“It’s really not that funny,” I say. “You shouldn’t creep up on people, it’s . . . insidious.”
“Sorry—darling.”
Of course Roy would have to kill his own joke. And I know it’s an overreaction, but for a split second I’m so furious with him that I want to grab a kitchen knife and stab dumb old Roy in the chest so that blood comes spouting out like a geyser and he falls gasping to the floor while I stand above him crowing with manic laughter like Mr. Rochester’s long-suffering first wife as I watch Roy’s eyes cloud over with the realization—too late! too late!—that he should never, ever have underestimated my appetite for vengeance.
Lucky for us both, the insanity passes.
Instead, I stand frozen on my feet while a thousand potential insults crackle in my head. Roy thinks he has rendered me speechless, but all I feel is the yoke of Mom’s restraining order. Don’t Upset Roy.
But what if he is upsetting me? What about that? My eyes are pinpricks of warning, staring at him, as I make a pure, silent wish that he would just leave like all the others.
“Oh, haw haw! Oh, dang. Whew.” Roy is winding down. He rubs his eyelids with the backs of his fingers. Still chuckling, he gets his drink from the fridge and toddles back down to the basement, to his Spartans and Persians. It takes everything in me to keep from locking him in down there.
Mischief
MONDAY MORNING, I learn that as a reward for Lainie’s day of helping out at the Plugged Nickel, Judith has bought her a king-sized inflatable tube raft. The kids have already inflated it, and want to try it out on the water immediately.
“It’s pretty cool that it’s so big,” I have to admit. “You could play a fun game with this. Like, maybe you have one person be Swamp Thing who tries to capsize the other two people.”
“Yes, yes, yes! Evan can be Swamp Thing!” yells Lainie. “And we’re both princess sisters, you and me, Irene. And we’re on the raft and he tries to push us off, but also tell Ev the rule is no splashing water in my eyes.” She wheels on her brother. “You splash my eyes like last time, Evan, and I will not forget to tell.”
“Except for I won’t be Evan, I’ll be Swamp Thing, and Swamp Things have to splash. That’s a rule, too,” says Evan. Lainie looks skeptical, but stops arguing.
The bike ride over feels eternal, and the day is so hot and windless that with every passing minute, it’s only the mental picture of myself submerged in cool water that keeps me going. Once we get there, though, I’m confronted with the even more powerful image of Starla, off her lifeguard chair and pacing the water’s edge. It’s hard not to watch her, but I deliberately do not. I spread out the beach towels and unpack the lunches and make a big fuss of coating sunblock all over Lainie’s shoulders. Evan has already dragged the raft out to the bank and launched himself.
“Hey! Girls, get out here!” he yells. “What are ya, scared?” Then he starts making loud Swamp Thing-y noises. Starla shades a hand to look out at him before turning to smirk at Lainie and me.
“Come on,” Lainie clamps her fingers around my wrist. She is surprisingly strong.
I yank away. “I never said I wanted to play!” All of a sudden, I can’t bear the idea of appearing undignified while Starla is around, spinning on a raft with two little kids as if this is my top pick entertainment of the afternoon.
“But you promised! The game takes two princesses and one Swamp Thing!”
“All I said was three people could play. I was being theoretical.”
“How about you come in after five minutes?” Lainie bargains.
“Maybe. When I’m ready.”
Lainie’s bottom lip sticks out, followed by her tongue. “Have it your way, then, meanie!”
I watch her skip off determinedly. The water looks so blue, so fresh, that I can hardly bear not being in it. But if I go in for a dip, the kids will be all over me. So I stretch out and open to the first page of my next book, A Confederacy of Dunces, a Dan Prior recommendation that I found waiting for me on his kitchen table this morning, along with a friendly note from Dan about how it’s his favorite book in the world. I’d never have picked up this book on my own, but I feel the tug of employee obligation. Also, Dan will be really happy if I actually do read it. And Dan is cool, right down to his baggy-butt jeans and the human rights bumper stickers on his truck. The few times Dan has driven me home from babysitting, I liked pretending that other people on the road thought he was my father.
