Summer of Love (10 page)

“So basically you’re looking for someone with a mug handle for the next clue?” Chili asks.

“Yup — why, do you have it?” I shout to her from up the hill where I peer into a viewfinder to look across the sea.

“No — but would I tell you if I did?” she asks.

I walk back towards her. “I don’t know. I didn’t think of that.”

“What if whoever has it is supposed to wait for a certain time, and then spring it on you…”

“You might be right. I have no idea — I can’t think about it too much or it drives me crazy and I start wanting to ask everyone I pass on the street if they are the missing piece.”

Chili climbs up a big rock and sits there, her tight curls hardly moving in the fierce wind.

“I feel like a heroine in a romance novel,” I say when I stand on top of a big boulder that faces the steep cliff that overhangs the shore. Chili joins me and we cling together for balance. I’m so glad she’ll be at school next year, even if she will be a lowly sophomore and I’ll be a senior.

“Me, too,” Chili says. “If they actually had short, bi-racial girls on the cover of those books. You know what?”

“What?” I shout as my hair flies back in the breeze and my face feels like its being vacuumed off.

“I’m gonna write one — and have it be about this girl who’s half-black, half-Jewish who finds love on the high seas or something.”

“Speaking of high seas…” I say and notice Haverford slinking off to smoke something behind a shed.

Chili shakes her head. “He’s got romantic trouble. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen him indulge.”

I leap off the rock and pull Chili down so we can walk toward the dune buggy. “What kind of problems?” I can’t help but do a little investigating on Chris’s behalf.

Chili bites her top lip. “Um, I can’t really go into it…but Have’s kind of caught between two worlds.”

Chris catches up to us on our walk back to the car and nudges me to try for more information.

“Kind of to Have or Have not?” I ask. “Sorry — I couldn’t resist.”

Chili laughs. “Lame but funny. Anyway. Yeah, it’s like that song my mom always used to sing —
did you ever have to make up your mind
?” She sings the last part and I join in. “
Pick up on one and leave the other behind
…”

“Hey,” I say, “You have a good voice!” I don’t mention that the song she sang is by The Lovin’ Spoonful and how I put it on a mix for Jacob at the end of this year — just because it had a utensil in the band’s name — and only realized the blatant lyrics afterwards. Note to self: check the songs and lyrics twice before committing them to a cd.

“Thanks,” Chili says, blushing only a tiny bit. “We sound good together.” Once we’re in the car, she hands me the keys and we wait for Haverford.

I ask, “Are you going to do more singing at Hadley this year?”

Chili twists her mouth. “I might try out for the Hadley Hummers, even though that’s got to be the dumbest-ass name ever.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty much the ridicule of all the extra curric groups. Members usually go by the Hadleys…But the singing’s good…”

“What about you?” Chili asks me. “Any thoughts about the future of your illustrious career?”

Cue big sigh and shrug from me. “Not sure.”

Chris leans forward, “Yeah, Love, what’s up with you and the voice? You were all over anything music-related and now…”

“And now I’m just not sure, okay?” I snap at him and he reels like I pushed him. Sorry. It’s just a confusing subject for me. I used to be so sure about wanting to do that, planning my life around it, and this past year it just kind of changed. Or shifted.”

“Hey, guys,” Haverford saunters back and slides in next to Chris in the back seat.

“Next time you’re heading to the smoky mountains, you can catch your own ride back,” Chili says to her brother. Haverford shrugs and stares vacantly out toward the water. “Let’s go, Love. I have to take my half-baked brother home.”

“Want some company?” Chris asks Chili. She nods. And in the rearview mirror I think — I can’t confirm, but I think — that I see Haverford smile.

“I wish you could come with me,” I say yet again.

“Believe me, so do I,” Arabella gathers the receipts from this morning’s café-take and puts them in the office. “But if Doug and Ula get here and find the place virtually unstaffed, we’re in big shit.”

“I know, I know.” Then I feel bad and guilty. “I should stay with you. Seriously.”

Arabella slips a fresh half-apron on and sits down for a sandwich. When you work the late morning to the afternoon, there’s not really time for lunch, so I usually eat a tuna sandwich at 10am and then by the time I’m done, lunch isn’t until four or so. She shoves the soy butter and jam into her mouth and talks at the same time, sounding like she’s got a mouthful of cotton balls.

“You know I don’t mind and if I did I’d tell you, right? Isn’t our friendship based on honesty?”

“Yeah,” I say and look away.

“What?” she prods. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” I say and look away again.

“Oh my god, it’s like acting for the stage for people who suck at acting…”

“Fine,” I say. “If you’re going to interpret every single one of my actions then I’ll tell you. But I feel funny about it — and I’m worried you’ll be angry…”

“Enough of the disclaimers,” Arabella says and glugs some milk, clearing her mouth so her voice goes back to normal. “Just tell me. I probably already know, anyway.”

“Why? What do you think I’m going to say?” I ask and understand suddenly why my dad gets confused when he hears me talking to my friends. He says it’s like we’re discussing air with a passion — nothing, but something.

“I think it has to do with something — or someone — you want but something you perceive as off-limits.”

“Well, you’re right about that.” I sit next to her and eat her leftover crusts, my favorite part of sandwiches. It’s those little details about me that I think make me seem more alterna than I really am — or like I’m trying to be different. Not that I want to be a total chameleon but I also don’t need to stand out to feel special — I just like crusts.

