Last Summer (11 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Frannie frowned. Sometimes it seemed that 90 percent of the trouble in the world was caused by the Internet. A while back, before the whole episode with Rosie, she had begun to consider the pros and cons of monitoring Meg’s being online. She had set time limits, of course, but she had stopped there. She did know for sure that Meg didn’t have a Facebook page or a Twitter or an e-mail account, and that was because Frannie had forbidden Meg to get involved with that sort of social media until she was older. (How old was yet to be determined.) But what websites Meg visited, well, that was a mystery. Frannie knew it was easy to check the history of Meg’s browsing, but she continually resisted the temptation. Still, with Petey being so young and impressionable, there was need for some vigilance.
It was complicated. Recently, she had read an article online about parents tracking their kids’ computer habits. The writer had used the term “benevolent monitoring,” which was what one woman had chosen to call her habit of checking up on her son’s Internet history. “Spying,” Frannie thought, was more accurate a term than “checking up on.”
Was there really such a thing as “benevolent monitoring”? The term seemed a bit of an oxymoron, but viewed in the light of the concerned parent, maybe it made sense. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to keep tabs on your child’s every movement. What would come next, Frannie thought wryly, a collar and a leash?
Yeah, it was complicated. She wanted her children to trust her. There was a fine line between overseeing and surveillance. Then again, you weren’t supposed to be your child’s friend before being her parent. That, Frannie believed. Still, she remembered how furious she had been when she discovered that her mother had been reading her diary. To a ten-year-old it had felt like the most horrible of betrayals, but her mother had justified her action by claiming that it was a parent’s right to know absolutely everything about her child. Privacy was for adults only. It was something they had earned, if only by becoming adults.
After that, Frannie had stopped keeping a diary. For a while she missed writing in it every night, but what was the point when nothing you wrote down could be kept personal? You would be writing for an audience, not for yourself. As far as Frannie knew, Meg didn’t keep a journal. If she did it was a deep, dark secret, a secret her mother was not going to try to ferret out.
Frannie’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had been on the run, a stale granola bar munched on the way to work. She had planned on eating lunch like a normal person, but a crisis had arisen when the computer system had crashed and she had had to summon the off-site IT guy. By the time he had shown up and got the system up and running again, it was already three o’clock and Frannie was facing a backlog of work. So the ham and cheese sandwich she had made for today would be eaten tomorrow. If someone in the office didn’t steal it. It had been known to happen, in spite of her name spelled out in big black letters on her reusable plastic lunch bag.
Her stomach growled again, loudly. A slight detour would take her past a McDonald’s. She knew she shouldn’t spend the money on takeout when there was a pantry full of food at home, but the thought of cooking anything at all, even of pouring a bowl of cereal or boiling water for pasta, suddenly seemed more than she could handle. She was only thirty-eight, but right then she felt as if she were seventy-eight. An old seventy-eight, not the Jane Fonda kind of seventy-something. Who did women like that think they were, Helen Mirren and Raquel Welch and God knew who else, setting the bar so high for the rest of womankind, the ones who did their own housecleaning and had more to worry about than what to wear on the red carpet?
So,
Frannie thought,
does being tired really give me an excuse to overspend my hard-earned money on fast food? Is purchasing a meal loaded with grease and fat and excessive calories a responsible solution to my feeling too worn out to cook a healthy dinner for my children?
Frannie thought,
does being tired really give me an excuse to overspend my hard-earned money on fast food? Is purchasing a meal loaded with grease and fat and excessive calories a responsible solution to my feeling too worn out to cook a healthy dinner for my children?
“Screw it,” Frannie said aloud. One meal of McDonald’s hamburgers wouldn’t kill anyone, and it wouldn’t send the Giroux family into the poorhouse. She would get fries, too, and there was some ice cream in the freezer at home. Her stomach growled mightily at the prospect. Jane Fonda be damned!
12
January 5, 2012
Dear Diary,
A terrible thing happened to me today.
I still can’t really believe it. I still keep thinking that maybe I’m having an awful dream, a nightmare, and that I’ll wake up to find that nothing bad really happened after all.
But I know I won’t.
