By the time the moon peaked and had begun to fall, her anger had fully retreated into its normal place, and her brain had started working again.
Now that she was thinking, she thought that she had to go back home to Washington. But her thinking also informed her that she had left everything—her money, her debit card, her everything useful—in the house. Why was it that her temper and her thinking never happened at the same time? Her temper behaved like a glutton sitting in an expensive restaurant ordering a hundred dishes, only to disappear when the bill came due. It left her lucid mind to do dishes.
“You will not be invited back,” she muttered to her temper, her evil twin, the bad Carmen.
Maybe she should just cede her body to her temper all the time. Let it deal with the consequences, instead of her rational, conscientious self, which ruled her body most of the time. Okay, some of the time.
The rational Carmen, poor sucker that she was, had to creep back into the sleeping house at three in the morning (The back door was open. Had somebody left it that way on purpose?) and collect her stuff in complete silence. Though the bad Carmen wished someone would hear her and confront her, the rational Carmen prevented her from making that wish come true.
Rational Carmen walked to the bus stop and slept on a bench until five o'clock, when the local buses started running again. She took a bus all the way downtown to the Greyhound station, where she used cash to buy a ticket for a bus to D.C. making no more than fifteen stops.
The rational Carmen had arrived in South Carolina, and the rational Carmen was leaving it. But she had made very few appearances in between.
She stared out the window as the bus ground through downtown Charleston, the sleeping apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants, hoping the alternate-universe Carmen with her fun, single dad was having a better time.
Bumble Bee,
I'm a mess. I can't even write about it yet. I just want to get this package off to you by the fastest, most expensive mail possible. But let me just say that the Pants have not caused me to behave like a decent and lovable person. I hope you do better with them. What do I hope ? Hmmm . . . I hope these Pants bring you . . .
Courage? No, you have too much of that.
Energy? No, you have way too much of that.
Not love. You get and give loads as it is.
Okay, how 'bout this? I hope they bring you good sense.
That's boring, you're screaming at me, and I know it is. But let me tell you from recent experience, a little common sense is a good thing. And besides, you have every other charm in the universe, Bee.
Wear them well. XXXOOO
Carma
At breakfast, Bridget was thinking about sex. She was a virgin, as were her best friends. She'd gone out with a lot of different guys, usually within a larger pack of kids. She'd gone further than kissing with a couple of them but not very much further. She'd been driven more by curiosity than by physical yearning.
But for Eric, her body felt something else. Something bigger and craggier and stormier than she had glimpsed before. Her body wanted his in a painful, distinct, demanding way, but she wasn't even exactly sure what or how much it was asking for.
“What are you thinking about?” Diana asked, clinking her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.
“Sex,” Bridget answered honestly.
“I could sort of guess that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Does it have anything to do with where you were last night?” Diana asked, curious but not pushy.
“Well, kind of,” Bridget answered. “I did see Eric. But we didn't hook up or anything.”
“Did you want to?” Diana asked.
Bridget nodded. “I think tonight might be the night.” She tried to convey confidence without swagger.
“Tonight is going to be what night?” Ollie asked, sitting down with her tray.
“My night to hook up, Oh-livia,” Bridget responded.
“You think so?” Olivia asked.
“I do.” Bridget didn't want to go into what had happened last night. It seemed too intimate to give details.
“I can't wait to hear about it,” Ollie said in a doubtful, challenging way.
Bridget couldn't resist a little bravado. “I can't wait to tell you.”
Sherrie stopped by their table on her way out. “Bridget, you've got a package.”
Bridget got up. A suspicion about the package sent a thrill up to her scalp. She was fairly sure the clothes she'd asked her dad for hadn't arrived yet. Her father was the notoriously cheap Dutchman. No way he would have sent her stuff by fast mail. That meant it was . . .
She ran barefoot to the main building and stood fidgeting at the telephone desk. “Hello!” she yelled to get attention. Patience might be a virtue, but it wasn't her virtue.
