Lindsay grabs hold of the canoe and kicks it back toward the shore. “So how old are you anyway?”
I zip up my life jacket. “Fifteen.”
She stands in the water and flips the canoe. Her nipples, pointy and brown, show through the white material of her bathing suit. My stomach tightens into a knot. “I thought you were younger,” she says.
Even though I’m already five-foot-eight, I still get mistaken for twelve. “How old are you?”
“Same.” Lindsay glances up at me. “Don’t you want to change into shorts or a bathing suit or something?”
I shake my head and roll up my skirt at the waist a few times.
Lindsay steadies the wobbling canoe as I step into the bow. “Keep your body low,” she instructs. She expertly jumps in and pushes us away from the dock. I kneel like Lindsay does, and plunge my paddle into the water, crushing my fingers against the side of the boat. I draw in my breath.
“Have you never been in a canoe before?”
“Ah, not really.” I turn around and smile at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, put one hand at the top of the paddle and the other lower down. Draw it through the water, like this.”
I try again, splashing myself. Even so, the canoe edges forward.
We head out into the bay. I can see gulls bobbing in the protected water of Horseshoe Island. The wind picks up and the canoe rocks underneath me, small waves slapping against the sides. My arms tire and my back gets sore, but I keep paddling. When we get to the middle of the bay, Lindsay leans back in the boat, and using her lifejacket as a pillow, tips her face up to the sun. I flip my legs around to face the center of the canoe, watching the blue ripples all around. I imagine paddling along the shore and not coming back to the cottage. I know some lakes eventually lead to salt water, to throbbing jellyfish, purple and orange sea stars, rubbery sea cucumbers.
“You’re not that bad for someone who has never been in a canoe,” Lindsay admits.
“Thanks.”
Lindsay undoes her braids, releasing her long, dark blond hair. The wind tosses it across her face, rippled strands catching on her bikini straps.
My own brown hair is always limp. Even when I blow-dry it with my head upside down and brush furiously, it’s greasy and lifeless within twenty minutes. I drift my hand in the cool water and close my eyes. Her hair would be silky between my fingers. I flick open my eyes.
On the way back Lindsay asks, “So, how come you’ve never been in a boat before?”
“I just never was. I’m from Toronto.”
“Didn’t you ever go to camp or a cottage?”
“Just day camp. In the city.”
“Only swimming pools?”
“Sort of.” I think of the girls’ turn to go in the water, all those shrieking voices. “My sister’s working at a camp.”
“Yeah? How come you didn’t go?”
“It’s an all girls’ camp—not my thing,” I tell her, trying to sound cool. That’s not the real reason. I wanted to come here, to see the lake.
“Only girls? That would suck.” She pushes her rippled hair out of her face and tucks it under her bikini strap.
We head toward the dock, the wind pushing us from behind. I don’t splash once.
Lindsay maneuvers us back up to the dock, grabs hold of the edge. “So I’ll see you around.”
“If you have some time, you know, maybe, you could show me how to cast.”
“Yeah, maybe sometime.” Lindsay looks down at the boat.
I climb out of the canoe, my foot catching on the edge of my skirt. “Okay,” I say after I untangle myself. “Bye then.”
As Lindsay paddles away, a shiver travels from my neck down through my body and exits out my knees.
“DO YOU WANT to go for a walk?”
“I think I’ll stay behind.”
Bubbie shrugs and grabs her droopy straw hat.
I flop down in the hammock with my book about the sea and try to read about the lifecycle of a periwinkle. I keep glancing over the water.
It’s been three days since Lindsay came by. I’m no longer fascinated by my nature guides or Linnaeus: The Man and His Work. I can’t concentrate. I’ve studied the frogs, identified trees, watched the sunfish from the dock, the cardinals, blue jays and hummingbirds from the hammock. I’ve gawked at the loons, the occasional merganser and blue heron. I’ve caught moths, swatted black flies, horseflies and mosquitoes. I’ve watched the squirrels try to raid the bird feeder, and even though I saw a deer in the trees, I’m bored.
“Do you wanna go check out the mini-golf?” Bubbie asks when she gets back.
