The Unlikelies

by Carrie Firestone

  The world needs more heroic people.

  She’s hot. I’d hit that.

  Yeah, if you like Al Qaeda looking bitches.

  “Very original,” I said to Shay, who was going through the slam page with me on her lunch break.

  “At least they didn’t say your ass was fat.” Somebody once called Shay a fat-ass on the slam pages, which was ridiculous because Shay’s entire body was tiny. That one comment made Shay eternally ass-obsessed.

  “I just remembered the guy called me an A-rab right before the incident,” I said.

  “You get that a lot,” Shay said. “Somebody should write a ‘Geography for Dumb Racists’ book.”

  “We could send it to him in prison. A Sadie care package.” I was half serious.

  “Is he going to prison?”

  Until that moment, I had assumed he was going to prison for a long, long time. A wave of anxiety swelled inside me. “I hope so.”

  Lucky for me, the Hamptons Hero story was soon overshadowed by the Hamptons Hoodlum story about a local teen Meals on Wheels volunteer who had been caught stealing from elderly people to feed her shoe-shopping habit. I preferred to be me—ass crack, larva face, and all—than the shamed Hamptons Hoodlum.

  Mom woke me up early for my appointment. I couldn’t wait to get rid of the itchy bandage. I had never been so excited to shower and hopefully smell like a human being again. I shuffled out to the back porch and stood there for a long time with my face up to the sky, grateful to be breathing better. I wandered through the neatly groomed rows of flowering vegetables, then climbed up the back porch steps and sat on the cushioned wicker chair in the shaded corner next to Mom, who was having her tea.

  My swollen face changed color every day. One day it was purple, like the inner petals of a crocus flower, then it faded to hyacinth blue until it settled on the brownish-gold hue of a smashed sunflower. Each time it changed, Mom took a picture.

  “In case they need it for the trial.”

  “I’m sure they don’t need to know how my bruise changes color.”

  “They might, Sadie.” She dropped a pinch of rose petals into her teacup and set it on the saucer. “Are you able to do with just the ibuprofen today?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’m not addicted to painkillers. Stop worrying.”

  “I’m not worrying.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “I think I’m ready for pancakes.”

  Farmer Brian had cleaned up the parking lot and hosed it down. As far as I could see, there were no remnants of blood or glass or honey. I eased back into work, handling the customers while Daniela did the stacking and rearranging. During break, I sat on a wooden crate under the willow tree and ate a quart of strawberries while the weekend traffic crawled by like a long, impatient caterpillar looking for a sea bath and some steamers with butter.

  Sissy and old Mr. Upton wandered in during the afternoon lull.

  “How are you feeling, Sadie?” Sissy asked while Mr. Upton examined snap peas like a jeweler studying diamonds.

  “I’m okay. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”

  “I’m still shaken up. I can’t imagine how you’re doing it, being back here.” Sissy walked around to the side of the counter and put her hand on my shoulder. I felt a tickle inside, like there was a cry trying to surface. “Take care, dear,” she said.

  Mr. Upton nodded and gave me a wink before he took Sissy’s arm and shuffled toward the old Lincoln.

  City people came in to load up on corn and watermelon and cheese and honey to drizzle on the cheese. After the farm stand, they would stop at Citarella for baguettes and Tate’s cookies, and then they’d cozy up on their rental porches, taking in the sea air and dressing fancy for casual dinners.

  The city people probably didn’t know me or what had happened in the parking lot.

  But the locals knew.

  “Sadie, wow. You look so good.” Hannah S. blindsided me while I was bent over a shipment of cherries.

  “Thanks, Hannah. And thanks for all the cranes.” I wiped cherry juice on my apron. “You’re really good at origami.”

  Hannah flashed me a smile. “So… I’m guessing you’ll be at Shawn’s white party?”

  I had forgotten about Shawn’s white party, a variation of his usual Fourth of July tradition. By the look on Hannah’s face, she was going. And I assumed all the gadflies and ruffians would be there.

  “Not sure. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Did you know that there are over a thousand causes of vaginal itch? Shay texted randomly.

