by Roz Bailey
“I drove you home.”
“Right, yeah. That was weird.”
Did he really not remember that she drove him home, or was that just part of his smooth cover-up? “Feel better now?”
“Definitely. And you look great, Darcy. Really.” His pink tongue peeked out, teasing his bottom lip.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, though his comment warmed her like a hot-stone massage. She leaned back, pleased at the way her hipbones jutted out in her DK linen skirt.
“Tell me, Darce. Are Mommy and Daddy home tonight?”
She smoothed the pencil-thin linen skirt over one hip, leaning away coyly. “Actually, I’ve got the whole house to myself tonight.”
“All alone in the Love Shack?” He leaned forward and cupped her butt, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Maybe I’d better keep you company.”
Darcy swallowed hard as feelings of love and desire tugged deep inside her. She nuzzled his ear, leaning into the strong line of his body. Although she hadn’t seen him in months, she didn’t mind that he cut through the formalities, pushing their relationship along. She reached around his waist, loving the lean feel of him as she sidled into his arms, her lips veering close to his. “So . . . let’s get the hell out of here.”
6
Lindsay
With one phone call Tara and I reconnected, catching up on events over the school year and sharing our various experiences with Darcy. That first night at the movies, Tara could barely contain her anger toward our former friend, but a few days later she sort of forgot about Darcy’s bad karma. Tara’s brother Wayne, a soldier stationed in Korea, flew home with a friend, a guy named Charlie Migglesteen, and the idea of lusting for a guy under the same roof had delicious possibilities. Tara choked over his last name the first time she told me as we biked past an open market on Main Street.
“Migglesteen. I can’t believe I like a guy named Migglesteen.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked.
“It just makes me smile. He’s Jewish, and very cute. Not too tall, but with chocolatey eyes and a really strong sense of himself. You should see him handle my parents. Manners that shut my mother right down.”
“Mr. Migglesteen sounds nice,” I said as we turned off Main Street onto a tree-lined avenue. “Are you thinking of changing your name to Mrs. Migglesteen?”
“Get outta town.” Tara leaned over the handlebars and coasted, looking trim and sporty in her hot pink shorts, black tank, and black helmet with matching pink stripes. “I’m not even sure he likes me.”
“I’ll bet he does,” I told her. “But what about the parents? How are they handling it?” Although Tara had gotten involved with white boys before, nothing had ever developed to a level that her parents learned of the relationship, but this was right under their noses.
“I’m not sure how my parents would handle it,” Tara said thoughtfully. We were quiet as we passed tidy green lawns lined with flower beds of tall yellow tulips and lush red, purple, and orange impatiens with blossoms so thick they reached over the sidewalk. It was a sunny June afternoon, and the sleepy shingled colonial cottages of Southampton seemed not quite awake to the potential of full-blown summer yet.
“I’m not going to worry about it now,” Tara said. “If something develops, then I’ll deal with it, but as it is, Wayne keeps pulling Charlie into these stupid Xbox competitions that go on all day long. And when Charlie manages to extract himself from my brother, there’s Mama watching us like a hawk.” She sighed. “I gotta tell you, it’s not easy falling for your big brother’s friend.”
“Oh, please.” I tucked a clump of dark hair into my bike helmet. “Now you’re preaching to the choir.”
Although I managed to stall for another week, by the beginning of June I was walking down Southampton’s Main Street, past the quaint blue striped awnings of exclusive boutiques and gourmet shops, for my first day as a pizza girl. The smell of baking pizza, sweet tomato sauce, and melted cheese brought tears to my eyes as Sal Marino welcomed me to his shop.
“Come in, come in. You gotta duck behind the counter here.” Sal wore a tired smile, but his warmth seemed genuine as he wiped his hands on a white towel, telling me I looked just like my mother and grandmother. “So, Lindsay . . . grab an apron, wash your hands, and I’ll show you how to use the register.”
Scrubbing my hands with astringent pink soap, I observed that the back room of Old Towne Pizza was surprisingly clean for a small hole-in-the-wall take-out joint—the only pizza parlor in Southampton, where a monopoly could mean a fortune during the short summer months. It was four-thirty, the lull between lunch and dinner, and the dining area was empty. But by dinnertime on a Friday like this, the place would be packed with people grabbing a slice or waiting to pick up pies.
