by Erin Saldin
We spend the rest of the afternoon doing the things that Weekenders do when they want to think of themselves as Dead Enders: scouring the thrift store on Fourth Street for cat-eye sunglasses and a ridiculous sweatshirt with MARGARITAS ARE FOR DRUNKS (front); I TAKE MY TEQUILA NEAT (back). Laughing at all the doilies. Thumbing through the sad CD collection at the drugstore, both of us amazed when Henry pulls out a Neutral Milk Hotel album for five bucks. Eating pizza at the city park as we watch the water-skiers, rating each fall like we’re judges at the Olympics. We’re having such a good time that when Henry slings his arm around me on the park bench, pulls me in for a little half hug, turns my chin toward him and kisses me, I don’t exactly pull away.
I can’t. Not with the magnets holding us together.
Not going to be interested, Georgie? Fuck that.
• • •
By the time I get home, he’s already called and left a message. “Hey. Georgie.” Pause. A rustle—paper? Not sure. “Good to hang out today. Thanks for helping me out.” His voice so smooth, not an ounce of worry. “Just calling to see if you want to hang out sometime. Dinner or . . . something.” I can almost hear his half-crooked smile. “Text me if you want.”
I listen to the message three times, wondering when the best time to call back would be. In an hour? A day? A few days? It’s summer, after all—the time to play games is decidedly shorter. Play a game too long and you lose. And I don’t want to lose.
I know what Ana would say. Be careful. Because she knows what I know: The Weekenders are always trying to claim us. I’ve seen Ana around the Weekenders—especially Weekender guys—she’s circumspect, not particularly interested. She doesn’t want to give them anything they want. But me? Everyone’s my friend in this town. Everyone wants to be the person who knows me best. Oh yeah, Georgie, they’ll say. She and I are pretty tight. Or, if they’re smarter, they’ll do the slow nod when someone asks about me, say something like, Why do you ask? like they’re my gatekeepers, my bodyguards.
They think we’ve got something. An understanding. Probably even think I want to be like them. But the Weekenders aren’t my friends. They’ve always been business. A means to an end, and the end sure as hell isn’t paddleboards and Jet Skis. What I want costs more than their toys.
But. Even though I know I’ll call Henry back, even though I already feel the slow fall toward him, like I’m standing on a hill and he’s below me, his arms an invitation, that doesn’t change the fact that, when I got home tonight, before I even listened to his message, I pulled out my little notebook. Entered amounts from the previous week of work, added in my cut from his QP, did the math. $2,700 to go.
ERIK
Something a teacher said this spring. Health class, I think, which we all had together. The teacher (this old guy who should have retired about four decades before we were born) said, “Part of growing up is realizing that your parents are real people, too, with real strengths and real weaknesses.”
Davis leaned over toward me and Georgie and whispered, “You think?” Because we all knew by then that our parents were real people. Real as in: people who have sex when they think their kids are going to be gone all afternoon (Davis); people who don’t get tenure at their university and have to move their family to a small town so they can teach junior high school history and read important books after dinner (Georgie); people who work nights and weekends because everyone knows that’s when you get the best tips (Ana). And then there are people like my mom.
“How’s yours?” The Beast reaches over and takes a forkful of my mac and cheese. We’re sitting at our kitchen table, the radio on in the background so that we have something to listen to while we chew.
“Same as yours,” I say, but she’s shaking her head.
“Yours is better. Did you add something? Pepper?”
“Salt.”
“I never get it right.” She looks down at her plate, and then over to mine. “Yours is so much better.”
And, because this is our dance, I reach over and switch plates with her. Then I grab the salt.
