Last Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  Jane rubbed her tired eyes. In some moments she found it hard to believe that she and Frannie had ever been friends. She wondered how she could have been so badly duped. She wondered how she could have allowed her daughter to be so badly deceived. She was as angry with herself as she was with Frannie and her daughter. And she was determined never, ever to forgive the Giroux family.

  Jane got up from the table, went to the fridge, opened it, and stared inside. It was time to start thinking about dinner. She had lost weight since Rosie’s breakdown (God, she hated that word, but what other word would do?), and it wasn’t flattering. There were lines on her face that hadn’t been there only weeks before, and her neck looked downright scrawny. Rosie’s appetite, usually hearty, had also suffered. The last thing Rosie needed was for her depression to lead to anorexia.

  With a sigh, Jane closed the fridge. She wished she were only being dramatic, thinking such a thing. But Dr. Lowe had told them that often kids who took to cutting were prone to developing eating disorders. Almost as proof, there was Rosie’s disturbing weight loss, something Jane had been only marginally aware of over the past few months. And that was another crime. She couldn’t help but wonder now if she had been willfully ignorant of that, too, simply unwilling to believe or to admit that her own child could be less than perfect.

  If I turn my head, the problem will go away. If I pretend nothing is wrong, then nothing will be wrong. There was a bitter irony to it all, Jane thought now. If anyone should have noticed ill-fitting clothing, it should have been her. She could spot poorly fitting pants on a stranger at the mall, but she hadn’t noticed sagging jeans on her own daughter.

  Jane suddenly became aware that her head was throbbing and went to the kitchen drawer where the first aid kit was stored. She was taking ibuprofen at least twice a day lately, which was probably too often. But the headaches just kept coming, maybe because nothing in her world seemed solid or certain anymore. Everything had been put to question, every assumption and every comfort.

  Thankfully, Mike would be home from work soon. He would spend some time alone with Rosie before dinner, encouraging her to work on a jigsaw puzzle with him or to play a quick, intense game of Scrabble. At times, Jane felt a tiny bit jealous of their relationship; she wanted to be the one doing puzzles and playing Scrabble with her daughter. But whenever that tiny feeling of jealousy emerged, Jane carefully squashed it. She knew that Rosie loved her, and anyway, it was so much healthier for a girl to have a good relationship with her father than to be virtually ignored by him, like Meg was virtually ignored by her father. Look at what Peter Giroux’s neglect had wrought!

  Jane picked up the vase of fresh-cut pink peonies that sat on the kitchen table and for the second time that day refreshed the water. Peonies were one of Rosie’s favorite flowers, but so far, she hadn’t commented on this bouquet. Her interest in so many once-loved things hadn’t yet returned. Jane hoped that it did, and quickly.

  The flowers rearranged, Jane again slumped into a chair at the table. Thus far in her life as a parent she had always felt as if she could handle whatever challenges cropped up, maybe with some help from Mike or even a dose of sheer good luck. But now, from the moment she got out of bed each morning until the moment she got back into it at night, she felt horrible, crippling doubt about her ability to shepherd her daughter through the remaining years of childhood and then safely into adulthood. And maybe she deserved to suffer from that doubt.

  Jane heard the sound of a car coming up the drive toward the garage. Mike. She sighed in genuine relief. She always felt stronger and braver when Mike was around. She got up, almost knocking over her chair in the process, and hurried to the front door to greet him.

  3

  October 11, 2011

  Dear Diary,

  Today was pretty good. It’s actually kind of fun being a freshman. I was sort of afraid at first that the upperclassmen were going to give us a hard time, but there’s actually a kind of mentoring or big sister/big brother program where every ninth grader gets assigned a twelfth grader who’s supposed to look out for them. My big sister is this girl named Carly. She seems okay, though she doesn’t seem all that interested in being a mentor or a big sister. She forgot my name the other day and called me Rita. I didn’t correct her, but Meg did. But so far everything’s been fine, so it’s no big deal. I have her class schedule so I know where she is if I need her for advice or something.

