Love & Betrayal & Hold the Mayo

by Francine Pascal

  “Steffi loves it,” I say. “Right, Stef?” That’s the perfect answer. It turns it all back to Steffi, where it belongs.

  “So far it’s pretty simple, since nobody’s here. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow when the kids get here. I’m a little scared.”

  I’m still bending down messing around with my shoes, the same stupid smile still pasted on my face. Now I look up at Steffi, who is directing her conversation to Robbie, who is looking at me without a smile. It’s probably only for a second, but it feels much too long. So long that I know I have to get out of here—and fast.

  “Hey, I almost forgot. I have to fly. I volunteered for leaf waxing this morning.” And, like I was a starter in a foot race, I shoot off, running at top speed.

  “Leaf waxing? What’s that?” I hear Robbie ask, but I’m out of earshot for Steffi’s answer. I can’t really remember if I made it up or they really have it. I’ll volunteer anyway and see what happens.

  Three

  I get back to the bunk out of breath but safe. I walk in to find D. J. alone, with her nose in Steffi’s cubby. She doesn’t even have the courtesy to jump when I catch her.

  “Looking for something?” I say, like they do in the movies. At least that’s what I mean to say, but I’m so crazed that it comes out “Looking for someone?”

  “In a cubby. Really, Victoria, what’s your problem?” And slowly, without one iota of embarrassment, she stands up, closes the cabinet door, and turns to me. “Did you get to meet the great Robbie?”

  I can feel my face turning tomato-red. Dena Joyce has already turned the tables. There she was sneaking through Steffi’s cubby, which is an absolutely disgusting thing to do, and instead of her being the guilty one, she’s caught me doing something worse. In a second she knows something’s up just from the color of my face.

  “Not bad, huh?” she winks, and gives me a smile like we’re both in on something.

  “I barely saw him. He’s okay, I guess—no accounting for tastes, right? I mean, good-looking isn’t everything. Or even being tall and well-built.”

  Please someone stop me!

  “Frankly I go for an entirely different type. I’m not so crazy for that very dark hair, especially if it’s very straight and shiny. I like curly blonds. And light eyes with dark hair doesn’t turn me on. He probably lifts weights to get those kind of muscles, and you know what happens if you miss even one day, it all falls apart.”

  Anyone!

  “Turns to mush right in front of your eyes. Naw, he’s nothing much. Far as I can see, anyway. I mean, he’s probably okay if you like that type. I suppose Steffi thinks he’s cute. I mean, I know she does, but it beats me. Boy, is he ordinary. Just plain old nothing much.”

  Help!

  “Absolutely nothing much. Even less. A minus, you know, a hole, a gap. It’s like there’s nobody there … you know …”

  “Wow!”

  “What do you mean, ‘wow’?”

  “I never saw anybody hit that hard that fast. Wow!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you he’s nothing special. He’s …”

  “Don’t worry, Victoria, I’m your friend. You can trust me.”

  I’m lost. If D. J. is my friend and I have to trust her, it’s all over. Then I remember that she really can’t get inside my head. At least I can lie. I still have that left. So what if she doesn’t believe me? Nobody ever believes her, and she gets by. “You can think what you like,” I tell her. “It’s all ridiculous, since I have had a steady boyfriend for the last two years back home.”

  “Sure.”

  “Besides, let’s talk about you. What were you doing in my friend’s cubby anyway?” Now I’ve got her.

  “Was that hers? Gee, I thought it was mine.” She doesn’t even make any attempt to give me a reasonable lie. And she seems to be enjoying it all. “Just like you with Robbie,” she says.

  Here she is, boldfaced lying, and I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. We could all take lessons from Dena Joyce.

  No point in continuing this, so I just turn around and get busy with my own things. It’s almost time to change for lunch. In fact if I hurry I can get out of here before Steffi comes back. I certainly don’t want to see her with Dena Joyce around. I’ve got to pull myself together, or at least go some place where it won’t all show.

