The Clover Girls

by Viola Shipman

  I nod. “Spent my whole life caring for everyone else,” I say. “I’m not sure anyone even appreciates that.”

  “They do,” Billy says. “Just don’t know it yet.” Billy stops and glances over at V and Rach, who I now realize are recording our entire dance. I glare at them, eyes wide, wagging a finger, just like a parent. “Isn’t that what your friend did? Emily? She took care of everyone. And now you understand the impact of what she did?”

  I stop moving and hold Billy at arm’s length. “Wow,” I say. “You are a great counselor.”

  “We’re all still the same inside, Liz. Doesn’t matter if we’re fifty or fifteen. We’re fragile souls. We all want love and to be loved. We make it so hard. We hurt each other when we don’t mean to do it. It’s very hard to forgive. Actually, it’s one of the hardest things to do. I’m glad you all are doing that.” He stops. “I mean, you were The Clover Girls.”

  I tilt my head at him. “Yes. What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “It means you all always seemed destined to have good luck.”

  “Really?”

  “You all seemed to be better together...as if you were connected and meant to be one unit,” he says. “Did you ever think that maybe you all are who you are because of your friendships? That even the fights and squabbles and rivalries shaped who you are? The good always comes with the bad. What you’re doing right now is a pretty amazing testament to lifelong friendship, isn’t it? How many people would put their lives on hold in order to reunite and honor a late friend like this? That’s all Birchwood and the Nighs could have hoped for: Strong, smart, talented women who formed lifelong friendships that stood the test of time.”

  In the nearby distance, I hear a little boy and girl sing, “Mr. Collins and a lady sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Some things never change.

  Billy laughs. My face reddens. “Do you want to kiss me?” Billy grins.

  His blue eyes are sparkling, and he is even more handsome than the boy I adored, the boy I’ve dreamed of for so long.

  “We hardly know each other,” I tease.

  “Oh, we know each other,” he says. “Thirty years of knowing.” He stops. His voice is husky. “And longing.”

  He looks deeply into my eyes and kisses me. I am soaring, flying among the construction paper stars and then out the barn and into the sky to fly alongside the real ones.

  The song ends, a hard-thumping song I don’t know comes on, and all the kids scream and rush onto the dance floor. I am knocked back into the present day.

  A counselor yells, “Mr. Collins!”

  We turn, and a drone is flying around the barn, kids ducking and yelling.

  “Turn that off now!” Billy yells. The drone drops to the floor. Billy turns to me. “I’ll be back...not sure when, but I will. I promise.” I smile. He starts to head off but stops. “Wait. Didn’t you have a question this afternoon? That’s why you came over here today. What was it?”

  “Nothing much,” I say. “I just need a plumber, electrician, roofer, contractor and therapist.”

  “I’m a lawyer who happens to do much of that,” he says. “If not, I know people.”

  I laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow. It was good to dance with you, Liz. Finally.” He heads off toward a group of boys, grabbing the drone. “Okay. Whose is this?”

  “We recorded every second of that!” V crows.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “I’ll rewatch it after another glass of wine.”

  “Can we bounce and go find some grindage?” Rachel says.

  I laugh. “Boy, do I miss the ’80s sometimes,” I say. “Let’s bounce.”

  “Not yet,” V says, taking off across the dance floor. “I have one more surprise before we bounce.”

  “Where is she going?” I ask.

  Rachel shrugs.

  A few moments later, a familiar song begins to play, and I double over laughing.

  I grab Rachel by the hand and drag her onto the floor, and we dance in a circle to Journey.

  “‘I come to you...’” V sings.

  “‘With broken arms,’” Rach and I sing together.

  PART SIX

  Capture the Flag

  Summer 1986

  There is a game The Clover Girls play in their bunks they call “YouTV.” It is a riff off of MTV, and a play on the fact they don’t have television at camp, and everyone watches TV in the 1980s.

  The directions are simple. In their game, someone says the title of a popular TV show, and the girls call out the character they think the others are on the show.

  “Dynasty?” Liz yells, trying on blue eye shadow she sneaked into camp in her tube socks. She doesn’t wait for anyone else, interjecting her own answer instead. “V is Krystal Carrington!”

  “No, V is Krystal Carrington,” Em says.

  “Rach is Alexis!” V yells.

  “No, Rach is Alexis Carrington,” Liz says, laughing.

  “MTV veejay!” V calls next.

  “Em is Martha Quinn!” Rachel yells. “She seems so sweet!”

  “Then Liz is totally Nina Blackwood!” Em says. “She has rockin’ hair and is so stylish!”

  “Facts of Life!” Rachel picks.

  Everyone sits up and starts shouting their opinions.

  “Blair!” Rach and Liz answer, pointing at V, before she can even open her mouth.

  “Jo!” V yells, pointing at Rach, before turning her finger to Liz and saying, “Natalie and Tootie.”

  “What?” Liz asks.

  “You always know what’s going on with whom, and you are just a wee bit impressionable, too?”

  Everyone turns and points at Em.

  “Mrs. Garrett!”

  Pinewood explodes in laughter.