So far, the novel is about a fat guy named Ignatius who wears a “green hunting cap squeezed [on] the top of the fleshy balloon of a head.” The only hair described is what is sticking out of Ignatius’s ears. From a style perspective, that’s not promising.
I’d be able to enjoy the story more if Starla’s presence didn’t overwhelm me. Trying to ignore her makes my eyes hurt. But it’s not until the kids are back on land, shivering and refueling on peanut butter and honey sandwiches, that Starla pivots in our direction and starts marching toward me. She has on her sunglasses and her visor is pulled low. She looks like someone who is famous, or at least someone who acts like she is.
Once Evan realizes that his dream girl is heading our way, he leaps, choking on his sandwich, and runs off. Starla’s life-saving kiss evidently has turned him into a lovesick idiot.
Her toes stop at the edge of the towel. “Got my tenner?”
I look up, pretending to be startled. As if I hadn’t been aware of every step she took to get here. The speech I’ve been mentally preparing doesn’t come out as breezily as I’d hoped, but I don’t shy away from it. “If you’d mentioned in advance that you were charging a fee for that sketch,” I begin, “then I’d pay up, no problem. But you didn’t, and since that’s pretty much the definition of a swindle, I don’t think I owe you anything.”
She is silent. Then she grins. “Nerd!” She shakes her head. “What, you think I need money so bad? You can have my picture for free if it means that much to you.”
Which makes me feel extremely Humbert-esque, but all I say is “Fine.”
“Anyway,” she says through a yawn, “I’m on lunch, and I came over because I want to show you something.”
“Show what?” pipes up Lainie.
Starla throws Lainie a sugary smile that most kids would find patronizing. Except that when you look like Starla, the rules change. “Don’t worry about it. Guess what? We’re going to Shady Shack. Ask your nerd babysitter if she’s coming with.”
“Shady Shack!” Lainie jumps up and pulls my arm. “Can we get some candy? Please, please?”
I really don’t appreciate being called a nerd or a nerd babysitter, especially because I doubt that Starla is being ironic. But to protest nerdishness pretty much dooms a person to that very category.
“I don’t need anything from there. But if Lainie wants to go . . .”
“I want to go! And if I get some candy, you won’t tell Mom, right, Irene? Right?”
“We’ll see.” I signal over to Evan, who shouts for us to get him cheese curls.
Shady Shack is set back in the pines behind the Larkin’s Pond parking lot. It’s bigger than a shack and no question it’s shady, although better adjectives would be dusty, overpriced and poorly stocked.
Starla sails ahead of us, barely greeting the handful of admiring kids who are hanging out on the porch. One of them says, “Howarrya, Tara,” which gets her a punishing stare. I guess not everyone has learned that Starla Malloy no longer answers to Tara.
Once inside, Starla jostles my elbow. “We used to go out. Look but don’t look, got it?”
I follow her eyes to the kid sitting behind the register. Just by the way that Starla is breathing, I know this is D of the infamous “Writings of D.” I’m surprised, because D doesn’t look anything like I’d pictured—no piercing eyes and tumbling locks and gloomy, Mr. Rochester charms. This D is tall and skinny. He lets his hair fall in his eyes and he presses the buttons of the register with a single, hesitant finger—as if one wrong key might caus
e the whole machine to explode. He’s an accidental, everyday hero. You could find a D anywhere. Working the pump at the gas station. Mowing your lawn. D as in Dozens like him.
“All through spring.” Starla’s whisper is humid in my ear. “April fifteenth through June twenty-first. And then phhht. School ended and he broke up on e-mail.”
“Oh.”
“He’s really smart, brain-wise, but he’s not all that hot, right? You wouldn’t even look at him twice.”
“I guess not.”
“Right.” But as soon as D glances our direction, Starla just about bounces out of her skin with the effort of not looking twice.
I nose around, taking a few more peeks at the mysterious D. The main interesting thing about him is the electricity he’s charged up in Starla. She prowls up and down the aisles like a deranged cat, pausing to flick her eyes at D while pulling and replacing items from the shelves.
D doesn’t acknowledge her. He keeps ringing up customers. There’s a lot of traffic at Shady Shack, but I figure that’s not the only reason D has not looked at Starla once.
