Big Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Who is they?”

  “I don’t know.” Drue’s voice was small and sad. “My therapist? Oprah?”

  I snorted. “Since we’re sharing quotations, how about ‘Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me’?” I wanted her to leave; to get out of this house, to stop calling, stop texting, stop writing, stop trying. I wanted her to leave me alone. But then, unbidden, my mind served up a picture: the two of us, in seventh grade, in pajamas, on a Monday morning in December. I’d slept over on Sunday night, and around midnight it had started to snow, an early-winter blizzard that had canceled all the city’s schools. We woke up to find the city covered in a blanket of pristine white. The streets were empty. Everything was quiet and still.

  “I wish we had hot chocolate,” Drue had said. Abigay, the family’s cook, had left early the day before, trying to get home to her own children while the trains were still running. When I asked Drue where Abigay lived, Drue had shrugged, saying, “Queens. The Bronx. One of those places.”

  “We can make hot chocolate,” I said. Drue had gone looking and reported back, “There’s no mix,” and when I’d found cocoa powder, sugar, and milk and made us a pot from scratch, she’d been as amazed as if I’d shown her actual magic. We carried our mugs over to the sofa by the window and sat there, looking down at the empty street, watching the snow fall. Her parents must have been somewhere in the house, but neither one of them made an appearance or disrupted the silence. There’d been a Christmas tree, a real Scotch pine, in the Cavanaugh living room, perfuming the air with the smell of the forest. I remembered its tiny white lights twinkling against the green branches, the richness of the hot chocolate on my tongue; and how happy I was, how thrilled to be in Drue’s company on that beautiful wintry day. We’d cut out snowflakes from gold and silver foil wrapping paper, and watched six episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. By the end of the afternoon I’d confided my crush on Ryan Donegan, one of the best-looking boys in ninth grade. By the second period of the day on Tuesday, Ryan had walked up to me in the hall and said, in front of at least six of our classmates, “Sorry, Daphne, but I don’t like you that way.” When I’d confronted Drue she’d shrugged and said, “You were never going to be brave enough to tell him on your own. So I did it for you. What’s the big deal?” Then she’d stopped talking to me, as if my anger was unreasonable, as if it had been my fault.

  No, I thought. Absolutely not. No way was I letting her get close to me again. But then, right on top of that thought came a memory of a different sleepover. I’d been older, maybe fourteen, and I had woken up in the middle of the night, needing to use the bathroom. Rather than going to the one attached to Drue’s bedroom and possibly waking her, I slipped out into the hallway and was tiptoeing down the hall when I heard a loud, male voice ask, “Who’re you?”

  I stopped, frozen and terrified, and turned toward the opened door. In the shadows, I could see a desk with a man-shaped bulk behind it. A glass and a bottle sat on the desk in front of him. Even from a distance, I could smell the liquor.

  “I’m Daphne Berg. Drue’s friend.”

  “What? Speak up!”

  In a quavering voice, I said my name again. The man repeated it, in a vicious falsetto singsong: “I’m Daphne Berg. Drue’s friend.” His slurred voice turned the last two words into Drue’sh fren. “Well, I’m Drue’s father. Or so they tell me.” He made a barking noise, a version of a laugh. “What do you think about that?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, or even if I was supposed to answer. I knew that Robert Cavanaugh was a big deal—rich, powerful, a man who had the ear of presidents and the chairman of the Federal Reserve, according to Drue, who salted her conversation with references to him. My father says, my father thinks My father says a guaranteed minimum wage is a terrible idea, she’d announce in our Contemporary America class, or she’d casually drop My father thinks the Israeli prime minister’s kind of a jerk. She’d told me about her plans to work with him at the Cavanaugh Corporation after she graduated from Harvard, which he, too, had attended. But, as large as he loomed in my friend’s life, I’d never set eyes on Drue’s father until that moment, three years into our friendship.

  He squinted at me through the whiskey-scented gloom. Finally, after a pause that felt endless, he waved a hand at me, a clear dismissal. I scurried back down the hall, all thoughts of the bathroom forgotten.