  After the game, the lights dim, and the owls start to hoot outside, The Clover Girls lie in bed, tossing and turning, wondering why their best friends in the world don’t see more dimensions in them, wondering if they will grow up believing every stereotype that has been instilled.

  They dream of being someone else but wake to the same world.

  Summer 2021

  Veronica

  “The Golden Girls!” Liz says, before breaking into a fit of giggles.

  Her face is almost as blue as her eye shadow, which is smeared—along with her mascara—everywhere, giving her the look of a hungover raccoon that wandered out of Studio 54.

  “What was that game called?” Rachel asks.

  “How could you forget?” I ask, tossing my hand over my face in faux drama.

  “YouTV!” Liz and I yell at the same time.

  “That’s right,” Rachel says. “Now I remember.”

  “So The Clover Girls are now the Golden Girls?” I ask. “We used to be Dynasty or Facts of Life. What happened?”

  Liz points at herself. “Life happened!”

  We laugh, and then—just like in the old days—begin to shout who we think the other is.

  “Dorothy!” Liz and I suddenly yell at the same time, pointing directly at Rachel.

  It takes her a second to put the pieces together, but she finally says, “Hey!” before pointing at me and yelling, “Blanche!”

  “Hey!” I say.

  Just as quickly, Rachel and I point at Liz and say, “Rose.”

  “Hey!” She laughs.

  We all look at each other, nodding.

  “Em was Sophia,” Rachel says. “Always a bit more mature than the rest of us.”

  “And she had lots of wisdom,” I say.

  “And that concludes today’s episode of YouTV,” Liz says, “our throwback to the ’80s.”

  I can’t help but think of the irony of Liz remembering this game and choosing The Golden Girls.

  Are we all destined to
end up alone?

  Or did life bring us—like them—together for an important reason? So the end of our lives will be filled with joy, laughter and friendship?

  “No, one more,” Rachel suddenly says. “Sorority Sisters?”

  “Your old show?” Liz asks.

  We all look at each other. Liz points at Rach.

  “Well, you were Sam,” Liz says. “It fit you to a T: the sorority sister who wanted to be a star.”

  “The girl who lost her dad, and needed her friends more than anyone,” I say.

  Rachel looks at me.

  “You’ve watched the show?” She stares at me, hungover, but now fully awake. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open. “I know Liz did, but you?”

  I nod. “I did. I still do. It’s on all the time.”

  Rachel is just staring at me, like bigfoot has wandered through the middle of camp.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you watch the show? You hated me.”

  “I never hated you, Rach. I was...jealous of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I stop. “You were naturally talented. You could sing. You could dance. You had a look that fit the time. And you were quite good in it. You should have been nominated for an Emmy. You made Sam seem so real and natural. Viewers took that for granted. I used to talk to my friend, Yola Phelps, about you...”

  “The producer?” Rachel asks. “How did you know her?”

  “From my modeling days,” I say. “She produced some of the films and videos I was in. Yola did a lot of the behind-the-scenes segments for magazines like SI that were aired on ESPN.”

  Rachel is staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  She is nodding. “You did it, didn’t you?”

  “Did what?”

  “You put in a word for me to get the role, didn’t you? I auditioned with Yola about a dozen times. I thought Helen Hunt was going to get the part. It was down to the two of us. You knew Yola. You called her, didn’t you?”

  The emotions of the last twenty-four hours overwhelm me. “I did,” I finally say. “You were going to get the part anyway. She had already decided. I just told Yola how great you were.” I stop. “I actually told her what a good friend you were, too. And you’d be great with the other actresses...a leader and a role model.” I stop again. “I also told her what I’d done to you.”

  Rachel continues to stare.

  “I didn’t mean to interfere,” I continue. “I just felt so awful about...”

  Rach gets up and hugs me with all her might.

  “Thank you,” she sighs, as if the weight of the world has fallen from her shoulders.

  “I thought you’d be mad if I ever told you.”

  “For being a friend?” she asks.

  Rachel takes a seat and, for the longest time, we sit in silence. For once, it’s a comfortable silence, like family. We sip our coffee. Out of the blue, Liz begins to sing the theme song from The Golden Girls. We laugh and join in.

  “I’m glad we stayed a bit longer,” Rachel says. “Not just for Emily, but for me. I can’t tell you what the last few days have meant to me. Truly.”

  “For all of us,” Liz adds. She looks at the two of us and fidgets in her chair. “So, I gotta ask the hundred-thousand-dollar question? How much longer do you want to stay? I know I’m worried about my mom. I have to check in on my clients. V, I know you need to work some things out...”

  “You think?” I say, trying to make a joke out of the pain.

  “And Rach, I know you’re busy.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Can we play it by ear?” I say. “I feel both totally lost and totally found right now. I just need a bit more time to figure things out.” I stop. “On a lot of levels.”

  “I think that sounds good,” Rachel says.

  “Are you going to talk to David?” Liz asks.

  “I am,” I say. “But I might consult my therapist first.”

  They both look at me questioningly.

  “My daughter,” I say with a smile.