  I laughed out loud as I waited on my willow crate for Dad to pick me up.

  If it had been last summer, Shay and I would have met at her house before the party. Shay would have been wearing a white strapless pantsuit with funky white hair feathers and red lipstick. We would have shown up fashionably late, and Shawn’s new girlfriend would have given us jealous looks because we’d known Shawn since he was a bucktoothed kid with ADHD and a huge Pokémon collection. We would have eaten marshmallows and vanilla milk shakes and whatever else people ate at white parties, and watched Seth and those guys do vodka shots off ice sculptures until they dove backward into the pool, messing up their crisp white linen shirts. And Shay and I would have left fashionably early to get pizza before the pizza place closed. We’d have sat on the curb in the middle of town in our dirty white clothes, eating and laughing and making fun of the people who took white parties too seriously.

  But it wasn’t last summer. Shay was in California. And I’d been through an incident.

  Shawn’s white party would be all lameness and emptiness.

  It would be white noise.

  When Dad and I pulled up in the ice cream truck, Mom was on the porch frantically waving a piece of paper.

  “Maybe Grandma finally won the lotto,” I said.

  “Sadie.” Mom bent to catch her breath. “You’ve been invited to be an honoree at the Rotary Club Homegrown Hero Award Luncheon.” She handed me a red-edged invitation. “This is fantastic.”

  I stared at the letter.

  You have been nominated for this special honor… Please join us… Lunch… Homegrown Hero… Other young community leaders nominated from local junior classes…

  “Mom, I can’t go to this. I’m not a community leader. I did one thing.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Of course you’re going to this.”

  “Dad, please don’t make me go. I helped a baby for, like, two minutes. This is for people who do real community service.”

  Dad studied the letter. “I gotta go with your mother on this one, Sadie. They selected you. It’s an honor! We have to go.”

  We went back and forth over our rice and kebabs and vanilla pudding, and in the end, honor won over Please don’t make me do this.

  At least I had an excuse to miss the white party. Two events in one day would be more than my spleen could handle.

  FOUR

  EARLY MORNING ON the Fourth of July, the day of the dreaded homegrown hero luncheon, I lay in bed searching Facebook for pictures of baby Ella. It had become a habit, something I did when I was feeling anxious. Ella’s grandmother had plastered her page with pictures, one with baby Ella holding her fingers, one with baby Ella on a swing, her sparkly pink shoes kicking up toward the sky. I clicked on every friend, every family member. The only one of him was on Ella’s mom’s page, buried in the sea of well wishes and prayer GIFs. He was standing in front of a bonfire, holding a beer, turning away from the camera. It made me cringe to see him there, looking like any guy on Facebook.

  Ella’s grandmother had started a crowd fund on NeighborCare. She called it Help Tammy Make Ends Meet. Pray for Ella. They had raised only $120. It didn’t seem nearly enough.

  Mom made sure we got to the luncheon nice and early. Dad dropped off my grandmothers and Mom and me in front of the main door of the country club and we walked into the lobby, which was bursting with flowers in giant vases on dark wood tables. Three w
omen greeted us from a welcome station.

  “It looks like we have an honoree here,” one of the women said loudly. “You must be Alexis.”

  The woman next to her raised her eyebrows and grabbed the name tag out of her hand. “No, Linda. She’s the young lady who saved the baby. Alexis is the one who will no longer be attending.”

  “Oh. I am so sorry. I just realized I didn’t make up a new name tag.” Linda smacked herself on the forehead.

  “It’s okay,” I said. I glanced quickly at Mom.

  The other woman printed my name on the back of the ALEXIS AHERN name tag with a Sharpie and slid the makeshift name tag into the plastic sleeve. “We are so glad to have you here, Sadie,” she said with enthusiasm.

  Mom and I made our way into the dining room, where most of the crowd was gathered around the bar, sipping martinis and chardonnays. We scanned the bar area for my grandmothers.

  “I can’t believe I’m a fill-in for some other girl who couldn’t make it. This is so mortifying,” I whispered.