  How is it that everyone can always read me so perfectly? Steffi’s got to know there’s something wrong. She has to. You just can’t fool your best friend since the fourth grade. Especially if you have a face like mine. I need those Dena Joyce lessons.

  “Torrie?”

  Too late, Steffi’s back.

  “I’m so glad I caught you. We’ve got to talk.”

  Oh God. She knows.

  “Privately,” she says, motioning her head at Dena Joyce. “Come on, walk with me.”

  “Believe me,” D. J. singsongs to Steffi, “the last thing I want to hear about is your marvelous Robbie. I’ve heard plenty from your very best friend, here. Haven’t I?” That last bit directed to me.

  “We better hurry, Steffi,” I say, grabbing my friend’s arm and pulling her toward the door. “We only have about fifteen minutes before lineup.”

  She follows me out of the door, slightly confused. “She got a problem or what?” she asks. “What was that all about?”

  “You better watch out for her. She wants everything that isn’t hers.” It really is the truth, but in this case it’s not perfectly accurate. Still, it’s pretty good thinking. In fact it’s Dena Joyce thinking. Now, if I can only handle what’s coming now half as well.

  Steffi and I are very close friends. She’s the most important person to me apart from my family, and we never lie to each other, but this time I have to. It would be the end of the friendship if she even suspected I could possibly betray her. I know I wouldn’t, but even just feeling strange about Robbie is so terrible. Actually I don’t even know what I feel about him, but something happened out there. Something outside my control. I mean, he knocked me out. That’s it. My best friend’s boyfriend knocked me out. Maybe that sounds stupid, but something happened between us. Well, maybe not between us. It didn’t have to happen to him too. Just me. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just something I ate. Whatever it was, Steffi has nothing to worry about. I plan not even to look at him. I’m staying as far away as humanly possible and then some.

  “What’s up with you, Torrie? You didn’t hear a word I said. I’m asking you a very important question.”

  “No!” I answer, even though I haven’t the faintest idea what she asked me, but I’m not taking any chances. “Absolutely not. Not one bit. Never! No!”

  “Huh?”

  “I said no. N … O!” I practically bark it out.

  “You don’t think he’s a little nice or what?” She’s absolutely crushed.

  Oh, I should have listened. “Oh, Steffi, of course I do.”

  “Then why do you keep shouting on when all I asked you was whether you thought Robbie was a nice guy?”

  “Oh, I thought you were asking about Dr. Davis.” There goes my Dena Joyce again. It’s getting to be a habit.

  “Dr. Davis? That monster! Are you nuts or something?”

  “Sorry, Steffi. I guess I’m just starting to get nervous. You realize those kids are coming up tomorrow?”

  “So?”

  “Well, there are so many….”

  “What about Robbie?”

  “Right.”

  “Right what? Torrie, what’s the matter with you? Do you like him or not or what?”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I swear I do. I think he’s terrific, and gorgeous and nice and—”

  “You hate him. I can tell. You can’t lie to me, Victoria. I know you too well.”

  “Honest, Steffi—”

  “He likes you.”

  “He doesn’t—”

  “Yes, he does. He even said s
o. In fact he was very interested in hearing all about you.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? Why shouldn’t he? After all, you are my best friend. I want to know all about his friends.”

  “Well, that’s nice. So what do you think about … uh, Dr. Davis?”

  “I’m seriously in love with him.”

  “Dr. Davis?”

  “No, silly. Robbie. And I want to know what you think of him. I guess all that counts is that I love him. Still, I’m really curious why you seemed so cold to him.”

  I can’t believe she read my reaction as cold. If it was any hotter I’d have exploded. This situation is really out of hand—I mean, I just can’t stand around talking about Robbie. Something’s going to show. I don’t know what’s happening—all I know is that it’s not good, but instead of feeling bad, all I feel is excitement. It was bad enough when I was with him, but now it’s even worse just thinking about him. And all Steffi wants to know is why was I so cold to Robbie?

