Summer Days, Starry Nights

by Vikki VanSickle

  “Look, I wasn’t trying to take over your show or anything,” she started, but Bo dumped his dishes in the soapy water, sending foamy suds everywhere, including the front of my blouse and Gwen’s arms.

  “Hey!” I cried, but Bo didn’t even flinch. As always, I was invisible to him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, brushing past her. “It’s fine.”

  I wrung the edge of my blouse in the sink, glowering.

  “Moody, isn’t he?” Gwen said.

  I smiled, in spite of my wet shirt and soured mood. “Musicians,” I said.

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  The Sandy Shores family campfire was a tradition that had started when Daddy was small. Even now the whole family was expected to take part, which we all did happily. Campfire was not something anyone wanted to skip. It was the thing I missed most in the winter, when the lake was choked with ice and everything I loved was sleeping under a few feet of damp, heavy snow. If you stare long enough into the fire, all the noise in your head that builds up during the day disappears and the only thing that is left is peace. After campfire, I would try to make it the whole way home without saying a single word, not wanting to break the spell. It’s almost like sleepwalking.

  Because the Sandy Shores campfire was a family affair, there were no ghost stories, but there was lots of singing — Daddy said it was the heart and soul of a good campfire. With his guitar, he walked in the rows between the logs and the chairs and sang. His wasn’t the prettiest voice, but he sang loudly and with feeling. It was almost impossible not to join in. When you did, he nodded at you, smiling with his eyes, and you felt special to be part of the chorus.

  My job was to go from person to person, offering roasting sticks that I had collected. The whole summer, everywhere I went I was on the lookout for another great roasting stick — long, slim branches hidden in the brambles or blown into the road by the wind. I only took sticks that had fallen to the ground by nature’s accord; it was bad luck to break a perfectly healthy branch off a tree. I found my best ones scattered in the woods after a bad storm.

  As I passed out the sticks, Scarlett followed along behind me, clutching a bag of marshmallows nearly as big as she was. Her hair was curled up around her head in a wild mess of curls that, as someone pointed out, made her look just as sweet as Shirley Temple. Bo taught her to sing a couple of Shirley Temple songs as she passed out the marshmallows. Even those women who claimed to be watching their figures and swore they wouldn’t eat a single roasted marshmallow were charmed into taking seconds and sometimes thirds.

  Bo started running the campfire last year, and it was an arrangement that made everyone happy. Daddy was satisfied that Bo was taking an interest in the business of Sandy Shores, and Bo found a way to help out that he actually enjoyed. The guests were thrilled. Night after night, I heard them whisper to each other about how special he was, what a talent; how he lived up to his last name, Starr. They even gave him a nickname: King of the Campfire.

  As Bo got older and became more and more of a stranger at Sandy Shores, he still showed up every night for campfire. Whatever turbulence was stirring Bo up on the inside was calmed by the fire, and he was the same old Bo again, smiling and laughing and good with a song. That was one more thing I loved about the Sandy Shores family campfire: there was no use pretending to be something else — you couldn’t look into the flames and be anything but yourself.

  No wonder Bo was angry about the dances cutting into the campfire.

  How To Be a Teenager

  I became Gwen’s unofficial assistant, helping her pick the best times for her classes, designing posters to hang up in the office and the lodge. At first Mimi tried to join in, chatting about Gwen’s ballet classes and recalling her days as a chorus girl in Toronto. Gwen was polite about it, but I was annoyed. We couldn’t become the kind of friends I wanted us to be with Mimi hanging around. We were the kids, she was the adult. Why didn’t she see that? Why couldn’t she just act like a mother for once?

  I came up with more and more tasks that took us away from the lodge, where Mimi was stuck most days in the office. I decided Gwen needed to be properly introduced to our guests. We went from cottage to cottage and even walked up to guests lounging in big sunglasses on bright towels by the water. Gwen stood off to one side, looking beautiful and mysterious, while I gave everyone the sales pitch.

