“But here we are,” I said. “Confronted with skid marks.”
“I can’t believe these people are on their honeymoon.” Liz shook her head and we promised each other we would never allow such things in our future marriages. “Once you let them see you pee, it’s all downhill,” she added. I nodded in agreement. I couldn’t imagine letting a guy see me pee. Disgusting. Friends, yes. Boys, never.
I used a clean rag to wipe down the sink and thought of the young couple who had been smooching all through breakfast. The man had muscles you could see through his T-shirt, and the woman had perfect white teeth. “You’d think they’d have at least closed the seat,” I said.
“Must be true love,” Liz said, and snapped on the extra-long, yellow latex gloves. “Go tackle the bedroom. I’ve got this loo, but you have to get the next.”
“Deal,” I said, and went to plug in the vacuum cleaner.
For the past week, I’d been consumed by what had happened with Jules. While I was emptying the dishwasher, vacuuming the rugs, or tucking crisp sheets under the corner of a mattress, I was reviewing the scene, obsessing over each word, slowing the fight down, trying to get a grip on it, hoping to figure out exactly where it all went wrong. I’d expected her to call me with an apology, but there hadn’t been a word.
The biggest question in my mind was…why? Why had Jules told Jay what I’d said about his brother? If she didn’t want to hang out with me for some crime too great to be named, if I was bothering her, fine, okay. But to go and ruin my chance with Jay?
I tried to picture the moment she’d done it. Had she exaggerated my comment for a crowd, or had she said it to him with a sisterly pat on the arm, her voice low and dripping with concern, like, Oh, Jay, this is something you should know? I put the blanket the couple had left in a tangled heap on the floor back on the bed, but decided to vacuum around the clothes that were strewn everywhere. Was true love really this messy? Wait a second, I thought as I picked up a still-damp towel with my thumb and forefinger and dropped it in the laundry bag. Had Jules been flirting with Jay? Oh my god, why hadn’t I thought of that earlier?
This wave of anger, just like every other, was dragged back out to sea when I remembered that her mother had died. Her mother. Died. Even though she drove me crazy sometimes, the thought of losing my own mother made me feel like I had a dry cleaning bag over my head. But still. What the hell had I done except try to be good, except offer to help, except try to be there for my best friend at the worst moment of her life?
I switched on the TV to give my mind a break. Liz said it was fine as long as Gavin was out and we kept the volume way down. I thought I’d stumbled onto some local Nantucket channel when I saw Bradley Lucas standing in front of a big Nantucket house. Isn’t that nice of Mr. Lucas, lending his talent to the local station, I thought as I bent to find the switch on the vacuum. But after a few seconds I realized this was no local TV station, but CNN. This was national news. As the shot widened, I saw other news vans in the background and a small crowd of people.
A banner ran at the bottom announcing the death of William “Boaty” Carmichael, the Massachusetts senator whose family vacationed here. He was famous for his boyish good looks and his weird nickname. He was also Parker’s uncle. He was around my parents’ age, with a baby face and blond curly hair. I remembered during one election season when my mother was driving me home from an away lacrosse game, somewhere near Boston. We passed a sign with Boaty Carmichael’s picture on it.
“I’d vote for him,” I said, prying some dirt from my cleats. “He’s so handsome.”
“That’s no reason to elect a person,” my mother said, a look of horror on her face. She saw a clump of dirt that had fallen from my cleat and added, “Stop that. This is my car, not a stable.”
“I still think he’s cute,” I said, releasing my foot to the floor and tossing the hunk of dirt out the window.
“Really, Cricket? I’m sending you to an all-girls’ school and you think it’s a good idea to vote for a man based on looks? Do you know anything about him? About his policies?” She stepped on the accelerator.
“Mom!” I said, gripping the door as the driver of a silver minivan slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting us. “That was a stop sign.”
Now I looked at the clip of him on the TV, shaking hands with the less handsome people of the world. He looked like such a great guy the way he made eye contact, smiling so vigorously his curls shook. As he leaned in to listen to a liver-spotted old lady, his blues eyes crinkled with friendliness.
