“I’ll come in with you,” he offers as we pull into the circular drive. “Explain that it was my fault.”
“No.” The headlights of the VW illuminate a Lexus parked in our driveway. Clay? One of those donors? As I fumble with the door latch, my hand is sticky with sweat. I’m scrambling for a plan, a Mom-acceptable excuse. She was not in the best of moods this morning. Unless the donors showered her with money, and probably even if they did, I’m in big trouble. I have to just go in the front door, because chances are my mother has already checked my bed.
“Good night, Jase,” I call hurriedly, and run without looking back. I start to open the door, but then it opens swiftly from inside and I practically fall in. Mom’s standing there, her face taut with fury.
“Samantha Christina Reed!” she begins. “Do you know what time it is?”
“After curfew. I know. I—”
She shakes the wineglass in her hand at me as if it’s a wand that will render me mute. “I’m not going through this with you too—do you hear me? I’ve done all the troubled-teenager parenting I have time for with your sister. I don’t need this, do you understand?”
“Mom, I’m only ten minutes late.”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice rises. “The point is that you don’t get to do it! I expect better from you. This summer, especially. You know I’m under a lot of pressure. This is not the time for your adolescent drama.”
I cannot help but wonder if any parents ever actually schedule in adolescent drama on their day planners. Looks like a slow week, Sarah. I guess I can pencil in your eating disorder.
“This isn’t drama,” I tell her, which rings so true to my ears. Mom is drama. Tim is drama. Sometimes even Nan is drama. Jase and the Garretts…they’re whatever the opposite of drama is. The tidal pool warm in the summer sun, full of exotic life, but no danger.
“Don’t contradict me, Samantha,” Mom snaps. “You’re grounded.”
“Mom!”
“What’s goin’ on, Grace?” asks a softly accented Southern voice, and Clay wanders out of the living room, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck.
“I’m handling it,” Mom tells him sharply.
I half expect him to pull back as though she’s slapped him, which I want to do when she gets that tone, but his posture relaxes even more. He leans back against the doorway, flicks something off his shoulder, and says simply, “Seems like you could use my help.”
Mom’s so tightly wound, she’s practically vibrating. She’s always been private—would never yell at Tracy and me if we were even remotely in public—then we’d just get a terse whisper—“We will discuss this later.” But it’s Clay, and her hand shoots up to pat her hair in that silly, coy gesture I’ve only seen her use with him.
“Samantha’s late for curfew. She has no excuse for that.”
Well, she hasn’t exactly given me a chance to offer one, but, true, I don’t know what I’d say in my own defense.
Clay looks at his Rolex. “Curfew’s when, Gracie?”
“Eleven,” Mom says, her voice smaller now.
Clay lets out a rich, low laugh. “Eleven o’clock on a summer night? And she’s seventeen? Honey, that’s when we all miss curfew.” He walks over, reaches to squeeze the back of her neck lightly. “I know I did. I’m sure you did.” His hand moves to her chin, edging it so she’s looking right at him. “Give a little here, sugar.”
Mom stares at his face. I’m holding my breath. I shoot a glance at my unlikely rescuer. He winks at me, giving Mom’s chin a nudge with his knuckles. In his eyes, there’s not a trace of guilt or—and I’m surprised at how relieved I feel—complicity about what he knows I saw.
“Maybe I overreacted,” she says finally, to him, not to me.
But I’m beginning to wonder the same thing. Maybe there’s an easy explanation for the brunette?
“We all do it, Gracie. Why don’t I get you some more wine?” He scoops the glass out of her unresisting fingers and heads off to the kitchen as though it’s his own.
Mom and I both stand there.
“Your hair’s wet,” she says at last. “You’d better shower with conditioner or it’ll dry tangly.”
I nod, and turn to go up the stairs. Before I’ve gone far, I hear her behind me. But I act as though I don’t, proceeding into my room and flopping facedown on my bed, still wearing my wet bathing suit and damp sundress. The mattress dips as Mom sits down.
“Samantha…why would you provoke me like this?”