  “Gwen has come all the way from a dance school in Toronto to bring a touch of class to Sandy Shores,” I said. Gwen rolled her eyes the first time I said it.

  “A touch of class?” she said with a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

  But everyone seemed to buy it. I could tell by the way their eyes slid over her that they were just as enchanted as I had been the first time I met her. Even in her heavy makeup and crunchy curls, there was still a touch of the fairy princess that had taken my breath away so many years ago.

  I sat in on all of her classes. At first I pretended to be there on official Sandy Shores business, sweeping the floors, cleaning the windows, de-cobwebbing the wings, pouring everyone glasses of water from a cool pitcher when they were thirsty. But eventually I gave up the busywork and sat down to watch. Sometimes I changed records or let Gwen move my arms around like a puppet master if she needed a person to demonstrate with.

  Afterwards, I stayed behind and helped Gwen clean up. She tried to shoo me away once, but I insisted on staying. Sometimes she gave me private lessons. And not just dance lessons; Gwen was teaching me how to be a teenager. It seemed to me that some people woke one day knowing how to act and what was cool, like Bo and now Gwen. But before Gwen took me under her wing, I felt like I had spent my first year as a real teenager in a foreign country where everyone knew the language but me. Now I had a personal tutor. And not just any tutor: the star pupil.

  We went through her music collection, record by record. There was a story behind every band, every song, and Gwen seemed to know them all. I read the liner notes, lying on my stomach on the empty stage, while Gwen paced back and forth, sometimes breaking into a dance step. She may have claimed that she wanted to be a singer, but she had dancing in her bones.

  “Now this is Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. He’s a bit of a pipsqueak if you ask me, but have you ever heard anyone sing like that?” Gwen held out her arm. “Look! I’ve got goosebumps!

  “This is The Shirelles. They really know what they’re talking about. Listen to the lyrics. So many songs claim to be about love, but they’re just full of the kind of empty promises boys think you want to hear. They don’t sing about anything that matters. But The Shirelles know what matters. They’re the real deal.”

  Gwen had lots to say about love and boys in general.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  Gwen twisted a gold band around her finger, but didn’t say anything.

  “Did he give that to you? Is it a promise ring?”

  Gwen sighed. “It’s a long story, Reenie.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Friends your own age you can go swimming or get into trouble with?”

  I shrugged, pretending to be engrossed in the lyrics printed on the inside of the album cover.

  “What do you do for fun out here?”

  “This is fun,” I said.

  Gwen snorted and flung herself dramatically across the stage. “If this is fun, then I must have died and woke up in hell.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t have to. I forgot I was with a body language expert. Gwen said that dance was like a language and your body told the story. She took one look at my stiff body and immediately apologized. “Oh, hey look, I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I like hanging out with you, it’s just, nothing happens here. Everyone spends all day sunning themselves on the beach and then goes to bed at nine. I’m a city mouse, Reenie, holed up in the countriest of places. It makes me dull as a doornail. Surely there are other peopl
e you’d rather spend your free time with than sad old me?”

  “I haven’t had much luck in the friend department,” I admitted.

  “I don’t believe it,” Gwen said. “There isn’t one person around here you’d want to be friends with?”

  I thought about the girls I knew from school. I was always invited to birthday parties, and I never lacked for a partner when it came to school projects, but there wasn’t a particular girl that I could call my best friend. Most of them were nice enough, except for Donna Struthers, but nobody really liked her anyway. Anyway, Sandy Shores was almost an hour from Orillia, not really close enough to pop by someone’s house on a whim, and I was so busy during the summer and fall season that I didn’t have time to think about anything else. I had my family and Sandy Shores, and they had always seemed to be enough before.

  But now I had Gwen, and I’d started to wonder what I’d been missing without a best girl friend.

  “Not really,” I said. “Laura Jones is nice. And Maryanne Black, I guess.”

  “You should call them.”