“Neh.”
“What’s with you?” Bubbie leans against the maple tree, gives the hammock a push.
“Nothing.”
Bubbie smirks.
I sigh. “I was hoping that girl down the lake would take me fishing.”
“So walk over there,” Bubbie says, exasperated.
“I thought you could only go by boat.”
Bubbie points to the trail leading off through the woods. “Just follow it past the campground and you’ll come to their cottage. It’s a huge A-frame with skylights—brand new—you can’t miss it. More like a chalet than a cottage,” Bubbie sniffs.
I head over in the afternoon, following the trail through the woods. I pass a swamp, where a dumped car’s rusted metal frame is slowly yielding to the elements, and enter an area of low-lying sumac bushes. The forest opens up to reveal a manicured stretch of lawn, an elegant house on a hill. A new dock juts out over the water, a chaise longue and glass table angled to catch the sun. Sliding glass doors and tall windows stretch across the front of the cottage, revealing long fans turning in a row across the open front room.
A woman wearing a red bikini with her fingernails painted the same crimson shade talks on the phone on the porch. Small cups of material cover her full breasts; a thin strip of fabric snakes between her bum cheeks.
I tentatively climb the stairs.
“I know it’s for safety,” she says, “but I don’t want rails on my balcony.” She mouths “Lindsay?” at me. I nod, and she waves me inside the house.
“I don’t have dogs or small children,” she continues. “If I have to put rails up, I’m going to hire you to take them down the second the place is inspected.”
The screen door slides smoothly open and glides closed behind me. Lindsay rocks back and forth in a recliner, bare legs tucked inside a baggy M.A.S.H. T-shirt, a blue baseball cap pulled low over her forehead.
She looks up. “I need to read one more page. Lady Eliza is just about to make out with Sir Reginald.” She holds up a Harlequin romance. The couple on the cover embrace wildly, the woman’s breasts threatening to spill out of her low-cut dress, hair cascading through the man’s hands.
Lindsay’s cottage is like a magazine picture. Sun slants down from the skylights across a wooden coffee table and richly upholstered, deep red chairs. Across from the chairs is a green leather couch. I perch on the armrest and look out over my shoulder at the lake. A hutch behind Lindsay by the bedroom doors holds wineglasses and several bottles of wine.
Lindsay puts down her book and stuffs a few peanuts in her mouth from a small glass bowl. “So?”
“I was hoping you might come by again.”
“I’ve been pretty busy.”
“Oh, with your mom?” I instantly regret the words.
Lindsay giggles. “Yeah right, with my mom. We read trash together.”
I tap my sandal on the pine floors. “I thought maybe we’d go fishing or something.”
“Something? Like play with frogs?” she teases.
An angry blush climbs over my cheeks. “Just forget it,” I mumble. I smooth my skirt over my legs and head for the door.
“Wait.”
I turn around. “What?”
“You don’t need to leave yet. I could show you my stripper routine.”
“Your what?” I stop by the door.
&nbs
p; Lindsay takes off her cap, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Let me show you.” She stands up and struts across the room, hips swinging, her mouth slightly open in a sexy pout. She stops in front of me and gyrates her hips down to the floor, bending her knees open wide. She twists her T-shirt up at the waist to expose her taut belly, her head tipping back to bare her white neck.
I freeze by the door, bug-eyed.
“Wanna try?”
I back against the wall. My body doesn’t move that way. “I couldn’t—”
Lindsay eyes my baggy skirt. “How about just the walk?” She struts, one leg in front of the other, swinging a hip to the side. “And a one and two and turn.” She swivels on the ball of her foot, hair fanning out. “Now you try.”
“I can’t.” I clutch my blushing cheeks.
“Well, have you ever tried this?” Lindsay grabs an empty plastic tumbler off the coffee table. “Watch,” she instructs. She holds the glass in both hands and slowly draws her tongue up the plastic, flicking it over the rim. “That’s called the butterfly flick. I read about it in my mom’s Cosmo: ‘ Five Tips To A Better Blow Job’.”
I stare, my mouth open. My hands twist behind my back.
