by Alex Flinn
Harmon caught her, just like he’d caught Meredith the night before. “Gotcha!”
“Take my pole!” the girl yelled.
Meredith imagined what boys at school would say to such a sentence, but Harmon behaved, grabbing the fishing rod and reeling with an expert hand while the girl struggled to stand. She and the fish both came up at the same time. The fish was big and green, wiggling angrily at the end of the line. “Dinner!” Harmon exclaimed.
“Really?” the girl asked.
“Sure.” Harmon gestured at some bags at the shore. His precious camera, Meredith guessed. She was proved right an instant later when he said, “Want me to take your picture?”
“Uck, no. I’m gross. But can we really eat it?”
“Don’t see why not. It’s big enough. My mom will make me clean it.” But he seemed proud, the hunter-gatherer.
“Let’s show her,” the girl said.
“Okay.” Harmon unhooked the fish and threw it, still struggling, into a bucket he’d brought. He started to gather their gear.
Meredith tried to go back to reading about Amelia and Dobbin and Becky and Jos. If she pictured Becky as Britta, did that make her Amelia, quiet, boring Amelia? But their chatter and the girl’s high-pitched voice, “Oh, I’m so dirty!” got in her ears and made it hard to concentrate. She changed position.
“I wonder how that chicken will be,” Kate said.
“I hope Britta can cook,” Ruthie replied. “Alicia certainly can’t.”
Finally, the couple had gathered their belongings and started up the hill. When they passed by, Harmon said, “Hi, Ruthie. Hi, Meredith.” At Kate, he paused. “Hi . . .”
“Kate,” she supplied.
“Nice day for fishing,” Ruthie said.
“Always nice when you catch something,” Harmon agreed. To Meredith, he said, “The mountain folk can eat today!”
Then, without further words, he continued uphill. A moment later, Meredith heard the girl say, “You didn’t introduce me.”
Harmon replied, “Oh, they’re just . . .” But his voice faded into the trees before Meredith could hear who they were. She went back to Becky flirting with buffoonish Jos Sedley.
When they were out of sight, Kate said, “Hmm, wonder who that girl was. His sister?”
“No,” Ruthie said. “The Dickinsons only have boys.”
Meredith realized she’d been holding her breath, waiting for Ruthie’s answer. Stupid. She stared at her book. She didn’t need to wonder who that girl was. Obviously, Harmon Dickinson had no interest in her, Meredith. Which was okay, because she had no interest in Harmon Dickinson and his dimple and his camera and his stupid muscles in his stupid tank top. If only she didn’t keep running into him.
19
Britta
WHEN THE OTHERS came home from shopping, Britta pretended to sleep. Anyone who knew Britta would know this was unlikely. If Britta was asleep during the day, a doctor should be alerted. But they didn’t know Britta.
Still, she was sorry when she heard Meredith say they were going to the lake. Britta wanted to go to the lake! But instead, she waited for them to leave. Then, she opened the borrowed scrapbook. Ruthie had already said she’d show it to her. But Ruthie was on her way to the lake too, and Britta was bored. She’d just take a peek.
The first page was a letter on yellowed paper, typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.
Dear Miss Green:
I am writing to invite you to participate in our Green Pines summer stock program. We were very impressed with your audition and references, and while we cannot offer you a paying position, we hope that you will consider this internship for the opportunity it is.
The program begins June 15, 1962.
The letter went on to list details of bus transportation and how Ruthie might go about accepting this opportunity.
How exciting! Ruthie must have been around Britta’s age. To have the opportunity to be in a real theater company like a grown-up! Her mom must not have been so overprotective!
And the return address on the letter was from the very town they were in.
The next page was a program from a play called Babes in the Woods. Britta scanned the cast list and saw that Ruth Green was listed in the role of Arcadian Shepherdess. At the bottom of the page, stuck on with white mounting corners, was one of those old, square black-and-white photos like the ones her grandmother had. It showed a young Ruthie dressed in pantalets and carrying a shepherd’s crook. Even in the tiny picture, Britta could see Ruthie was smiling and just Britta’s age. She looked like a girl Britta might have been friends with.