  “Just out of the blue?”

  Gwen shrugged. “Why not? I bet they’d love to come spend the day with you here. How many other girls can offer a beach, a fire pit and a full-service dining hall?”

  “I guess. But they hang out with Donna Struthers. I don’t like her at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s mean. She makes fun of Sandy Shores in front of everyone.”

  “What does she say?”

  I hugged my knees to my chest, remembering some of the awful things Donna had said. “She’s always calling it a campground, like it’s something dirty or ordinary, and when we were in grade four she told people that the sewage backed up and our beach was contaminated. People called it Smelly Shores for ages.”

  “She’s probably just jealous.”

  “I doubt it. Her family has the nicest house in Orillia. They even have a trampoline in the backyard.” I scuffed my toe on the floor and continued. “Plus she’s always trying to make me look stupid. Once she invited me to her house at six-thirty but told everyone else to come at six. When I got there, they had already eaten dinner and she made it seem like I was late, like she hadn’t lied to me from the beginning.” Retelling that story made my cheeks burn and my chest hurt. I bet no one ever played tricks like that on Gwen.

  “Well that Donna sounds like a real bitch.”

  I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because Gwen took one look at me, leaned over and whispered, “I’m not a saint, you know. You’re always looking at me like I’m a princess. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Relax, would you? I’m just a regular girl, like you.” Gwen downed the rest of her Coca Cola before letting out a large belch. I giggled.

  “You’re the strangest ballerina I ever met,” I said.

  Gwen swatted me on the shoulder. “Even ballerinas burp,” she said.

  “Don’t let Mimi catch you,” I said. “Burping OR swearing.”

  Gwen gasped and fluttered her eyelashes. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She’d probably keel over and die.” We both laughed, then Gwen continued, “You know what your problem is, Reenie Starr? It’s not lack of rhythm or clothing or even that bitch Donna Struthers.”

  I giggled nervously. I wasn’t used to hearing language like that said aloud, even if it was true.

  Gwen continued. “Your problem is that you don’t believe that you’re capable of something spectacular.”

  Friday Night Wars

  It was no secret that Bo was not happy about Gwen’s Friday night dance cutting into his campfire time. In fact, Bo didn’t seem to like anything about Gwen’s presence at Sandy Shores. He made a point to comment on her absence at meals, and when she showed up he refused to speak to her or anyone else, grunting instead of replying and eating as fast as he could in order to leave the table before anyone else had finished. Gwen didn’t seem to care, she barely noticed Bo, but Mimi certainly did.

  “Bo, I’d like you to clear the table tonight.”

  “I thought we were all responsible for clearing our own dishes,” Bo said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Mimi said icily. “I want you to do it for the rest of the week.”

  “Am I being punished for something?”

  “Yes. For rudeness. Gwen is our guest and you’ve barely gotten to know one another. You’re almost the same age, you both like music, surely you can find something to talk about.”

  “Fine. So, Gwen. How do you feel about Elvis?”

  Mimi’s eyes flashed. “Bogart, I did not raise you to be insincere.”

  Bo flinched at the sound of his full name, but didn’t apologize. Instead he stood up, grabbed everyone’s plates and thundered into the kitchen. Mimi sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “Please forgive him, Gwen. I know there isn’t any excuse, but I—”

  Gwen shrugged, cutting her off. “Don’t sweat it, Mrs. Starr. Boys will be boys. I’ve known worse, believe me.”

  Gwen didn’t have any siblings and I wondered what kind of company she was keeping that she could brush off Bo’s bad behaviour so easily. One scathing look or offhand comment from Bo and I felt as low as an earwig. But she barely seemed to notice him. It made me respect her even more.

  I didn’t realize just how bull-headed Bo was until he missed the first Friday night dance. He may have had a problem with Gwen, but it was important to Mimi that all of the Starrs come out to support her project. Daddy washed up and made an appearance, twirling her around the mess hall a few times, and Scarlett had a ball running around giggling with some of the other kids. I was supervising the refreshments, knowing full well that no one was about to ask me to dance. It felt better to be useful, handing out lemonade and dessert bars.