Eve Pollan, Connie's assistant, came out from the office. “Yeah?”
Bridget couldn't keep her feet still. “Package for me? Bridget Vreeland. V-R-E-E—”
“Here.” Eve rolled her eyes. There was only one package on the shelf. She handed it over.
Bridget tore it apart right there. It was! It was the Pants. They were beautiful. She had missed them. They were already a little dirty, especially on the seat—somebody had been sitting on the ground in them. The thought made her laugh and ache for her friends at the same time. It really was like having a bit of Lena and Carmen and Tibby here. Although Carmen wouldn't be caught dead with mud stains on her butt. That had to have been Lena or Tibby. Bridget pulled the Pants on right over her white nylon shorts.
There was a letter too. She stuffed it in her pocket for later.
“Are these gorgeous pants or what?” she asked Eve, because sour Eve was the only one around.
Eve just looked at her.
Bridget ran back to the cabin for her cleats and her green jersey. Today was the first round of the Coyote Cup championship. The Tacos were playing team five, the Sand Fleas. “Diana! Check these out!” Bridget commanded, wagging her butt in Diana's face.
“Are those the Traveling Pants?” Diana asked.
“Yeah! What do you think?”
Diana looked her over. “Well, they're jeans, pretty much. They fit you great, though.”
Bridget beamed. She put on her cleats in a hurry and ran out to the field.
“Bridget, what are you thinking?” Molly demanded the minute she saw her.
“What do you mean?” Bridget asked, blinking innocently.
“You're wearing blue jeans. It's a hundred degrees out here. We're about to play our first real game.”
“They're special pants,” Bridget explained patiently. “They're kind of . . . magical. They'll make me play better.”
Molly shook her head. “Bridget, you play plenty well without them. Take them off.”
“Come on.” Bridget tapped her cleat. “Please. Please?”
Molly dug in. “No.” She couldn't help laughing. “You are a piece of work, girl.”
“Rrrrr.” Begrudgingly Bridget stripped off the jeans. She folded them carefully on the sidelines.
Molly put her arm around Bridget's shoulders before she sent them out into formation on the field. “Play your game, Bee,” she said. “But don't run away with it. Hear me?”
Bridget felt that Molly would make a good grandmother someday. It was too bad she was only twenty-three.
Bridget took off like a shot at the whistle, but she didn't run away with the game. She gave it to her teammates. She fed beautiful assists to them all game long. It was an act of sacrifice. She felt like Joan of Arc.
The Tacos were seeded first and the Fleas sixth, so it made sense they were beating them. But when they got up 12-zip, Molly called them over. “Okay, call off the cavalry, kids. Let's not be cruel.” She glanced at Bridget. “Vreeland, take over for Rodman.”
“What?” Bridget exploded. Brittany Rodman was the goalie. This was the thanks she got?
Molly made her “Don't mess with me” face.
“Fine,” Bridget spat. She strode sullenly into the goal. She'd never played the position in her life.
Of course this was the moment Eric chose to come scouting. He couldn't help smiling at the sight of her, her hand planted on her stuck-out hip in the goal. She scowled at him. He scowled back. Sweetly, though.
She was busy making faces at him when a ball came flying at her. Her reflexes were good. She could hardly help herself. She snatched it out of the air.
When she saw the disappointment on all the faces, including Molly's, she threw the ball behind her, deep into the goal. Everyone burst into cheers. The long whistle ended the game. “To the Tacos, twelve to one,” the ref called.
Bridget looked to Eric. He gave her a thumbs-up. She curtseyed.
The Pants were good luck, even from the sidelines.
“Carmen! Jesus! What are you doing here?”
Tibby was in her underwear and a T-shirt when Carmen burst into her room. Carmen had only stopped at home long enough to dump her suitcase and call her mom at work.
She threw herself at Tibby, nearly mowing her friend down. She slapped a kiss onto the side of Tibby's face and promptly started to cry.