  “Let’s try to make the best of it.” Mom was obviously embarrassed, too.

  Dad came in and ordered us all club sodas, except Grandma Sullivan, who wanted a highball. We stood awkwardly among throngs of red, white, and blue balloons and mini flags as bald guys with red faces patted me on the back. “Thank you for all the great stuff the Rotary Club does,” I said, trying to deflect.

  “Are you going to have to face that evil man in court?” an elderly lady asked me. She talked with a side whisper, and I imagined she had been a lifelong gadfly.

  “I have no idea,” I said. I didn’t want to think about facing him again.

  “Sadie?” I turned to see a familiar face standing behind me. I glanced at her gold-starred name tag.

  “Oh my God! Alice! I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  Alice had been in my Girl Scout troop all the way through seventh grade, when our whole troop decided Girl Scouts would not be happening anymore.

  “Troop one eighty-six,” she said with a wink and a thumbs-up.

  “You look awesome. I love the lip ring,” I said. She was tall and thin with long white-blond braids tied back with beaded elastics. Her skin was vampire pale, as if her face had never seen a drop of Hamptons sunshine. “You’re still hanging out with the puppies, huh?” I pointed to the dog rescue T-shirt she wore over a long floral-print skirt. Alice had been obsessed with rescuing dogs since Brownies.

  “I still love my puppy friends. Now I do photography for the shelters.”

  “That’s so cool. I’m here by default.”

  “Hell no. You’re the Hamptons Hero.” She smiled.

  A guy with bushy white eyebrows, also wearing a dog shelter T-shirt, tapped Alice on the shoulder and asked her something about the number of hours she spent at the shelter every week.

  I texted Shay, Alice from Girl Scouts is a homegrown hero and she has multiple piercings. She looks good, though, before Alice turned and led me to the table with the giant gold-star balloon centerpiece.

  A girl with straight shoulder-length black hair pulled back with a headband sat reading the program. Her name tag said VAL RAMOS.

  “Hey, honoree table, I’m guessing?” Alice said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling a little awkward sitting alone.”

  I sat next to Val and took a sip of ice water. “I’m Sadie, fill-in for somebody named Alexis Ahern.”

  “You’re the baby saver. Well done,” she said.

  “Thanks. Some prefer to call me the damn fool.” I took a quick bite of the dinner roll on the plate in front of me. “Sorry, I’m starving.”

  I immediately liked Val, who told us her entire family had come to Long Island from El Salvador. She talked quickly, smiled a lot, and was very animated with her hands. And she seemed passionate about collecting school supplies for migrant workers’ children, which made me feel even less deserving of the award. Alice and I told her we knew each other from Girl Scout days, and she said the Haitian guy in the middle of a crowd by the bar was also an honoree from her school named Jean. She described him as the kind of guy who talked to everyone but didn’t really hang out with anyone except the art teacher. She said he was an amazing artist.

  “How does a kid our age have a full beard?”

  “Who knows? He’s had that for a while.”

  Alice buttered a roll. “So are you guys nervous?” she said.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “The speeches.”

  My stomach dropped. “I thought we were just going up to get the award and shake some hands.”

  “I wish I hadn’t known. I’ve been freaking out for days. I hate talking in public,” Val said. She unfolded a piece of yellow lined paper.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sadie. People will understand you didn’t have time to prepare,” Alice said. “Do you know who you’re filling in for, by the way?”

  “No?”

  “The Hamptons Hoodlum. You know, the one who stole the money from old people and used it to buy shoes.”

  Somehow the fact that I was a substitute for the troll mill’s current favorite subject made me feel even worse about being there. I searched the room for anyone else I knew. I was getting more self-conscious by the minute and desperate to go home and eat franks and beans and watch Mr. Ng screw up the street fireworks.

  A guy in a seersucker suit cleared his throat into the mic and tapped a glass with a knife. “Can you take your seats, please, folks? We’re about to begin.”

  Jean made his way over to the honoree table. “There she is. The Hamptons Hero. You’re totally famous.” He held his hand up for a high five. “That took some balls.”