  This is kind of interesting. Carly has a tattoo on the back of her neck. I think it’s a flower, but I didn’t want to stare (not that she would see me behind her!) or to ask her, so I don’t really know for sure. I didn’t even know you were allowed to have a tattoo in school. I mean, that you were allowed to show a tattoo. I’ll never get one. I think they’re kind of gross and it’s supposed to hurt a lot when you get them. Why would I want to have someone stick a sharp needle or whatever it is they use into me? Meg says she’s going to get one as soon as her mother lets her. She thinks maybe a small rose on her ankle or maybe a cross, if her mother won’t freak out about the cross. Mrs. Giroux is pretty religious. She doesn’t think you should wear a cross just as jewelry, which in some ways, I guess, is what a tattoo is. She says it’s sacrilegious. Mrs. Giroux wears a cross but that’s because she believes in Jesus.

  Anyway, Meg’s big sister is really into checking in with Meg and making sure she’s doing okay. Her name is Tiffany and she says she’s going to college in Florida because she hates the winters in Maine. I don’t think she’s been accepted into college yet—I’m not really sure how the whole admission process works yet—but the way she talks she’s determined to throw away her parka and boots for good! I can kind of understand what she feels about hating the long winters, but I could never move so far away from my mom and dad, not even if I could come home for holidays. I’d miss them way too much.

  Yesterday was my fourteenth birthday and Meg gave me a piece of polished rose quartz in the shape of a heart. (She said she got it in this fantastic store up in Portland called Stones and Stuff. She said this really nice woman named Heather owns it. I wonder when she got her mom to drive her to Portland without me knowing! That was pretty sneaky!) It’s got a silver piece on top, kind of a loop, so I can wear it on a chain. I love it! Mom and Dad got me a new copy of the last Harry Potter book (somehow my old copy got lost, maybe when we stayed overnight in that hotel when we went down to Massachusetts for Dad’s brother’s wedding; anyway, now my collection is complete again, which is a big relief) and then Meg and her mother and Petey came over for dinner. We had my favorite, this chicken casserole with apples in it that Mom makes, and Mrs. Giroux baked a cake. It was chocolate inside with white icing. I had the best time. Everybody sang “Happy Birthday” (even Dad, whose voice is really terrible) and Petey gave me a crayon drawing he made of Meg and me holding hands. Sometimes I wish I had a little brother or sister, though when Meg is in a bad mood she says that being a big sister is a pain.

  Meg is fun, though, even when she’s in a bad mood, which she never takes out on me. I just know she’ll be my best friend forever. Everyone in school says that about every friend they have—everyone is everyone’s BFF—but Meg and I are different. I can’t imagine us ever not being friends. It’s, like, totally unimaginable. Mom says I shouldn’t say “like” all the time. Imagine what she would say if she knew I just wrote it! But my mom would never, ever read my diary, so she won’t ever know. That’s one really good thing about my life. A lot of kids I know complain that their parents never give them any privacy. But my parents totally respect my privacy. They trust I’m not going to do something wrong or stupid, so they don’t need to be poking around my room, looking for clues that I’m running wild or something.

  Okay, I have to go and eat dinner now. Mom’s making pork chops and this cabbage dish made with red currant jelly. The whole house smells really good. I should learn how to cook so I can help Mom out sometimes. Bye!

  Your friend, Rosie

  October 30, 2011


  Dear Diary,

  Meg and I went to an early Halloween party last night in the gym at school. I went as a medieval princess, complete with one of those tall, pointy hats with a veil attached, and Meg went as a bat. She complained the whole time that her costume wasn’t good enough because she didn’t have the money to put together a better one. I told her she should have asked my mother for help. Mom could have made her something fantastic. But Meg got all red in the face and told me that her mom had forbidden her to “go begging” to my mom for help. She told Meg they didn’t need charity. That seemed really weird and I was sorry I said anything. Since when is helping out a friend charity? Maybe Mrs. Giroux was just in a bad mood when she said that stuff. She knows that Mom really enjoys doing sewing projects for Meg. Why would it suddenly be charity?

  Anyway, another interesting thing was that Mackenzie Egan and her friends were at the party, too, and they said hello to us. We’ve kind of known them since we were in first grade and they were in second, but they’ve never really noticed us before. They were dressed as Madonna wannabes from the eighties. I don’t know where they found all of that tacky stuff to wear, these awful neon-colored hair ties and black lace pantyhose and big plastic jewelry! Jill had her hair teased about a foot off her head! I thought it was nice of them to come over and say hi and say they liked my costume, but Meg thought it was weird. Sometimes she’s so suspicious!