“Can we go?” asks Lainie. “I made my pick. I want gum instead of candy.”
“Sure.” I buy myself an iced tea and a bag of caramel popcorn, a giant green Superblo gumball for Lainie, plus Evan’s cheese curls.
“Hey,” says D when he hands me my change. He looks up at me full-on, and I realize I was wrong. As eyes go, D’s, in fact, could be described as piercing. They are long, almond-shaped and bright, silvery green.
“Thanks,” I say back.
Starla, who has been watching D and me intently from her place in line, makes a squeaky noise, as if someone has stepped on her toe. I move on, quick.
When D rings her up, he says, “Yo, Malloy.”
“Yrrmm,” Starla mumbles. She keeps her chin tucked. In the visor and sunglasses, now she looks like a famous person trying not to be recognized while making an illegal purchase. When D drops her change into her palm, Starla makes a show of not wanting to let his fingers touch hers, which seems very immature to me.
As soon as we get outside, Starla claps a hand to her mouth. “Look!” She opens her basket-weave sling bag for me to see inside.
I look. I can’t believe it. She must have stolen at least half a dozen candy bars. I also count four minibags of pretzels, two Lemon Fizzies, and multiple packs of chewing gum and Life Savers.
“You’re crazy!” I whisper. “That’s a crime!” My eyes dart left and right. I half expect the police bullhorns to start shouting for us to drop our weapons and surrender. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because of him, duh,” she says. “It’ll mess up his inventory like you don’t even wanna know. Mrs. Hayes, the owner?—she’ll definitely suspect him. She could even get him fired.” There’s a shine of sweat on Starla’s skin. Her smile is as close to ugly as a drop-dead gorgeous person’s smile can get.
“I got fired from a job once,” I tell her, “and it was really humiliating, but at least it was my own fault.”
Starla just laughs. “Stop looking up at me like that, okay? You witnessed, but I know you won’t rat, right? Okay, my break’s up. See ya.”
She wants me to be more impressed, but what did she honestly expect? I search my soul for moral outrage, but the whole thing’s just got me too surprised. Then I check to see if Lainie noticed Starla’s shopping spree. If she did, she isn’t letting on. One cheek bulges with bubble gum and her eyes stare blissfully at nothing.
Starla hops down the steps and walks away. Her weighted bag bounces low on the back of one thigh. I stare at the strong T of her shoulders and the lope of her brown, mile-long legs.
Lainie stares, too. “Hey, what’d she want to show us, anyhow?”
“Nothing important. How about you and I take the raft out now?”
“Yeah!” Lainie is easy bait. She squeezes my hand. “That lifeguard could win five hundred beauty contests in a row,” she says, “but I like you being my babysitter much more.”
“ ‘Much more’ is redundant,” I tell her, but I squeeze her hand back.
Two Postings
From: [email protected]
Teeny Ireeny where are ye? I hope you’re OK! You’re not mad at me right ? Have you forgotten all about your bestest pal?
OK nuff about you, on to moi. . . . Soooo it was hasta la pasta to Oh My Ganzi yesterday and now I’m totally loving Walt Waterman. Don’t get me started on the name since his mom and dad must have been sucking on helium balloons the day they thought it up but lucky for him he is so awesome he transcends it. I’m not kidding. We had a barbecue last night and let’s just say me and Walt also got hot and smokin’ .
More on my love life as it happens . . .
As for other news: Big Mystery Hits Star Point Camp! Someone’s been planting dead mice in the girls’ sports bags. I am totally freaked but everyone agrees this joker’s an improvement on last year’s gift-giver known by all as the Crapping Bandit. Mia Whitbottom got moused 2wice so everyone suspects it’s this kid Jay Crane who used to go out with her till she dropped him for Vasilii Gubin who’s ranked #19 on the pro circuit.
OK now back to you—you haven’t w/b since you were thinking about the babysitting job. Did you take my advice and chunk it? What are you up to? Living in a tree in your backyard eating raw lentils and protesting globalization or some other Ireney thing you’ve been reading up on is my bet. Britta wrote she hadn’t heard from you either. I got another postcard—she’s still in major love with Ernesto the parking attendant at her Dad’s condo who a) doesn’t speak a word of English b) won’t give her the time of day and c) is like ten years older so what is she even thinking?
