“Ahhhhhhh,” Lena said as she waded in. It was funny to hear her voice aloud. Her thoughts and perceptions usually existed so deep inside her, they rarely made it to her surface without a deliberate effort. Even when she saw something genuinely funny on television, she never laughed out loud when she was alone.
She ducked all the way under the water and then came up again. She floated languidly with just her face above the surface. The sun warmed her cheeks and eyelids. She splashed a little, loving the swish of water over every part of her body.
This is the most perfect moment of my life, she decided. She felt like an ancient Greek goddess alone under the sky.
She let her arms float out to her sides, tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and just levitated, every muscle loose and soft. She would stay this way until the sun set, until it rose again, until August, until maybe forever. . . .
Every muscle in her body snapped to attention at the sound of rustling grass. In a fraction of an instant she found her feet on the pebbly bottom of the pond and stood.
She drew in a sharp breath. Someone was there. She saw the shadow of a figure obscured behind a tree. Was it a man? An animal? Were there vicious, man-eating animals on Santorini?
Her peace was broken, smashed to bits. She felt her heart nearly bouncing out of her chest.
Fear told her to sink her body back underwater, but a bigger fear told her to run away. She pulled herself out of the pond. The figure emerged.
It was Kostos.
She was staring directly at Kostos, and, far worse, Kostos was staring directly at her. She was so stunned, she took a moment to react.
“K-Kostos!” she shouted, her voice a ragged shriek. “What are you—what—”
“I'm sorry,” he said. He should have averted his eyes, but he didn't.
In three steps she'd reached her clothes. She snatched them and covered herself with the bundle. “Did you follow me?” she nearly screamed. “Have you been spying on me? How long were you here?”
“I'm sorry,” he said again, and muttered something in Greek. He turned around and walked away.
Still soaking wet, she yanked on her clothes haphazardly. In a storm of anger she threw her paint supplies into her backpack, probably smearing her painting. She strode across the meadow and toward the cliff, too mad to link her thoughts.
He'd been following her! And if he . . . Her pants were inside out. How dare he stare at her like that! She was going to . . .
She realized, by the time she neared the house, that her shirt was off-kilter by two buttons, and between pond water and sweat it was stuck to her body almost obscenely.
She banged into the house and threw her backpack on the ground. Grandma sped out of the kitchen and gasped at the sight of her.
“Lena, lamb, vhat happened to you?”
Grandma's face was full of worry, and that made Lena want to cry. Her chin quivered the way it used to when she was five.
“Vhat? Tell me?” Grandma asked, gazing at Lena's inside-out pants and misbuttoned shirt with wide, confused eyes.
Lena sputtered for words. She tried to harness one or two of her spinning thoughts. “K-Kostos is not a nice boy!” she finally burst out, full of shaky fury. Then she stomped up to her room.
Carmen watched Krista struggling with her homework at the kitchen table. She was taking summer school geometry to lighten her load for junior year. Carmen had the impression Krista wasn't going to be joining Mensa or anything.
“You ‘bout ready?” her dad called to her from his bedroom, where he was putting on his tennis clothes.
“Just about,” Carmen called back. She'd been ready for the last twenty minutes.
Krista was doing a lot of erasing. She kept blowing red eraser bits over her scarred paper. She was like a third grader. Carmen felt a pang of sympathy for her and then beat it back. Carmen couldn't help glancing at the problems on Krista's paper. She'd taken geometry in ninth grade, math geek that she was, and it was possibly her favorite class ever. Krista was stuck on a proof. Carmen could tell by just squinting across the table exactly how to do it in a minimum of steps. It was weird, her longing to do that proof. Her fingers were practically tingling for the pencil.
She could hear Lydia blabbing on the phone in the den in her wedding voice. It was the caterer, Carmen guessed, because Lydia kept mentioning “miniature soufflés.”
“All set?” her father asked, appearing at the kitchen door in his Williams T-shirt and his white tennis shorts.