Back in the kitchen, Sal was stacking round silver platters of uncooked dough into shelves of the fridge and calling out things like “Three cases of whole tomatoes” and “Ten pounds of semolina.” Biting his lip, Mickey nodded and scratched out a list.
Ironic that both pizza guys were thin. Skinny, even. Did it have anything to do with being near the ovens and sweating it off? Maybe I should have tried for a job in a Laundromat. As a red car flashed past the shop window, I imagined Darcy driving by and spotting me inside. Brakes squealing, she’d pop out and square off with me, hands on her skinny hips. “Whoa, girl! Don’t you know pizza puts on the pounds?”
The bitch. Part of me hated her and part of me missed her like crazy. Schizoid, I know, but the summer was not going to be the same without her, even if I did manage to trim down on my fabulous new weight-loss plan. So far today I’d only eaten a peach, two boiled eggs and a slice of special fat-free toast—inspired by a celebrity diet I’d seen in Glamour magazine. Between the diet and the surfing, I figured that the pounds would eventually melt, right?
Smoothing a red and white checked apron over my khaki shorts, I stepped up to the register and found someone sitting at the counter, facing away. Okay, time to be a waitress. “May I help you?” I asked, aglow with professionalism.
Bear turned to face me. “Hey, squirt. I’m just waiting for the calls to start.”
Calls? I nodded as if I got it, though I didn’t.
“Duh. I’m the delivery guy.”
“Oh.” So this was the night job that kept Bear on the beach all day this summer. “Does Sal pay enough to keep you in Sex Wax?”
He shrugged. “I’m working on getting something going. Real sponsors, so I can focus on the surfing, maybe get to the coast.”
“The West Coast?” This was news to me. “Did you like it out there?”
“It’s different, but yeah. I’m talking to a guy who manufactures his own boards in Hawaii. If he comes through with the deal, I’ll be surfing in the islands this winter.”
“Professional.” Bear was good enough; I just never thought he had the confidence to pursue his obsession.
“Lindsay?” Sal called from the back. “You want me to heat you a slice before the rush starts?”
A slice, hot from the oven. Crisp crust and bubbling cheese . . . My mouth watered profusely, but I swallowed it back, thinking: Carbs are evil. Carbs are not your friend. “No, thanks.” I choked on the words.
“I’ll take one,” Bear called to the back.
“You?” Sal waved him off dramatically. “You, I know. Always. You’ll eat me out of business one day. I should take it outta your salary.”
Bear stepped behind the counter for a cup, then filled it at the Coke dispenser as if he owned the place. “You’d better grab something now, squirt. Soon it’ll be so busy in here, you won’t have a chance.”
“I’m trying to cut down.” I tried to sound positive, keep the desperation out of my voice. “You know . . . the freshman five. Sophomore seven. Jumbo junior.”
He let out a short laugh, then his eyes moved over me as he took a sip. “Don’t go anorexic on us. You look good to me.” As he spoke, he leaned around me, as if trying to get a better look at
my butt.
With a squeal, I swatted him and ducked back behind the register.
“Hey, you two,” Sal called. “No roughhousing near the pizza ovens. Lindsay, if you will, the red pepper and oregano need to be refilled and put back on the tables.”
“I’m on it!” I called, gathering up a tray of glass shaker bottles.
I pretended to be all business as Sal came out and served Bear his slice. I acted like filling the green flecks of oregano to the top was of utmost importance, but my thoughts were on what Bear had said.
He didn’t think I looked so bad. In fact, he thought I looked good, and it wasn’t that dismissive “Oh, you look fine so stop complaining” crap.
My heart did a happy dance as I shook the red pepper shaker like a maraca.
Bear thought I looked good, and the sun just rose over my summer.
7
Lindsay
“Here’s a quandary,” my brother Steve announced to his buddies bobbing in the lineup. I paddled beyond him, suspecting I didn’t want to be a part of this. “If you had a choice, which would you rather grow—a second dick, or fins?”