“Oh, Carma,” Tibby said, leading her friend over to her unmade bed and sitting her down.
Carmen really cried. She sobbed. She shuddered and heaved and gulped for breath like a four-year-old. Tibby put both arms around her, smelling and looking that comforting Tibby way, and Carmen was so relieved to be in a safe place with someone who knew her really, truly, that she let loose. She was the lost child in the department store, waiting until she was safe with her mother to cry a flood of tears.
“What? What? Was it so bad?” Tibby asked gently, when the volume and frequency of sobs had died down.
“It was horrible,” Carmen wailed. “It was miserable.”
“Tell me what happened,” Tibby asked, her sometimes remote eyes damp and open with worry.
Carmen gave herself a few more breaths to calm down. “I threw a rock through the window while they were eating dinner.”
This obviously wasn't what Tibby expected to hear. “You did? Why?”
“Because I hate them. Lydia, Krista.” Pause. “Paul. Their whole stupid life,” Carmen said sulkily.
“Right, but I mean, what happened that made you so upset?” Tibby asked, rubbing her back.
Carmen blinked. What a question. Where to begin? “They . . . they . . .” Carmen needed to stop and regroup. Why was Tibby interrogating her this way? Why wouldn't she just be regular and accept Carmen's feelings as proof that whatever was wrong was wrong? “Why are you asking so many questions? Don't you believe me?”
Tibby's eyes opened wider. “Of course I believe you. I'm just . . . trying to understand what happened.”
Carmen bristled. “Here's what happened. I went to South Carolina expecting to spend the summer with my dad. I show up and—surprise! He's moved in with a new family. Two kids, nice big house, the works.”
“Carmen, I know all that. I read your letters. I promise.”
For the first time Carmen observed that Tibby looked tired. Not just stayed-up-too-late tired, but tired on the inside. Her freckles stood out against white skin on her nose and cheeks.
“I know. Sorry,” Carmen said quickly. She didn't want to fight with Tibby. She needed Tibby to love her. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Oh, yeah. Fine. Weird. Good. I guess.”
“How's Wallman's?”
Tibby shrugged. “Mostly despair. As usual.”
Carmen gestured toward the guinea pig cage. “How's the rat?”
“Mimi's fine.”
Carmen stood and hugged Tibby again. “I'm sorry for putting on the drama class. I'm so happy to see you. I've just wanted so much to spill to you, I can't even make any sense.”
“No, it's okay,” Tibby said, squeezing Carmen back hard, then sitting on the bed. “Just tell me everything that happened, and I'll tell you you're good and that the rest of them suck,” she promised, sounding more like her usual self.
I'm not good were the words that bubbled to the surface, but Carmen kept them in her mouth. She sighed and lay back on Tibby's bed. The wool blanket was itchy. “I guess I just felt . . . invisible there,” she answered slowly, thoughtfully. “Nobody paid any attention to me. Nobody listened when I said I was unhappy or complained when I acted like a brat. They just want everything to look and seem perfect.”
“‘They' is Lydia mostly? Your dad?” Tibby let the last word linger.
“Yeah. Lydia mostly.”
“Are you feeling mad at your dad too?” Tibby asked carefully.
Carmen sat up. Why couldn't Tibby just get mad with her? Tibby was the master of anger. She judged without reason; she loathed on a dime. She hated your enemies more than you did. “No I'm not! I'm mad at those other people!” Carmen shot back. “I don't want to have anything to do with them. I want them to go away and for it just to be me and my dad again.”
Tibby backed away a little. Her eyes seemed wary. “Carma, do you think . . . I mean, is it really . . .” Tibby pulled her feet up onto the bed. “Is it possible it's not the worst thing in the world?” she asked, looking down. “I mean, compared to the really bad things?”
Carmen gaped at her friend. When had Tibby become Miss Perspective? Miss Proportion? If anybody got feeling sorry for herself and blaming other people for it, it was Tibby. Why was Tibby making her be reasonable when she just needed to be heard?
