Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Last Summer (17 page)
“He’s okay. But he’s kind of old. He’s probably thirty or something.”
“Yeah,” Rosie said, “but he’s so cute. And he’s so funny and witty. I definitely like a sense of humor. And I think I might like older guys. I mean, when I’m old enough to actually date.”
“But you wouldn’t date a thirty-year-old when you’re sixteen, would you?” Meg asked, her eyes wide with disbelief and just a bit of horror. A thirty-year-old guy was almost old enough to be her father! Ugh.
Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it might be illegal. I mean, for the guy. And there’s no way my parents would allow it!”
Meg laughed. “I can’t even imagine what my mom or your parents would say if either of us brought home an older guy!”
“I don’t want to imagine it! I think my mother would freak out even more than my father.” Rosie leaned forward and reached into the small saddlebag behind the seat of her bike.
“So, here,” she said, handing Meg a pink envelope. “I got this for you. Happy birthday.”
For a tiny moment Meg was confused. Well, not exactly confused, but ... surprised, even stunned. It happened to her whenever something beyond wonderful occurred, that momentary feeling of disbelief. And then it came to her that, yes, Rosie was actually giving her a birthday card. After all that had happened between them, Rosie was wishing her a happy birthday. She thought she was going to cry and was seriously glad she had worn her clip-on sunglasses.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, hoping Rosie didn’t hear the quaver she heard in her own voice.
Meg took the envelope and opened it. She read the card, with its simple message. It wasn’t hand made and it didn’t say the word “friend,” but it was a card. It was a start. It was a big start.
“Sorry it’s a day late,” Rosie said.
“Oh, that’s okay.” Meg slipped the card and its envelope into her own saddlebag. She usually threw cards away after about a week, but this card she thought she might keep for a long time. “Thanks, again.”
“What did your mom get you?”
“She got me two new tops,” Meg said. “They’re okay. One’s a little tight, so I might have to return it. I doubt I’m going to lose weight! Petey made a card out of construction paper and about a pound of glitter. My dad, of course, did nothing.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Meg shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s not like I expected to hear from him or anything.” Though, she thought, it would have been okay if he had sent a card.
They sat quietly for some time. Meg began to feel, just a bit, like it really was the old days when they could sit side by side and just look out across the water or stare up at the clouds and not have to talk to communicate. She thought about the weekend Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had taken the girls to a lake somewhere in New Hampshire. It was during the summer Meg turned ten. She and Rosie had spent the days swimming and playing tag and eating ice cream. In the evening they had sat on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, Rosie with her nose in a book, Meg watching the sun as it set and the fireflies as they dipped and darted. When it got too dark for Rosie to read, they would walk back up to the small cabin Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had rented and play board games and cards and eat more ice cream. Meg was convinced she would never forget that weekend, no matter how many great and exciting things happened to her in the future. It was as near to perfect as she could have imagined. Of course now, at fifteen, her idea of an absolutely perfect weekend away would be one that included cute guys to look at and lots of shops to browse through.
The thought of shopping made her think of one of her favorite stores, Stones and Stuff. It was where she had bought the heart-shaped rose quartz pendant for Rosie’s fourteenth birthday. Meg shot a quick glance at her friend. It had been months since Rosie had worn that pendant. Meg wondered if she ever would wear it again. Or maybe she had thrown it away, back when Meg had betrayed her. She hoped not. She didn’t feel brave enough to ask.
Now who’s the coward,
Meg thought wryly.
Now who’s the coward,
Meg thought wryly.
Thinking about the heart pendant reminded Meg yet again of her own less-than-spectacular birthday. Her mother had asked if she wanted to have some friends over. Meg hadn’t even given the suggestion a moment’s thought. She had no good friends other than Rosie. The idea of asking a bunch of people she barely knew to celebrate her birthday with her seemed beyond lame. And the weird thing is that people would have come. There were always girls who would say yes to an invitation to a party, even if they didn’t really like the person giving the party. It was a chance to dress up and maybe get a goodie bag from the hostess and maybe, just maybe, get to play a kissing game if the birthday girl was cool enough to invite boys.
Well, Meg liked boys a lot, but she didn’t feel cool enough to invite them to her house, not yet, and besides, even if she did invite some boys, she doubted any of them would come. There were way prettier and nicer girls at school. And her grades were really good, especially in math and science, and sometimes that turned boys off. It was unfair, but there was no way she was going to pretend to be stupid just to get a guy!