“I didn’t— It’s not about—”
She starts rubbing my back the way she did when I had nightmares when I was little. “Sweetie, you just don’t understand how hard it is to be a parent, much less a single one. I’ve been working without a map since you both were born. Never knowing if I’m making the right call. Look at Tracy and that shoplifting incident. And you and that Michael, who might have been doing drugs for all I know.”
“Mom. He didn’t do drugs. I’ve told you that before. He was just weird.”
“Be that as it may. This is the sort of thing I just can’t have going on during the campaign. I need to focus. I can’t have you distracting me with these antics.”
Antics? Like I’ve returned stark naked in the wee hours of the morning, reeking of alcohol and pot.
She strokes my back a few more minutes, then frowns. “Why is your hair wet?”
The lie slips out easily, though I’ve never lied to Mom before.
“I took a shower at Nan’s. We were trying on makeup and doing a conditioning treatment.”
“Ah.” Then, her voice low: “I’m keeping an eye on you, Samantha. You’ve always been my good girl. Just…act like it, okay?”
I always have. And this is where I’ve wound up. Still, I whisper, “Okay,” and lie very still beneath her fingers. Finally she stands up, says good night, and leaves.
After about ten minutes, I hear a tapping at my window. I freeze, listening for evidence that Mom heard too. But all’s quiet downstairs. I open the window to find Jase crouching on my balcony.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Then, looking closely at my face: “Are you?”
“Wait a minute,” I tell him, practically shutting the window on his fingers. I hurry to my door, to the top of the stairs, and shout down, “I’m taking that shower now, Mom.”
“Use conditioner!” she calls back, sounding much more relaxed. I duck into the bathroom, turn the water on full blast, and return to open the window.
Jase seems perplexed. “Everything all right?”
“Mom’s a little protective.” I fling one leg, then the other out the window, and sit down next to Jase, who’s folded himself comfortably against the gable. The night breeze is sighing past us, and the stars are so bright.
“This was my fault. I was driving. Let me talk to your mom. I’ll tell her…”
I imagine Jase being confronted by Mom. That I missed curfew for the first time while in the company of “One of Those Garretts” would confirm, for her, everything she’s ever said about them. I just know it.
“It wouldn’t help.”
He reaches out, folding my cold hand in his warm one. Apparently feeling the chill, his other palm closes on it too. “You sure you’re okay?”
I would be if I didn’t keep picturing Mom coming up to make sure I was using enough conditioner and finding me out here. I swallow. “I’m fine. See you tomorrow?”
He leans forward, my hand still enclosed in his, moving his lips from the bridge of my nose down to my mouth, coaxing it open. I start to relax into him, then think I hear a knock.
“I’ve got to go. I—good night?”
He gives my hand a squeeze, then me a grin so dazzling it squeezes my heart even harder. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Despite those kisses, I can’t relax. Ten minutes late in a lifetime and I’m an issue for the campaign? Maybe Mom and the Masons can get a discount on military school if they ship me and Tim off together.
/> I stop the shower, slamming the frosted glass door loudly. In my room, I pick up my pillow, punching it into shape. I don’t know how I’ll sleep. My body’s tight. In this moment, if Charley Tyler made a pass at me, I’d go all the way, even knowing it meant nothing to him. If Michael actually were a drug addict and offered me instant oblivion, I’d take it, even though I hesitate before taking an aspirin. If Jase knocked on the window again and told me we were going to take a motorcycle trip to California right now, I’d go.
What’s the use of being the me I’ve always been when my mother is hardly recognizable?
Chapter Fifteen
The next time I babysit, Mrs. Garrett takes me grocery shopping, so I can entertain the kids and wrestle junk food out of their hands while she scans her stack of her coupons and expertly fields commentary.
“You certainly have your hands full.” She hears that one a lot.
“With good things,” she responds calmly, removing Count Chocula cereal from George’s eager grasp.
“You must be Catholic,” is another she gets time and time again.
“No, just fertile.” She peels Harry’s hands away from the latest Transformer action hero.
“That baby needs a hat,” lectures a severe-looking elderly woman in the freezer aisle.
