I pause, then make myself write:
I’m not sure it’s really going on anymore with Drew, so Britta and I’ll have to live vicariously through your steamy romance escapades. I never wrote her either—but then who’d want a postcard from exotic New Jersey?
But I’ve still got lots to report, and I’ll fill you in when I see you soon soon soon! xoxo
Reeny
I move on to Starla. She has posted some new pictures, some from her friend Kelli’s weekend pool party, and others from a school baseball game. The baseball ones are old pictures, from spring, but it’s a shock seeing Drew.
In one photo, Starla is walking along the bleachers a few steps behind Drew, who wears board shorts, a green jacket and a baseball cap. In another, they sit on a plaid blanket; both have on sunglasses and look untouchably cool. Drew’s hand is folded over Starla’s, and they are looking up as if the photographer has interrupted a private joke. In just these few images, Starla once again has turned me into an uninvited, irrelevant spectator.
Under the plaid blanket picture, Starla has scripted:Re-United. Hey Witness! More where that came from!
She is bluffing, of course, since the pictures are outdated. More interesting, she feels the need to lie, which might mean she is—what? Warning me? Trying to make me feel suspicious and jealous? How strange that Starla Malloy could see me as even the smallest threat.
But there won’t be any more of where that came from for me, because I decide that I am not going onto her blog again. The romance of Starla and Drew is not something I will suffer through. If they’re back together as a Drewla, I won’t let her postings of their Epic be my consolation prize. And if they’re not back together, well, I won’t let myself think about that just yet.
I shut down the computer.
A Heroic Twist
THE NEXT DAY, Judith phones and says she’s sending the kids to Orlando until the end of August to visit Dan’s mother. It was kind of a casual, last-minute thing, Judith explains, after their gran called for an update on Lainie’s arm.
“So it all works out in the end, right?”
“Unless you count the part about me being out of a job.” Though I don’t say this until I’ve hung up. And I am skeptical about how casual and last-minute this plan really was. Maybe Dan and Judith are more judgmental than they’d let on, and have pegged me as an unfit babysitter.
Mom does not rush to take me back at Style to Go, and when she does concede to put me on the payroll, I’m only there for three days of the week, and with limited duties. On my first free day, I celebrate by going into town to pick up a frozen burritos dinner, a new stack of library books from Miss Kitamura and fresh filters for the air conditioner.
Mom has beaten me home. “Thought we’d finally make it our Girls’ Night In,” she tells me. “I picked up some movies. Won’t this be fun?”
“Yeah, sure. Great.” I try to look enthusiastic, though I’m not entirely convinced a Bella call won’t be coming through any minute.
Mom is attempting to master Roy’s parting gift, an impossibly reconfigured remote control, and I’m microwaving the burritos when I hear a knock at the kitchen door.
I whirl around and through the window I see Drew. There is no way I can hide my startled reaction. He’s wearing a T-shirt printed with the words Miles Away from Ordinary. Which is somewhat ironic, since I’ve spent the past few days trying to convince myself of just how totally ordinary Drew Fuller is, and how I don’t care one bit that he and Starla are back together. Convictions that are now leaking out of me into a puddle of confusion, especially since the main thought spinning through my brain is how I wish I hadn’t let my hair air-dry into its natural state of a million cowlicks.
But I open the door anyway.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I came by to ask you how your kid’s arm was doing.”
“Lainie’s okay. She’s in Florida. You could have just called.” Which I regret saying as soon as I say it.
“You could just give me a break.” Drew smiles his at-least-one-mile-away-from-ordinary smile.
I smile back, then move aside. “Come on in.”
“Who’s that?” Mom sings out merrily from the living room. I lead Drew into the living room for a round of clumsy introductions. “Nice to meet you, Drew. Right on time for movie night,” says Mom. “We even have an extra cheese burrito.” I cringe. Words like movie night and extra cheese burrito suddenly, inexplicably mortify me. As soon as I can, I steer Drew back into the kitchen.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
I take two canned teas from the fridge and toss Drew one. Drew pops the top and then we just stand there.
