Jules pressed her hands against the page, flattening it for the best view. “She doesn’t like art.”
“Who?”
“Jennifer. I’m not sure what she’s into besides my dad.”
“He’s probably just having a fling.”
“He’d better be.” She flipped the page and inhaled a perfume sample. “Do you hate Polly?”
“No,” I said, thinking. “It’s just, she’s not my family, and my dad wants me to pretend like she is, and I have to do it all the time.”
“That sucks,” Jules said, flipping through the pages. “But she is family, right?”
“She’s his family,” I said.
“But he’s your dad.”
“I don’t want to think about it.” I stared out at the water. “Let’s go for a swim.”
She got up and I followed her, but turned back when I realized I was still wearing my sunglasses. I could see the Breezes staff setting up for dinner. I could see Amy looking out at me from the porch, a hand on her hip, her bright red lipstick visible from here. I wondered if Ben had told her that we’d hooked up. I wondered if I was her Parker. I was not going to be anyone’s Parker. “Hey,” I called. I smiled and waved.
“Is that girl giving you the finger?” Jules asked.
“Yup,” I said, continuing to wave. “She sure is.”
Twenty-three
“NO, NO,” BEN SAID, as the land rover stalled yet again. “You need to lift your foot off the clutch while you put your foot on the gas.”
“I did.”
“You have to do it at the same time. Like I’ve been telling you. For an hour.”
“That’s what I was doing,” I said, tapping the steering wheel with my palms.
It was the first time I’d seen Ben tense. Even on Saturday nights when the bar was slammed, he moved as if knowing that the world was going to wait for his easy smile, sun-lightened hair, and faded shirts. Now, on these sandy back roads, a little furrow disturbed his smooth brow.
“I was lifting my foot gently off the clutch just like you said,” I insisted. He pointed at my foot, which was still depressing the clutch. I jerked it away. “I mean that’s what I did. Seriously, when it was happening, that’s what I was doing. I swear.”
He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe me. I sighed, trying desperately to appear even-tempered and in control. I was going to drive this Land Rover if it killed me.
“Here’s the thing. If you don’t lift your foot off the clutch, the gear can’t catch,” Ben said, sounding like someone’s dad. “Want me to draw you a picture?” I glared at him. “Whoa. Okay. You want to take a break?” He put a hand on my knee. “Sadie is expecting us for dinner soon.”
“No,” I said, pushing his hand away. “I can get this.”
His cell phone rang. He paled as he glanced at the number and silenced it. Was it Amelia?
“I’m ready when you are,” he said.
I took a deep breath and turned the key. It wouldn’t start. “Shit.”
“You’re foot isn’t on the—”
“I know!” I took another breath and pulled an old lacrosse trick: visualizing. In lacrosse, it was the ball landing in the net I saw in my mind’s eye. Now, it was the car traveling effortlessly down the road. I started the car again, releasing the clutch as I applied my foot to the gas—at the same time—and we started to move.
“Yay!” I said. “Yay, yay, yay!”
“All right, nice job.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re cooking with gas.”
“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit,” I said as I saw another car approaching. These back roads had been ours alone for an hour now. Why did other people have to show up now? “There’s another car on the road.”
“That’ll happen from time to time, but you got it,” he said, tilting the steering wheel toward him to give the other car, which was full of kids headed to the beach, enough room to pass.
“Good work. Now you’re going to shift into second gear. This is easy, since you’re already moving.”
“Okay.” I pressed on the clutch and shifted. Ben whistled.
“I like second gear,” I said, unable to suppress a huge smile. “Second gear is, like, my favorite.”
“You want to drive all the way to Sadie’s?”
“I’ll try,” I said, exhilarated by my triumph. He directed me down a few roads and casually turned on the radio. Fleetwood Mac was singing “Gypsy” on the classic rock station from the Cape. Mom loved this song. I knew every word. I was so focused on the task at hand, so deep in my concentration, that I started to sing along quietly without even realizing it.
