by Erin Saldin
We want this for ourselves, too. Of course we do. And sometimes we get close enough to feel the giddiness of arrival as it shimmers around their shoulders in Grainey’s on that first day of summer. Sometimes we can even pretend that a bit of it rubs off on our own shoulders, and we walk around tasting a new voice in our mouths, a voice like ours but with different things to say. We can pretend that we, too, will spend the fall thinking about our own what-could-have-beens and what-if-I’d-trieds.
We make believe, just like the Weekenders. The difference is, their wishes usually come true.
GEORGIE
“How about this?” Henry drives out of town with one hand on the wheel while he scrolls down on his phone with the other. “Pixies. ‘Here Comes Your Man.’ ” He turns and winks.
“Good,” I say.
He taps his phone and sets it on the dash. He doesn’t put his hand back on the wheel; he places it right above my knee as the beat thrums through the 4Runner.
My whole body is on fire.
Outside there’s a box car waiting . . .
“It was crazy,” Henry’s saying. “We’d never played a venue like that. The sound system was off the hook.”
I try to ignore his hand on my leg and focus instead as he tells me about the band.
“When I listened to the recording later, we sounded like something between sandpaper and a hangover.”
“I’d listen to that,” I say. My phone buzzes, and I pick it up and look at the screen. Not a number I recognize. Sent to the number I created with my burner app. But I do recognize the message. Beef. Surprising, since he usually waits for me to get in touch.
I ignore it.
Henry looks at me out of the corner of his eye, turns right onto Bear Creek Road. The car rumbles over potholes and gravel. We’re driving along the outskirts of town, passing log cabins that look frayed in the bright afternoon light. The sun is high in the sky, making the forest seem frosted. “Picnic lunch,” he explains. “Don’t let anyone say I’m not romantic.”
“Remains to be seen,” I say. But the truth is, ever since he kissed me after handing over a thousand bucks, Henry’s been more romantic than most of the Weekender guys I’ve hooked up with in the past. If I were the kind of girl who cares about these things, I’d probably be flattered that he holds doors, calls instead of texting, just because. I’d be twitter-pated. Starry-eyed. Moony with the fucking sweetness of it all. But I’m not that kind of girl. If Henry were only that guy, I’d have been gone as soon as he pulled away from that first kiss and said, I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you. Luckily, he’s not that guy—or, at least, he’s not just that guy.
The music swells around us. You’ll never wait so long.
Henry bops his head in time with the song. “God. I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I think the only thing left for musicians to do is cover old Nirvana songs over and over in an endless loop. Like it’s all been done, you know?”
I stick my arm out the window. “We can’t think that way,” I say. “What’s the alternative?”
“Business school,” he says, and laughs.
“Certain death,” I say, and try to ignore the note of unease that creeps into my voice. Of course there are options for Henry if his band doesn’t work out. He’s already in college. He jokes about business school, but honestly? You never know. Could happen.
But that’s not an option for me. The only option for me is success. Because if I don’t make it with music, I don’t make it at all. That’s why I haven’t told Henry about my plans to drop out. We’ve been hanging out for a couple of weeks, and I feel like we connect in a way that I didn’t expect, but still—I don’t know what he’d say about my plan.
Right now, though? Right now I want his hand on my leg. I’ve only ever felt this kind of electric attraction to one other person. I want Henry’s hand on my leg almost more than I wanted to lean in toward Erik, answer his question—What? You’ve never?—with a kiss that said, Yes, and Always and—
Stop it, Georgie.
Another text. beef
I write back: Got it. Then I burn the number. I’ll create a new burner number for the next round of texts later today. My number, as well as Dodge’s, will be untraceable.
The code was my idea. Beef: the city park, three thirty, tomorrow. Pork: the Dumpsters behind the campground on the lake, Saturday morning, eleven. So far it’s worked pretty well. Except that lately, whenever Dodge has met me with a new delivery, he’s given me more than I think I can unload.
I don’t have a choice.
“Hey,” Henry says, and takes his hand off my leg to squeeze my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just—work.”