I was on my way to the library after school. I was walking up through the small parking lot on the east side of the library when I saw them, coming around the back of the building. There are no windows on that part of the building, so later I realized that no one inside the library could see what was happening. They must have planned it that way.
Mackenzie and Courtney and Jill came up to me, kind of forcing me to stop. I don’t know where Stella was or why she wasn’t with them. It doesn’t matter. The three of them stood really close, too close. I took a step back and they took a step forward.
They all talked at the same time, saying that my hair was beautiful and asking if they could feel it. I thought that was really weird and a feeling in my stomach told me that something was very, very wrong, but I didn’t know how to say “no” or “go away and leave me alone” and then they were snatching my hat off my head. Jill held my shoulders and Courtney must have been hiding a pair of scissors in her coat pocket because I felt a hard tug and tried to break away but couldn’t. Mackenzie just stood there, watching. Her face was totally bland, like nothing terrible was happening. And then Jill let me go with a bit of a shove and Courtney held up my braid and laughed. Before I could even react—scream or cry or whatever—she dropped my braid and they all ran off.
I don’t know how I got home. My hat was on the ground and I put it on and then put up my hood over it. Luckily, Mom was out when I got to the house. She had left a note saying she had gone to see one of her clients and would be back by four-thirty. Dad, I knew, wouldn’t be home until five-thirty, like usual. I ran upstairs and locked myself into the bathroom in the hallway. My heart was pounding like mad but I forced myself to look in the mirror. I started to cry then, the tears just pouring down my face. The ends of my hair were all jagged and uneven. The shortest pieces came down just below my ears and the longer ones came midway down my neck. It was a mess.
It just occurred to me that I don’t know what happened to my braid. It could still be lying on the ground where Courtney dropped it. Or one of them could have taken it and I just didn’t notice.... I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it. I feel sad for my hair. That might not make sense, but it’s what I feel.
What will someone think when they find it there in the parking lot?
I lied to Mom when she got home. I’ve never lied to her, except for the time I told her I tripped outside school when I really hadn’t, I’d been pushed down. But I just couldn’t tell her what really happened. Then she would tell Dad and they would go to the principal and then everyone would know and I would be humiliated. She was kind of upset that I cut my own hair when she usually does it—that’s what I told her, that I thought I could do it myself—and she didn’t say anything while she was making everything even again. She says now that I have a “bob.” The whole time I was trying super hard not to cry and I think Mom was, too. When Dad got home he looked kind of shocked but told me that I looked “fashionable” and “stylish” now. I know he was just trying to be nice. I knew what he was really thinking was, “Where did my Rapunzel go?”
The minute dinner (which I could barely eat) was over I told Mom and Dad I had a lot of homework, which wasn’t a lie, and I went right into my room. I’m not coming out again tonight, either. And I’m not going to school tomorrow. I can’t. I’ll pretend I have a headache.
I wonder if Mom knows I was lying about my hair. But if she does, why doesn’t she come right out and tell me she knows? Maybe she just doesn’t care. She hasn’t even asked what I did with my braid. Wouldn’t she want to save it, like she’s saved clippings from my hair since I was a baby? She has them all in a box. Each clipping is tied with a different-colored silk ribbon with a small tag identifying the year the clipping was taken. Meg thinks that’s weird. Her mother never saved any of her hair.
I can’t believe I just wrote that, about Mom not caring. Of course she cares. It’s wrong of me to doubt that. It’s just that ... I don’t know what I’m saying right now. I’m so confused.
One thing I do know. I’m not ever going to tell anyone what really happened, not even Meg. I just can’t. Anyway, Meg was really disappointed about not getting a suede jacket for Christmas. Ever since then she’s been sort of in a bad mood, so I don’t know why she would care about what happened to my hair. I don’t know why she would care about what happened to any part of me. Her life is so much harder than mine. At least my father lives with my mother and me.
Rosie
January 17, 2012
Dear Diary,
I didn’t go to school today again. I know I can’t take too many days off without Mom becoming suspicious or without my getting in trouble with the principal or the school board. But this morning I just felt so—I guess anxious is the word. I just couldn’t go to school. I told Mom I had a really bad headache, which wasn’t really lying because it turned out that I did get a headache around ten o’clock. Or maybe I got the headache as punishment for my having lied.