Britta remembered Ruthie’s story about going to the March on Washington. What year was that? If she’d had her phone, she’d have googled it, but definitely early 1960s.
The next page was a program from a play Britta had never heard of, and Ruth Green was listed as crew. The third page was from a play called Peter Out of the Frying Pan, and it listed Ruthie as a mermaid, but a slip of paper in the program stated, “At tonight’s performance, the role of Wendy will be played by Ruth Green.”
She got the lead—every understudy’s dream! As Britta flipped through the pages, something fell out from between them. A note.
Break a leg, my golden-voiced girl!
Or, at least, be glad Susan did!
Love, Janet
A quick glance at the program revealed that someone named Susan Malone had been playing Wendy. Britta wondered if she was some big star of the time. A broken leg must have ended her run. Janet Calisti, the only Janet, was listed as “Slightly,” one of the Lost Boys.
This must be the Janet that Ruthie had meant, her friend from the picture!
There was a knock on the door. Instinctively, Britta shut the scrapbook. “Who is it?”
“Me.” Spider’s voice sounded sullen. Well, there was a surprise. Britta shoved the scrapbook under the bed. She didn’t know why, only that it seemed weird to be snooping.
“I brought you some ice,” Spider said.
Britta lay down on the bed. “Oh, come in.”
Spider opened the door. She was such a strange girl, with her dark hair and long-limbed, slightly stooped build. Her pale-blue eyes took in the room as if she knew Britta was hiding something. They flicked toward the floor, and Britta wondered if the dust ruffle wasn’t covering the scrapbook. No. It was the discarded ice bag. It had fallen onto the floor.
“I guess we’re supposed to make dinner,” Spider said. “Maybe we should put off our night to cook since you’re so badly hurt.”
She emphasized so badly and smirked. Britta knew Spider thought she was faking. Britta hated to give her the satisfaction, but she wanted to make dinner, wanted to impress the others with her prowess in the kitchen.
“Actually, I guess it was just a charley horse.”
Spider’s eyes twitched like she was trying not to roll them. But she said, “Are you sure? You took quite a tumble. I saw you.” She walked over. “Let me check if it’s still swollen.”
So weird that she was being all nice now. Britta stiffened as Spider touched her ankle.
“I’m sure if you gave me the recipe, I could slog through it.”
Unlikely. More like Ruthie would slog through it.
“My grandmother could help.”
Bingo. “Yeah, no. It’s fine. Ruthie said you’d be my sous chef or whatever, so I guess I could sit while you cut things up.” Britta examined her ankle. “Even though it still hurts a little, I should be able to manage. You are so sweet and helpful.” Spider was anything but.
“Oh, not really.”
“This way, you could learn to do it yourself, for future reference.” Britta grinned. “I’ve been looking forward to cooking with you.”
Because lying in bed was really boring.
20
Spider
INT. CABIN, KITCHEN — DAY
Britta and Spider are starting dinner. Britta, completely uninjured by the way, is surprisingly competent. Spider is
standing there with her, looking stupid.
“DO YOU HAVE poultry shears?”
Spider gave Britta a blank look. “Poultry shears?”
“They’re like big scissors for chicken.”
Spider had hoped Britta would be “too injured” to cook. That was a pleasant thought. But Britta had clearly been faking, so now, she and Britta were at the kitchen table, and Britta was teaching Spider to cut up a chicken.
“No poultry shears?” Britta asked. At Spider’s confused look, she said, “Okay, guess not. It’ll just be a little harder, but get a firm grip on the chicken.”
Spider grimaced as she took the chicken’s cold, slimy hand, um, talon, um, drumstick. She squeezed hard enough to make her own hand ache.
“You’ve really never touched a chicken?” Britta asked.
“I’m doing it now! You don’t have to be so condescending.” She hated that Britta was the authority in this situation. It wasn’t Spider’s fault that her mother didn’t teach her to cook.