  By the way, Mackenzie Egan is really pretty. I don’t think I ever noticed that before. She’s kind of medium height but she has really long legs and really dark hair and bright blue eyes. In fact, she kind of looks exotic. I bet boys really like her.

  The party was fun overall, though Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday. (It’s Christmas!) There was way too much candy and not enough other stuff to eat, like chips (not that Meg minded because she has a major sweet tooth!) and some spooky music (which wasn’t really spooky; it was kind of goofy sounding) and some haunted-house-type stuff like a bowl filled with wet spaghetti that you stuck your hand into. You were supposed to think it was brains or guts or something. It all seemed pretty lame to me, especially the marshmallows made to look like blood-streaked eyeballs. Now, if a REAL ghost had shown up, that would have been awesome. I totally believe in a spirit world and would love to encounter a real ghost someday. When I can, which is not often because of homework and piano lessons and practice, I watch some of those TV shows about people’s real-life experiences with spirits. Mom and Dad think the shows are all lies, but they don’t forbid me to watch them. I think my favorite is PARANORMAL STATE and then maybe PSYCHIC KIDS. A lot of the kids on that show are made fun of by other kids in their school. If I knew a real psychic kid I wouldn’t make fun of him at all. I’d have a lot of respect for him.

  Anyway, I think the person with the best costume at the party was a boy who came as Captain Jack Sparrow. Meg thought the best costume was someone who came as one of the characters from the Transformers movies. She said it was totally accurate. I’ve never seen any of those movies—I don’t get what’s so interesting about machines and guns—so the costume didn’t really impress me.

  Dad picked us up at ten o’clock, which is the latest I’ve ever been out, and Meg spent the night at my house. There were some old, classic black-and-white movies on TV and we watched DRACULA with this Eastern European actor named Bela Lugosi. (Dad told me about the Eastern European part. I think he said Bela Lugosi was from Hungary, but I might be wrong.) I loved it—it was very atmospheric—but Meg thought it was silly and boring. She doesn’t like old stuff like I do. Now I have to find a copy of the book in the library. Dad told me it’s really scary. Also, I have to get a copy of FRANKENSTEIN, which I just found out was written by a woman (cool—and she was really young, too) and which supposedly isn’t like the old black-and-white movie at all. I feel so bad for the monster in the movie. No one understands him and he’s so alone. Dad says I’ll feel even worse for him once I read the book because in some ways, the important ones, he isn’t a monster at all. It’s Dr. Frankenstein who’s the monster.

  Oh, and you should have seen Meg’s little brother, Petey! He went to school dressed as Snoopy from PEANUTS. He’s such a cute little boy. Sometimes I feel as if he’s my own brother. I wonder what he’ll be like when he grows up. I wonder if he’ll still be nice or if he’ll turn into one of those boys who pretend to be so tough and who make fun of everything like nothing matters. It’s like the only two things those boys can say are “Big deal” and “Who cares?” No. I think Petey will always be nice, even though his father isn’t very nice. I probably shouldn’t say that about a grown-up. I’ve always been taught to respect parents, even other people’s parents, and other adults, especially teachers and police and all those other authority figures. But it’s hard not to say or even think bad things about Mr. Giroux when his own ex-wife and his own daughter say them.

  I just remembered something. Wow. I’d totally forgotten this, but when Meg and I were maybe in second or third grade Mr. Giroux took us on a hike in the woods. I can’t remember exactly where but I do remember we brought lunch with us, peanut butter sandwiches and apple slices, and we ate sitting on a log by the bank of a pond. When we got back to Meg’s house, Mr. Giroux surprised us by making s’mores. It was the first time I’d ever had a s’more. I didn’t really like them—I hate marshmallows—but it was nice of him to do all that for us, so I ate two of them. It always pays to be polite. That’s what Mom always says. Anyway, I wonder if Meg remembers that day. Maybe I should ask her. Or maybe it would only upset her and make her miss her dad more. She says she doesn’t really miss him but I don’t believe her. It’s the way she says it, like she’s trying to convince herself.

  Okay, I should go now. I’ve got one more paragraph to write for English class and then I’m done with homework for the night.