“It’s better on a beer bottle, of course.” Lindsay holds out the glass.
I shake my head, eyes wide. Lindsay shrugs. She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and starts at the base of the glass again. She gives a fake groan, then collapses back in the chair, giggling. Her T-shirt has slipped off her freckled shoulder. I stare at the curve of the top of her breasts.
I tug nervously at my fingers, cracking my knuckles. “My parents don’t really read magazines,” I tell her. “My dad, he’s into Talmud, that’s Jewish law. He’s in this club called the Daf Yomi, which means he reads a whole page of Talmud every day.” Shut up, Ellie. “They’ll be finished after the year two thousand. There’ll be this huge party in New York for it.” I’m talking too fast and Lindsay is staring at me, a bemused expression on her face.
She swivels her tongue around the rim and then holds out the glass. “Wanna try? It’s a good skill to have.”
I shudder. “No, that’s okay.”
“I think I’d like to be a stripper when I grow up, so it’s important to know how to do these things,” she explains.
“You mean take your clothes off in public?” I bunch my skirt in my hands.
“Yeah, and get paid for it too. How easy. I’ll either do that or be a lawyer like my mom.”
“Those are pretty different jobs.”
“Yeah, I think I’d rather be a stripper.” Lindsay sits, tucking her feet underneath her. She holds up the glass. “Guys love this.”
I swallow. “Have you done it?”
Lindsay winks and giggles. “Not yet. I like to keep in shape though, just in case.” She leans closer to me. “I dare you. I double dog dare you.” Her eyes flash.
“I should get going,” I say. “My grandmother is probably waiting for me to eat lunch. We’ll be having this soup, borscht. It’s made from beets.”
Lindsay sighs, starts to stand up and flops back in the easy chair. She swivels side to side, pushing off the coffee table with her feet. “Fine. Go home.”
“Okay, so maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Whatever.”
She picks up the Harlequin and absently scratches her chin.
I stare at her exposed shoulder, the green T-shirt setting off the curved muscle. My stomach contracts into a tight ball.
“I’ll do it.” I grab a thick goblet from the wine rack on the hutch by the bedroom doors and draw my tongue up the stem, flick it over the rim. A layer of dust coats my tongue. I bang the wineglass back on the hutch. “See you later.”
I catch a glimpse of Lindsay’s surprised face as I run down the porch steps.
I run along the path back to our cottage and head straight to the dock. I strip off my khaki skirt and peach T-shirt and jump into the water wearing my new bathing suit. Water shoots up my nose, but I swim all the way to the raft, arms flailing, gasping as I grab the ladder. Bubbie waves wildly and claps from the porch. “Good for you, I knew you could do it,” she hollers. I wave back weakly.
I practice diving off the raft over and over, hurtling myself into the water until I can stand and swing my arms over my head, propelling myself as gracefully as a dolphin.
THE NEXT MORNING I lie in the hammock watching a squirrel scamper up the maple tree. It runs down a branch and leaps onto the top of the bird feeder. Chickadees and cardinals flutter away. The squirrel’s claws scrape furiously on the green plastic, sliding over the edge to the ground. The feeder swings wildly. I turn over in the hammock, and the squirrel darts away.
I hear splashing down at the dock. I roll over and prop up my head. Lindsay hauls a fishing rod and tackle out of her canoe. I pretend not to see her.
She wears a tank top over a black bathing suit, her hair in a tight ponytail at the base of her neck. Long strands drift around her head when she walks toward me.
“Hi,” she says.
I don’t move. “Hi.”
Lindsay puts down the tackle box, props the rod against a tree. “I thought we’d go fishing.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on.” Lindsay leans one hip against the rope of the hammock, making it swing.
I take a big breath. “I thought you’d have better things to do.” Like strip.
Lindsay doesn’t say anything for a moment. She slaps a mosquito away from her shoulder. Finally she says, “My mom’s boyfriend just came.”
“So?”
Lindsay shrugs. “He’s gross.”
I flip back over. “How?”
“He’s creepy and annoying.”
“Really?” I flip my legs sideways in the hammock to face Lindsay. “How long is he staying?”