“We could go outside for a walk,” I suggest.
“Okay.”
I lean into the living room doorway. “We’re going to take a walk outside.”
Mom frowns. “What about our movie?”
“Don’t wait, just start without me. I won’t be long.”
She looks hurt, but she doesn’t have a leg to stand on and she knows it.
The sun is setting, turning the edge of the sky tangerine. We walk, close but not touching, to the end of Valentine Way. Drew tells me that he’s given his two weeks’ notice at Shady Shack, and then we talk about summer ending and school starting, and even though it’s small talk, it’s not as stilted as it could be, considering that I’m supplying exactly zero from the witty rapport department.
When we sit on the curb, side by side, the space between us feels charged with opportunity, and I still haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask Drew what’s going on with him and Starla.
“We’re not,” he says abruptly. I blink.
“Not what?”
“We’re not together. Me and Tara. If you were curious.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I shrug. “It’s not my business.” Then I can’t help it. “But then, why—what about the Truth or Dare? Because . . .” I make myself say it. “Because I think you do like her. Or at least partly. And I know she likes you.”
“I think I really tried to like her,” Drew agrees with a nod. “But most of the time, she confused me, if you want to know the truth. Any guy at school would’ve killed to spend time with Tara. But in the end, you can’t keep going out with a girl just to impress the guys at school. In the end, it was just Tara and me, and we didn’t match. Then what she did, after, the stealing and keying my car. She was always acting so dumb.” He finishes his iced tea in one long ulping noise.
“Starla’s not dumb.” Though I don’t know if I’m saying this because I mean it, or because it seems like a gracious-heroine trait to come to the defense of my rival.
“Nah, I didn’t mean it that way. Look, Tara’s cool. I mean, she knows how to get attention. She’s got absolutely everything it takes to make people notice her.” Which is true, so I try not to look like Drew’s words are stomping all over me. “But once you do notice her, that’s it. I was honest with her about it once. I told her I felt like I was doing something wrong, dating her because of her looks.”
I shrink inwardly, wondering how Starla must have taken that. “That does seem kind of mean.”
“Well, why else would I hang out with her?” Drew asks.
“All she talks about is her friends and the mall, and even when I went on her blog, all that was on it was stuff about the mall and her friends.”
“And her poems,” I remind him. We exchange a look.
“Yeah, probably I should take the blame for those,” says Drew. “I must not be very inspiring.”
“You are!” I say, though this comes out a little louder than I’d intended.
“Thanks.” Drew looks away, leaning back on his elbows. He pulls up a blade of grass and rolls it in his mouth. I glimpse his stomach, a smooth brown line.
“But, hey, I don’t want to hang out all night talking about Tara.” He looks at me sidelong, and my insides liquefy. “That’s not the reason I came over.�
�
And then Drew and I finally have the conversation that I’d wished had come before The Kiss. We talk about school, and parents, and music, and tennis camp, and Canada (I have to improvise on this topic), and the Galápagos, and who was Bartlett, anyway?, and favorite foods, and grossest foods, and God. Our topics run all over the place, and at some point in the middle of all that talking, Drew kisses me again. At first every muscle of my body is tense that my neighbor Mrs. Binkley is Humbert-ishly watching us, but then I melt into it, I can’t help myself, since it’s just as good as the first one—better, actually.
It’s not an impulse thing, either. Kissing Drew this time is deliberate, it feels like a message, maybe a promise of something that is beginning. Even when he resumes talking about whether he’ll take soccer or football for fall sports and how his brother is going away to college, my breathless inner voice can’t stop chattering, Drew Fuller wants to see me again. Drew Fuller wants to kiss me again.
