Nantucket Blue

by Leila Howland

  “Besides, it’s so clear that Jay likes you,” she said, rifling through her closet. I flopped back on the bed and grinned. I drummed my fingers on the pale-yellow coverlet as I smiled wildly.

  “Do you think I’ll lose my virginity to Jay?” I asked, biting my lip to hide my smile, not wanting to jinx anything. Jules and I were both virgins, although she’d come very close last summer with some boarding-school guy.

  “It’s possible,” Jules said. “But don’t do it right away.”

  “Oh my god, no. Six-month rule,” I said. Jules and I decided that six months was the perfect amount of time to go out with a guy before sex. With that kind of time, you would know you weren’t being used. I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “I just thought of something bad,” I said. “What if Jay turns out like his brother?” Jay has an older brother who was just like him in high school: gorgeous, popular, athletic, but he quit college, got arrested for drunk driving, and now lives at home and works at the bagel shop. And he can’t drive, so I always see him walking places with big circles under his eyes. I could picture him so clearly. “He’s such a loser.”

  “Cricket,” Jules said. “That’s mean.” But she was smiling. This was the thing about Jules. I could always say what I was really thinking to her and she wouldn’t stop liking me. Actually, I got the feeling when I said stuff like this, stuff you can think but really shouldn’t say, it made her like me more.

  “Sorry, but it’s true,” I said. “He looks sad all the time. I feel bad going into the Bagel Place.”

  “I know what you mean. I hate it when he’s working there. I can’t just be myself when I order a bagel.”

  “I hope it doesn’t run in the family, because I think Jay and I should get married someday. I mean, after we’ve both been to college.”

  “Can I be your maid of honor?”

  “Of course.” I sighed. “I can’t believe I won’t see him again for like, months!” He was leaving for Nantucket soon. So was Jules. Everyone was going somewhere for the summer. The Cape. Martha’s Vineyard. Arti was going to an arts program in Innsbruck, Austria. Even Nora Malloy was going on an Outward Bound trip. She was going to scale Mount Rainier (and probably a few of her fellow mountaineers).

  “You never know what can happen,” Jules said, considering a pair of white jeans.

  I wasn’t looking forward to spending another summer in Providence babysitting Andrew King. I’d be setting up the baby pool in the King’s driveway while everyone else was somewhere fabulous. But my family just didn’t have enough money for a summer place or a European vacation. I could just see myself filling up that damn plastic pool with the hose in the heat of the midday and then stepping on its edge to let it drain when the streetlights came on.

  The sound of a trumpet blasted into the room through the speaker in the ceiling.

  “Guess my mom’s home,” Jules said. Nina had just discovered a South African jazz musician after she’d read about him in The New Yorker, and was listening to his new album on repeat like a teenager to the latest pop star, blasting it through the house’s surround-sound system. We broke into the dance we’d made up to this now very familiar tune. Jules air-trumpeted and I twirled around her.

  Jules and Zack made fun of Nina for her obsessions, but I loved how she’d focus on something—a poet or a film director or even a color, a particular shade of orange—then leave some corner of their house changed by her discovery: an oversized book of Mexican art in the front hall marked with neon Post-its, a William Carlos Williams quote stenciled in the downstairs bathroom, a vintage John Coltrane poster in the den, a yellow ceramic bowl filled with apricots on the dining room table.

  Just last week she’d asked me to read aloud to her from a Jonathan Franzen book she couldn’t put down while she cooked dinner. I was sitting cross-legged on their kitchen counter. “What would I do without you, Cricket?” Nina said when I finished a chapter. She was chopping onions. “No one else in this house will read to me.”

  Mr. Clayton was at work. Zack was studying for an exam. Jules was watching Splash in the den. She’s obsessed with ’80s movies.

  “I love this guy,” I said, flipping the book over to look at the author photo. “I love how he described the real estate lady in her jeans. And the way he talked about her haircut!”

  Nina blinked away onion tears and looked at the author photo. “I bet he looks pretty excellent in jeans.” She sipped her wine, then put the glass down and crushed some garlic. “Okay, keep going.”

  I smiled and turned the page.