  The sun strengthens moment by moment, and I lift my face to it. As a model, the sun was my nemesis. I spent years avoiding it. I wore hats, zinc, sunblock, sunglasses. I regretted the summers I spent lying out with tinfoil in front of my face, the tiniest of lines and spots reminding me of my youthful stupidity. My goal was to be a ghost, so that my face could be recreated and reimagined in any possible way. Everyone avoids the sun in LA, too. But it feels good to feel the sun again.

  And then, just like that, a cloud passes over, and my heart darkens, too. I can’t stop my mind from thinking about leaving here, the real world, what waits.

  David. My marriage. The end of my marriage.

  I look around at the old camp.

  Was I wrong to stay? Was I so angry that I intentionally meant to hurt my husband? Or did he intend for me to follow him, yet again, no questions asked?

  The embers of the fire continue to smolder, and I realize my hair, my skin, my clothes smell like smoke.

  “I’m going to bathe in the lake,” I say. “I stink.”

  My words have deeper meaning than the girls realize.

  “We’ll be down in a few,” Liz says. “I have a feeling I need to wash my face.”

  Rach laughs. “You look like Bananarama got caught in the rain.”

  “Which member?” Liz asks.

  “All of them,” Rach answers. “In a hurricane.”

  I head to the bunk and grab a towel, some shampoo and soap that Em had left us.

  You did think of everything, I think, looking at Em’s bunk. Did you also know the chaos this would cause in our lives?

  “Since we’re staying, we’ll need to head to the store soon for food and rations to get us through the next couple of days,” I yell to Rach and Liz as I pass.

  If we—I—make it that far, I don’t add.

  “I might need some clothes that don’t smell like smoke, too.”

  “You’re smokin’ hot, mama!” Liz yells as I pass. “Ow!”

  I wave her off, yelling, “Put on your readers!” and head toward the lake.

  The grassy-weedy trail, which we’ve already trampled into a well-worn path, glistens with dew. It is going to be a warm day, and the cicadas are already buzzing, providing a moody soundtrack to my emotions. I stop and follow the sound. I see a cicada resting on a nearby tree and watch it for a moment. It’s prehistoric-looking—dragon in bug form—and the sound they make is the sound that always reminds me of Michigan summers at Birchwood. In a way, it reminds me of the sound a frog güiro makes when you play it. I bought a güiro with David during a trip to Puerto Rico. It’s a Latin American percussion instrument used prominently in their music. Traditionally, it’s an open-ended hollow gourd with notches on top over which you rub sticks or tines to produce a ratchet sound. As a gift, they are made to resemble frogs. The stick is held in the frog’s mouth, and you remove it and rub it along its back to produce a sound. When I first played it, while sipping on a piña colada, I was transported back in time to my days here, the instrument’s sound reminding me, ironically and exactly, of the Michigan chorus frogs that would lull me to sleep.

  The cicada buzzes. Cy Nigh told me when the cicadas buzzed, they were looking for a lifelong mate. The memory jolts me, making my heart ache so deeply, and my sudden movement causes the cicada to move to the far side of the trunk.

  “I feel like hiding, too,” I say.

  I grab for my cell and David’s number pops up. It was the last number I called. For the longest time, my finger hovers over his name, like the bees buzzing the wildflowers in bloom, but I cannot bring myself to call him. Instead, as I initially intended, I scroll and dial my daughter’s number instead.

  “Mom? Are you okay?�
��

  This is the reaction I always get from my husband and children when I call: something must be wrong. Did I cause this by being overly protective? Did I cause this by not sharing enough about myself?

  “I’m fine, Ash,” I say. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “So, you’re not okay, then.”

  I laugh.

  “I just needed to talk to my therapist,” I say.

  “This is so unhealthy, Mom,” she says with a big laugh.

  It feels good to laugh. And then I start to babble, to tell her of her father’s surprise visit, my reaction, his departure. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” I say. “It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t be burdened by this. I’m sorry. I’m a terrible mother.”

  “Stop it, Mom. I’m glad you did. Listen to me, it was just a fight,” she says, very calmly as if she’s the mother and I’m the daughter. “I mean, it was a big one, but it happens all the time. Couples should fight sometimes. If they don’t, it just all bubbles up...” She stops. “You know how if you shook a can of soda and then opened it, and it explodes? That’s what can happen when relationships don’t get real.” She stops again. “I could kinda feel this coming, Mom. You bottle things up and then explode. I mean, just think of how you reacted to your friend’s death. You dove in the pool fully dressed. That’s not a normal reaction.”

  I think of Rachel doing the same thing when her dad died.

  Maybe it’s normal for us.

  My daughter continues to talk, and I am so dumbfounded by the accuracy of her analogy and logic that I can’t even open my mouth to form a sentence.

  “You know in that movie we just watched together...what was the name of it?”

  “The Breakfast Club?” I ask.

  “Yeah!” Ash says. “You know at the end, the one guy is reading the letter they all wrote to the teacher in detention?”

  “Yes?”

  “That, no matter what they write, or say, or do, he—and society—will still see them in the same way, as a jock or a burnout or a spoiled princess? Well, maybe you and dad need to do that.”

  “Write each other a letter?” I ask. “You said that was old-fashioned.”