  The next morning, I’d woken up to find Drue standing in front of the mirror over her dresser, lining her eyes, and the memory had assumed the quality of a bad dream. “I think I saw your father last night,” I said. From my bed on the floor, I could see the way her body seemed to go on high alert at the words “your father,” the way her shoulders tensed. Without turning, Drue slid her gaze away from mine. Her voice was even as she answered, “He must have come home late. He was in Japan,” but I saw one toe start tapping at the carpet. I thought about my own father, a high school English teacher who had a beard and a potbelly and who was invariably kind. If he’d startled Drue in the middle of the night he would have apologized, probably even warmed up a mug of milk for her and asked if she wanted a snack.

  All of that history was unfurling, fast-forwarding in my brain in the Snitzers’ kitchen with Drue in front of me, waiting for an answer. I could feel the old anger, the wounds as fresh as if they’d been inflicted the day before. I could hear her voice, jeering at me—We all just felt sorry for you!—and remember how that had hurt, even worse than that guy calling me a fat bitch. I thought, So help me, if she tries to take credit for it, if she tells me that if it wasn’t for her then that night would have never happened and that video would have never gone viral, and I wouldn’t be an influencer, I will throw a mixing bowl at her head. My stomach was twisting, and my mouth tasted sour. The words were there, just waiting for me to say them: You ruined my life. I was just starting to speak when a thought occurred to me: Had she?

  Had she really?

  Here I was, a young woman with a good job, an education and family and a community of friends, in the real world and online. A young woman who shared a nice two-bedroom apartment with a good friend, a real friend, and had enough money to pay her bills and buy more or less what she wanted (within reason); a girl with a sweet dog and a supportive family, a little bit of fame, and exciting prospects for a future. Sure, high school had sucked, but didn’t high school suck for most people? Maybe I could be the bigger person (ha ha ha, I thought, then winced, and wondered if I’d ever be able to unlearn the habit of self-deprecation). Maybe I could forgive her. Maybe that would be the best thing, a gift I could give myself. I could stop hating Drue Cavanaugh. I could lay that burden down.

  “I really did miss you,” Drue said. Her voice was small. “And no matter what you decide, whether you forgive me or not, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry in person. I treated you horribly, and I’m sorry.”

  I turned toward our reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator, Drue all confidence and couture, me all anxiety and Ross Dress for Less. Over the years, I’d played out endless iterations of our reunion in my head. Never once had it gone like this.

  “So look.” Drue smoothed her trousers over her knees and stood up, giving me another tremulous smile. “Will you please at least think about it? I can’t imagine getting married without you.”

  I closed my eyes, just for a second. “I don’t think I can act like everything that happened is just…” I made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Just pfft, gone, because you apologized. It’s going to take me some time.”

  “The wedding’s not until June.” Her eagerness almost undid me, the desperation just beneath the gloss. I’d been that desperate, once, so eager to be included, and to have Drue and her friends acknowledge me as their equal. To be one of them, part of their pack, and to move through the world with the knowledge that I belonged, that I mattered, too.

  “I need some time,” I began.

  “I’d pay you,” Drue blurted.

  I stared at her, feeli
ng my mouth fall open. Drue was trying to smile, but her lips were trembling, and her hands were twisting as she clasped them at her waist.

  “I mean, I can see that you’re doing well. Really well. But everyone could use a little extra, right?”

  I took a deep breath. Here was something else that none of the versions of an encounter with Drue I’d imagined had featured—feeling sorry for her. And I was—I could admit it—thinking about Instagram, and how I could profit from what she was offering. I knew from experience that pictures on beaches, or in any exotic setting, especially one that came with a whiff of exclusivity, spelled clicks, and likes, and traffic. A cute picture of a swimsuit? Good. Cute picture of the same swimsuit on a beautiful beach? Better. And if the beach was at Portofino or St. Barth’s, some walled-off or members-only province of the ultra-rich and famous, where the air was rare and mere mortals weren’t allowed? Best of all.

  It was tempting. I also knew that Drue wouldn’t stop. If her assault on my employers didn’t work, she would go back to my parents next. Or she’d take out a billboard in Times Square. I sighed, and Drue must have heard capitulation, or seen it on my face. She smiled at me, opening her arms, then dropping them and reaching for her phone. “Picture!” she cried. “We need a picture!”