The others all know their parents are real and flawed because they’ve seen them do strange or embarrassing things over the years. But they don’t know their parents like I know my mom. This is what I know: My mother is the kind of person who cleans Weekenders’ houses for a living and complains about the things she’s not asked to clean—tennis rackets and computers and long silk dresses—as though just the fact of them in those huge houses is enough of an imposition. She’s the kind of person who stays home on Saturday nights in a quilted bathrobe and these wretched blue slippers that you got her one year in the miscellaneous aisle at Toney’s because you’d forgotten to go shopping and it was already Christmas Eve and you couldn’t deal with the look on her face if there was nothing under the tree again. I call her the Beast of Burden because it’s true. She’s always frazzled, puttering around, looking like she hasn’t showered for worrying about me.
Most importantly, she’s the kind of person who will never, ever, ever be happy with what’s on the plate in front of her. She’s never ordered the right thing at a restaurant. She’s never seasoned her food correctly. And even when it’s the same goddamn thing as what she’s eating, she will want what you have.
I’d take walking in on sex or professional failure or a string of lame father figures any day over our nightly ritual of me handing my plate over and my mom looking ashamed and then relieved.
But the true athlete doesn’t trip on small pebbles lining the track. He runs right over them, knowing they might even make him faster.
The Beast is chewing happily, glancing at me now and then with the briefest blink of guilt. “Hey,” she says, “have your grades arrived yet?”
“No.”
All I do is lie.
“I bet you got an A on that algebra final,” the Beast says now. “I bet you got straight A’s.”
“I told you. I don’t know yet.”
“Well, it’s an A. I guarantee it.”
I sigh. “Something like that.”
“You got an A.”
“Yes,” I say finally, “you’re right. I did.” It’s that time in the meal when the walls start to close in around me.
From the living room, I hear the radio announcer’s metronomic voice. . . . Fire started in a trash can outside of the brewery yesterday afternoon . . . no serious damage, though the fire inspector is wondering if this could be connected to . . . I push my plate aside.
“Something wrong?” She didn’t hear it, then.
“No, just full.”
She looks me over, eyes narrowed, and then she nods. “You’ve been under too much stress,” she says. “And you deserve a break.”
I nod.
“It’s good that you’re not working this summer,” she goes on. “Enjoy yourself. But not too much,” she quickly adds.
“I’ll behave,” I say, trying to sound sincere.
“After all,” she says, “you’ve earned it. Nothing to save for now.”
I don’t say anything. I spent the past three summers working at the marina—boat maintenance, Jet Ski rentals. Later, after town clears out, I help pull the docks onto shore at all those private beaches so they don’t buckle in the ice. Glamorous work, all of it.
When I got the scholarship, I quit my job. Called the marina that day and told them I wouldn’t be coming back this summer.
I was so stupid.
Now, instead of making money, I spend the first hours of the day in the library. I don’t have a laptop—of course the Beast can’t afford one—so I have to use the computers that are tucked behind the audiobooks and across from the Kids’ Korner in the Gold Fork Public. That’s why I go early, as soon as it opens at eight. I don’t need to be working on my résumé to a soundtrack of fifteen screaming toddlers ripping pages out of their favorite books. That, and I don’t want to run into anyone. I guarantee that none of the Weekenders have résumés—or, if they do, they’re just college résumé
s. Not—horror—job résumés. And working on a job résumé at the public library basically makes you homeless.
“Anyway,” the Beast says, “I was going to tell you what Mrs. Jensen said. You won’t believe it.”
I’d beg to differ. I’m never surprised by what my mom’s clients say while she’s cleaning their sinks or scrubbing the wine stains out of their carpets. It’s usually something along the lines of shock at the price of their neighbor’s new car, or outrage if the county threatens to raise their property taxes. Money. Always money. And never enough of it. Typical Weekender bullshit.
She’s looking for a response, so I say, “Yeah?”
“Well, she wanted to congratulate you, first of all. She’d heard from Chris Foster—does their landscaping—and ooh la la, was she surprised. Couldn’t believe my son was the track star.” The Beast makes a dismissive huffing sound. “I wanted to tell her you don’t need her congratulations. That you don’t need anything of hers.” She crosses her arms over her chest, triumphant.
“Was there something else?” I feel itchy. I can’t get away fast enough.
