“They are the fanciest! Did you know they sell them in France for sixty dollars a pound? I’ve sold them to a restaurant around here before but never for that much.”
“What are you going to do with them?” She leans to the side and wrings the water out of her hair.
“Oh.” I feel some of the happiness leach out of me. “Usually, my dad cooks them. He’s more of the chef. Somehow I always lose track and burn things.”
Ellie smiles at me like I’m a stray kitten. “I can help you cook them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally. I was planning on making something Pinterest-y for lunch anyway. I put it on my schedule and everything.” It kind of just slips out of her mouth, and she gets this look on her face like she wishes she could put it back. I think it’s a little odd that she schedules things like that, but she definitely didn’t make fun of me for gathering mushrooms just now, so I’m going to roll with it.
“Well, great.”
“Let me just change first.” She gestures to her covered-in-lake-water self. “And, uh, hey, I’m going for a swim later if you want to come. I’m cross-training for tennis, but swimming is super low impact, so it could be really good for your softball rehabbing.”
That would be a really good way to cross-train for softball. If my pain levels hadn’t been so bad lately. I feel, if possible, even crappier about my failure to talk to my mom about going to the doctor. “Um . . .” How to say it without confessing A) everything about my illness, and B) that it is Day One and I am utterly failing on my pact. “I don’t think so. But thanks!” I hurry to add when her face falls.
“Of course.” She puts that sparkly smile back on and runs off to change.
Ellie meets me at the house later, and she actually seems to enjoy scrubbing mushrooms with toothbrushes (the worst part of the whole process). She also photodocuments every little thing until I start to feel like we’re these glamorous celebrity chefs.
She makes pan-seared trout in one pan and something called beurre blanc in another. I mostly just keep her company.
“I think this is gonna be really good. I wish we had ramps though,” says Ellie.
“Oh! There’s a farmer’s market in town. We could go tomorrow.”
“YES! That is definitely something we should do. Also, we should pick some more of these, because I have a pickled mushroom recipe I want to try.”
“Done and done.”
“And so are these mushrooms.”
I snag one out of the pan and pop it in my mouth.
“OMG.”
“Right?”
They have this delicate peppery flavor—it’s unbelievable. We sit on the kitchen counter, gulping down mushrooms and laughing. It’s the first time I’ve felt really happy since I found out. And then I get the text.
Daddy: I hope you’re doing okay. I love you.
Amelia Grace
Our paddles glide through the water. At first, we don’t say anything. I just focus on matching her strokes.
Then Scarlett pauses. “Thank you,” she says. “I had to get out of there. I can’t with that girl.”
“Aw, she’s not so bad. I think she means well, anyway.”
Scarlett wrinkles her nose in the direction of the house. “Maybe.”
She checks her phone. “Oh!”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I just realized it was time to text someone.” She types something. “My boyfriend, I mean.”
“You have to text him at a specific time?”
“What? Oh! No, it’s not like that. Ew. I wanted to ask him about something, but I didn’t want to text too early.” She types and shakes her head and types again. “‘What’d you do last night?’ Does that sound normal? I want it to sound normal.”
“I think it sounds normal?”
“Good.” She puts down her phone. We start paddling again, but her phone pings.
“So, what’d he do?”
She almost drops her phone in the lake. “What?”
“What did he do last night?”
“Oh. ‘Hung out with friends.’”
She texts a bunch more while nearly the full spectrum of human emotion crosses her face. Then she puts her phone down and starts paddling in earnest. We’re almost far enough that we can’t see the house anymore.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She nods too many times. “He’s a really good guy.”
I nod back. Of course he is.
“But. How do you know someone is The One?”
Her long red hair is flowing behind her in the wind like she’s some kind of goddess, and I swear there are beams of light shooting off of her.
“Um . . .”
“It’s a really big deal, you know? And it’s only been five months, so why am I even freaking out over this? Except of course I’m freaking out over this because I freak out over everything because I feel like I have to figure out every single piece of my life RIGHT NOW or everything is going to be ruined forever. Will I marry Reese someday and what am I going to major in in college and what am I going to do as my Big Thing that changes the world?” She shakes her head. “It’s weird. I’m weird.”
“It’s not weird,” I say.
I try not to think about how it would feel to have her talk about me that way.
Scarlett dips her hand beside the boat and lets the lake water run between her fingers.
I would choose her in a heartbeat.
If she wanted that.
She turns around and looks at me, and I’m not ready for it, the sudden intensity of her eyes. I feel like she can read my mind.
“I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet,” she says.
“Oh. No worries.” I hope I sound casual, but not forced-casual. It’s really not a big deal. Sometimes we’ll have a flurry of emails and then not talk for weeks, but this had felt like the start of a flurry. And I know I could have texted her, but every time I pulled out my phone, I felt like she’d be able to sense the desperation in each letter. A pining S. An unrequited Y.
She looks apologetic. “I got really busy, but if I had known you were about to come out—”
“Oh, hey. That’s okay. I, um, didn’t exactly know I was about to come out.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope.” I shrug. “I guess it usually happens under better circumstances than getting caught making out with the church good girl. By the entire congregation. While dressed as angels.”