“Liz, come here,” I said.
“What happened?” Liz looked around the room to see if I’d broken or spilled something.
“On the TV. Senator Carmichael died. Heart attack.”
“You’re kidding,” she said, and grabbed the remote off the quilt. She turned up the volume. “They’re out by the family compound. Poor Boaty.”
“You knew him?” With her swagger and that accent, Liz seemed capable of knowing senators, of knowing anyone she wanted to.
“He came here at least once a summer. Big muffin fan. Rhubarb was his favorite.” She shook her head. “What a shame. He has those two small children.” As if on cue, an old clip of the young family flashed on the screen, probably from the night he’d been elected. They were all dressed up and waving on a stage. I could see bits of Parker in them. I could see her toothy smile, the high cheekbones, and the big round eyes, all of which made the family seem part of a Disney movie. The Carmichael family possessed features that should have added up to beauty but somehow fell short. All except Boaty.
Now Parker and Jules would be more bonded than ever. I felt like curling up in the bed, pulling the sheets over my head, and taking a nap. And then I remembered that this was probably where the honeymooners were having sex all night long, so I leaned forward and put my head in my hands.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Liz said, patting my back. “His brother will surely take his place.”
Fourteen
LATER, I RODE THE BLUE BIKE that by now had sort of become mine into town, where faces were downcast, heads were bowed, and hands were shoved into brightly colored pockets. All the children tucked closer into the sides of their parents. My mother’s dislike of Boaty Carmichael was a buffer against all the solemn, complimentary chatter, making me feel like less of a Nantucket person than ever. “A loss for the whole country.” “On his way to the White House.” “Nantucket’s son, America’s son.” I was afraid if anyone looked at me for a second too long they’d be able to tell that my mother hated the guy.
I saw a short dress in the window of a boutique. It was a slim, silk, one-shouldered number with a thin gold belt around the waist. It filled me with hope, and I decided to try it on to cheer myself up. I went into the store, which was empty except for the saleslady, who looked pale despite her tan. She held a tissue to her lips as she watched the TV, the same loop I’d seen earlier, reviewing the same news.
“Can I try this on?” I asked. She nodded vaguely in my direction, her eyes glued to the TV, then dabbed her reddened nose with the shredded tissue. I felt like a criminal for smiling.
Once in the dressing room with the canvas curtain closed, I slipped the dress over my head. The cool silk kissed my skin and skimmed my body. It hit my mid-thigh, flirting with being too short but staying, somehow, classy beyond a doubt. I peeled off my sweaty socks and slid my feet into a pair of strappy gold heels that were under the bench, waiting for me. The high waist made my legs look longer, and the deep emerald green brought out the blond streaks in my hair, which I took out of my ponytail and shook to my shoulders. The one bare shoulder was the secret, the reveal. I look like I could be on TV, I thought, turning to see the back. I look like I could be famous. If I wore this dress it would be impossible for anyone to make me feel bad. Powers would shift.
I checked out the price tag dangling beneath my armpit. Four hundred and ninety-five dollars! That was more than a week’s pay. I thought about how difficult my first week had be
en. My elbows were sore from scrubbing, my hands felt rougher from the various cleaning chemicals. My summer earnings were the only money I had all year for trips to the movies, clothes that weren’t uniforms, and my cell phone bill. But I wanted this so badly that my wanting began to grow a life of its own. I unzipped carefully, leaning forward and rounding my back to pull the dress over my head, trying not to touch the silk too much, afraid to matte its gloss. I sat on the bench to think.
The bell that hung over the front door rang faintly.
“Hi, doll,” said the saleslady. Her voice was surprisingly rough: a smoker, a drinker, or maybe a yeller.