Anyway, she wanted to tell Rosie how the idea of having a party without her was unthinkable, but something held her back. She thought it might embarrass Rosie at this point in their new relationship—if it even was a real relationship. Besides, she didn’t want to make herself sound so emotionally needy. Even though she was.
“Do you want to stay here for a while?” she asked after a time. “Or do you want to ride down to Little Harbor and watch the boats?” She was feeling lazy and would prefer to just sit there, but she wanted to let Rose decide what she wanted to do. Rosie had opinions, too, and she seemed to be getting better at voicing them. Now Meg had to get better at listening to those opinions. That’s something her mother was always reminding her about, that other people mattered as much as she did. She knew that, of course, but still, sometimes it slipped her mind.
“Let’s go to the harbor,” Rosie said. “I love watching the boats coming in and going out. There’s something so peaceful about it. And kind of romantic, too, in the capital ‘R’ kind of way. It makes you think of adventures in foreign places.” Rosie smiled. “Even if the boats are only going out to fish.”
Meg stood.
It will do me good to get more exercise,
she thought.
If I lose a pound or two, maybe I can keep that top Mom bought me.
“Cool,” she said. “Let’s go.”
It will do me good to get more exercise,
she thought.
If I lose a pound or two, maybe I can keep that top Mom bought me.
“Cool,” she said. “Let’s go.”
23
F
rannie stood at the small counter squeezed between a wall and the fridge, chopping vegetables for a salad. Her dream kitchen would include an entire island just for prep work. She frowned down at the knife in her hand. It was missing its tip. The dream kitchen would also include a new set of knives and maybe some decent copper pots, too.
rannie stood at the small counter squeezed between a wall and the fridge, chopping vegetables for a salad. Her dream kitchen would include an entire island just for prep work. She frowned down at the knife in her hand. It was missing its tip. The dream kitchen would also include a new set of knives and maybe some decent copper pots, too.
Meg was leaning against the sink, eating Oreos. Frannie had counted four so far and if history was any precedent, at least four more would follow. Ah, she thought, youth. When stuffing cookies into your mouth had virtually no ill effects. Unless you counted cavities as an ill effect, and with no dental insurance ...
“Save some of those cookies for your brother,” she said now.
“I know. I will.”
“You kids are going to eat me out of house and home.”
Meg sighed and put the open packet of Oreos back in the fridge. “You always say that.”
Frannie shrugged.
“Mom? Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
Frannie’s stomach clenched.
Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I robbed a bank. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I accidentally burned down the house. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I’ve joined a cult and as part of my initiation I am required to kill you.
“That’s a pretty tough thing for me to promise,” she said carefully, “when I have no idea what you’re going to say.”
Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I robbed a bank. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I accidentally burned down the house. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I’ve joined a cult and as part of my initiation I am required to kill you.
“That’s a pretty tough thing for me to promise,” she said carefully, “when I have no idea what you’re going to say.”
“I know,” Meg admitted. “It’s just that, well, Rosie and I have been spending some time together. Talking and stuff.”
Frannie put down the knife she was using and faced her daughter.
“Does Rosie’s mom know about this?” she asked.
“Yeah. Rosie says she doesn’t mind.”
Frannie wasn’t too sure about that, but as long as Jane didn’t take out her anger on Meg, things might be okay. Or not. Jane might be a protective mother, but that didn’t mean Frannie wasn’t one, too. And if anyone came after one of her children, Frannie wasn’t sure she could be trusted not to go crazy.
“You know,” she said now, “just because you apologize to someone doesn’t mean they have to accept the apology. And even if they do accept the apology, it doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven. Not right away, in any case.”
Meg frowned. “Do you think Rosie doesn’t really forgive me?”
“I don’t know what Rosie feels,” Frannie admitted. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be surprised if there are a few bumps in the road ahead for both of you.”
“Do you not want me to be friends with Rosie?”
“Now, did I say that?”
“No,” Meg admitted. “But it’s all kind of confusing.”
Frannie smiled what she hoped was a smile of support. “I know. Welcome to life, kiddo.”
“Mom,” Meg said, rolling her eyes, “I’m not a kid. I just turned fifteen.”
“I know. It’s just an expression.”
“Still.”