“Oh. Yes. Turns out Mr. Jensen knows the fire chief. He was first on the scene at the Nelsons’, you know.”
“Oh, that. Right.”
“So far, they don’t have a name. But Mrs. Jensen said they’re getting close. Something about a footprint near the burn site. But I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past the Nelsons to just torch it themselves if they were having troubles. God knows they were stingy as hell with me.” She shakes her head. “Never a tip, in five years of working for them. Never once. Not that I’ll get one now.” And she laughs.
The fist of my stomach clenches and unclenches at the sound of her laughter. I stand, pick up my plate, take it to the sink. “I’m going on a run.”
She frowns. “After eating?”
“I didn’t eat.”
She follows me and touches my arm. “Sorry to bore you.”
“You didn’t. You don’t.” Deep breath. “Really.”
When I get upstairs to my room, I close the door. Lock it. Check the lock, then check it again. Send a text. Wait for the reply. Then I sit on the edge of my bed and take off my shoes, dusting dirt off the soles before sliding them under. Take off my shirt and fold it. I stand, and make my way to my dresser. I open the top drawer and grab my running gear. I lay my shirt on the neat stack inside. Reach underneath and pull out a small box. I hold the box in my hand, feeling its weight. I could shake it to hear the gentle rattle, the clunking as the contents hit each side.
I could, but I won’t.
I put the box back and get dressed in a hurry. I can’t get out of here fast enough. Why did I say I was going running? Now I have to put on the whole show—lacing my shoes before doing stretches by the door, drinking my obligatory glass of water. It looks like I’m getting ready, but all I’m doing is wasting time. When I finally hear the click of the front door behind me, I exhale. Start off at a slow jog, but once I round the corner, I walk again.
I watch my feet as I move. Why bother looking around? I’d only see shitty streets, shitty houses, shitty little lives. You want to talk about dead ends? The Beast and I live on one of those side streets that the Weekenders never even know about. It’s not far enough away from downtown to be in the woods, not close enough to be attractive. It’s just row after row of run-down clapboard houses, built back when Gold Fork was more logging town than resort. No matter what time of day, there’s always a dog barking somewhere. Always a car motor sputtering in someone’s yard. No one’s got a chandelier made out of antlers on my street. We’re lucky to have electricity.
Everyone here thinks I’m after fame and glory. Everyone thinks I have Olympic-size dreams. They couldn’t be further from the truth. When I think about being twenty, twenty-five, here’s what I want. A truck. A laptop that I don’t have to work all winter to buy. My own plate at dinner. Boring conversation with a pretty girl about what we’re going to do tomorrow. Soft carpet and a quiet dog waiting for scraps under the dining room table. I want to fall asleep listening to the sound of rain on a roof, knowing that when I wake up, the coffee maker won’t be broken and I’ll drink a cup while getting ready for my job at a bank or maybe an accounting firm. Every Sunday, phone calls from my imaginary family, just checking in.
All I want is a normal life. That. Is. All. I. Want.
But even that seems like a stretch. Normal’s not for me.
If Normal were for me, I wouldn’t have lost my scholarship. I wouldn’t be sitting here with jack shit, pretending that I’m going to State for free in a year, when really, I have no idea where I’m going, or how. I wouldn’t be living a lie.
I’m always going to be living a lie.
Maybe Georgie did us both a favor when she turned me down. Because I wouldn’t be able to lie to her for long. Not about everything.
I start running. It’s what I do whenever I want to escape the memory of Ms. Henderson, the guidance counselor, on the phone: I know you won the award . . . The bylaws stipulate . . .
Faster, faster.
They’re sorry. But adamant.
I don’t have to be at the skate park for a couple hours. I let my feet carry me—out of my neighborhood, away from this two-timing town. The familiar road along the west side of the lake, paved until it’s not. Four miles out, four miles back. I know this road by heart.