“You have a pretty voice,” Ben said. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
“Thanks, but I can’t. My mom’s the singer.”
“You sound good to me,” he said, tossing off one of his gorgeous smiles.
“I don’t have perfect pitch,” I said. Mom had checked my pitch a few times and even though she tried to hide it, I knew it disappointed her that I hadn’t inherited her gift. Somewhere along the line, I’d decided that if I couldn’t sing perfectly, I wouldn’t do it at all.
“It’s not about perfect,” Ben said as the road changed from dirt to paved. “It’s about expression.”
Two trucks peeled out from a big driveway and trailed us. Ahead, a stop sign loomed. My grip on the wheel tightened.
“Oh, god,” I said, eying my rearview mirror. One was a gigantic Suburban and the other a Ford Expedition.
“One foot on the clutch, one foot on the brake,” Ben said as we approached the stop sign.
I did what he said, and miraculously, the Land Rover came to a halt.
“I did it! I did it!” We high-fived. Once the road was clear, I stepped on the gas, forgetting all the little steps I was supposed to do between. Something screeched. I tried to get us going again, choosing two different pedals. The car lurched.
“My transmission!” Ben said. My back was sweating. My thighs were sticking to the seat. I couldn’t remember which pedal was which and I didn’t want to touch any of them. Behind me, the driver of the Ford Expedition leaned on his horn.
“What the hell?” the driver called out the window.
“Calm down, dude,” Ben said under his breath.
“Can we switch?” I asked Ben as the guy pressed on his horn again, this time sticking his middle finger out his window. He kept jabbing it higher and higher. “Uh, we have to switch.”
“Okay. Turn the car off.”
I did and we both climbed out of the car. But then the car started to roll onto whatever main road I’d been trying to turn onto. It was moving on its own! An oncoming car slammed on its brakes, forcing the car behind it to do the same.
“Jesus,” Ben said, as we ran alongside the car, opened the doors, and climbed inside. It wasn’t rolling fast, but it was the first time I’d ever jumped inside a moving car. Ben did whatever it was people who drive stick know to do, and we pulled over to the side of the road. The Expedition guy shouted something as he turned in the opposite direction.
“I, um, forgot the emergency brake,” I said.
“I know,” he said. And we burst into laughter as he started the car. I was laughing so hard that I almost didn’t notice that it was Parker’s car that had slammed on the brakes and was now passing us. Her dark hair streamed out the window like a raven taking flight. Zack was in the passenger seat, craning his neck to get a better look at me. I knew in my gut that he’d seen the whole thing. The Rolling Stones came on the radio. I turned up the volume, put my feet on the dash, and sang my heart out.
Twenty-four
“AND THESE WERE MY PARENTS, Harriet and Bernard, Broadway actors. They were part of the ’Sconset Actors Colony back in the Roaring Twenties,” Sadie said, pointing to a photo of a dramatic
woman with a draped Grecian dress and a wreath of flowers in her hair, striking a pose next to a man who was lounging on a porch looking both guilty and delighted with himself. “My parents built this cottage themselves.”
“That’s this cottage?” I asked, taking a closer look at the picture. “Where we are right now?” Ben sat next to me with a fresh beer, and I tried not to squeal as he slipped a cold hand between my lower back and the sofa. Sadie’s house was tiny, with one bedroom, one bathroom, a little kitchen, and a living room that doubled as Ben’s bedroom at night. We were both couch surfing this summer.
Sadie was older than I’d thought. From the way Ben had spoken about her, swimming in the ocean every day and peppering her speech with her favorite four-letter words, I’d imagined her to be the same age as Polly’s parents, Rosemary and Jim, and neither of them had gray hair. But Sadie was old-lady old, with white hair and watery eyes, even though she’d lit up like a teenager when she’d seen Ben waving to her as we headed into the driveway.