  Of course we did. I’d just gotten through telling her that everything was not fine between us, that there was still work to be done, but I knew she’d post a shot that would make it look like there’d never been a rupture, like she’d never betrayed me or hurt me, like we’d been in each other’s lives all along. In space, nobody could hear you scream; on the Internet, nobody could tell if you were lying.

  Sixty seconds later, Drue had taken, edited, cropped, filtered, and posted a picture of the two of us. She had her arm around my shoulder, her cheek leaning against the top of my head, and both of us were smiling. Me and my BFF and bridesmaid! she had written. I felt unsettled, angry, and increasingly certain that I was being used, but with her arm around me, with the familiar smell of her shampoo and hairspray and perfume in the air, I could also feel that old familiar pride, like I’d aced a test for which I hadn’t studied, or pulled a guy way out of my league. Drue’s regard had always felt like that. Like I’d won something valuable, against all odds. Like I’d taken something that was never meant to be mine.

  By the time I made it home that night, my follower count had climbed by two thousand. Maybe this will be a good thing, I told myself, feeling the strangest combination of nausea and hope, excitement and despair. I was excited about the wedding, and Drue’s return. I was disappointed in myself for letting her back into my life so quickly, for putting up so little resistance. I was frustrated that I’d let her promulgate the lie of it all online and post a smiling picture, and the version of the truth most useful to Drue. I was already dreading having to tell my friends and family that I’d let Drue back into my life. And I’d been glad, more than anything else; glad that Drue still wanted me around, glad that my friend and I were together again.

  * * *

  When every crumb of the chocolate croissant had been devoured, Ian and I collected Izzy, a round-limbed, pink-cheeked, cheerful ten-year-old, and ferried her to hockey practice. At Gristedes, I picked up everything on the Snitzers’ list: black beans, garlic, shallots, a half-gallon of almond milk, honeycrisp apples, and four salmon fillets. At the dry cleaner, I collected Dr. Elise’s dresses and Dr. Mark’s shirts. At the pharmacy, I paid for Ian’s asthma inhaler refill. He took the inhaler and one of the bags of groceries; I carried the other and the clothes, and together, we walked to the Snitzers’ apartment building on East Eighty-Ninth Street.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ian inquired as we entered the lobby. It was dinnertime. I could tell by the cluster of delivery guys waiting by the service elevator, each carrying plastic bags fragrant with curry or ginger and garlic or hot grease and grilled meat. Ian had told me that the building’s board had voted not to let delivery people ride the residents’ elevator—lest, I suppose, the smell of ethnic food or the sight of ethnic deliverymen and -women offend the residents.

  “Ask away.”

  Ian’s body seemed to slump. “Remember how I told you about Brody Holcomb?”

  I nodded. Brody Holcomb was the class asshole, who’d already gotten in trouble for claiming he’d misheard the teacher’s explanation of Ian’s allergy to peanuts and tree nuts, after telling everyone that Ian had a penis allergy. That kind of wit.

  “His parents had to come to school after that thing that happened. And the dad looked just like Brody! All big, and…” Ian waved his free hand around his face and body, in a way I thought was meant to communicate handsome and powerful. “At school, they tell us ‘it gets better.’ But what if Brody never changes? What if he just grows up to be like his dad?”

  I considered my options as Ian trudged into the elevator, which zipped us to the Snitzers’ floor. Eight felt very young to understand the world as it was. Then again, Ian was smart. Not just smart, but wise. An old soul, his mother liked to say.

  “Sometimes things do change,” I said carefully. “Sometimes things do get better.” I was thinking about myself, my years at the Lathrop School, and how I’d longed for transformation. I was thinking about Drue, and wondering if she’d actually changed at all. “And here’s the good news,” I said, putting my hand on Ian’s bony shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Even if things don’t get better, you can always make them look good on the Internet.”