“Thank you, but not really, she has several nice ones at home.” Mrs. Garrett picks up an economy-size box of frozen waffles and adds it to the cart.
I hand Patsy a bottle of juice, prompting a crunchy-granola-looking woman in Birkenstocks to say, “That baby is much too old for a bottle. She should be on a sippy cup by now.”
Who are these people, and why do they think their own opinions are the only right ones?
“Don’t you ever just want to kill them, or at least swear at them?” I ask in an undertone, steering the cart away from the crabby sippy-cup woman, with Harry and George clinging to either side like spider monkeys.
“Of course.” Mrs. Garrett shrugs. “But what kind of example would that be?”
I’ve lost track of how many laps I’ve done, but I know it’s less than I used to be able to do, and I’m winded but invigorated when I climb the ladder, squeezing water from my hair. I’ve loved swimming ever since I can remember, ever since I was brave enough to follow Tim out of the safe shallows into the bigger waves. I’m going to get back on that team. I dash the towel across my face, check the clock—fifteen minutes till the pool opens, which is usually accompanied by a surge of people through the gates. My cell phone buzzes on my chair.
Take a break, Aqua girl! Nan’s texted me, from the B&T gift shop. Come C me.
Stony Bay is very proud of Stony Bay. The B&T’s gift shop, By the Bay Buys, is chockablock full of items advertising various town landmarks. As I walk in, Nan is already open for business, saying sweetly to a gentleman in pink plaid shorts, “As you can see, you could get this mouse pad of Main Street, and then these placemats with the aerial view of the river mouth, this little lamp that looks like our lighthouse, and these coasters with the view of the dock—and you wouldn’t need to go outside at all. You could see the whole town from your dining room.”
The man appears nonplussed, either by Nan’s soft-spoken sarcasm or by the idea of spending so much money. “I really only wanted these,” he says, holding up some napkins that say One martini, two martini, three martini, floor. “Can you put them on my club tab?”
After Nan rings him up and he leaves, she crosses her eyes at me. “My first day on the job and I’m already regretting this. If all the Sanctification of Stony Bay stuff brainwashes me, and I tell you I need to join the Garden Club, you’ll get me deprogrammed, right?”
“I’ll be there for you, sister. Have you seen Tim? He was supposed to get here ten minutes early so I can show him his uniform and all that.”
Nan checks her watch. “He’s not officially late yet. Two more minutes. How did I get the most boring job with the longest hours in town? I only took it because Mrs. Gritzmocker, who does the buying, is married to Mr. Gritzmocker, the bio teacher who I want to write a recommendation for me.”
“This is the price of your ruthless ambition,” I say. “It’s not too late to repent and work for the greater good—like at Breakfast Ahoy.”
Nan grins at me, her hundreds of freckles already darkening with the summer sun. “Yeah, well, I’m saving my Naughty Sailorette costume for Halloween.” She glances out the window behind me. “Besides, it’s gonna take both of us to babysit my brother if he can get himself fired from a hot dog stand.”
“How exactly did he do that?” I ask, opening one of the sample lip glosses on the checkout counter, rubbing it on my finger and smelling it. Ick. Piña colada. I hate coconut.
“Asked people how hot they wanted their wiener,” Nan says absently. “He’s out there now. By the concession stand. Go make sure he’s not a disaster.”
Given our last encounter, I approach warily. Tim’s leaning against my lifeguard chair, wearing dark glasses even though it’s cloudy. Not a good sign. I edge closer to him. He used to be so easygoing, Nan’s opposite. Now he’s a time bomb who might detonate in your hands.
“So,” I say hesitantly. “You okay?”
“Fine.” His voice is abrupt. Either he hasn’t forgiven me for not being his ATM or he’s got a headache. Probably both.
“Seriously? Because this job is, well, serious.”
“Yup, the fate of the world depends on what goes down at the Lagoon pool at the B and T. I get it. I’m your man.” He salutes without looking at me, then squirts sunscreen into his palm to rub on his pale chest.