He smiles. “Living the dream.”
Sure. On paper, Henry’s basically the guy wearing the sandwich board that says: Danger. Summer Fuck-Buddy Within. And I know that’s how I’d see him, normally. How Erik would see him. But Erik doesn’t know about how Henry and I can spend half a night talking about punk, post-punk, grunge. How he knows bands I’ve never heard of, and I thought I knew them all. How he listened to the disc my band and I made, the one I’ve never shown anyone, and said it reminded him of the Breeders, pre-“Cannonball.” That I sound like Kim Deal. Kim. Deal. If Erik asked, I’d tell him this isn’t a dinner-at-the-steakhouse-boring-movie-hold-hands-kiss-at-the-end-of-the-night kind of situation. Thank God.
If Erik asked.
Maybe in the city, you run into people like Henry all the time. Maybe in the city, it’s nothing to find someone who likes the music you like, who sees the world the way you do and wants the things you want. Maybe it’s all easier in the city.
But in Gold Fork, meeting someone like Henry is like finding the nuggets of gold that everyone swears are hiding around here somewhere.
The song’s refrain is playing again, pop-y and sweet, just an ounce of sand stuck in the teeth. Here comes your man. Here comes your man.
“Hey,” I say suddenly. “Don’t fuck this up.”
He nods, eyes still on the road. He slowly coasts to a stop, parking on a little half-moon of grass that’s shaded by tall pines. “I won’t, Georgie.” He leans over and kisses me. “I promise.”
• • •
Look. No one’s ever said I’m an easy lay. You can’t be, when you deal. I’ve had my share of Weekender hookups, sure, but I never made it, like, a thing. That’s why, after Henry drops me off at home in the middle of the afternoon, I think about calling Ana. Going over to her apartment later with a bag of microwaveable popcorn and some cheesy movie that we won’t watch. Telling her about Henry. About how we almost did it.
Did it? Christ.
But those were the words Henry used. Kind of. After we moved to the back of the 4Runner, after he’d pulled out a wool blanket all surprised like, How did this get in here? and I’d laughed at him because come on, after he tangled himself around me and our clothes started to come off like they were held around us with Velcro—first his shirt, then mine, then his pants, then my shorts—that’s when he said, “Do you want to?” And I can’t really remember if he said anything after, if he actually said “do it,” because I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. Almost naked in the back of a 4Runner, and I said, What? like there were a thousand other things we could be talking about.
Jesus, Georgie.
But maybe he wasn’t going to say “do it.” Maybe he was going to say “fuck.” Which is worse, even if it’s the same thing.
Now I wish I could call Ana. Explain how I don’t know why I didn’t just say “sure.” It’s not exactly reinventing the wheel, I’d say. Nothing I haven’t done before. And she’d ask me why I didn’t, then, why instead I said, “Next time?” and Henry said, “That’s cool,” in a way that made it sound like maybe it wasn’t. She’d ask me why I didn’t.
And this is why I don’t call her. Because I don’t know. Because it has something to do with the fact that I like Henry—like, really like him—and th
at makes me feel like I might as well be one of those Weekender moms who looks at some pregnant Gold Fork girl and starts talking loudly about Family Values and The Sacred Gift to anyone who’ll listen. And also, who knows how Ana feels about doing it? But I think I know how she’d feel about fucking.
So I don’t call her.
Besides. It’s summer. Who knows what could happen in the next week? The next day? The next hour? I’m going to see Henry again in a couple of days, anyway, to give him the dub sack he asked for. (“A friend,” he’d explained, when I laughed at him and said there’s no way he blew through a QP this fast.) There’s no point in giving minute-by-minute updates when everything might change before the text has even been sent.
Which reminds me. I pull my phone out of my pocket, where it’s been all afternoon, and read Davis’s texts.
Breaking: shetland pony escapes from fairgrounds in Lindy.
don’t worry—they caught it
hello?
anyone?
bueller?
You have to laugh, a little. Davis has never been shy about his nerdiness. The guy doesn’t even use emojis. Some of his texts are still in complete sentences. Hey. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.