Britta looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t. “Oooookay, then. So if you’re left-handed, pull the chicken with your right hand, and with your left . . .” She mimed slicing through the chicken’s flesh.
Spider did as instructed, trying not to show her distaste. The stupid chicken fought back as if it wasn’t already dead. Who knew cooking required brute strength? But eventually, the knife sliced through, and she held the severed limb in her left hand. “Done!”
“Great!” Britta clapped as if encouraging a child. “Now the other.”
Spider obeyed, sighing, then turned the chicken over to remove its wings under Britta’s watchful eye. She felt like a med student, something she’d never aspired to be. Still, she guessed she was learning a skill.
“This could be useful in filmmaking,” Britta said.
“Huh?”
“You said you wanted to be a filmmaker. If you did some kind of Silence of the Lambs thing, where a killer dismembers his victims, it would be useful to know how to do it.”
“The killer in Silence of the Lambs skinned his victims.” Spider didn’t try to hide the haughtiness from her voice, even though Britta was sort of right. “He didn’t dismember them.”
“What about disposing of them—didn’t he cut them up then?” Britta said, then shrugged. “Okay then, I guess it’s useful to know how to feed yourself. Whole chickens are way cheaper than cut-up pieces from the grocery store, and they’re supposed to be healthier too.”
Spider separated the breast from the back. It was satisfying—not that she’d admit that.
“So, how long has your family had this place?” Britta asked.
“I don’t know. Since before I was born. When my dad was little, maybe.”
“Did Ruthie and your grandfather buy it together?” Britta pointed to the chicken. “You’re going to want to cut the breast into quarters. But cut down the bone first.”
“Cut through the bone?”
“I can do it if you want. It’s my ankle that’s injured—nothing wrong with my hands.”
Nothing wrong with her ankle either. But Spider blocked Britta’s way. She wasn’t going to let a chicken—or Britta—defeat her, although her right hand ached as she pressed down on the knife. She tried not to grimace.
Britta noticed. “I can finish it. I do it all the time.” She reached for the knife.
“I’m fine!” Spider pushed down until the bone snapped. “See?”
“Good job!” Britta gushed. “Can you gather the spices while I finish up? You know, since my ankle hurts?”
“Of course it does,” Spider simpered, but was glad to abandon the chicken. She took the list of spices from Britta. “What’s cumin?”
“Kyoo-min,” Britta corrected. “It’s sort of a yellowish-brownish spice.”
Spider went to the cupboard and found the garlic powder, cayenne pepper, and oh yeah, there was the cumin. It was way in back, and she stood on tiptoe to get it.
“How did your grandparents know about this place?” Britta asked. “Had Ruthie been up here before?
“Why are you asking so many questions?” Spider said.
“Just making conversation,” Britta said. “Like normal people.”
“So I’m not normal?” It was an accusation with which she was not unfamiliar. But it hurt to hear it here, in this place she loved so much.
But Britta said, “I didn’t say that. But you obviously don’t like me. I don’t know what I ever did to you. We’re renting this place from you because you advertised for renters. But you’ve been rolling your eyes at me since I got here and I don’t know why. I mean, maybe I don’t watch old movies no one’s heard of, but how many people do?”
Spider didn’t know why either, except that she guessed Britta wasn’t the type of girl she’d pictured in the place. Britta seemed more like her sister, a giggly, brash girl who, after all, didn’t want to be here. Why did Britta? She didn’t seem like she was into nature.
“You keep asking all these nosy questions, and you act like I’m stupid because I don’t know how to pronounce cumin.” Too late, she realized she’d said it wrong again. “Kyoo-min.”
“I act like you’re stupid? That’s hilarious.”
“Or have poultry shears. And I know you’re faking that injury. I have real pain, so I know what it looks like.” She stopped. She hadn’t meant to say that.
“I faked it so I wouldn’t have to be in the car with you!” Britta burst out.
“Ha! I knew it!” But considering what Britta had just said, it wasn’t that satisfying. Spider was used to having people avoid her, even her own family.