Mostly Mom left me alone—she had two clients come by today—which was good because I wanted to be alone. I read ahead in almost all of my textbooks and it won’t be hard for me to do two days’ worth of homework tomorrow night. Luckily, schoolwork comes easy for me. It’s good that something does.
Mom still hasn’t pressed me about what happened to my hair, so I guess she really did believe me when I lied to her about cutting it myself. I didn’t know I was such a good liar. I don’t think that being a liar is a good thing to be, but I guess I’ve become one anyway.
Like yesterday. At lunch, Meg asked me a bunch of questions again, like why hadn’t I told her I wanted short hair and where did I get the idea to cut my hair when it was so beautiful long. I made up a story about having wanted short hair for a long time and other stuff I can’t even remember now. I think she suspects that something is weird. She kind of looked at me funny, but she hasn’t come right out and asked me what really happened. I don’t know what I would tell her if she did. I think I would probably stick to my lies. I don’t want to make everything worse than it already is.
Mom has a line she quotes whenever she hears about some politician or celebrity lying, which seems like every week. It’s from Sir Walter Scott, but I’m not sure exactly from what poem. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” I think I finally really understand that line now.
I feel so embarrassed and totally helpless. Every time Mackenzie or Courtney or Jill sees me in the hall or the cafeteria they make some comment on my hair. “What a cute haircut! Who’s your stylist?” Stuff like that. So far Stella hasn’t said anything to me. Actually, she usually looks away when the others make those comments. I’m not sure how close Stella really is to the others. But I don’t want to find out. I wish they would all just disappear.
I wish I would just disappear.
R.
13
I
t was an absolutely perfect summer day, about eighty degrees with low humidity and a virtually cloudless sky. If you believed in omens, and Rosie kind of thought that she did, Yorktide’s annual Independence Day celebration was going to be a lot of fun.
t was an absolutely perfect summer day, about eighty degrees with low humidity and a virtually cloudless sky. If you believed in omens, and Rosie kind of thought that she did, Yorktide’s annual Independence Day celebration was going to be a lot of fun.
The Pattersons got to the fair at around eleven o’clock, after their traditional July Fourth breakfast of pancakes and bacon (sausage for Mr. Patterson) at the Maine Diner. The fair was pretty much the same every year. There was the rickety Ferris wheel (Rosie’s mother had never let her go on that; she said it was too dangerous), and the carts selling hot dogs, and the vans selling greasy, sugary funnel cakes. Over by the bouncy castle for little kids, the volunteer fire department had set up a few small grills and were selling hamburgers; whatever profit the department made would go into a fund for local sick children. Near the firemen’s table was another table at which a bunch of local women were selling their homemade desserts (there were lots of whoopee pies, of course) and preserves. Next to them a Baptist church group was selling coffee and tea. Some years there was a tiny petting zoo, but that depended on what local farmers were interested in bringing their animals. A quick scan of this year’s fairgrounds told Rosie that there was no petting zoo, but for the first time a popular, long-standing duo, Lex and Joe, were booked to play blues and jazzy songs all afternoon; Rosie’s father was psyched about that. And Rosie’s mother was looking forward to seeing one of her favorite local jewelry makers, an artist who came to the event each year with a new supply of necklaces and bracelets and earrings made with beach glass and stones smoothed by the ocean’s waves. Mrs. Patterson said that his prices were reasonable, so she usually bought herself something. Last year it was a silver necklace with a pendant made of bright blue sea glass. Rosie had heard that for some reason, blue was the hardest color of sea glass to find. It was a very pretty necklace.
It was too bad that fireworks weren’t allowed at the fair, which went on into the night, but the neighboring town of Ogunquit was sponsoring its annual fireworks display down by the beach. Rosie was seriously hoping her parents would be into going. But it was unlikely. Her mother hated fireworks; if she was forced to be around them she flinched and covered her ears before the display even started, and she was always worried about stray sparks landing on her bare arms. Her father just didn’t care about fireworks. He just didn’t see the big deal. Most years Rosie had gone down to Ogunquit Beach with Mrs. Giroux, Meg, and Petey. Of course, this year that wasn’t going to happen. With all that had gone on in the past weeks, Rosie hadn’t realized just how much she missed spending time with Mrs. Giroux. She could be fun in a way that her own mother was definitely not, like when she slipped and said a bad word and then tried not to laugh at herself for saying it. She doubted that Mrs. Giroux missed her in any way, though. Why would she? Adults didn’t miss children who weren’t their own, right?