  Chapter Four

  “Class, we have a new student joining us today!” It was the first day of sixth grade at the Lathrop School, which was allegedly one of the best private schools in the city and, not coincidentally, the school my father had attended and where he currently taught English to juniors and seniors. My parents had tried to get me into Lathrop for kindergarten. I’d gone for the playdate and the interview, and I’d been admitted, but the financial-aid package the school had offered to the children of Lathrop teachers wasn’t quite generous enough. They’d tried again when I was in fourth grade, with the same results. The third time had proved the charm.

  The night before, I’d made sure my favorite denim short-alls were clean and my light-blue T-shirt spotless. I had a new pair of Nike sneakers, white with a blue swoosh, bought at the Foot Locker, on sale. I’d straightened my hair and pulled it back in a ponytail, and my mom had lent me a pair of earrings, gold and dangly, with turquoise beads. She’d taken a picture of me in my carefully chosen clothes and a tremulous smile, holding a sign she’d painted in watercolors: First Day at the Lathrop School! The shot was probably already on her Facebook page, getting oohs and ahhs and likes from my aunts and uncles and grandmother, and all of my mom’s friends.

  My knees felt wobbly as I stood up so Ms. Reyes, my homeroom teacher, could introduce me. “I’d like you all to meet a new student, Daphne Berg.” I smiled, like I’d practiced at home, thinking, I hope they like me. I hope someone will be my friend. I hadn’t had many friends at my old public school. Most of my free time was spent with books, or with scissors and paper and a hot glue gun, not other kids. Most of the time, that was okay with me, but sometimes I was lonely, and I knew my parents worried about my friendlessness. It was one of the reasons they’d pushed so hard for Lathrop to take me.

  “Welcome, Daphne,” said Ms. Reyes.

  All the kids paused in their chatter and looked me over, but Drue Cavanaugh was the first one that I really saw. She was sitting in the center of the front row, dressed in tight dark-blue jeans with artful rips on the thigh and at the knee. Her loose gray T-shirt had the kind of silkiness that cotton could only attain after a hundred trips through the washing machine. On top of the T-shirt she wore a black-and-white-plaid shirt. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin a creamy white with golden undertones and a sprinkling of freckles. Her nose was narrow and chiseled; her lips were full and pink; her shiny, streaky blond hair was gathered into a casually messy topknot. She wore silver hoops in her ears and a velvet choker ar
ound her neck, and I could see, instantly, that my clothes and my hair and my earrings were all wrong; that she looked the way I was supposed to look, effortlessly beautiful and stylish and cool. I felt my face flush with shame, but, unbelievably, the beautiful girl was smiling at me, patting the empty seat next to her. “Daphne can sit here,” she said. Ms. Reyes nodded, and I slipped into the seat.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “I’m Drue,” she said, and spelled it. “It’s an old family name. Short for Drummond, if you can believe that. If I was a boy I think my parents were going to call me Drum.” She wrinkled her nose charmingly, and I smiled at her, charmed. Then she smoothed her hair and turned back to the conversation she’d been having with the girl on the other side. When the bell rang, she gathered up her books and flounced away without another word to me, leaving only the scent of expensive shampoo in her wake.

  Weird, I thought. I didn’t see her again until lunchtime, and she came gliding toward me in the cafeteria where I stood, frozen, trying to figure out if I should buy a slice of pizza or eat the lunch my dad had packed.

  “Hey, Daphne? It’s Daphne, right?” When I nodded, she asked, “Do you have any money?” She made a face and said, “I’m completely broke.” Flushed with pleasure, thrilled that she’d remembered my name, I mentally committed to my packed lunch and reached into my pocket for the five dollars my mother had given me, just in case none of the other sixth-graders had brought lunch from home.

  “Thank you!” she caroled, before bouncing away. As I watched her go, a girl with round glasses and a mop of shiny dark curls approached. “Did she ditch you?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, even as I realized that was exactly what had happened: “No, she just needed money.”

  The other girl gave a not-unfriendly snort. “Ha. That’s a good one.” She had medium-brown skin and wide brown eyes beneath thick, curved eyebrows, and she wore jeans and sneakers with a silky-looking light-blue kurta on top. Her mouth glittered with the metal of her braces; her glasses caught the light. I was tall for my age, and she was short, with skinny hips and a flat chest. The top of her head barely reached my shoulders.