The Fogarty twins let out a roar of laughter, as if it were the first time they’d ever heard that old nugget. I ran my fingertips over the tacky wax on my board, thinking how there were advantages and disadvantages to being accepted as “one of the guys.” I liked being able to float in the lineup and pop up on my board without feeling that the boys were eyeballing me. The downside was that now that I was in, they had no qualms about acting like big beef jerkies in front of me.
“That’s not a tough choice. Who could resist a second one?” Johnny said, swiping his wet hair back. “Imagine the possibilities. Double dipping!”
More laughter, but I noticed Bear wasn’t going for it. “You guys are full of it,” he said. “You can’t even handle the one you got.”
Staring down into the sea, I was glad Bear didn’t go for it. The water was clean today. With crisp waves coming from an offshore breeze, the undertow was quiet, and I enjoyed peering through the blue-green water to the bits of seaweed and shell gently lolling on the sandbar. The water rose, a swell rolling in. Most of the surfers turned their boards quickly, moved onto their stomachs, and started paddling.
I paddled, pushed ahead of the wave, and popped up to a crouch. Water surged beneath my board as I got lifted and pushed ahead. Picking up speed. Angling in, my arms out for balance. This was it! The water rushed beneath me, a free thrill ride.
Then, suddenly, the board dropped down and came to a halt in the shallows, where I swerved and dropped into the water beside it. “Woo-hoo!” I shouted, slapping the water with my hand.
As I lingered in the shallows, I caught sight of two figures heading over the dunes. Dressed in a sleek turquoise and black wet suit, Tara walked alongside a short, solid guy who was carrying a surfboard under one arm. This had to be Officer Migglesteen, the soldier Tara couldn’t stop talking about. They seemed like a couple, quietly exchanging conversation. I floated my board into the beach and flopped it onto the sand.
“You picked the right time,” I called to them. “The waves are just starting to get interesting.”
“Would that be good or bad?” the dark-eyed guy asked, lowering the board.
“Lindsay . . . Charlie.” Tara introduced. “He’s never surfed before. I promised to give him a lesson.”
“Brave soul,” I said. “Tara will be a good teacher, but watch out for those ballbusters in the surf. They’re ruthless.”
“I’ll take that under advisement when I’m flailing in a riptide and they’re surfing wheelies around me,” Charlie said as he placed the board on the sand.
“That’s a little extreme,” Tara said.
“What? They won’t let me drown?”
“No. They can’t surf wheelies.”
“Very reassuring.” He spread his arms out wide. “Okay, Tara, have at me. You’re the great Kahuna and I’m Gidget, just grabbing a board for the first time.”
I smiled. Charlie Migglesteen was a little nerdier than I’d expected, but he seemed to like Tara, and she obviously enjoyed moving beside him as she demonstrated how to stand on the board, how to pop up and balance.
“You think I’m a goofy foot?” he said with a deadpan expression. “You should see my cousin Leo.”
Tara and Charlie waded into waist-deep water to watch as I demonstrated how to maintain trim and stand at the same time. Then I loaned them an extra board so Tara could paddle out with Charlie.
“Not bad,” Bear said, watching with me on the beach as Charlie wiped out. “At least he got on his feet.” Leave it to Bear to see the good.
I nodded, thinking that Charlie was built right for surfing—solid and short, a compact body with a lower center of balance. “He could do well with some practice. Though I guess you don’t see many waves in North Korea. He’s stationed there with Tara’s brother.”
Bear scratched his chin. “Aw, man, I envy him. He could surf Fiji!”
By noon the tide was high, slamming onto the beach in sick, un-surfable waves. Tara and Charlie followed me home, where Charlie, Steve, and Bear went through Steve’s collection of boards in the yard, looking for something to loan Charlie for the next few weeks.
In the kitchen, Tara and I reached into the cupboards, searching for some spices and condiments to zing up a big batch of tuna fish for sandwiches to feed the crew.
Tara called out the inventory. “We’ve got onion flakes, Italian seasoning, dried mustard, paprika . . .” The top of her suit was unzipped and peeled down to her waist, revealing a chocolate bikini top. In contrast, I felt doughy, with sand caught in the seam of my swimsuit, a sheen of salt caked on my legs. “How do you feel about capers?”