“You don’t recognize it because so much has been built up around it,” she said. “You used to be able to see the ocean from the porch.”
“And there was an actors’ colony on Nantucket?”
“There certainly was. And what free spirits they were,” she said, turning the page to reveal a sepia-toned group hanging out on a porch. Some were smoking pipes, some were wearing crazy hats. Some were in costumes and others in bathing suits, but they all looked like they were having the time of their lives. “They came out here to write and act and make music and, let’s face it, get laid.”
“I warned you about her,” Ben said, smiling, sipping his beer, and sliding that hand farther down my back.
“I had no idea. I’d always thought of Nantucket as a vacation spot, not a place where artists go.”
“Nantucket has always been a place for oddballs and wanderers; that’s the nature of an island.” She turned another page, to a picture in which a busty girl in a bikini posed in the sand. “Oh, that’s me, the summer I met Ben’s grandfather. We made love for the very first time on that beach.”
“Wow,” was all I could think of to say.
“We had fun in the old days,” Sadie continued. “Now I don’t know what young people want.”
“We want the same stuff,” Ben said.
“But these kids driving seventy-thousand-dollar cars? It’s like they’re already middle-aged. I didn’t want fancy cars when I was young. I wanted adventure. Sex. Romance. The open road.”
“Cricket almost got us killed on the open road today,” Ben said, and I pinched his leg.
“But it takes money to travel and be free,” I said, thinking of Parker and her new Parisian wardrobe, Jules’s graduation car, Nina on the Amalfi Coast.
“No, it doesn’t. During these summers, I didn’t have a dime,” Sadie said. “No one did. Didn’t bother us. Look.” She pointed to a picture of a bunch of people standing around a fire on the beach. Some were drinking beer. Some were laughing. Some peered pensively at the fire. A handsome guy with one of those rockabilly hairstyles was playing the guitar. She tapped the face of a girl who was dancing. “That’s me, in a dress I made from Mother’s curtains. Fun is free, as they say, and adventure is there for those who look for it. Especially on a warm July night in Nantucket.” She placed a cool, soft hand on my cheek.
Sadie loved Nantucket as much as Nina did, but in such a different way. Nina had worn designer clothes and wanted to join the most exclusive club. Sadie was a waitress, dancing on the beach in a dress made of curtains.
“Okay, kiddos, I’m going to turn in. Up she goes,” Sadie said, hoisting herself off the sofa. “I didn’t have my nap today, and I’m tired. Benjamin, take Amelia to the beach and show her the stars. Somehow, on Nantucket, the stars are closer.”
“This isn’t Amelia,” Ben said. His voice lowered. “She’s gone, remember?”
“Sorry.” Sadie shook her head. “Of course. Force of habit.”
Did I look like Amelia? Had she come here with Ben? How many times? I wanted to ask Ben, but his mood had downshifted. His eyes had darkened and were far away.
“There’s a comet that’s supposed to be visible soon,” I said, grasping for the lightness that had been present just moments ago.
“Larsen’s Comet. It’s visible now,” Sadie said. “Great idea! Go have a look.”
“I think she’s kicking us out,” Ben said as Sadie headed into her room with a glass of water and a book under her arm.
“Can we go to that beach and build a bonfire?” I asked, pointing to the picture of Sadie and her friends.
“We’re not supposed to,” Ben said, sounding like himself again. “But we can.”
Ben led me down a path through a grove of trees to a fire pit in the sand. The breeze off the water was chilly. I sat down in the sand and pulled my Brown sweatshirt over my knees. I stared up to see if I could spot the comet, but it was cloudy. I could only see the moon and a couple of very bright stars. Ben unloaded some wood and newspaper from a canvas bag and built a mini-tepee with wood. As he lit the newspaper, he explained that fires weren’t allowed on the beach without a permit, but that it was almost impossible to see the bonfire from the road.