  So I tell her the truth, “I don’t feel cold toward Robbie. Not at all In fact I took to him the first time I saw him. He’s exactly the way you described him.” The truth is good up to a point: “And I know we’re all going to be good friends.” But no further.

  “Really, Torrie? I hope so, because that’s what I want.”

  I do her another D. J. and describe the wonderful summer we’re all going to have together.

  No way. I intend to avoid Robbie every chance I get. When I think about him, I almost hate him. In fact that’s just what I have to do … hate him. I don’t like Robbie Wagner. Not one bit! No way! No how!

  “After lunch I said we’d all have a Coke together.”

  “Gee, Steffi, I’m sorry but I can’t.”

  “How come?”

  “I promised Alexandra I’d do her nails.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll do it after dinner tonight.”

  “Actually, I was planning on writing some letters …”

  “I knew it! You don’t like him.”

  “… but they can wait. Hey, I’m looking forward to it. A great idea … a Coke. I’m thirsty already.”

  “Torrie, I don’t know what’s cooking with you, but something’s weird, and since I’m supposed to be your best friend, why don’t you try to tell me?”

  “I miss Nick.”

  “Who?”

  “I mean Todd. I really do, Steffi. Maybe I’m in love with him. What do you think?”

  “If you were, you’d know it, Torrie, you wouldn’t have to ask. I don’t have a minute’s trouble about Robbie.”

  I really can’t bear all these Robbie conversations. Everything turns into Robbie. “What if something happened? I mean, what if you just stopped loving him?”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Suppose he stopped loving you? It could happen, couldn’t it?”

  “I guess it could, but I can’t even think about it. It’s too terrible. I don’t know, but right now I think it would destroy my life.”

  “Come on, Steffi, you’re only sixteen. This isn’t the last guy you’re going to be in love with.”

  “It might be, Torrie. Robbie is the kind of person I could end up spending my life with.”

  “You mean you would marry him?”

  “If I had to decide right now, absolutely yes.”

  Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick if we go on with this conversation one more minute. Luckily Edna on the PA system saves me.

  “Let’s go, waitresses! Lunch call! Hurry … hurry … hurry! Ten … nine … eight … seven … Move it, ladies, flagpole time!”

  And the stampede begins again, this time with Steffi and me in the lead. Nobody is ever late for flagpole. Nobody. Ever!

  Somehow I manage to get through the rest of the day without seeing Robbie and Steffi. Now all I have to face is tonight. I promised we’d all have a Coke after dinner. I’m beginning to work up to a major sickness. It’s a toss up between lockjaw (which of course would be very handy for turning down a Coke) and some vague allergy that would make me itch all over. I start scratching right after lunch. Incredibly enough, nobody asks me what’s the matter. It’s almost dinnertime and I have red lines all over my legs and arms. Still nobody seems interested. Not even Steffi, who is so busy floating on air that she doesn’t even know anybody exists.

  “Don’t forget about the Coke tonight, Torrie.”

  Unfortunately for me she hasn’t quite forgotten everything.

  I tell her I can’t wait, and I hope that this terrible allergy (lockjaw is too hard to pull off, what with the clamped teeth and all) lets up. She wants to know what I’m allergic to, and I resist the temptation to say Robbie Wagner. “I think it’s something I ate for lunch or maybe some plant or something. Nobody ever knows with allergies.”

  “Maybe you should go to the nurse.”

  “I already have, and she said I should try to get to bed early and she gave me some stuff to put on.” You see how one lie leads to another. It’s like that Shakespeare thing about the tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive. It’s too late with me. I’ve finished practicing. I’m from the Dena Joyce school of professional liars, top of the class.

  Four

  Tonight is the first night we’re going to be formally meeting the boys, the junior counselors, the staff members—everybody except the counselors, they’re not here yet. They ride up with the kids tomorrow.