“Where'd ya put Tibby?” Carmen finally asked with a punctured lung and walked out of the room.
Dear Lena,
So the movie is going along, but it isn't how I expected. Bailey has become my self-appointed assistant. I let her do the interview with Duncan, Assistant General Manager of the World. It didn't come out funny, like I'd planned. But it was kind of cool anyway. The people I find most laughably insane, she seems to find most interesting.
So how's the boxing Bapi? How's ineffable Eff? Don't torture yourself, Len. We love you too much.
Tibby
That afternoon was their match against the Gray Whales. Meanwhile, Los Cocos, Eric's team, won their first match too. They were playing against team six, the Boneheads, tomorrow. Then the grand all-Coyote championship match was planned for the day after. Bridget took it for granted that the Tacos would be playing in the finals.
They waited for six o'clock, for the sun to sink and the air to cool to start the game. The whole camp was watching this time. The light was pink and pretty, slanting across the field. Bridget watched Eric sitting on the ground with a couple of other people on a checked blanket, laughing at something Marci said. Jealousy stabbed through her heart. She didn't want other girls making him laugh.
She'd brought the Pants with her again. She carefully folded them on the sidelines.
Molly was regarding her. Bridget didn't like the look on her face. Was Molly going to play her at goalie the whole game? “Bridget. You play defense.”
“What? No way.”
“Yes way. Get out there. Don't go past midfield,” Molly added bossily, like Bridget had never watched a soccer game in her life.
“Go, Bridget!” Diana yelled from the sidelines. She was kicking back on the grass with a bunch of other girls, eating chips and salsa.
Bridget lined up at defense. She toiled back there all game long as Ollie and Jo and other girls played for glory. At least Bridget could feel good about destroying the Whales' offense.
By the middle of the second half it was 3-0. Bridget saw her chance. It was too good to pass up. There was a big skirmish on the sidelines, drawing nearly everybody from their positions. Bridget found herself drawn up to midfield with the far half of the field almost completely open. Ollie had the inbounds pass and spotted Bridget in the corner of her eye. Making sure she stood behind the midfield line, Bridget efficiently captured the ball and sent it in a high, fast arc toward the goal. The crowd grew quiet. Everybody's eyes were on the ball. The goalie reached high and
jumped. The ball sailed up and over her, sinking into the corner of the net.
Bridget looked directly at Molly. She was the only person on the sidelines who wasn't cheering.
“Bee, Bee, Bee!” Diana and her friends were chanting.
After that, Molly took Bridget out of the game. Bridget faintly wondered whether she would be asked back here next year. She sat on the grass and ate chips and salsa, enjoying the burning sensation in her mouth and the last rays of the sun on her shoulders.
Lena needed to get back to painting. She was just hanging around, day after day, wanting to see Kostos, waiting for him to please return her glance, waiting to discover that he'd told everybody what happened between them—almost wanting him to. Half the time she believed herself that she couldn't find any way to make her stony, impassive grandparents talk about it. Half the time she knew she was lying the other half of the time. She was making excuses for her own discomfort.
She couldn't drink another coffee with Effie at the place with the cute waiter. She couldn't spend another afternoon on the scorching black sand at Kamari beach. She couldn't take yet another fruitless walk past the Dounas place and down to the forge. It was pitiful, was what it was. She needed to get back to painting.
She'd return to her olive trees by the pond. Of all the paintings she'd ever done, the olive tree painting was her favorite. It was a little smeared, but it had mostly survived her temper tantrum. Today she packed a hat and a bathing suit. Just in case. She felt brave going back there. It didn't take much to make her feel brave.
The walk uphill felt even steeper than it had been nine days ago; the transformation from rock to meadow seemed even more dramatic. She felt an extra kick in her blood flow when the picturesque little grove came into sight. She went to the exact spot she'd been before. She could practically see the three holes her easel had made in the ground. Carefully she set up her panel and squeezed fresh blobs of paint onto her palette. She loved the smell of her paints. This was good.
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