Anyway, Rosie figured that Meg might be at the fair, probably with Petey in tow. She hoped to see Petey and maybe even say hi to him, but that probably wasn’t going to happen, either, given the current situation.
Only a few nights earlier Rosie had heard her parents arguing again about Petey. They were in their bedroom, talking in low voices, but Rosie, tiptoeing her way to the bathroom, had stopped and heard most of what they were saying. Basically, her dad was worried about Petey and wanted to start spending time with him again. But her mom was dead set against it.
Her mother had said that spending time with Petey Giroux would be betraying Rosie.
Her father had countered that the boy was innocent of all wrongdoing.
The argument had gone on long after Rosie had tiptoed back to her own room and closed the door. For at least another hour she could hear her parents’ voices, occasionally raised and then hurriedly lowered, and then raised again.
Deep down, Rosie agreed with her father. She thought that her mother was being too harsh. But she wasn’t sure she had the right to say anything to her father or to her mother, given the fact that she had been eavesdropping and wasn’t supposed to know about their argument. Besides, she felt kind of guilty about being the cause of her parents’ argument. Her parents never fought. At least, Rosie had never heard them fight before the other night. She would talk to Dr. Lowe about the Petey situation at her next appointment. She didn’t want to be responsible, even in an indirect sort of way, for making someone, especially a child, unhappy. Dr. Lowe would probably help her decide if she should speak up.
“Hey, Rosie,” Mr. Patterson said as they approached a garishly painted game booth. “Do you challenge me to make three perfect shots?”
It was that game where you had to throw a ball into a hole on a big board that was painted as a clown’s face. The hole, of course, was his mouth. Rosie wasn’t much for games, with the sole exception of Scrabble, a game she couldn’t help but win even if she tried to lose for her father’s sake. She didn’t have an ounce of competitive spirit, which maybe was a bad thing. But she didn’t see how that was going to change.
“No,” Rosie said. “I don’t challenge you. But you really want to try it, don’t you?”
Mr. Patterson grinned and handed his money to the grizzled man inside the booth.
“Your father wants to show off his throwing arm,” Mrs. Patterson remarked with a smile. “He was quite the pitcher in high school, or so he tells me.”
“Hey,” Mr. Patterson said, “I might be old but I’m not dead. Here goes.”
In rapid succession, he sent all three balls right into the clown’s mouth, surprising the grizzled man, who said, “Holy crap,” and then, “Begging your pardon, ladies.”
“Way to go, Dad!” Rosie said, patting her father’s back.
“My hero!” Jane kissed her husband’s cheek.
Mike claimed his prize, a stuffed pink rabbit—Rosie’s mom loved rabbits—and the Pattersons moved off in the direction of the jewelry maker Jane wanted to visit. While her mom and dad considered the necklaces and bracelets and earrings, Rosie’s eye wandered. Fairs were fun, she thought, for all sorts of reasons. The pageantry and the colors and the music were all exciting and made people feel good, like for a short time their troubles didn’t matter. And somewhere underneath all the festivity, in a way Rosie was only beginning to identify and understand, there was an element of otherness, of danger, of things being not quite what they seemed. Carnivals, fairs, and the circus—they were all a little bit grotesque. It surprised Rosie that she felt drawn to that element of otherness. She was pretty sure that was something she wouldn’t admit to her parents. They would only worry and think she wanted to get a tattoo or a piercing or dye her hair purple.
Her mom’s laugh brought Rosie’s attention back to the moment. As she turned to see what had pleased her mother, she caught site of two startlingly familiar girls....
It was Mackenzie Egan and Courtney Parker. They were only yards way, standing together by the guys selling funnel cakes. Mackenzie’s dark brown hair literally shone in the summer sun. She was wearing a floral patterned sundress that came to just above her knees and super-high wedges. A pair of enormous black sunglasses covered half of her face and she was carrying an equally enormous pink bag. If someone didn’t know better, Rosie thought, they would think Mackenzie was a Hollywood star. Courtney was wearing what she usually wore in hot weather—a pair of super-low-cut jean shorts and a tight T-shirt that showed about three inches of her stomach. Courtney had gotten in trouble once for wearing that kind of T-shirt to school, but Rosie figured there was probably no dress code for a public festival. That was part of the otherness and the danger... .