“Sorry,” Frannie said. She thought about how Peter had neglected Meg’s birthday again this year. Meg hadn’t even mentioned the glaring absence of a card on the small living room mantel over the fireplace that hadn’t worked in years. Meg was right. She was no longer a kid. She hadn’t been for a long time.
“Hey,” Frannie said, “you know that I’m proud of you, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Know it.”
Meg smiled and loped out of the kitchen.
Frannie wiped her hands on a clean dish towel. She really was proud of her daughter. It took courage to pursue Rosie’s friendship after having betrayed it so badly. And it took courage on Rosie’s part, too, to give Meg the benefit of the doubt. Even if nothing came of it in the end, there was a lesson to be learned from the girls’ attempt at reconciliation.
Incidents in Frannie’s own life had taught her that both girls and grown women could be their own worst enemies, indulging grievances and petty jealousies, at times reveling in animosity. The boss at one of Frannie’s first decent jobs was a case in point. Frannie flinched as the memories came leaping back.
Mrs. Monroe had found that every little thing Frannie did was wrong. The staples were put too close to the corners of the page. The blue ink she used was not as professional as black. Only the very top button of her blouse was to be left undone. This last edict had really puzzled Frannie. Mrs. Monroe was seriously into showing her own cleavage. Maybe, she remembered thinking, there was a different dress code for bosses. But if that was the case, shouldn’t the boss be the one required to dress more conservatively?
Anyway, Frannie hadn’t been seeking an inordinate amount of praise. All she had wanted was to be treated with respect and to have her work, which she knew was good, acknowledged as good. The other office staff seemed to escape Mrs. Monroe’s notice. Why was she being singled out for criticism? Frannie had wondered, her stomach fluttering with nerves as she walked into the office each morning.
One day one of her coworkers, a pleasant, older woman named Martha Klein, suggested they have lunch together. Normally, Frannie brought something to eat from home, but she was feeling so lousy and so uncertain of her talents, such as they were, that she had gladly accepted Ms. Klein’s offer. When they were seated in a booth at a local diner, Ms. Klein, with a kindly smile, said, “You know why Mrs. Monroe is so hard on you, don’t you?”
“No,” Frannie said, taken aback. She hadn’t been sure the other staff had noticed. “Why?”
Ms. Klein had laughed. “Oh, dear, it’s because she’s afraid of you! And probably jealous, to boot.”
“Afraid of me? Jealous? But why?” The idea had thoroughly surprised her.
“For one, you’re young and attractive,” Ms. Klein explained. “For a woman like our boss, that’s a big threat. And for two, you’re smart and hardworking, certainly smarter than the rest of us. She looks at you and sees someone who could easily steal her job and probably her husband. Silly woman.”
“But that’s crazy!” Frannie had cried, then, embarrassed, she said more softly, “I don’t want her job. Or her husband!”
“It’s not really about you, dear,” Ms. Klein had explained, patting Frannie’s arm. “The trouble lies with Mrs. Monroe. I’m sorry to say there’s not much you can do about it but grin and bear it, learn as much as you can at the company, and then move on. She’ll never promote you, you know. I’ve worked for women like her before.”
So Frannie had taken Ms. Klein’s advice and moved on to another job as soon as she could. Mrs. Monroe had not been sorry to see her go.
And then at her third or fourth job—Frannie couldn’t remember which now, as those early jobs all had been pretty much equally similar and boring—there had been a woman named Elaine Blair. Elaine was slightly older than Frannie. She loved to tell silly knock-knock jokes and to go out for beers after work at a local Mexican food chain. She wore wacky jewelry—feather earrings and necklaces made out of chunky plastic beads—and her long and pointy nails were always painted scarlet.
Frannie and Elaine had hit it off immediately. Before long they were having lunch together every day in the company’s break room or, on nice days, on a small stone bench outside the building, sometimes swapping half a sandwich for a yogurt or an apple for a banana. One night they had even gone out to a singles bar, though Frannie was already with Peter. She had been Elaine’s wingman, occupying the “loser friend” in chitchat while the “cool guy” danced with Elaine. Frannie had really believed they were close friends as well as coworkers, and she was happy about that. It had been a long time since she had had a close friend, not since high school, really.