She sighs and leans against the maple tree. “Until we leave, or hopefully only until his fax situation becomes urgent. Then he’ll have to drive at least to Kingston.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“He’s greasy and way younger than my mom. He’ll be gone in a month or so. There’ll be some other sleazy guy after that. Anyway, I brought you some clothes.” Lindsay pulls a pair of jean shorts and a tank top out of a plastic shopping bag. “Here, you can have these.”
I get out of the hammock and hold up the clothes. “What for?”
“To wear, stupid.” She punches me on the arm. “They’re too small for me.”
“Are you sure?”
Lindsay cracks her gum. “I can’t get the waist done up anymore.”
I hesitate, looking at the clothes. I have always wanted to wear shorts in the summer, instead of my baggy skirt, but I can’t imagine my naked thighs or bare shoulders.
“Are you sure you don’t need these anymore?”
Lindsay nods. “Are you changing or what?”
I stare at Lindsay’s enormous blueish green eyes. She returns my gaze without flinching.
Lindsay follows me up to the cottage. I scoot into the bedroom to change, try to get the door closed before she comes in, but she plunks herself down on the patchwork bedspread and picks Linnaeus off the night table. I wedge myself beside the only piece of furniture, the pine chest with the cranberry glass lamp, and pull on the shorts before taking off my skirt. The denim cutoffs rest loosely on my hips. I stare down at my slightly hairy, bare pale legs.
“Aren’t you going to put on the top?” she asks.
I look at it laid out on the bed. “I...I might burn.”
“Sunblock.”
“I haven’t shaved.”
“Who cares, it’s a cottage.”
I turn around, take a breath, yank off my T-shirt and pull on the tank top. Ellie, you could have just said, I don’t wear tank tops.
“There, that’s better,” Lindsay says, popping a bubble. “You can’t fish in a skirt. Well, you can, but it’s weird.”
The tank top is thick white cotton. It’s plain, fitted, a litt
le faded. I feel naked.
“What does your necklace say?” Lindsay comes up close to me. I can smell the peppermint of her gum, the soapy smell of shampoo.
I gulp. “Oh, it’s Hebrew.”
Lindsay lifts the Star of David off my skin, peers at it closely. “What does the writing mean?”
“It says Zion, love for Israel.”
Lindsay drops the charm. Her fingers graze my collarbone, my skin tingling.
“I wish I had long legs like yours,” she says.
“Too skinny,” I say, tucking one leg behind the other.
Lindsay is tall, yet not lanky like me. She has muscular legs. Saturday morning soccer, I bet.
Down on the dock Lindsay shows me how to hold the rod. I want to cast from the canoe. Lindsay laughs. “Practice on land first, or we’ll tip.” She scratches a mosquito bite on her leg. “How come you don’t know how to cast?”
“I told you, I’ve never been to a cottage before.” I practice releasing and reeling in the line.
“Well, what do you know?”
I cast my line, the hook forming a huge arc before sinking out in the bay. “That was beautiful, wasn’t it?” I say over my shoulder.
Lindsay nods. “It was.” She sits on the dock, her feet dangling in the water.
“I know all about the sea, except I haven’t been yet.” I reel in the line, place the rod over my shoulder and flick it over my head, releasing the catch. The hook whizzes out into the water. “I went to Niagara Falls last summer, to Marine Land. I held a starfish in my hand.”
Lindsay stares at me. I hold my gaze steady. “The starfish was wet and brittle, and I could see hundreds of its tiny feelers moving, feel them clinging to my skin.” The whole time I’m rambling, I can’t take my eyes off Lindsay’s hip, the jut of her bone above the waist of her shorts. “The sea star clung to my skin,” I repeat.
“You are so weird.”
I feel myself blush from my chin to just below my eyes.
“I also know all about Houdini from my sister. Did you know he could even escape the Russian police? He jumped off the Detroit Bridge in a water can and escaped. He could hold his breath forever.”
Lindsay stands up. “You’re getting weirder.” She flashes me a smile. “Is your whole family like this?”
“Don’t even ask.”
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