Anyhow, drop me a line and tell me how’s it going.
t.t.f.n. (stands for ta-ta for now—how my roommate Grace signs off—so cute!)
Witty
The voice of e-mail Witty doesn’t remind me of real Whitney. E-mail Whit sounds relaxed and happy. Real Whit is a diehard tennis fiend who is sometimes too quick to tell you about the vast importance of the warm-up stretch or the saturated-fat content of a granola bar. Ever since we became best friends in fifth grade, we’ve had the same straight-aim focus on our L.A.N.J.—Life After New Jersey. And a shared sense of suffering counts for a lot. But these days, Whit doesn’t sound like she’s suffering at all. For that matter, neither does Britta, whose last postcard reported that her obsession with Ernesto the parking guy left her almost no time to write. I’ve always comfortably counted on Britta being the least sophisticated of the three of us. But what if, come September, I become the odd one out? What if Whit and Britta decide I’m cramping their style? And, worse, what if they’re right?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I’m not sure what to e-mail Whitney—mostly because there’s nothing noteworthy happening to me.
It’s like a galaxy separates us, and the name of that galaxy is called Whitney’s Fun Summer.
After another minute, I move on to Starla’s blog.
STARLAMALLOY’S JOURNAL
Payback can be so Sweet. Today I was feeling the Need to get back at D. This Need is Never far from my Mind. But risking Captchure I knew I had to be Crafty and Underhanded, right? Without giving up the Detales let me just say—my Plan worked!!!!!!!!!!
This is not a Lie. I have Proof.
Who Ever is reading this, or even if U R not, U R the Secret Keeper!
You Are the Witness!
I reel back in my chair, stunned. She’s talking about Me. I am Who Ever. I am the Secret Keeper and the Witness, of course, because Starla showed the bag of stolen stuff to me. This must have been the only reason Starla dragged me over to Shady Shack in the first place. So that she’d have her “Proof.” Here I’d thought Starla was just trying to be friendly, but all along I was just a cog in the wheel of her Humbert-y obsession.
Why would someone like Starla want to chase after old D, who is also the one person in the world who seems wholeheartedly unimpressed with her? What
does it mean? That no matter how flawless a person might look on the outside, she or he is always doomed to play the desperate Humbert, panting for someone else?
By that definition, does each and every one of us have a Humbert lurking?
Is there even some itchy old Humbert out there watching me?
I can’t say it’s an entirely disagreeable thought.
A Loss
IT RAINS THE next day, so Evan decides to hole up in his room and take apart various electronic fixtures. Lainie cuts me no such break. She digs out her best, ultra-point Magic Markers and forces me to crank out paper dolls at sweatshop rates.
“And then you can make a bridal dress,” she commands. “After that, you can make a dress with sprinklicious flowers on it. Can you draw me a cat? And then can you draw the cat a nightgown?”
Finally I tell her that I have to finish A Confederacy of Dunces on her father’s orders. “He’s giving me a quiz on it Monday, so I only have this weekend to study.”
“Yeesh, he gives me quizzes on my homework, too.” Lainie’s pale brow wrinkles. “Poor you, Irene. Even in the summer?”
I nod sadly. Sometimes Lainie is just too easy to fool. If only she were as easy to ditch. She trails me to the den, and then, after a few enraptured minutes of watching me read, she trots upstairs and returns with a copy of her own book.
“You can borrow this when I’m done,” she says, waving it in my face.
“I’d never read that,” I answer.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, there’s pink glitter on the cover,” I answer.
“That’s so you know it’s about a princess.”
“And for another thing, I hate princesses.”
Lainie laughs as she settles herself on the opposite side of the loveseat, her knees pressed against mine. “Sometimes you’re a dumbo-face, Irene. It’s against the law to hate princesses.” She opens her book and sighs happily as I return to poor Ignatius and his world of mortifications and manifestos.
My Almost Epic Summer Page 5