Carmen got up, her heart lifting. This was the first thing she was doing with her father in the five long days she'd been there. She felt almost absurdly privileged to have him to herself.
She left the house with a sigh, sorry only to be leaving the geometry proof.
It wasn't until she was out the door that the thought occurred to her that if Krista weren't Krista, if she bore no relationship to Carmen's father, she would have asked Krista if she needed some help.
Dear Bee,
Skeletor came over again this afternoon. She's over here almost every hour that Paul is home. It's pretty sad that my only joy in life is tormenting that dumb girl. Today I put on a pair of boxers and a cut-off tank top and knocked on Paul's door and asked to borrow a nail clipper. It's clear that Paul completely hates me, though he never says anything, so it's hard to know. The idea that I would be attractive to Paul and a threat to his and Skeletor's happiness is preposterous. But she doesn't know that.
All love from your evil friend who has a tiny patch of heart left to miss her friends desperately,
Carmen
For some unaccountable reason, Bailey showed up at Wallman's the next day.
“What are you doing here?” Tibby asked, forgetting for a moment to be nice.
“I thought I'd give you another chance,” Bailey said. She was wearing cargo pants almost identical to the ones Tibby had worn the day before. She had on a hoodie sweatshirt and a trace of black eyeliner. It was obvious she was trying to look older.
“What do you mean?” Tibby asked dumbly, once again disturbing herself with her quick willingness to lie.
Bailey rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Another chance not to be an asshole.”
In spite of herself, Tibby's temper flared. “Who's the asshole here?” she snapped.
Bailey smiled. “Hey, listen, is that smock your kind of one-size-fits-all item?”
“Yeah, wanna borrow it?” Tibby asked, enjoying the playfulness on Bailey's face.
“Nah. It's butt ugly,” Bailey commented.
Tibby laughed. “It's two-ply. It's made of petroleum.”
“Nice. You need some help with that?” Bailey asked.
Tibby was stacking boxes of tampons. “Are you looking to get a job at Wallman's?”
“No. I just feel bad I wrecked that deodorant display.”
“Antiperspirant,” Tibby noted.
“Right,” Bailey said. She started stacking. “So, do you ever take the smock off? Or do you wear it around the clock?”
Tibby was annoyed. She couldn't take much more mocking about the smock. “Would you leave the smock alone?” she asked testily. She was tempted to bring up the needlepoint. Tibby's mother used to do needlepoint.
Bailey looked pleased. “For now.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Can I buy you some ice cream or something after your shift? You know, as thanks for not stealing all my money?”
Tibby didn't feel like hanging with a twelve-year-old. On the other hand, she didn't feel like she could say no. “Sure. I guess.”
“Great,” Bailey said. “What time?”
“I get off at four,” Tibby said without enthusiasm.
“I'll come by,” Bailey offered. She turned to go. “Are you just being nice to me because I have cancer?” she asked over her shoulder.
Tibby considered this for a moment. She could lie some more. Or not. She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Bailey nodded. “Okay.”
Tibby quickly learned th
e ground rules with Bailey. It wasn't hard. There were only two of them: 1) Don't lie. 2) Don't ask her how she's feeling.
Other than that, the conversation over brownies with ice cream and chocolate sauce ranged far and wide. Tibby found herself talking with unusual interest and openness about the movie she was planning. Bailey acted like she was fascinated, and Tibby wasn't immune to a person thinking she was cool.
It made Tibby wonder about herself—if maybe she missed her friends even more than she had realized. Was she so lonely that she'd open up to any random annoying twelve-year-old?
Bailey seemed to have the same suspicion. “Do you have any friends?” she asked at one point.
“Yes,” Tibby said defensively. But as she began to describe her three fabulous, beautiful, and amazing friends and the awesome places they were spending their summers, she realized it really sounded like she was making them up.
“Where are all of your friends?” Tibby finally asked, throwing the burden back to Bailey.
Bailey rattled on about Maddie, who lived in Minnesota now, and somebody else.