“Honestly. You can’t mess around here, Tim. There are little kids and—”
His hand on my arm silences me. “Yeah, yeah. Screw the lecture, Princess Buttercup. I know.” Taking off his sunglasses, he jabs them at his heart for emphasis with a phony smile. “I’m hungover but I’m straight. I’ll save the partying for after hours. Now get off my back and do your job.”
“You’re part of my job. I’m supposed to show you where the uniforms are. Hang on.”
I position the Lifeguard Off Duty sign more prominently on my chair, walk through the bushes to the Lagoon pool, and set that one up too. A bunch of moms standing outside the gate with their children and their arms full of floaties look annoyed. “Just five more minutes,” I call, adding in an authoritative tone, “Need to resolve a safety issue.”
Tim’s sweaty and preoccupied as he follows me through the labyrinthine course to the room where uniforms are kept. We pass the bathrooms, with their heavy oak doors, thick iron latches, and signs that say “Salty Dogs” and “Gulls,” then spell it out in nautical flags.
“I’m gonna throw up,” he says.
“Yeah, It’s ludicrous, but—”
He grabs my sleeve. “I mean really. Wait.” He vanishes into the men’s room.
Not good. I move away from the door so I don’t have to hear. After about five minutes, he comes back out.
“What?” he asks belligerently.
“Nothing.”
“Right,” he mutters. We get to the uniform room.
“So, here’s your suit—and stuff,” I shove the towel, hat, jacket, and whistle that come with the job, along with the gold-crest embossed navy blue board shorts, into his hands.
“You gotta be kidding. I can’t wear my own suit?”
“Nope—you need to display the B and T crest,” I say, attempting a straight face.
“Fuck me, Samantha. I can’t wear these. How’m I supposed to pick up hot girls and get laid?”
“You’re supposed to be saving lives, not scamming on girls.”
“Shut up, Samantha.”
Seems as though all our conversations run into the same dead end.
I reach over and scoop up the hat with its jaunty insignia, plopping it on his head.
It’s removed even faster than Tim can say: “That will be an extra helping of hell no with the hat. Do you wear one of those?”
“No—for s
ome reason, only the male lifeguards get that. I get the little jacket with the crest.”
“Well, not this guy. I’d just as soon go in drag.”
I can’t worry about Tim. It’s pointless. Besides, this isn’t a job that allows for downtime. At the far end of the Olympic pool, a group of elderly women are taking a water aerobics class. Despite the rope blocking off that section, kids keep cannonballing into the class, splashing the ladies and upsetting their fragile balance. There’s always a baby who doesn’t have a swim diaper, despite the many signs saying this is a must, and I have to talk to the mother, who usually gets antagonistic—“Peyton was toilet trained at eleven months. She doesn’t need a diaper!”
At two o’clock, the pool’s nearly empty and I can relax a little. The moms have taken little kids home for naps. No one here but tanners and loungers. I’m overheated and sticky from sitting so long in the high plastic chair. Clambering down, I blow my whistle and hoist the Lifeguard Off Duty sign, thinking I’ll get a soda at the snack bar to cool off.
“I’m taking a break. Can I get you something to drink?” I call over to Tim.
“Only if it’s eighty proof,” he calls back through the bushes and granite stones that separate the Olympic pool from the Lagoon one.
The back door buzzer sounds behind me. Weird. All B&T guests have to sign in at the gatehouse. Back door is for deliveries, and Nan didn’t say anything about more Stony Bay paraphernalia coming.
I buzz the door open and there’s Mr. Garrett, a stack of two-by-fours on his shoulder, so out of place I actually do a double take. He’s wandered in from the wrong movie, all bronzed and full of energy against the pale ivory gate. His face breaks into a big smile at the sight of me. “Samantha! Jase said you worked here, but we weren’t sure of your hours. He’ll be pleased.”
My dinky insignia jacket and silly gold-crested suit are so lame, but Mr. Garrett doesn’t appear to notice. “This is just the first of the load,” he tells me. “They tell you where these’re supposed to go?”
Lumber? No, I’m blank, which obviously shows.
My Life Next Door Page 9