The shadows of dusk bring out hollows in Drew’s face, and watching him, suddenly I see a more mature Drew, and it scares me a little bit. I think about all my countdowns, how they have lifted me up to this hour of perfection that feels so fleeting, I almost wish it wasn’t happening at all. Here I am, feeling Drew’s arm closing up the space between us to brush against mine, listening to his voice falling and rising, hearing the distant chime of an ice cream truck, wincing at a sharp piece of gravel that bites into the back of my thigh as I adjust position—here I am inside the thousand separate sensations that make up this single, counted-down moment, and I’m totally exhilarated, but I can’t make it stay.
Drew has been talking about how jealous he is that his brother is going to school in California.
“My friend Whitney and I call it L.A.N.J.,” I tell him.
“What’s that?”
“Life After New Jersey. When you start to have options.”
Drew laughs hard, which gives him a short hiccup attack. It’s vintage Shark Park behavior, except that it’s not, since the Drew of today isn’t the same Drew anymore. His non-braces smile that broke Starla’s heart has stolen mine, too, I guess, but in a way, I also have some information, the information of the old Drew underneath the new Drew. It feels like an advantage.
Maybe Starla is right. Maybe nerds do like to stick together.
Drew walks me home. We linger at his car, and we discuss going to see a movie the next night. My buzz lasts in the minutes after he’s driven away. Through the living room window, I see the back of Mom’s head peeking over the couch. She’s just started the second movie.
“Okay, give me the rundown. Is that your boyfriend?” she asks. But she doesn’t shape the question in a teasing way, and I am grateful enough for that to answer sincerely.
“Not yet.”
“He’s cute.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. I thought you’d be gone even longer.”
“Well, I didn’t want to miss our Girls’ Night In.”
“That’s sweet of you. But we could have done Girls’ Night In tomorrow night.”
“Actually, I’m going out with Drew tomorrow night.”
“Really?”
“So I guess we should grab our Girls’ Nights In while we can.”
And if she gets my point, Mom doesn’t act defensive. Instead, as I slide next to her, she flops an arm around me so that we are both stretched out, toe-to-toe and equally balanced on the couch.
Affirmed and Resolute
From: [email protected]
Dear Irene,
When I received On the Road, I knew what you were trying to tell me. Why should I spend my days on the edge of the water, when I have so many miles to go? And so I have decided to hit the road myself. When I contacted Father Donovan, he sounded surprised, but he is giving me a special pensioner’s dispensation for my journey.
If all goes according to plan, I’ll be in Peru for the month of October. Sister Maria assures me I’m more than welcome to stay with her and her family.
I’ll be right on time for the Incan festivals of Machu Picchu, Chinchero, Ollantaytaymbo and Urubamba. Even the names of these festivals are festivals, yes?
I kick off my travels in Venezuela next week. And then it’s on to Guatemala for a tour of the Mayan ruins. I’m assured that Internet cafes have cropped up everywhere. So look for my postings!
And thank you, again, Irene dear, for knowing exactly what literary lifeline to throw me. I feel reborn. I am always amazed by the power of a classic!
With affection—
Sister Soledad
I decide to save that letter in my archives, because Sister’s bravery seems important to remember. Though I can hardly imagine Sister Soledad being born the first time, let alone reborn.
And all because of On the Road. Someday I’ll reread that book.
I Break My Resolution
STARLAMALLOY’S JOURNAL
The other Day, D tried to Get Back with Me. This is 100 % True and Witnessed. But then I had an Apacalips: Nobody should Stay with Somebody who Makes you Feel like You are Not Worth It. Especially if that person Overly Relies on his Own Smartness to Make you Feel like you are Less. And also if that Same Person admitted he liked you for Surface Reasons.
What could Be Wronger than That?
From Now on, I Will not be Mentioning D in my Journals, in Words, Prose or Poems.
I Hand D to My Witness Free of Charge. Except for one Thing.
Witness—take note. I need a Discount Hair cut for school.