  I high-fived him and laughed. “Yeah, that’s me. Big Balls Sullivan,” I joked.

  He sat next to Alice and guzzled water.

  “Jean, this is Sadie and Alice. Sadie and Alice, Jean,” Val said.

  “Pleasure,” he said, nodding. “Dude, this place smells like golf bag. Can you guys smell that? Like, leathery or something.”

  “It’s so friggin’ noisy in here I can’t hear anything,” Alice said loudly.

  “My mom brought everyone she knows. And they’re all loud,” Jean said, motioning toward the table of women behind us. “I tried to get out of it, but they’re pumped to be eating lunch at the country club.”

  “I actually wanted to come. It’s good exposure for my cause,” Val said. “Your mom is really dressed up for this, huh, Jean?” We all looked at the table of women wearing fancy suits and oversize hats.

  “She’s Haitian. She dresses up for bed.”

  Just as the guy was tapping the glass with the knife again, Gordie Harris rushed in and sank into the seat on the other side of Val.

  “Gordie? You’re a homegrown hero?” I said, surprised.

  “Yes, I appear to be.” He fumbled with his gold-starred name tag and pinned it to his navy polo shirt. Gordie was rich, preppy, and the smartest kid in my class. He sailed. And he played the saxophone. Those were all things I learned during my massive middle-school Gordie Harris crush phase (which ended when the ruffians, of all people, saw him hooking up with a guy and I realized I probably didn’t have a chance).

  Gordie nodded at Jean. “Man, that is some impressive facial hair.”

  Just then, a Rotary guy took the mic and spoke about community service and civic responsibility. Through the clinking and scraping of people inhaling their dry chicken and soggy asparagus lunches, the guy called up Rotary members to talk about their nominated honorees.

  A school principal walked to the podium, held up a red-white-and-blue ribbon, and called Val to the stage. Val’s hand trembled as she slid past me and walked slowly in her knee-length khaki skirt, tucked-in pink button-down, and ballet flats.

  “Thank you so much for this esteemed award,” Val read from her yellow paper. “Migrant children move often and—”

  “Can’t hear you,” some lady yelled from the back.

&nbs
p; She leaned closer to the mic. “Migrant children face many struggles. I encourage you all to donate school supplies to my drive this summer. With your help, we can prepare more children for school. And school means so much to these families. Thank you.” Val hurried off the stage.

  “You did good, babe,” Jean said, squeezing her shoulder.

  “I was so nervous. I skipped half my speech.” She held up her shaking hands.

  My phone buzzed in my lap. Shay responded to my text with Pooch and Neigh?

  I almost spit out my water. “Oh my God. I forgot about Pooch! Remember, you made us all call you Pooch? Is Neigh here?” I whispered to Alice, referring to her best friend, Izzy. A fancy lady in a white hat and otherwise head-to-toe Lilly Pulitzer announced Jean’s Artist Guild Young Creator’s Award.

  “Uh, yeah. My friends still call me Pooch,” Alice said. “And no, Izzy’s not here.”

  The lady called Jean up and put her arm around him. “How many other young men take it upon themselves to start programs that revolutionize the way children view art?” She called three adorable kids up to give Jean the award honoring the Tiny Art Camp he started.

  Jean squatted down for a photo with the kids before jumping up and saying, “Thank you for this award and for recognizing the importance of art in kids’ lives. This is the second summer of the Tiny Art Camp and we have twice as many kids this year. Much appreciated.” He held up his ribbon and fist-bumped the kids.

  Next up was Alice, who talked about her efforts photographing shelter dogs to give them a better chance at getting adopted. The bushy-eyebrowed guy from the dog rescue played a slide show of pit bulls dressed in pink bandannas and smiling for the camera.

  “I’m available to photograph events for free, but only if you adopt a shelter dog.” People laughed and Alice smiled. “Thanks for this. It means a lot.”

  “Badass,” Jean said when Alice came back to the table.

  “And now I’d like to introduce a young man who has dedicated countless hours to working with developmentally disabled folks. Gordie Harris, come on up.”