Rosie quickly looked away from Mackenzie and her sidekick. She was pretty sure they hadn’t seen her, at least, not yet. For some reason, she hadn’t even considered that Mackenzie and her friends might be at the fair. She felt stupid now for not having thought about running into them. She should have prepared herself somehow. Or maybe she just shouldn’t have come at all. Mackenzie and Courtney would laugh at her for coming to the fair with her parents instead of with some friends. They might even come over to her when her parents’ backs were turned and say something nasty about—
A woman behind Rosie suddenly barked a command at her child. Rosie’s entire body twitched at the harsh sound. Instantly, she felt and heard a loud buzzing in her ears, or maybe it was in her head. Her vision suddenly blurred and she felt incredibly hot, as if she was burning up from the inside.
Something weird was happening. Maybe she was having a panic attack. She tried to remember what Dr. Lowe had advised her to do in this sort of situation. She tried to imagine Dr. Lowe’s round, pleasant face, her shoulder-length silver hair waved around it, her blue eyes bright and concerned. She tried to hear Dr. Lowe’s voice, calm and reassuring. But the image failed to form and the voice remained silent.
“Rosie, what’s wrong?”
This voice was very low and very distant. It might have been male or female, Rosie couldn’t tell. She thought it sounded vaguely familiar but she wasn’t sure about that, either.
“Oh, my God, Mike, I think she’s going to faint!”
Yes,
Rosie thought, hearing that very low and very distant voice.
I think I’m going to faint.
She became aware of hands on her arms and then, a moment later, a plastic cup of water being put to her lips. She felt some of the water dribble down her chin but managed to swallow a bit, too.
Rosie thought, hearing that very low and very distant voice.
I think I’m going to faint.
She became aware of hands on her arms and then, a moment later, a plastic cup of water being put to her lips. She felt some of the water dribble down her chin but managed to swallow a bit, too.
Slowly but surely her vision cleared and the awful buzzing in her ears stopped.
“I’m okay,” she said, though she thought her voice still sounded a bit odd. “I’m fine.”
“We should get you home,” her mother said firmly. “Just in case.”
“It was just the heat, that’s all,” Rosie protested, but she saw from the look on her mother’s face that she, too, had seen Mackenzie Egan and Courtney Parker. There was no point in lying about the real cause of her distress.
“Even so,” Mr. Patterson said, “we’re going home.”
Rosie fought back tears of shame. “I’m sorry I ruined your day. Dad didn’t even get to hear the band.”
Her mother linked arms with her and they headed toward the parking lot. “You didn’t ruin anything,” she said briskly. “We all had such a good time.”
“Did you even get to buy a piece of jewelry?” Rosie asked quietly.
“Oh, I don’t really need another piece of jewelry!”
“And I’ve had more than my share of junk food for one day,” Mr. Patterson added.
Rosie managed a smile. It was true. Her dad had eaten two hot dogs, a funnel cake, and a whoopee pie. He had even bought a candy apple, in spite of the fact that her mom had warned him he could break a tooth biting into it. His teeth, Rosie was glad to see, had survived.
They reached the parking lot and Rosie, without looking back to the fairgrounds, slid into the backseat of her family’s car. She wondered if Mackenzie and Courtney had watched her retreat. She wondered if they had seen her distress.
Well,
she thought wearily,
it’s too late now.
Well,
she thought wearily,
it’s too late now.
As her father pulled out of the spot and turned toward the exit, Rosie saw Meg standing with her mother and brother by the booth closest to the exit, almost as if they had followed the Pattersons to the parking lot. Even from this distance Rosie could see the look of concern on Meg’s face, and on Mrs. Giroux’s. Rosie thought that her eyes met Meg’s for a second as her father drove past them.
But maybe,
she thought, slumping against the back of the seat,
I was imagining it.
But maybe,
she thought, slumping against the back of the seat,
I was imagining it.
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