Tibby looked up at one point and saw Tucker Rowe standing at the counter. Her heart started beating faster. Was he the only other person in their class who was home this summer? She'd figured out by now that he worked at the ultrahip indie record store that shared a parking lot with Wallman's. It was a whole four stores over, past a Burger King, a pizza place, and Calling All Pets, so running into him wasn't a definite. But it was highly likely. It had happened once already.
Some people go out of their way to run into their crushes. Tibby did everything she could to avoid it. Mostly, she'd observed, Tucker parked in the back of the strip mall. So she always made it a point to park her bike in the front. And it seemed to work okay. Except for now, in this ice cream shop, which happened to be on the other side of Calling All Pets. Tibby silently berated herself for such bad planning.
Tucker was wearing a slight scowl and a squinty face that made him look like he'd only just gotten out of bed. He was probably hanging at the Nine Thirty Club all night while she was resting up for her next shift at Wallman's. She seriously hoped he would think that Bailey was her little sister and not her new best friend.
“Why are you holding your face like that?”
Tibby glared at Bailey. “What do you mean?”
“You know, with your cheeks all sucked in.” Bailey did an exaggerated imitation.
Tibby felt her face warm. “I wasn't.” When had Tibby started lying? She prided herself on being direct—with herself especially. But Bailey was far more ruthlessly direct than even Tibby, and it was causing Tibby to hide and shrink, just what Tibby accused other people of doing.
Bailey wasn't done yet. Her eagle eyes scanned the front of the store. “Do you like him?”
Tibby was about to pretend she didn't know who Bailey was talking about, but she stopped herself. “He's okay,” Tibby agreed uncomfortably.
“You think?” Bailey looked unconvinced. “What do you like about him?”
“What do I like about him?” Tibby was annoyed. “Look at him.”
Bailey stared at him baldly. Tibby felt embarrassed, even though she hated the whole giggly “Don't let him see you're looking at him” routine.
“I think he looks stupid,” Bailey announced.
Tibby rolled her eyes. “You do, do you?”
“Does he really think those earrings are cool? And, I mean, look at his hair. How much gel went into that hair?”
Tibby had never considered that Tucker actually spent time trying to make himself look like he looked. It was true that the height of his hair looked less than accidental. Even so, she didn't feel like admitting that to Bailey.
“Um, no offense, Bailey, but you're twelve. You haven't even hit puberty yet. Please forgive me if I don't accept your expert testimony about guys,” Tibby said snottily.
“No offense taken,” Bailey said, obviously enjoying herself. “I'll tell you what. I'll find a worthwhile guy sometime, and you tell me if you don't agree.”
“Fine,” Tibby said, sure she wouldn't be spending enough time with Bailey to give her the chance to identify that worthwhile guy.
“Uh-oh.” Diana looked up from her book. “Bee has on her pirate face.”
“I do not,” Bridget protested, though she completely did.
Ollie was sitting cross-legged on her bed. A lot of girls in the cabin had already put on their nightshirts and stuff. “You want to raid the coaches' cabin?” Ollie asked.
Bridget raised her eyebrows in interest. “Actually, that sounds nice, but that's not what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” Diana asked like a know-it-all.
“Two words. Hotel Hacienda.” It was the one bar in all of Mulegé, the place where she'd heard the coaches went at night.
“I don't think we're supposed to,” Emily said.
“Why not?” Bridget demanded. “Ollie is seventeen. Sarah Snell is eighteen. Practically half the people here are going to college in the fall.” She wasn't one of them, but she didn't feel the need to mention it. “This isn't Camp Kitchee where you turn off your flashlights at nine. I mean, come on. There's not even a drinking age in Mexico.” She didn't actually know whether that was true or not.
“The first scrimmage is tomorrow,” Rosie pointed out.
“So? Partying makes you play better,” Bridget said blithely. There was a statement that belonged with “Drinking makes you drive better,” or “Getting stoned makes you good at physics,” but who cared? She was in one of her impulsive moods.