  Preparation starts for the big night at about four in the afternoon. Sometimes I think that’s the best part of any party, getting ready. It all sounds so terrific when it’s in the planning stage. It hardly ever works out that way. Even your clothes. You think you put together this fabulous outfit, a little something from everyone, and it looks terrific in your head, but somehow when it gets on your body it loses its magic. And then every little thing seems crucial, like even the color of your nail polish is going to matter. Probably nobody notices, but you can’t take that chance. You need every advantage you can get, at least I do. But not tonight.

  It’s really tough to dress down, to try to look lousy. Lots of times I end up looking that way, but I don’t know how to start off trying to look awful. It’s harder than you think. I’m certainly not going to choose things that don’t match or make me look fat or short. As a sacrifice, and to show myself that I’m really serious, I dress from head to toe in my own clothes. I hardly recognize myself. It’s absolutely horrendous, but it is easy, and I’m the first one ready. By at least two hours.

  “Hey, D. J., I love those velour shorts. They are hot!” Claire, Dena Joyce’s best, closest, and probably only friend in the whole world, says. She holds up fabulous mauve shorts with pink satin trim. “Mind if I borrow them tonight?”

  “Oh, honey, I’d love to but I can’t. They’re not really mine. They’re my cousin’s and I promised her….” It oozes out so sweet and drawly, Dena Joyce almost sounds Southern. And it’s absolutely untrue. So far, every stitch anyone wants to borrow belongs to that famous cousin. She’s just plain selfish, but Claire gobbles up everything D. J. says.

  “Hey, no, D. J. I wouldn’t want you to do anything like that. Gee, I know what it’s like when you have to take care of somebody else’s things …” And on and on Claire dribbles, practically apologizing for asking. It’s really gross to watch.

  “Honey,” Dena Joyce says, reaching over and lifting the belt Claire has lying on her bed, obviously the one she was about to put on. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No sweat.” She practically licks Dena Joyce. It’s degalas. That’s a French word that means disgusting, but sounds even worse, and it’s perfect for Claire. “I like this jumpsuit better loose like this.” And she sort of twirls around modeling what looks like a sack. “What do you think?” she asks the queen.

  We’re all watching, waiting for her to tell Claire, the balloon person, how marvelous she looks when she looks like a blimp.

  D. J. takes a slow, long look at Claire. “No good,
honey, you gotta put something around your middle. Otherwise,” she says, snapping the perfect belt around her own waist, “you look like a glob.”

  “I don’t think I have one,” Claire says, like she really doesn’t.

  This is very hard to watch. If it was anyone other than jerky Claire I would jump in, but she deserves it for being such a nerd. I just can’t believe someone could have so little character. It makes you want to throw up.

  But Dena Joyce is perfect. All she does is shrug her shoulders, like too bad but it’s not my problem, and turn away. Back to her curlers.

  Eventually one of the Mackinow twins comes up with a belt that works okay. I swear to you D. J. actually stops and checks it out, just to make sure she definitely has the best one.

  “What do you think?” Steffi keeps asking me, every time she puts on something else.

  “You look so fabulous tonight it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. Did you do something different with your makeup?” I ask her. “A new blush?”

  “No.”

  “It’s something.”

  She smiles. And suddenly I know what it is. She’s beaming. It’s that love thing again. Too bad they don’t have a counter of it at Bloomie’s.

  Finally we’re all ready. Except for me, they all look great.

  I suppose my mother would go bananas if she saw the bunk. Every bed has at least three rejection outfits on it. The floor is covered with shoes, curlers, hot curls, and blow dryers. Every flat surface is jammed with makeup bottles, jars, tubes, compacts: I would guess there was an easy thousand dollars’ worth of eye shadow and face goo of every kind around, stuff to make your face peel, stuff to stop it from peeling, softening, hardening, opening pores, closing pores, special liquids that do everything except make you look older, which is what we all want. Steffi once used her mother’s youth cream and worried for a whole day that it would make her look too young.