“What would happen if we got caught?” The flame caught the paper and jumped to life. Ben’s face was focused and glowing in the firelight. There was something about watching him build a fire that was making me aware of my breath, my heartbeat, and the way they worked together.
“We might get arrested.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they’re cracking down,” he said, enjoying my discomfort. “And it all goes in the newspaper.”
“Really?”
“Karla does not like to see her staff in the Inky.” Ben stood up, admired his work, and dusted off his hands. Normally, information like this would have made me want to snuff out the fire and head back home, but I fought the impulse. Ben said no one could see us from the road. And besides, he had picked up his guitar, and the fire was dancing. The air was swirling with cool, salty breezes and heat from the flames, and the surf was whispering, Stay, shh, stay, shh, stay, shh, stay.
I realized Ben was strumming “Gypsy.” He started to sing and I joined in, thinking that the words reminded me of Nina. But no. They didn’t. They reminded me of Sadie. No. They reminded me of my own mom, singing in the kitchen and in the car. They reminded me of myself, dancing around the living room when I was a little kid. I was remembering a part of me that I’d forgotten about, or maybe I was seeing a glimmer of the person I might become. A girl who was free. A girl on the open road. A girl singing on the beach. I felt connected to something. Something in the moon and the fire and the ocean. I felt a light stream of electricity in my limbs. A sense of belonging to this moment, this place on earth—an ancient kind of happiness.
“What are you thinking about?” Ben asked. “Scoring lacrosse goals at Brown?”
“No. Not at all.”
“When do you start practice?”
“I don’t know.” The idea of lacrosse startled me out of my open-road reverie. I hid my face in my palms, feeling guilty. Lacrosse. I’d put off practice for weeks now. I dug my heels into the sand and inhaled the beach air. The dagger of panic was sharper than ever. It was pointed right at my throat.
“What?” Ben asked.
“Nothing,” I said, burying my head in my arms. The future was vast and open, so why was I headed back to Providence, to do exactly what I’d done all through high school, in the same small city I’d lived my whole life?
“What is it?” he asked.
I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud. I shut my eyes as that feeling of connection, of inexplicable security and feather-light joy, vanished like a wisp of smoke into the night.
Twenty-five
LATER, I COULDN’T SLEEP. As I watched the sky lighten fr
om black to purple, I debated as to whether I was making a big mistake by staying in Rhode Island for college. I pulled the sheet over my eyes and wondered if I even cared about lacrosse anymore. It was not like I’d even read the last two e-mails from Coach Stacy. I hadn’t gone running in over a week. What did that mean? I asked myself as I breathed under my cotton tent.
At three thirty I got out of bed, pulled out my acceptance letter to Brown, and turned on the kitchen light. I smoothed out the letter on the kitchen table, reread it, and remembered what it had felt like to get in. How Mom had screamed as the mailman called, “Congrats!” over his shoulder. How I’d slipped the letter to my dad at Jake’s Diner, telling him very casually that I had something interesting for him to read. He hooted, then popped a quarter in the jukebox and jitterbugged me around the restaurant. I remembered the new looks of respect I received from everyone I told. Mrs. Hart, the ancient English teacher, kissed me on the forehead. Jim and Rosemary were offering me eight thousand dollars so that I could have the full Ivy League experience. I remembered the speech Dad gave in my mom’s driveway at my graduation party, saying that he “couldn’t be prouder.”
How could going to Brown University, the Brown University, ever be a mistake? That was impossible any way you looked at it. And of course, I cared about lacrosse. Of course, I loved it. I poured myself a glass of cold water and drank it all. I closed my eyes and remembered the rush of scoring a goal, the smell of warm grass on a spring afternoon, the pasta dinners with the team the night before a big game. I laid my head on the cool, indifferent kitchen table and repeated the words I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing. I crawled back to my bed, the sofa, and fell asleep as the first birds were starting to sing.
“He’s going to propose!” Jules said as she flew through the door of the inn’s laundry room.
Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) Page 10