When I get to Washer’s Landing, I turn off. Run across the gravel driveway toward the ghost of the cabin. I stop and lean over, breathing heavily. Can imagine the smoke and soot, flames shooting from every window. My breath steadies, and I walk past the large fireplace—the only thing still standing now. I cross over toward the cliffs and stand at the edge, looking out over the lake.
There are a handful of boats out, a couple wakeboarders, some kids on tubes. The water ripples green and inviting from here. The shadows on the trees across the lake are a comforting hand. It’s peaceful. And the memories of Henderson’s voice fade away like they always do, replaced by the steady sound of my own breath.
Then I turn around and start running back.
I was just a kid when my dad left, can barely remember him, really, but I can imagine him—can picture the way he left. I like to think he was an athlete, like me. That, like me, he was the fastest in his class. And I like to think that, when he left, he didn’t just leave—he sprinted. Because that’s how I’ll have to go, one of these days. I’ll have to run so fast and so far that my lies can’t catch up with me. Mom, Kelly, all the other Dead Ender girls I’ve hooked up with—they won’t be able to keep up. They’ve never had what I need. I’ll be gone before they even hear the starting gun go off.
• • •
Four miles out. Four miles back. I get to the skate park just in time to meet her.
Layla’s waiting for me at the entrance. I had to give her directions. Of course she hasn’t been here before. When I walk up, she looks just like she did the first time I saw her—willowy and light, like a painting of a girl. She’s wearing the same cowboy boots, same leather bracelet wrapped around her wrist. Layla starts to look real the closer I get: real brown hair, pulled away from her face, real eyes, real smile.
A Weekender. Maybe, the little voice in the back of my head says, my Weekender. I immediately regret the run—now I look sweaty and disheveled.
“Hey,” she says, and her voice is real, too. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” Funny, for me to be tongue-tied. I try to remember how easy it was with her body pressed against mine as we stood between cars in the makeshift parking lot at Fellman’s, kissing at sunrise. But the conversation with the Beast has left me rattled, and I can’t stop thinking about the scholarship. My only ticket out.
Layla’s no Dead Ender. The street this girl lives on is straight and narrow, pointing all the way to a perfect future on the golden horizon. Coffee in the morning. Carpet underfoot.
She’s looking at me, waiting, so I say, “Wanna walk around? Get an ice
cream, maybe?”
Layla laughs. “An ice cream?”
“Well, I mean . . .” I’m stumbling—God, get it together. “If you want.”
“Sure,” she says, and links her arm through mine. “We’ll get an ice cream.” She’s smiling, but I don’t think she’s laughing at me. I don’t think so. “And then maybe we can pick up where we left off.”
She’s got one hand in my hair and the other against my back before I know it, pulling me toward her. Her mouth is soft. I open my eyes to look at her as we kiss—her eyelashes, her nose. Everything just right. I close my eyes again, and give in to the momentum. Her hands are everywhere. Mine are, too. It feels inevitable. Unstoppable. Now now now.
But I break away and take a breath. “Let’s get that ice cream.” And when she looks surprised, I add, “And then come back to this.”
“Ice cream.”
“Yeah.”
She pauses, and then shakes her head, kind of smiling. “Okay,” she says. “I guess.” She reaches over and hooks her finger in my waistband. Pulls me toward her an inch. “Ice cream’s fine.”
It takes everything I have to start walking. But I do, and she comes with me, sliding her hand into mine.
“You’re a gentleman,” she says, smiling. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Neither did I,” I say, and listen to her bright, warm laugh.
But I am. At least, I want to be. Because I don’t want this to move too fast. I want dates, ice cream, meeting her mother, impressing her little brother. I don’t want Layla to be like all the others. If I’d met her last year, it’d have been different. Last year she’d have been just another girl—maybe the best one, sure, but still just another one.
But that was last year. Last year I hadn’t gotten—and lost—the scholarship. Last year I hadn’t tried—really tried—with Georgie. Last year I didn’t know that Normal was as much as I could hope for, as far as I could dream. And I didn’t know I’d want Normal so bad I can taste it.