Scarlett’s eyes go wide. “Well, dayum.” She says it with two syllables, like her mama, and she’s right—a one-syllable damn will simply not suffice in this situation.
“Yeah.”
“That’s why you made the goal about being a junior youth minister, then.”
“Yeah. I was finally going to get to be one this summer, but they took it away. After.”
“I’m sorry, but that is a bunch of bullshit. You’ve wanted this for, like, ever, and you’ve been going to that church since before you could walk and you do all the mission trips, and—” She does not stop. She launches into a rant about Good Christian Bitches and drops the F-bomb at least four times and I am impressed by her lung capacity and her knack for colorful word choices and also how much she remembers from my emails. How much she cares about me.
Eventually, she has to stop and catch her breath. “Hey, who did you kiss?”
“Huh?”
“The girl you got caught kissing. Who was it?”
“Oh, um. Carrie. Sullivan.”
“Oh.” Scarlett nods. Again, more times than is technically necessary. “She’s pretty. I remember seeing her in your Insta photos.”
Neither of us is paddling. We’re just kind of floating in this little cove that has no houses but extra squirrels. Scarlett shakes her hair like she’s trying to focus. “So, what’s the plan? How do we get you reinstated?”
“I don’t know.” I pick at a peeling sticker on my oar. “I guess the first step w
ould be convincing someone else to be on my side. Pastor Chris—he’s the youth minister, and it definitely felt like he was on my side when I came out to him. Like, just talking to him made me want to come out to my whole youth group. So I could see if he would help me. Or maybe I could convince my mom.”
Her lips go tight. “Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“It just . . .” I swear her lips are twisting in on themselves. “Really sucks that you have to convince your mom.”
“Oh.” I can feel the face I’m making, and it does not feel good. “Yeah. It does suck.”
“Is she that homophobic?”
“I want to believe she’s not. I mean, how could Val be best friends with her if she was? She’s always been religious, but ever since they got married seven years ago, she’s been really religious. But my stepdad is terrible.”
Scarlet’s voice gets quiet. “Do you think she’ll ever leave him?”
It’s not something I could even begin to hope for. “I don’t think she ever could. We were really broke when I was in fourth grade, and I think she feels like he rescued her or something. She doesn’t even have a job because of him. She used to be a midwife, you know? And this one time, Mom said she missed being a midwife and maybe she might want to go back to it. And Jay was smiling and saying things like ‘You don’t need to work, sugar. I make plenty.’ And ‘They used to have you out all hours of the night. We’d never be able to have nice dinners like this.’”
Scarlett rolls her eyes.
“I know. And then he patted her hand and got up from the table, asking about was there any dessert. And Mom was saying, ‘In the fridge.’ And then she was like, ‘Well, I know, but—’ And he was trying to slide the coconut cream pie off the top shelf, but there was a Tupperware of chili on top of it, and he knocked the whole container of chili onto the floor.”
“Do you think he did it on purpose?”
“No, but I think he uses his anger at unrelated things as a weapon. Or maybe a warning. Because he was like, ‘God-dammit. Who the fuck stacks Tupperware like that?’ And he yelled it so loud, and Mom was up in a flash, cleaning it up. But my stepdad? No apology. No offer to help, even though it was totally his mess. He just sliced a big-ass piece of coconut pie and sat down in his recliner. And Mom never asked about the midwife job again.”
“He is such an asshole.”
“I know, but, like, I don’t know what to do. I’m surprised he even let her come here for the summer, but it turns out he got a big welding job out of state. Every once in a while, she’ll help out someone at church, like being a doula for them or helping them learn to nurse their baby, but not often enough. And being a youth minister isn’t just a fun thing, it was going to be my job this summer.”
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll figure something out so you can have a job while you’re here.”
“No, Scarlett, you don’t have to—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything ridiculous. You just convince whoever it is you need to convince.”
I type up an email to Pastor Chris as soon as we get back. He’s younger, and definitely more progressive than the older ministers, and who knows? Maybe this is the start of making our church more inclusive for all the kids who come after me. I have no idea if it’s going to work, but just knowing I get to tell Scarlett and the other girls about it makes me feel powerful.
Hey Pastor Chris,
You probably heard about what happened at the play on Friday. I think you were in the audience. I’m sorry I won’t be able to be a junior youth minister this summer. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long.
I was wondering if you might could talk to the other pastors and see about me starting in the fall when I get back. I know I would be good at this job. I’m great with kids, and I feel like I could help so much. Who I love doesn’t change that.
Please let me know what you think.
Thank you,
Amelia Grace
I read the email eleventy billion times before I hit send. It’s scary, putting your whole heart out there into the world like that. I hold my breath when I finally click the button.
Ellie
Skyler and I have hung out every day since we cooked those chanterelles. I totally maybe almost kind of have a friend! I’m so excited by how my plan is developing, I woke up early and did almost everything on my To Do list. Now Skyler and I are eating kiwi slices on the upper level of the dock while she quizzes me on my vocab. (I told her about my PSAT goal, and she didn’t even call me a nerd! What is life?!)