  I was pliéing around a barely dressed Jules to the flute solo in the South African jazz song when Zack opened the door. “Hey, Mom’s in her dashiki.” He strode in the room but stopped at the sight of Jules in her bra and underwear. “What the hell are you two doing? Jesus! Why didn’t you warn me?”

  He ran out.

  “You should knock,” Jules called after him, howling with laughter.

  “I didn’t know you were in your freaking lingerie. You’ve scarred me for life,” he yelled from the hallway.

  “At least she wasn’t wearing a thong,” I said, leaving Jules to get dressed, and shutting the door behind me.

  “That doesn’t make me feel better,” he said, retreating into the den. I followed him. He sat on the sofa, his head in his hand. “In fact, great. Thanks for the image.”

  “What you saw was no different than a bathing suit.”

  “Oh, yes it is,” he said. “I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but it is.” The right corner of his mouth turned up. He put his feet on the coffee table. Crossed his ankles. “I have to make an appointment with the worry doctor now.” The Claytons had moved here four years ago from New York. From what Jules had told me, Zack had been an anxious kid with thick glasses who’d seen a psychiatrist, his “worry doctor,” during most of elementary school. Most people were embarrassed about therapy, but Zack owned his time in the chair—“It’s not a couch,” he said, “but a comfortable black leather chair and ottoman, very nineteen seventies”—and was happy to discuss it with anyone who asked. He’d stayed back a year when they had moved here, and now he was a funny, slightly under-the-radar freshman at Alden with plenty of friends and boldly framed glasses he wore with confidence.

  “Nice game today, by the way, Cricket.” I hadn’t even noticed he was there. “And, yes, I’m aggressively changing the subject. You were awesome out there.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, and plopped next to him on the sofa.

  “You’re so fast, like an animal running from whatever’s above it on the food chain.”

  “Are you calling me an animal, Zack Clayton?” I smacked him with a needlepoint pillow of a crab.

  “Hey, the crab is a lover, not a fighter,” he said, taking the pillow from me and placing it behind his head. “I just meant that you looked like a prairie dog fleeing a jackal.”

  “I’m a prairie dog now?” He nodded. I looked around for another pillow, but by the time I’d spotted one, he’d grabbed it and was holding it in front of his face in self-defense.

  He lowered it and said, “But who says being an animal is bad? Personally, I think we should honor more of our animal instincts.”

  “If I ever catch you two following your animal instincts, I’ll puke twice and die,” Jules said, emerging from her room wearing jeans and a delicate cardigan over a loose, low-necked T-shirt.

  “I wasn’t flirting,” I said.

  “Who said anything about flirting?” Zack was smiling, eyebrows raised. I looked at him in shock.

  “Busted,” Jules said. Zack hugged the pillow and tilted his head back in a silent laugh.

  “Don’t be a cocky bastard, Zack,” Jules said, and then turned to me. “Just so you know, he has a fungus on his back. There is literally a fungus among us.”

  “Hey, that cleared up,” Zack said, adjusting the bill of his baseball cap. “And it was just on my shoulder.”

  “Hope you’ve b
een wearing flip-flops in the shower, Cricket,” Jules said.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Mr. Clayton called from downstairs.

  Jules looped a long necklace over her head. “I wonder what Mom brought me from the city.” I hopped off the sofa and followed her down the narrow back staircase.

  Nina wasn’t in a dashiki. She wasn’t there. It was Mr. Clayton who’d put the South African jazz guy on the stereo. He was in his suit, phone cradled under his chin, as he unloaded some salads from a paper bag with the familiar Providence Pizza insignia. The pizzas were on the table. Zack had opened the box and was pulling out a slice when Mr. Clayton handed him the phone. “Your mom wants to talk to you.” Zack took the phone.

  “Mom’s not coming home?” Jules asked Mr. Clayton. Mr. Clayton said that no, Nina had a terrible headache and was so tired from a day of shopping with her friends that she’d ordered room service and was going to stay an extra night in the city, which I’d learned from hanging around the Claytons meant New York.