I take pity on him.
Shetland ponies are hot right now
He writes back immediately. They’re the BMX of thoroughbreds.
Den? I text. Been too long
Ana now: Sure
Erik: When?
Meet in twenty, I write.
Davis: i’ve got my parents’ boat at the marina now. gassing up. anyone want a ride?
• • •
Until Dodge cornered me at Grainey’s, I’d kind of forgotten that Davis has a boat. Honestly, I usually forget that he lives on the lake. You don’t exactly look at Davis and think rich. But once Dodge told me I’d be doing boat deliveries, I remembered real quick. As I lock up my bike next to the marina’s lakeside grill, I wonder why we’re not all out on Davis’s boat every damn day. Working on our tans. Reading crappy magazines. Getting high if we want, or, you know, just drinking fizzy water or some shit. Why not? We could be Weekenders without having to be assholes about it.
Ana and Erik are already there, sitting in the back, leaving the passenger seat to me. The boat’s not huge—not one of those monster truck/speedboat hybrids that all the Weekender dads buy the nanosecond they turn forty. Compared to those boats, this one’s a canoe with a motor. Davis has it idling in a slip, and he’s already pulled in a couple of the vinyl fenders. I jump in, clap Erik on the shoulder, and move to the front. I can feel Erik following me with his eyes.
“Gang’s all here,” I say, fake-jaunty. Then: “How about you let me drive.” I pause, then add, “Please?”
Davis side-eyes me, says, “Once we get out of the marina.”
“Fine.” I shrug, pretend I don’t care. Think about the first couple of deliveries, me driving too fast, hitting Weekender docks with just a little too much force. Dodge yelling at me. “Just want to practice.”
“For what?”
I punch him in the shoulder. “For shut up.”
“Ooh,” he says. “Tough. Don’t worry,” he adds. “It’s easier than a car.”
I think about telling him that I know, but I stop myself. They don’t need to hear about Dodge.
Davis stands as he drives the boat, keeping it to a slow putter as we make our way out of the marina and toward the buoys. It’s dinnertime, but no one seems like they’re in a hurry to go in. We pass stand-up paddleboarders, a handful of kayaks with people our parents’ ages in them. (Terrible sun hats. Kind of a safari thing going on.)
Erik’s looking at one of the paddleboarders. She shades her eyes with one hand and watches our boat pass by. Raises the hand in a wave, which Erik returns. She looks familiar, and it takes me a second to place her without the sundress and beer.
“Wasn’t that girl at Fellman’s?” I ask Erik.
Another shrug. “Layla,” he says.
“Ah.” I watch him watching her. There’s something different about the way he looks at her. It takes me a minute before I realize that’s how he looked at me, right before he tried to kiss me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to remember. When I open them again, he’s staring at me.
“She’s great,” he says quietly. “Really.” He smiles for a second, and I can see that there’s something there. I’d even swear Erik looks hopeful. “She’s not a typical Weekender,” he adds. “She’s real. She—” He shrugs, embarrassed. “She does pottery. Like, vases and bowls.”
“Never knew you were an art lover,” I say, and try to focus on the memory of Henry handing me the 2008 limited-edition Fun Pack from the Vivian Girls the other day—T-shirt, button, postcards, seven-inch vinyl record, all in perfect condition. “Spent all night on eBay to get this thing,” he said. “Bubblegum dream pop. Not your typical sound. Even so, I thought of you.” How, when I listened to the record when I got home—kind of a Beach Boys influence, with sarcasm and grit, nothing I’d heard before—I loved it.
Erik will know about Henry soon enough. It’s Gold Fork. No secrets here. I wonder if he’ll care, and if so, how much.
We’re past the buoys now. Davis angles the boat away from the lake traffic and opens it up, the sound of the motor so loud that it’s not worth talking. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other in the pocket of his shorts, still standing, and for a second it’s like, oh, I get it. Davis could, in one of those alternate universes he’s always reading about, be maybe-sort-of edging toward cute. Then I shake my head. Chalk it up to a boat-driving thing. Jesus. Still. Maybe I should tell him—give the ol’ ego a boost. I glance at Ana to see if she’s noticed too. She’s watching him, a slight smile on her face. When she catches me looking, she blushes and stares out at the lake.