“How do we go?” Diana asked. She was practical, but she wasn't a coward.
Bridget considered. “We could either steal a van or take bikes. I think it's about half an hour on bikes if you ride fast.” Bridget didn't want to volunteer the fact that she didn't have a driver's license yet.
“Let's take bikes,” Ollie said.
Bridget felt that slightly reckless fizz in her veins she always got when she was doing something she shouldn't.
Diana, Ollie, and Rosie were in. The rest were out.
They quickly changed their clothes. Bridget borrowed a skirt from Diana, who was almost as tall as she was. It was annoying that Bridget hadn't thought to bring clothes that didn't make her look like a boy.
Four of them flew along the Baja Highway, whizzing past snail-like RVs. Bridget kept bumping against Diana's back tire and making her scream. The placid bay was to their left and the hills were to their right, and the full moon sat on Bridget's shoulder.
They could hear the music throbbing from the hotel before it came into sight. “Wahooo!” Bridget yelled. They made a quick huddle at the door.
“Listen,” Ollie said. “If Connie's there, we leave. I don't think anyone else will care. We went a couple times at the end of last year, and none of the coaches said anything.”
Ollie elected herself the one to check. She ducked in and came right back out. “It's packed, but I didn't see her. If she shows, we leave.” She looked at Bridget dubiously. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Bridget agreed.
“Whether or not Eric is there.”
“I said okay.”
Bridget hadn't been to many clubs, but each time was the same. All eyes, at least all male eyes, followed her hair. Maybe it was the combination of bar light and alcohol that made it glow extra bright.
They made for the dance floor. Bridget was indifferent to drinking, but she loved to dance. She grabbed Diana's hand and pulled her onto the crowded dance floor. Dancing was like soccer or miniature golf or gin rummy. It was just one of those things she was good at.
The salsa music pounded through her body. There were shouts and stares and catcalls that she suspected were aimed at her—or her hair, anyway. She looked for Eric.
At first she didn't see him, so she gave her whole self to the music. A little while later she spotted him with other coaches at a table away from the dancing. The table was covered with big, salty margarita
glasses, mostly empty.
He was watching her. He didn't see her see him seeing her yet, and she didn't want him to. She made it a point never to be coy, but she wanted him to be able to watch her if he wanted to.
He looked mellow from sun and running and probably tequila. He had a sexy way of tipping his head to the side when he looked at people.
Men kept bobbing around her, but she stuck with Diana, her preferred partner. A few minutes later, Ollie joined them, a beer in one hand.
Ollie spotted the coaches' table and waved to them. Marci waved back. Eric and another coach, Robbie, gave them looks that said, We'll just pretend we're not seeing this.
But another round of margaritas later, the coaches were out on the dance floor too. It was heady and good. Bridget felt a dancing high coming on that rivaled her running high. She couldn't resist him anymore.
She turned to Eric and danced close. She touched his hand momentarily. She watched his hips. He was both easy and skilled. She let her eyes linger on his. For once he didn't look away.
She put her hands at the bottom of his back, matching her hips to his. He was so close she could smell his neck. He put his lips to her ear. It sent an avalanche of chills to her feet.
Gently he gathered her hands and gave them back. In her ear he whispered, “We can't do this.”
Lena threw herself onto her bed, nearly exploding with self-concern. Then she heard whispers and then shouting downstairs. Was her silent grandfather shouting? She leaped to her feet and pulled off her wet shirt, replacing it with a dry one. Then she yanked off the Pants and put them on the right way, her fingers shaking. What was going on here?
When Lena arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she saw that Bapi's face was practically purple, and he was striding toward the front door. Grandma hovered around him, reasoning with him in a nervous tangle of Greek. Her words were not appearing to make much difference. Bapi stormed out the door and turned downhill.
Suddenly Lena was getting a bad feeling about this. She skittered behind them. She knew before Bapi reached the Dounas residence that he would be stopping there. He knocked violently on the door.
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Page 8