“Assiduous.”
“‘Hardworking.’ You know you don’t have to do this, right?”
She smiles. “I know. But I’m trying to do one thing every day for my mind, body, and spirit, and I feel like this will count for mind. I already painted my nails blue for my spirit. And, like, I thought about the universe while I was doing it?”
“Oh! I love that idea. I try to pray every day for my spirit.”
“That’s so cool! Oh, and, um, pulchritude.”
“What? Is that even real?”
“Yes,” she says. “And you are never going to guess what it means.”
“‘About or pertaining to chickens’?”
“A valiant effort. It means ‘beauty.’”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.” She slides the book across the picnic table.
“Huh. That is the ugliest effing word for beauty I have ever heard.”
“Hey, think how romantic it could be: Her pulchritude was unparalleled.”
“Her hair draped down her back in silky pulchritudinous locks.”
“Pulchritude is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Pulchritude is only skin-deep. Which is good because it doesn’t respond well to antibiotics.”
“Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, stop.” Sky laughs so hard that tears leak out.
Scarlett walks up the stairs and onto the dock with Amelia Grace. She frowns at us, and we both go silent.
“What are y’all doing?”
“Nothing,” we answer.
Certainly not talking about pulchritude. Haha, pulchritude. I snicker. Scarlett narrows her eyes like she’s trying to figure out if I’m laughing at her.
“So, I was thinking about tackling the loft today,” I say. “If you don’t think your mom would mind.”
“Knock yourself out. We’re gonna go Jet Skiing.”
She grabs a life jacket from the chest opposite our picnic table and looks at Sky expectantly.
“I think I’m gonna stay here,” says Skyler.
My heart swells. I TOLD YOU SHE WAS MY FRIEND.
“Fine,” says Scarlett.
I don’t miss the sharpness in her voice and neither does Skyler, who looks epically guilty right now. Scarlett turns and walks down the stairs like it’s whatever, but I can tell she’s stomping in her head.
Amelia Grace watches her go. She does this awkward shrugging and blushing dance in front of us. “Um, so, I guess I’ll just go with Scarlett.”
She hurries to grab a life jacket.
“Hey, wait, I was going to ask you about something,” says Skyler.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I have this friend, Zoe. We’re in youth group together at my synagogue? I thought maybe I could introduce the two of you sometime.”
“Oh,” says Amelia Grace. “Ohhhhhh. Um, that’s really sweet of you, but I think I’m okay on my own for now.”
Skyler nods, all disappointed.
Amelia Grace runs down the stairs after Scarlett.
After their Jet Skis are well out of range, I lean across the table toward Skyler and lower my voice conspiratorially. “Does your sister know Amelia Grace is in love with her?”
“What?”
“You didn’t know either!”
Sky cocks her head to the side. Wrinkles her nose. “I think they’re just friends. Scarlett has a boyfriend. T
hey—They’re just really good friends.”
“Hmph.” I cross my arms over my chest. “We’ll see.”
I hear the buzzing sound of a motor on water and look up. Are they really coming back so soon? But, no. It’s a boat. Not just a boat, I realize as it gets closer. A boy boat. A boat full of boys—THIS IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR AND, OH, THEY ARE CUTE BOYS TOO.
I mean, it’s cool. I’m just studying vocab in preparation for the day when I’m a senator or a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist or a YouTube star, but also, sometimes I would really, really like to know what it feels like to kiss someone.
“Hey!” I walk to the end of the dock and wave—not like a pageant queen or like I’m flagging down a boat rescue from a deserted island. Just a casual, hi-you-could-come-over-and-talk-to-us-or-not-I’m-pretty-good-by-myself wave. I hear yells from the boat, and it turns in our direction. Boys are so much easier than girls.
“Skyler, get up here,” I whisper. Urgently.
“Ummm.”
(But she does it.)
“Hey, y’all,” says one of the boys, the driver.
“Hey,” I call back. I nudge Skyler’s ankle with my foot.
“Hey,” she says, looking literally everywhere except at the boat.
Another boy waves shyly from where he’s stretched out on a towel on the front. He has blackish hair with super-red tips and those sporty shield sunglasses that wrap around your face. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, the guy next to him jumps up onto the front of the boat, King of the World style, and says, “What are you ladies up to?”
I shrug. “Just hanging out. It’s pretty quiet around here.”
“Oh, yeah?” He grins, and I shouldn’t think he’s hot, because he’s the kind of guy who uses unnecessary hand gestures for the sole purpose of flexing his muscles, but whatever, he is. “Maybe you just don’t know where to go.”
I cross my arms. Smirk to show I’m playing his game. “And where’s that?”
“Sandbar. Friday night.”
“How do you get—”
“I know where it is,” says Skyler. Still not looking at the boat.
“So, you’ll come? Both of you?” says the driver.
“Sure,” I answer for both of us.
The Summer of Impossibilities Page 11