Not long after Elaine had gotten a promotion that Frannie had been in line for, one of the midlevel managers, a man in his early forties, had caught up with her one evening in the company parking lot. “Look,” Fred had said, “maybe it’s none of my business. But you seem like a nice person and I feel I should warn you. Stay away from Elaine Blair. You don’t want to be friends with her.”
Frannie had actually laughed. “What? Why?”
“I can’t tell you who told me,” Fred went on, glancing quickly over his shoulder, “but Elaine has been telling your boss that you steal from the supply room and leave early when he’s not in the office.”
“I don’t believe you,” she had replied, stunned now and angry that someone would accuse her friend of such bad behavior. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I have no reason to lie,” Fred said. “I just thought you should know the truth so you can watch your back. Look, everybody knows you should have gotten that promotion, not Elaine.”
“But I’m happy that Elaine got the promotion,” Frannie protested. “She’s my friend.”
Fred shook his head. “It’s your funeral,” he said. Then he walked off to his own car.
Frannie hadn’t wanted to believe that Elaine had betrayed her, but Fred had planted a seed of doubt. After an uncomfortable few days she worked up the nerve to confront Elaine. Elaine hotly denied she had spread false rumors about Frannie. She said she was hurt by Frannie’s accusation. Frannie had believed her and apologized. She had felt like a fool for believing Fred’s lies.
But then, only a few days after that, Frannie was in one of the stalls in the women’s bathroom when she overheard Elaine whispering to the receptionist about another coworker, accusing her of crimes similar to the ones she had accused Frannie of committing. The truth had hit her hard.
Despite Peter’s protests that she “suck it up” and his declarations that “business was a bitch” (like he would know, never having worked in an office), Frannie had immediately begun to look for another job. From that day forward she said not another word to Elaine. It seemed safer not to, and besides, Elaine didn’t seem to care. She had gotten what she wanted, the promotion. And from that day forward Frannie had been wary of becoming too close to anyone in the workplace. Maybe she had been too cautious, overall. But it was too late now to change the past.
Frannie leaned against the sink, suddenly feeling tired. She wondered if either Mrs. Monroe or Elaine Blair could be fairly accused of having bullied her. Whatever the proper word for their behavior, each had acted with malice. Why was there such a terrible and embarrassing tradition of women behaving badly to other women? Of girls going mean and wild? Frannie remembered Jane telling her once about an old English play called
Women Beware Women
. The title still haunted Frannie. She didn’t exactly know what went on in the play, but she had a pretty good idea that the characters weren’t swapping helpful investment tips over cappuccinos or sharing recipes for casseroles over cups of tea.
Women Beware Women
. The title still haunted Frannie. She didn’t exactly know what went on in the play, but she had a pretty good idea that the characters weren’t swapping helpful investment tips over cappuccinos or sharing recipes for casseroles over cups of tea.
Ugh, and the preponderance of those awful reality TV shows that perpetuated the stereotype of the backstabbing, face-scratching woman—catfights, indeed! Frannie had often wondered to what degree those shows reflected reality. She was a bit afraid to learn the answer to that question. Thank God Meg found the shows as repulsive as she did.
That’s it, Frannie decided, standing away from the sink and draping the dish towel she had used to dry her hands over its edge. In the spirit of sisterhood—of women caring for women!—she was going to make a gesture of reconciliation to Jane. The term “sisterhood” might be outdated (the feminist movement was, what, forty years old, and Gloria Steinem was almost eighty!), Frannie didn’t really know, but it sounded right for her purposes. Jane had always been more like a sister to her than her own, biological sister had been.
Frannie fetched a note card and pen from the drawer that held an assortment of miscellany, and sat down at the kitchen table.
It wasn’t really a difficult note to write. First, Frannie wished Jane a happy birthday; Jane would be forty-three on the fifteenth. Then she simply told Jane that she missed their friendship, that it had been one of the best things in her life, an anchor as well as a source of pleasure. She apologized again for Meg’s misstep and for any part she might have unwittingly played in fostering Meg’s bad behavior. She hoped that Jane could find it in her heart to at least try to rebuild the trust that had once flourished between them. She signed the note “with love” and sealed the envelope. She would slide it under the Pattersons’ front door after dinner.
And then she would wait. She would have to be strong enough to take her own advice and give Jane time, as much time as she needed. And she would have to prepare herself to accept whatever answer Jane gave in return. Even if that answer dashed all hopes of a reunion.
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