When I look over e-mails I’ve sent to Whit, I notice that sometimes my tone shifts to the style of the Heroine I am admiring at the time. But Starla always stays Starla. She knows who she is and what she wants, and she doesn’t hide it. Sometimes that works even better than school smarts. I wish I could explain this to her in a way that doesn’t seem condescending. Instead, I send her the link for Style to Go, which is as close as I dare to a tacit agreement on the bargain haircut.
My weeks away from Style to Go have matured me into a slightly better employee. The trick, I discover, is to repeat everything out loud. Especially when on the telephone, which is where Mom has assigned me so that I’m never actually dealing with hair.
“You said Tuesday?” I ask.
“That’s right.”
“Tuesday, August fifteenth?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Could you spell your last name again?”
“M-I-L-L-E-R.”
“Okay, Ms. Miller, I am confirming a double process for Tuesday, August fifteenth—”
And then Starla walks in, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve hung up.
“Hi.” It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen her. She is wearing an oversized white button-down shirt, belted, and sandals. Not many people I know could make this outfit work. In fact, nobody.
“I need a fierce cut,” she says. “My hair’s too long. I thought since you never gave me my ten dollars that day, you could shave the difference off the price.”
I nod yes as the smitten Bella swirls Starla into a black robe. “You’ve got awesome hair,” she oozes. “It’s a little dry. I’m gonna give you a special deep conditioning pack, it’s made with apple cider and mint, free of charge. Then Beth Ann will have a consultation with you about the cut.”
“My mom,” I explain.
Starla allows herself to be led to the sinks.
“You girls are friends from school?” Mom beams over at Starla as she shellacs a final coat of spray on Mrs. Irwin’s curls. “I can give you a great back-to-school look when I’m finished,” she calls out. “With some long layering on the sides—”
“Fierce,” Starla repeats.
“Fierce, got it.” Mom nods. “Choppy, but flattering angles. We’ll use a razor.”
“I want to start the year off brand-new,” Starla says once she’s been washed and seated.
I sit down in the chair next to her and swivel it so that I’m facing her like a ta
lk-show host. “My friend Whitney is coming home tomorrow and—”
But Starla has grabbed a pair scissors out of the sanitizing jar. All at once, she chops off a hunk of hair, right in the front. “Maybe you can start from that,” she tells Mom.
Everyone—Mom, me, Bella, Marianne and Mrs. Irwin— gasps. We stare at the stump of hair that now spikes directly off Starla’s forehead.
Marianne breaks the horrified silence with a laugh. “Well, now, Beth Ann. That’s a challenge.”
“My goodness!” On her way out the door, Mrs. Irwin scowls disapprovingly at Starla. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
Starla does look pleased.
Mom lets the rest of us watch as she cuts Starla’s hair into a style that would never go into my old notebook. Nobody speaks. We watch the black ends fall into a magic circle around the chair. When Bella comes by with the broom, a few strands blow up and stick to my ankles and underneath my flip-flops.
How weird would I be if I saved some of Starla’s hair?
I put the thought out of my mind. Starla just won’t stop inspiring my inner creepster.
It takes twice the time of a regular haircut, and when Mom is finished, I can see in her face that she’s dissatisfied. Still, she unsnaps the robe with her usual flourish and hands Starla a mirror so that she can get a view of the back. Starla tilts this way and that.
“You like it?” asks Mom. “I was trying for French punk.”
“It’s crazy ugly, right?” Starla asks.
Only it’s not crazy or ugly. Not on Starla Malloy. Without all her hair, Starla’s eyes look twice as large. Her cheekbones appear broader, her neck swans up that much longer, and there is something delicate and vulnerable in her face that I hadn’t seen before.
“Well, it’s fierce,” Mom pronounces doubtfully. “Like you wanted. And I had to cut a lot, to match what you started. But you’ve got amazing bone structure. You could wear any style, really.”
My Almost Epic Summer Page 11