“Hey, Nan.” That voice I knew. It was Jules. It was her talking to a grown-up she didn’t like but had to be nice to voice. I went pale, stuck my hands in my armpits, felt lightheaded. I lifted my bare feet from the ground onto the little bench, my toes as cold as frozen peas. As much as I wanted to run into her, as much as I wanted to force her to face me, as much as I wanted to ask her why she’d done what she’d done and said what she’d said; as much as I wanted to scream and cry and really have it out with her, I couldn’t seem to move from this shell shape. I felt stupid for being here all by myself and trying on a dress without an occasion. What would I say I was shopping for? Next year’s Spring Dance? I could smell my deodorant. I could smell Formula 409 in my fingernails.
“I just came in for my check,” Jules said. “Anyone come in today?”
Of course: this was where she worked! I glanced at the price tag on the dress where the name of the store was printed in pink: Needle and Thread. How had I not noticed? How had I not put it together?
“There’s someone in the dressing room, with the Chloé dress, I think.”
“Great dress,” Jules said, under her breath. They whispered something to each other that I couldn’t make out. Then Jules sighed, and I imagined one hand was on her hip, because that’s usually how she stands when she sighs like that. From the silence, it seemed like they were watching the TV.
“Can you believe this?” Nan asked, and blew her nose.
“It’s so sad. You know Parker Carmichael is my best friend.” My stomach twisted. I clutched my knees. Parker wasn’t her best friend! Parker didn’t know how worried she got about her skin, that she went to the dermatologist sometimes once a week for treatments to prevent a relapse of the acne that had plagued her for a semester our freshman year. Parker didn’t know that even though Jules had the quickest comebacks, trying to conjugate French verbs could make her cry with frustration. She didn’t know that she had a team of tutors and even then couldn’t get above a B in pretty much anything; that she had failed her driver’s-ed test three times. Parker didn’t know that she actually had hooked up with Jeremy Stein sophomore year at the Winter Ball, even though she denied it so much and so often that by now even she believed it hadn’t happened. No one knew that stuff but me.
“Oh, poor girl,” said Nan.
“Are you going to close the shop this week?” Jules asked. I could hear the hope in her voice. Jules liked having a job but hated the working part.
“In July? Are you kidding me?” Sadness vanished from the woman’s voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jules thanked her for the check, and I heard the bells jingle softly.
I waited a few minutes, soundlessly got dressed, left the dress on the hanger in the dressing room, and fled.
I hopped on my bike and cruised out of town, in the opposite direction of Jules’s house. It was hot—the air thick with future rain—and sweat prickled my upper lip. I followed one of those hand-painted-looking signs to Jetties Beach, where I thought maybe I’d find Liz. But when I got there, there was a group of kids my age, the girls with their arms slung around each other. Was Jules among them? I couldn’t risk it. I turned around and headed up a cobblestone hill bordered by a wall of golden moss.
It didn’t matter how good my grades were or that I’d made varsity as a freshman; it didn’t matter how carefully, how perfectly, I’d managed my popularity; it didn’t matter that I’d measured and doled out my flirtations like teaspoons of sugar—never too much to be a tease, always enough to be sweet. Jules was able to take my happiness away from me with one swift betrayal. My social life had slid from good to bad like a hockey puck across a rink. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to take her to friend court. I wanted to sue her. But I could see the faces of the jury when it was revealed that her mother had just died. Died.
I coasted on a quiet little cul-de-sac, peering over hedges, looking at the huge estates, all of them with their flags at half mast. I was wishing I were that kind of rich, the kind where people have to respect you, because that’s what money does. It makes people shut up. It means you live in the big house, throw the cool birthday parties, belong to the country club that has its own jokes, its own dances; take awesome vacations, go skiing enough to get really good at it, own the best clothes, get the green dress.
I was thinking about how being rich was protection, armor, authority, a cushion, a parachute, something to fall back on when the rest of your life sucked. I was pedaling slowly and looking at the biggest house on the street, gazing upward into its turret, pretending I lived there with a three-hundred-and-sixty-five-degree ocean view, a telescope, and a Jacuzzi, when a huge black Navigator peeled out of nowhere, swerved to avoid me, and screeched to a halt an inch from my body. I froze, wincing, shutting my eyes against the spray of gravel and the heat from the car’s engine. A big mean man with fat baby cheeks and a white baseball hat leaned on his horn. The sound moved through my muscles, pulsing the marrow in my bones.