  “But I thought we were going to…?” Jules whispered something to Mr. Clayton, and he whispered back. Zack gave the phone to Jules, and she took it into the dining room to talk to Nina. Jules peeked around the corner, signaling for me to join her. She pulled the phone away from her mouth and said, “We want to know if you want to spend the summer with us on Nantucket?” I shrieked and wrapped my arms around Jules with such force we fell backward onto the cushioned window seat, and she dropped the phone. I felt her stomach tighten with laughter under my weight.

  I’d heard a lot about Nantucket from Jules. I’d seen pictures of the Claytons suntanned, barefoot, and happy at their house with two benches out front facing each other, the big wraparound side porch, and the backyard that looked like an English garden, with bunny rabbits and butterflies. I’d heard the names of Nantucket places, which, together, sounded like a secret language: Shimmo, ’Sconset, Sankaty. Miacomet, Madaket, Madequecham. Cisco, Dionis, Wauwinet. I’d heard about moonlit, all-night parties on the beach, watching the sunrise with kids named Parker and Apple and Whit. I’d seen photos of a candy-striped lighthouse and a cobblestoned town so safe that parents let their children wander free. I’d held Nina’s jam jar of Nantucket sand as white and fine as sugar. I’d stared at the framed poster in Jules’s bedroom of little sailboats with rainbow-colored sails so long that I could practically feel the salt wind on my cheeks.

  “Is that a yes?” Nina’s voice was tiny from the pinprick holes in the phone. I picked the cordless off the floor.

  “Yes,” I said. Then I remembered. “I guess I need to ask my mom.”

  “I already talked to her, sweetheart. She said it was up to you.”

  “Are you serious?” I squeezed Jules’s hand. “Thank you, thank you,” I said into the phone. No forced weekends with Dad and Polly and Alexi. No Saturday nights watching Real Life Mysteries with Mom, or worrying about why she was going to bed at eight thirty. Instead, Jules and I would get jobs and go to parties and stay out all night. I’d practically live in my bikini. I’d have sand in my shoes all summer, I’d go to bed with hair stiff from swimming in salt water, and I’d always be able to smell the ocean. I’d walk to town on cobblestoned streets. And Jay would be there. I felt pretty certain now that this would be the summer we’d fall in love.

  Nina started to hang up, when out of nowhere I told her that I loved her. I blushed, cringing with embarrassment. Who says this to someone else’s mom? I’d meant it, but I hadn’t meant to say it. I was just so happy.

  Nina didn’t even pause. “Aw, I love you too, Cricket. And you’re going to love the island. Once you spend a summer on Nantucket, a little piece of you will stay there forever. Now, tell everyone I’ll call back later. I’m going to lie down. I’m not feeling so great.” We hung up.

  I had no idea that I’d chosen my words so well. I had no idea how important it was that I’d said what I did. Because by the time we’d pulled into Nora’s driveway and marched past her pumping the keg, by the time Jules and I found Jay and all those guys reclining on the deck chairs around Nora’s pool, by the time I’d told Jay I was going to Nantucket and he said that was “the best news,” Nina was gone.

  Three

  HOTEL HOUSEKEEPING HAD FOUND Nina’s body. She’d had an aneurysm. (A freak thing; it can just happen.) She died not long after eight o’clock, about the time we’d hung up the phone. Mr. Clayton didn’t tell me any of this that bright morning when I’d woken up earlier than Jules.

  I’d been up for hours. While I was waiting for Jules to show signs of consciousness, for her eyes to blink open, her fists to uncurl, for that sudden intake of air that signaled her release from the depths of slumber, I made a list of the top five reasons I liked Jay. First, he’s beautiful. He has big dreamy eyes and the best boy butt I’ve ever seen. Second, he’s such a talented athlete. He looks like some kind of warrior on the lacrosse field. He’s graceful and powerful at the same time. I think part of my attraction is some kind of primitive response to his potential ability to hunt food while I gather berries. Third, I like the way he stands. Okay, I know this is weird, but there’s something about it I just love. I can’t explain it. Fourth, he has a cool family. His mom is so pretty, with her long red hair that’s always a little messy in a way that makes her seem young, and his dad has cool old cars. Even though his brother is having a rough time, I bet he still has greatness in him. You can kind of see it when he’s walking around. His walk is still confident, even if some other part of him is shattered. Fifth, Jay always sticks up for his brother, so I know he’s a good guy with a real heart. I know he’d be a great boyfriend.