Water sprays against the sides of the boat, misting our faces, as we head north. Davis takes the middle, leaving the shoreline to the water-skiers. I turn and look back toward town: the boats at the marina, the storefronts by the water. Everything tiny, everything perfect. And then I sit back and enjoy the ride, because it’s not often I get to do this. It’s not often I get to see Gold Fork they way they do.
Man, if I could see it this way all the time, I’d probably want to stay too.
When we’re out in the middle of the lake, Davis slows the boat and turns to me. “Wanna try?”
I nod. “Sure.” I take the wheel, start pushing the throttle. Easy, easy. Get her going to a nice speed, keep my eyes open for other boats (luckily, not many), any buoys out in the water (none). Piece of cake.
Of course, it’s easier during the daytime.
I take us by Washer’s Landing on the left, the scar from the Nelson cabin fire still visible in the late-day sun. I see some kids climbing on the cliffs below to dive into the water from twenty feet up. Shake my head. Idiots. No one’s on the higher cliffs, but that’s not surprising. Suicide rocks. I slow us down and then kill the motor.
“What?” asks Erik, who’s been leaning back in his seat, face to the sun. He blinks at me. “Why’d you stop?”
I point up at the burn site. “Just checking in,” I say. “I was wondering how you’re all doing—with that last fire.”
“Are you our therapist?” asks Erik.
“Shut up.”
“People are talking,” says Ana. “At the nursing home, I heard some nurses saying that whoever it is isn’t going to stop.” She looks down at her hands. “I wanted to tell them there’s no way all three fires are connected—but I didn’t,” she adds quickly, when she sees my face.
“My dad says some people are pulling out of deals,” says Davis. “Wanting to hold off on signing until they catch whoever burned the Nelson cabin. But I’m not too worried,” he adds. “There are new clues.” He crosses his fingers, holds them up to his lips. “Vault it.”
We nod.
“A word on a piece of paper. At the site.”
The boat bobs underneath our feet. No one says anything f
or a minute. Finally, Erik lets out a puff of air. “That’s not much,” he says.
“No,” says Davis, “it isn’t. But I’m talking to the Nelsons this week, so maybe I’ll get more.”
“When are they going to call it?” asks Erik. “I mean, it’s kind of a failed investigation at this point, isn’t it?”
But Davis shrugs. “What else do the police have to do around here? Make some drunk and disorderly arrests? They’ve got time.” Davis has got this kind of interior look on his face, but he turns abruptly and takes the wheel. “Whatever,” he says. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
We cruise across the lake, the wind slapping our faces. The sun was just hitting the top of Washer’s Landing when we left, and the lake has the black sheen of near-dusk. When we get close to the Michaelson estate, Davis doesn’t hit it head-on. He turns the boat north and points over his shoulder, and I follow his finger: There’s a boat at the dock below the Den. I look back at Erik and Ana. They’re as shocked as I am. Davis drives us toward the campground at the north end of the lake, more canoes over that way, more party boats. Then he turns, and we start to double back down the east side toward the Den. He slows as we get closer, turns in toward a vacant patch of beach, and I realize he’s going to park at a kind of shattered old dock below one of the more rickety outbuildings on the property.
Which he does without drowning us, thankfully.
We all climb out, basically tiptoeing across the dock to the beach, hoping a plank doesn’t break under our feet. This dock is more splinter than walkway.
“What the hell.” Erik is whispering, even though we’re, like, a thousand yards from the main cabin. He catches himself and clears his throat. Speaks in a normal voice. “Where’d that boat come from?”
“No idea,” says Davis.
“Huckleberry pickers, maybe,” says Ana. “Someone else from town?” She bites on the fingernails of one hand and looks nervously in the direction of the big cabin. It’s far enough from this little beach that we can’t see it, but I’m jittery anyway.