?”
I hide my screen. “What?”
Mama shoves a serving bowl of rice at me. I must be making an awful face because Sky jumps on it like a grenade.
“I’ve got it!” she says with a smile so wide it almost feels violent. She gives Mama a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Smells delicious.”
It is plain white rice.
Skyler carries it out of the kitchen and sets it on the table, where plates and glasses and even name cards are already arranged. I follow her. She glances at the table and then switches Ellie’s name card so that she’s sitting by Sky instead of me.
“What are you doing?”
She jumps. “Nothing.”
“Sky—”
“I just want us to have a nice dinner.”
Skyler
Mama gives me my forty-seventh hug of the day. “Thank you for being so strong. I don’t know if I could get through this if I had to worry about both of you.”
“Of course.” It feels good and bad at the same time. And it tells me everything I need to know. That I have to keep on keeping things calm at all costs. That she needs me.
Mama carries the decorative bowl of ginger chicken to the dining room. I hover around the kitchen, trying to figure out if there’s anything left to do. Her phone starts vibrating on the counter. My daddy’s face appears on the screen. If she could just stay in the dining room. Please, please, please don’t—
Mama pops back into the kitchen. “We need a new bottle of wine.” She grabs one out of the wine rack, but then she stops. “You okay, babe?”
I slide a dish towel over a few inches so that it covers her phone. Paste on my biggest smile.
“I’m wonderful.”
Skyler
The pain is eating at me so badly it’s hard to eat my dinner. Playing peacemaker and trying to make sure everything’s perfect takes its toll. I don’t want Mama to see how gnarled my hand is as I attempt to spoon ginger chicken into my mouth. I don’t want her to notice how the pain seeps into my eyes and around my lips until my smile is so brittle it could shatter. So when Aunt Seema brings out dessert, I make an excuse about how I’m not hungry (which, if you’ve ever had my aunt Seema’s world peace cookies—chocolate, sea salt, more chocolate—you’ll know is a lie). I say I’m just going for a quick walk, and I’ll be right back. Thankfully, no one tries to follow me because there are cookies.
I make my way down the hill to the dock, each step away from the house bringing relief. And then I lie on the wooden slats and stare at the sky and wait for the stars to come out.
This is a bad flare-up. Definitely my worst one yet. They say stress can make juvenile arthritis worse, but I don’t know what could possibly be stressing me right now—oh, wait, my dad cheating on my mom and totally exploding our happy family. Lying on the dock helps though. I don’t have to worry about taking care of people or making sure everyone gets along. I get a break from the full-time job that is trying to hide your pain from other people.
I must lie there for a while because people start to move out to the porch. The moms crack open another bottle of wine, and even though Aunt Val is hi-larious when she’s tipsy, I really don’t want anyone to see me. Or ask me if I’m okay. Mostly that last one. The old canoe that Scarlett and I used to love playing in when we were younger bumps against the dock. I wish I could crawl inside and just float away.
And then it occurs to me. Maybe I can.
I’m reminded of that scene in Anne of Green Gables, the Lady of Shalott. I could totally Lady of Shalott this canoe right now. I slip over the side of the dock as quietly as I can. A note about this canoe: It was not designed for stealth. And then the hard part—I have to untie it. Working the knot free with my fingers is so painful, I nearly give up, but luckily it wasn’t tied very tightly. I’m shaking by the time I push away from the dock, but it’s done. The worst part is over, and now I can just lie back and pretend to be a cursed dead lady from Camelot or wherever.
And that is exactly what I do. Lie my body out stiff as a board the way Anne did. Shut my eyes. I even take the flower Aunt Val tucked behind my ear and use it as my final bouquet. It’s really too bad I’m not covered in that awesome blanket thing Anne had in the movie, but we do what we can with what we have.
As I drift across the lake, I recite as much as I can remember from Lord Tennyson’s poem. Then I just lie there. The movement of the boat on the water is so delightfully peaceful. I feel as if I’m being rocked to sleep. I take a few deep breaths in and out like Dr. Levy taught me. This is the most relaxed I’ve felt all day. I wonder what Anne would do right now. Think up new ways to kick boys’ butts at spelling bees? Probably. Although, now that I think about it, didn’t this whole boat thing end kind of badly for Anne? Like with the boat springing a leak, and her clinging to the side of a bridge, and getting rescued by—Oh! Gilbert! Does this mean I get a Gilbert?!
My boat knocks against something hard, and I can’t help but let out a yelp.
When I open my eyes, the most beautiful boy is standing over me. “Gilbert?”
“What?” I realize that the beautiful boy is standing on the bow of a boat, and also that I have bumped into said boat, and also that he looks angry.
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you drunk?”
“No. I’m Skyler.”
“What are you doing out here?”
I don’t think I like his tone. “Reenacting iconic scenes from classic Canadian literature. What are you doing?”
His face grows, if possible, even more skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”
I sit up, possibly too fast, definitely making my canoe wobble (this is probably not helping my case). “No. I. Am. Not. Drunk. Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Because it’s really dangerous to be out on the water at night without a light. And I can’t imagine anyone would be stupid enough to do that. Unless they were drunk. You could get run over, you know that?”
“I don’t need a lecture on boat safety. I’ve been coming to the lake my whole life.” Seriously, who is this guy and why does he think someone died and made him king of the lake?
He sighs like I am the most annoying person ever and I’m doing it on purpose just to hurt him. “Then you really should know better. Whatever. Look. I’ll tow you back to shore.”
“I don’t need your help,” I say.
I pick up a paddle and attempt to use it. There are barbs inside of my knuckles where I grip the handle. I sweep the paddle through the water. The barbs light themselves on fire.
“Maybe I do need a little help,” I say through gritted teeth.
“One second.”
He walks off into the dark of his boat, and I can’t see his face, but I’m sure his smug butt is smirking. The boat surges forward, gently—he’s probably got it on idle—and inches up alongside mine until I’m at the very back. He grabs the end of my canoe. Steers it around ninety degrees so it’s flush against the back of the boat.
“Do you think you can get out?” he asks.
“Yes.”
And I do a pretty dang good job of it (despite my joint pain, thank you very much).
“Huh.” He scrutinizes me as the waves rock the boat and I shift my weight fr
om leg to leg like a surfer. (What I lack in grace, I make up for in softball quads.)
“What?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my irritation.
He sniffs at the air. “You really aren’t drunk.”
“I flipping told you I wasn’t!”
I stomp my foot, which apparently is absolutely hilarious, because he can’t stop laughing as he tethers my canoe to the back of his boat. As you might imagine, this does not exactly endear him to me. “Why are you out here anyway? Other than the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“Making fun of girls and accusing people of binge drinking. Your hobbies.” Oh, snap. I can’t believe I just said that. Usually sassy flirting is Scarlett’s thing. Mine is being run-of-the-mill adorable and bubbly.
The Summer of Impossibilities Page 7