  At eleven o’clock, I finally kicked the covers off. I was hungry. I remembered dinner last night and grinned. The Nantucket invitation hadn’t been a dream, had it? No, it was real. It was real, and it was all ahead of me, sparkling like a distant city.

  I hesitated at the top of the stairs. Usually, I’d hear kitchen sounds: the fridge opening or closing, the cutlery drawer sliding on its rails, newspaper pages turning and snapping, bare feet padding the blond planks of the wood floor. Usually, I’d smell coffee, cinnamon swirl bread in the toaster, maybe bacon, and feel the warm currents of energy that Nina emanated in the cotton pajama bottoms and Brown University T-shirt she slept in. But on that morning, the house felt the way the world does after it’s snowed all night: quiet, muffled, absent of sound. The air smelled like nothing. I went down anyway. Maybe they’d gone out?

  I was so certain I was alone that I was talking to myself, replaying what Jay had said to me the night before. I was sitting on his lap in a lawn chair. “Do you even know how cute you are?” he’d asked, speaking into my neck, bouncing me slightly on his knee. “Do you?” I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone this without sounding like I was bragging, without it sounding stupid and possibly sexist. Edwina MacIntosh dedicated a section of her yearly “Critical Eye” lecture on gender and the media to slides of women in magazines acting sexy in little-girl poses. Those pictures were really messed up. I’d felt a little guilty when I’d sat on Jay’s lap like that, like I was disappointing Rosewood School for Girls. I couldn’t tell anyone that it had made me feel shy and pretty and powerful all at once.

  Also, I couldn’t believe we hadn’t kissed. He and his friends started playing some drinking game, and none of them were hanging out with girls. Still, I reminded myself with a grin, he’d asked for my phone number. I’d watched him enter it into his phone.

  It wasn’t until I’d pulled the bread out of the fridge that I’d turned and seen Mr. Clayton, a cup of to-go coffee in front of him, sitting as still and silent as the stone Abraham Lincoln in the memorial we’d visited on a class trip to Washington, D.C. He was fish-belly white. He was holding something. It was wrapped around his fist. A bandage? A pillowcase? He lowered his hand to his lap.

  “You need to go,” he said, and swallowed. His voice was low and serious and not the one he used to talk to his kids. Or to me.

  I instinctively knew n
ot to ask questions. I nodded and walked silently up the stairs two steps at a time, stuffed my feet into my tied sneakers, and walked out the front door with my half-packed overnight bag. I was confused, just following directions, aware that it was hot, almost the middle of the day, and I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth or had a sip of water. I had a two-mile walk to my mom’s house. Also, I’d left my cell phone plugged into Jules’s wall.

  When I got to the mailbox on the corner I realized that Mr. Clayton had been holding the T-shirt Nina slept in. He’d been pressing it to his face when I’d walked in the room. Those red eyes. The strange, wobbly voice. He’d been crying. And that’s when, with no other evidence, I’d wondered if she’d died. I stopped, touched my fingers to my lips, and closed my eyes against the sunshine. A freezing darkness rushed through me, like I’d capsized, like I was attached to an anchor that was pulling me to the ocean floor. But it couldn’t be true. It was horrible to even think it.

  I let myself into the house. Mom’s sad, solitary breakfast plate was in the sink, peppered with crumbs, next to her solitary coffee mug, the one that spelled out “teacher” in letters made by rulers and apples. Mostly we ate off of paper towels or from the plastic containers of the supermarket deli, using so few dishes that she only ran the dishwasher on Sundays.

  It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when I’d passed plates of cheese and crackers at the impromptu dinner parties she and Dad had. I would play waitress until my bedtime, when I’d fall asleep to the smell of roast chicken and the sounds of the party wafting through the heating vents. Mom would check on me before she went to bed, and said that sometimes she’d find me giggling in my sleep. I used to think it was because the last thing I’d hear before I drifted off was her laughter.