“Bring on the crazy capers.” I was opening a large can of tuna when Ma came in the porch door with a bag of groceries.
“Tara, hello! Will you sit for a cup of tea?” my mother asked. Although born and raised in Brooklyn, Mary Grace had picked up the lilting cadences of her parents, Irish immigrants. My maternal grandfather, James Noonan, a carpenter, had come to New York with a sack of bedding and the clothes on his back—or so went the family lore. A quick-footed dancer and scotch drinker, James had worked long hours as apprentice to a cabinetmaker to perfect his craft—work that ultimately paid off when he fast-talked his way onto the crew of a Park Avenue apartment renovation, where he convinced the designer to upgrade the wood and proceeded to craft a masterpiece.
From then on, whenever a “Park Avenue swell” was renovating an apartment, James Noonan was hired to do the cabinetry. Now, as Ma opened a dark walnut cabinet to stow two boxes of tea, I was reminded of the history in this house. Her grandfather used to see weekend patients in the dining room. My parents were married here, a slew of children baptized here. And James Noonan had been hired by Dr. McCorkle to renovate this very kitchen. In an age where so many kitchens were prefabricated pressboard, I felt a deep, timeless connection to family every time I swung open the dark walnut cabinets that had been built by my grandfather.
“You’re getting way too skinny there, Tara,” Ma said, taking a box of Hostess cupcakes out of the brown bag. “These will do you good.”
“You always did try to fatten me up.” Tara’s amber eyes were lit with defiance. “All the moms and aunts give it their best shot, but it never works.”
“So tell me what you’re up to.” Mary Grace filled the kettle at the sink—no microwaved water for her tea; that would be a travesty. “One more year you’ve got at college, then to work with the both of you.”
“We don’t mind hard work, Ma.” I peered out the kitchen window at the guys around the shed as I rinsed my hands in the sink. “It’s those guys you need to worry about.”
Cocking one eyebrow, my mother agreed. “That’s for sure. Your brother hired to play with toys. Whoever heard of such a thing? And those Fogarty brothers, getting the family business dumped in their laps. It’s a shame, but they’ve got too much
time on their hands. It’s a wonder they’ve not been incarcerated, but don’t get me started. How are your parents?”
“They’re fine. My brother’s visiting on leave, and Mama’s still floating on a cloud.”
“The prodigal son. Of course, we love the one who ran away.” Mary Grace squinted out the window. “Is that your man with my Stevie?”
Tara’s pale brown skin flushed pink. “He’s a friend. One of Wayne’s friends.”
“Of course he is.” Mary Grace placed a wrapped chocolate cupcake on a plate and handed it to Tara.
“Ma . . . don’t make her eat it.” I jabbed at the tuna with a vengeance. “You don’t have to,” I told Tara.
“It’s okay.” She tore open the clear wrapping and pulled off a curlicued edge of frosting. “I’d be a junk-food freak, except my mother banned it from the house.”
Twenty minutes later, the guys filed in, along with Skeeter and Johnny, and everyone was sitting around the McCorkle table eating sandwiches along with juicy peaches and tomatoes Mary Grace had brought from the farm stand down the road.
Spooning peaches into a bowl, I marveled at how my mother managed to get half a dozen people settled and fed while tossing off questions that elicited participation from the more reserved and pointed up things everyone had in common. Ma was awesome at the social thing. She suggested Charlie give Steve tips on traveling to China, where sporting goods were manufactured for Victory Sports, and Steve seemed open to it all, not jealous at all. Which surprised me, considering the attraction that had once burned between him and Tara. They’d crushed on each other, back when we were in junior high. Not that they’d gone anywhere with it or even been an official couple. But watching them now, it all seemed so civil and grown-up.
Ma coaxed Tara to describe the needs of kids in a Trenton neighborhood association where Tara had been volunteering time while at Princeton. She started Bear talking about his week in Maui, sharing a shack with another surfer in the land of wild hibiscus, blue crush waves, and residents who could barely afford the gas to drive to the other side of the island for a surf competition.