  The first night went off without a hitch, but I could tell Gwen was a little disappointed. “It was the music,” she said. “Too old-fashioned. We need to liven it up a little. Next week will be different.”

  True to her word, the following Friday, Gwen played all her favourite records, filling the mess hall with fast, loud music and dancing — “The Twist,” “The Locomotion,” “The Wah-Watusi.” At first I was concerned that people wouldn’t approve, some of our guests were much older and probably spent many evenings listening to classic music programs on the radio. But everyone seemed to be having a good time.

  The mess hall was packed with people, hot but smiling, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Men rolled up their shirt sleeves and a few women even kicked off their shoes. Everyone was having such a good time that no one stopped by the refreshment table. I helped myself to three sticky lemon bars before they melted into a gooey mess.

  I didn’t realized how much time had passed until Bo barrelled through the doorway. It was then that I saw that it was dark out, well past sunset, which meant that campfire should be going strong. I could tell from behind the refreshment table that Bo was going to blow his top. He made a beeline for Gwen, who was seated on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, and he started yelling. I couldn’t hear him over the music, so I left my post and edged closer to them.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he shouted.

  Gwen looked innocent. “How could I? As you can see, there is no clock in the mess hall.”

  “It’s quarter to ten,” he said.

  “So?”

  “So campfire was supposed to start half an hour ago.”

  I looked around. The mess hall was still full. People had either forgotten about campfire or decided it wasn’t as much fun as the dance. Bo narrowed his eyes and shook his finger in Gwen’s face.

  “I think you know exactly how late it is. I think you did this on purpose.”

  “Of course I did it on purpose,” Gwen said lightly, pausing to flip the record. “It is my job, you know. Your mother hired me to come here and hold dances. If you have a problem, you can take it up with her, although something tells me she’ll be on my side. Look at her — she’s practically the life of
the party!”

  It was true. Mimi was having a wonderful time, moving between the groups of people, her cheeks flushed and sweaty, laughing brightly. Bo passed a hand over his face as if he could wipe the scene from his eyes.

  “Look, you’ve been here for less than a month. You don’t know how anything works. Campfire is what we do. It’s tradition. I know you don’t understand that, but—”

  Gwen’s eyes flashed. In a moment she went from lightly teasing to full on cussing him out.

  “I understand more than you think. I understand that you can’t stand that these people would rather be here dancing in this stuffy old hall than grovelling at your feet at the nightly Bo Show.”

  My jaw dropped. No one spoke to Bo like that.

  Gwen continued, “Say all you like about tradition and responsibility. I don’t believe you. As far as I can tell, you come and go as you please, without a second thought to anyone but yourself. You don’t care about Sandy Shores tradition, all you care about is that there will be less people mooning over you and your guitar.” Gwen shook her head, disgusted. “At least I know I’m a princess. You’re the worst kind of spoiled brat, the kind who doesn’t know how lucky he is and spits on the people who worship him.”

  At that moment, Mimi arrived, completely oblivious to the situation. Bo was glaring at Gwen so intensely, I was sure that anyone who stepped between them would fall down dead, electrocuted by the hate zinging between them.

  “Gwen, do you think you could put on one of the waltzes you’ve been working on? Or perhaps the cha-cha? Some of the ladies want to show their husbands what they’ve learned.”

  Gwen smiled brightly. “Sure thing, Mrs. Starr,” she said.

  Mimi smiled gratefully and gave her elbow a squeeze before disappearing back into the crowd. Bo shook his head, glaring.

  “You are unbelievable,” he said.

  Gwen put two fingers into her mouth and whistled. A hush fell over the mess hall and people craned their necks to see what the big deal was, why the music had stopped. Gwen smiled at everyone and motioned for them to be quiet.