  Your friend, Rosie

  4

  The long metal chains that held the swing to the support rods squeaked as Meg kicked off halfheartedly. She knew she shouldn’t be wasting time. There was still a lot to do before her mother came home from work, like vacuum the rugs in the living room and front hall and do a load of laundry and change the sheets on her bed and on Petey’s. But she just couldn’t make herself get up off that swing and do anything productive.

  She wished the housework would magically do itself. Meg wished a lot of things would take care of themselves or go away or change. Like, she wished she were taller, not five feet three inches, where she had been stuck for over a year. She wished she were naturally thin, not grossly thin like runway models with their bones sticking out all over the place, just thin. She wished her hair were a richer shade of brown, or maybe even auburn. She fully intended to color her hair as soon as she was old enough to do it without getting in trouble with her mother. Mrs. Giroux didn’t seem to believe in hair color; her own brown hair was pretty streaked with gray. It drove Meg a bit crazy that her mother didn’t take more interest in her appearance. Lots of things had been driving Meg crazy for a long time now. Her mother said it was just hormones. Meg wasn’t so sure.

  Meg sighed, and for a moment was glad she was alone. It was hot, and swinging had made her sweat enough so that her glasses kept sliding down her nose. There just wasn’t a cool way to push glasses back up your nose. Meg had tried in front of a mirror and every way just made you look stupid or like a definitely not cool kind of nerd. (She wouldn’t mind being a cool nerd. Cool nerds grew up to make lots of money.)

  Anyway, she wished she didn’t have to wear glasses. The frames were okay, even though she’d had them now for three years and was dying for a newer, more stylish pair, maybe something in purple or blue. Worse, though, was that on really bright days she had to use clip-on sunglasses, as her family couldn’t afford to buy a separate pair of prescription sunglasses. Most days Meg preferred to squint rather than to use the clip-ons, which, she was convinced, only old people used. She would love to be able to wear cool sunglasses, which you could get almost anywhere and which
didn’t have to cost a lot, either. She had seen some fantastic frames in Goodwill for three dollars! But she could only wear cool sunglasses if she could wear contacts, and that was another issue. Meg’s mother only allowed her to wear contacts on special occasions, and there hadn’t been one of those since Easter. According to her mother, regular old Sunday Mass didn’t count as special enough for “wasting” the money on a pair of disposable contacts. And the only reason her mother had let her get contacts in the first place was she had promised to make a one-month supply last for a year. It was unfair and very frustrating.

  Meg stopped swinging and kicked at the dirt with her foot. Her whole life was unfair and frustrating. Once, in a fit of anger or maybe it was annoyance, her mother had told her to stop being so discontented with everything in her life. “Life is tough,” she had snapped. “Get used to it.” Meg remembered shouting back something like, “Why should I have to get used to it? Just because you have?” That exchange had not ended well. She had lost Internet privileges for a week and had to clean the bathroom floor for a month.

  A slight squeak of a door hinge caused Meg to look up and across to the Patterson yard. Rosie was coming out of the door to the small screened-in room at the back of her house.

  Meg lifted her hand in a wave. The gesture was automatic, though the shout of greeting she was about to call out died in her throat.

  Rosie ignored her wave (or maybe, Meg thought, she hadn’t seen it) and walked back to the toolshed at the edge of the Patterson property. She went inside and a few minutes later emerged with a large, empty clay pot in her arms. Again without acknowledging Meg, she went back inside the house. Meg heard the door closing firmly behind her.

  Suddenly, Meg felt sad, and embarrassed, and very alone, sitting on that rusty old swing. There originally had been two swings, but somewhere along the line the chains on the other swing had broken. For over a year the useless swing had sat right where it had fallen, until Meg’s mother got tired of asking Meg’s father to either reattach it or take it to the dump. Finally, Mrs. Giroux had hauled away the broken swing herself. That was back when Mr. Giroux still lived with them and Petey was still a baby. Petey was a toddler when her father had left them. Or had her mother really thrown him out? Meg couldn’t remember clearly the sequence of events or the messy details that had led to her father’s final and for-good exit. Not that she missed him. Much. Not that she cared. Not usually. Now, if he had been anything like Rosie’s dad ...