“I thought it would be fun to make new friends this trip. People like me! I’m vice president of Thespians. I’m nice!” Britta stood on completely uninjured feet. “I even thought it would be fun to cook together. I mean, I know it’s not a hugely intellectual activity, but human beings require food to sustain life. So maybe you could, I don’t know, chop an onion?”
She picked up an onion off the counter and hurled it at Spider.
Okay, she didn’t actually hurl it. She tossed it. But it surprised Spider as much as hurling would have, and she reached up to protect her face. The onion hit her hand, and she grabbed it. She caught it. Which was a big surprise.
“Cut it?” she said to Britta.
“Like in rings, thin if you can?” Britta looked exasperated at having to explain this.
Spider walked over to the cutting board and picked up a knife. She wasn’t sure what kind of knife you used for an onion, but she chose a long one. Holding the onion with one hand, she sliced through it, top to bottom. The slice was lopsided, and the peel got in the way. Was she supposed to peel it? And it was definitely not thin.
When she tried again, the whole onion slipped from her klutzy hand, bounced to the floor, and rolled away. She leaned to get it. When she stood, she saw Britta staring at her.
Britta held out her hand. “Never mind.”
“What? I’ll wash it.”
“Yeah, no. It’s fine. You win. I’ll cook the chicken myself.” She reached for the onion.
Spider held it away. “That’s not what I meant.” God, what would Ruthie say?
“It’s fine,” Britta said. “I’ll tell Ruthie you helped.” She reached for the cumin.
“I can do it.” She didn’t want to let something like an onion defeat her.
“Just let me work. It’s fine. I’ll have it in the oven before they get back. I’ll tell everyone what a great job you did.”
Britta flipped the oven to 350, then went back to the cupboard. Spider handed her the onion. Britta put it in the sink, then started to pour the various spices into a large plastic bag, seeming to know the amounts without consulting a recipe or even using a spoon. She shook the bag angrily. No, probably Spider was just imagining that. She was shaking the bag to mix the spices. Then she started adding the chicken parts—the chicken Spider had cut up. After a few pieces, she closed the bag and sho
ok it. Yes, it was definitely angrily, considering the chicken bag sounded like a punching bag. Poom, poom! Poom! She dumped the spice-coated chicken onto the counter and added new pieces to the bag.
Spider didn’t know what she wanted to do. She hadn’t really tried cooking, but it would be nice to be able to make something that wasn’t canned soup. It wasn’t Britta’s fault that Spider was defective, wasn’t Britta’s fault that she didn’t admit it. But Britta was concentrating on covering each piece of chicken with spices, as if it was fascinating.
Finally, Spider turned and started upstairs.
She turned back. “I won’t tell them you faked your injury since you’re not telling that I didn’t cook.”
“Deal!” Probably glad to be rid of her, Britta started shaking the bag again. Poom! Poom! Poom!
21
Kate
KEEPING BUSY WAS the best way to stop worrying. That was why Kate had suggested the lake, had made lively (for her) conversation with Ruthie, and had tried to engage Meredith, whose attention seemed to alternate between a brick of a novel and mooning over the townie who’d helped with the bat. Meredith probably thought she didn’t notice this part, but she did. Now Meredith had been silent for thirty minutes, staring at her book but not once turning a page.
Finally, Kate went swimming, using cutting, efficient strokes to reach a point so deep she couldn’t even imagine the bottom. She contemplated continuing across the whole lake. It wasn’t that big, barely more than a pond. But she didn’t want to freak the others out. Maybe next time.
She returned to her uncomfortable wooden chair. Meredith looked up. Was she giving her side-eye? Girls her age always did, and it irked her. She couldn’t help how she looked. Was she supposed to wear a granny suit with a skirt? But no, Meredith just smiled.
“You went so far,” she said. “I was worried about you.”
Kate said, “You should go swimming. We could swim out to the dock and jump off.” She’d done that once, actually, and it had made her feel like a kid, but a luckier kid than she’d actually been, a kid who got to jump and frolic instead of taking polite swimming lessons at camp or staying in the shallow end at the country club.