“Get out of the street,” he said, shaking a fist at me, his complexion ruddy with anger.
I got off my bike and jogged it to the sidewalk. I let the bike fall on the grass and sat, my head in my hands, waiting for the man to drive away. I wouldn’t look at him, but I could feel him looking at me, his anger like a scorching ray of sun.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” he said. My legs were shaking. My throat was dry. I was past crying. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed? Stay on the sidewalk.”
“You slow down, Mr. Big Shot!” shouted an old woman in tennis whites walking an even older-looking standard poodle, one hand cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. She had wobbly knees on legs so tanned they looked like they’d stepped on the tennis court in 1975 and never stepped off. “New Yorkers,” she said, eyes narrowed, catching his license plate as the car turned down the hill. Her mouth was pinched, like she’d just chewed a lemon. And I wasn’t sure if she was talking to the poodle or me. “Well, you’re okay,” she said. I nodded quickly. “He was completely out of order. You’re not supposed to ride your bicycle on the sidewalk.”
As she walked past me on her long, old, freckled legs, her proud standard poodle strutting beside her, I wondered how it was that on this tiny island off Massachusetts, with its candy-cane lighthouse, church bells on the hour, daffodils, and ice-cream cones, nowhere felt safe.
Fifteen
I COULDN’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT. My nerves were jangling from almost being hit by that Navigator. There was a fluttery, unsettling lightness in my body that made me want to hug myself just to feel my own weight. The pillow was too squishy and the sheets were scratchy against my skin. I tried counting the roses on the wallpaper, but I couldn’t get past ten without my mind wandering back to Jules or Jay.
Earlier that day, I’d bought a chutney-and-cheddar sandwich from Something Natural, a place Gavin said was the best on the island. The thing was so huge it was like two sandwiches, and I’d only been able to eat a quarter of it, saving the rest for later. That sandwich seemed like the best thing in the world around 2 a.m., when my stomach remembered about lunch and dinner and was demanding both. I walked quietly into the dark kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which Gavin kept gleaming and clean. Where was my sandwich? My perfect, delicious sandwich, full of such odd flavors I almost couldn’t believe I liked it. I’d put it right here, I thought, touching the empty shelf as if th
e sandwich were only momentarily invisible. I opened the crisper and the meats-and-cheeses drawer, mystified in the cold breath of the refrigerator.
Behind me, the floor creaked, though softer than when Liz was marching around the kitchen—almost as if it were bending under the weight of cat or a child. It creaked again, even more softly, as if it weren’t really being stepped on but moved over. Oh my god. I heard breathing. I froze, my feet nailed to the floor. A cool, silvery sweat lined my body. I don’t believe in ghosts, I told myself as I stared ahead. But the chords of my neck were as stiff as cables. My heart was thwacking. I let go of the fridge door and told my feet to move. My eyes shifted to the kitchen door, which had swung shut behind me on my way in, and I wondered if my lead arms would be able to push it open as I took my first giant step toward it.
“Hey, didn’t mean to scare you,” said a voice.
I flung my hand on the light switch, an act of bravery worthy of getting my picture in the paper. My other hand rested on my jumping heart. I turned to see a guy with messy brown hair, a crooked smile, and a wrinkled shirt sitting at the kitchen table. His back was to me, and he was twisted around in his seat, chewing. A pair of crutches leaned against the table.
“I’m George Gust,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked too old for college but too young to be a dad. “Are you staying here, too?”
“I work here.” I leaned against the wall and took deep breaths. “Sorry, I thought you were a ghost.”
“Is this place haunted?” he asked, completely serious.
“Supposedly. I don’t believe it, though.”
He raised an eyebrow, like, Sure you don’t. “Well, I apologize again. I thought at first you were sleepwalking, and you know how they say you should never wake up a sleepwalker? Anyway, my bad.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Cricket Thompson,” I said, taking his hand and catching a full view of his plate. “And you’re eating my sandwich.”
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