“Spill it,” Arabella commands. She stands behind me and twists my hair up into various silly up-dos that I would never feel comfortable wearing. “You should wear it like this tonight…you know, mix it up a little.” She holds my hair in a complicated twist with the requisite amount of messiness so that it doesn’t look too done.

With her walking behind me to keep the hair in place, we go to the bathroom so I can check out the style for myself. “Very elegant,” I say.

“But not too prom, more like pouty model on the way back from a wedding cool.”

“I like it,” I say and then, when we’re both looking at my reflection in the mirror I add, “It’s about Henry.”

She looks shocked. “Really?”

I spin and face her. “Why? What’d you think I was going to say?”

She shakes me off. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me,” I say and feel that white wash of sweat when you know you’re about to argue with your best friend.

“I thought you’d want to know about Asher…but that, you know, you felt a bit guarded asking because of everything that went down in London.”

“Oh,” I say and wonder if it means I’m totally over him because that’s not what I wanted to ask at all. Okay, maybe a little. “Asher’s in the past.”

“But Henry’s in the future?” Arabella asks and waits for me to go on.

I shrug but in the
let’s not fight
way not in the
whatever
way. “It’s not that I like him. It’s more that I feel like there’s some fucked up vibe with him and you and me.”

Arabella drops my hair and sits on the closed lid of the toilet. We stay there in the quiet, semi-blue light of the bathroom and I sit on the edge of the tub. “Love…” Arabella picks at her cuticles then looks at me. “First off, I want to say that tonight’s your night to go have fun. Drink, eat, and be merry and hang out or hook up with whomever you like.”

“I love that you said whomever.”

“You can take the girl out of Britain…” Arabella starts but then her smile fades. “Have you and Henry gotten together already? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No,” I say and shake my head. “Not at all. I mean, he gave me a backrub on the beach…”

“So basically he wants to…” Ararbella looks sad, but determined not to show this. But I can always tell how she feels — not because of her eyes like everyone always says — but because of her lips. Her mouth gives everything away, how the corners tug down just slightly.

I shrug and shake again. “I can’t really tell. But — how do you feel about it, Bels You look —”

“If he liked you…or if he tried to have you sleep at his place tonight, would you?”

“Would I sleep with him? No. No way. But the idea of kissing him…” I picture Henry’s grin, his friendly face, his beach body. “He does give a girl ideas…”

“I think you should do what you want,” Arabella says all in one breath and it’s as though I can hear her uncompleted thought “as long as it’s not with Henry”.

My friend and I stare at each other and then I slide backward into the bathtub and land on my butt. She pulls me out. “So there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Then why did it — does it — feel bizarre to bring his name up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s too triangular or like if we have to tell each other every detail of our time with him it just feels competitive.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” I suggest and slick Arabella’s deep blue-red lipstick on my mouth, blow an exaggerated kiss to myself then wipe the goop off with a tissue.

Arabella smiles from one side of her mouth, a look that always makes her seem like she’s tasted something sweet. “Nothing’s bizarre as long as we tell each other. The not telling you was the weird thing…And the not hearing from you. When you came back from the beach that day and Chris was here, I kept waiting for you to sit me down and tell me the story like you do — you know, first he said this and then you said this and he looked at you like this. And now I know he gave you a backrub then. But nothing else, right?”

“No — nothing. But, see, why are you so curious?”

She sighs. “I think since Toby cheated on me I see every non-disclosure as a betrayal or something. It’s like knowing all the details, being in the loop, makes me feel more in control.”

“Do you miss him” I ask. I don’t add the
even though he treated you like crap and cheated on you and is overly infatuated with himself
.

“I’m so over Tobias.” Arabella pulls me out of the bathroom and into her room so she can change into her “Doug and Ula are coming” work outfit (less summer sloppy and more black pants and a white tee-shirt standard). “And with Henry…just have fun — or don’t. But tell me all about tonight, promise?

“I promise,” I say. “I will narrate fully and even act out entire dialogues.”

“Good.”

After minute of quiet I hold up a dress for potential wearing then put it back in the closet — too plain. Then another one — too little black dress, not enough interest. “If you liked someone, though, would you tell them?”

Arabella asks. “Why, considering doing that yourself?”

I shrug, even though I am considering that — always considering that, actually. I could tell Charlie my lingering feelings despite his couple status with Hippie Beautiful Mike or I could just march up to Henry and tell him he’d be a first on my list of casual hook-ups, or even call Jacob, profess my feelings and see what happens, but it’s all too dramatic for me, all too much attention-seeking. Or fear. Or whatever.

“You mean if I had the kind of crushes you do? On whom?”

“I don’t know — on anyone — what if you liked….” I can’t think of anyone whose name doesn’t carry weight.

“Fine — say I liked Henry? Would I blab about how I feel?” Arabella squints. “Never!” She stands up on her bed so she can check out her whole body and outfit in the mirror — it’s the only way to approximate a full-length mirror in the apartment. “Whoever the guy is, if he wants me, he knows where to find me. Otherwise, forget it. I chased Toby all over the place, I’m not about to make that same mistake again.”

“Fair enough,” I say. And I’m glad for her. I am. The thought does occur to me that maybe she does actually like Henry but won’t admit it — even to me. And the reality is that she and Henry make much more sense together than he and I would. He’s much more in the game and center of attention than I usually go for, and he’s got that money issue lurking in the background. Not that I’m convinced I’ll wind up with someone who is penniless, but somehow it feels like we’d click better, have a better understanding of the real world. Or maybe that I wouldn’t have to blend into his world, or he into mine, we’d just sort of meet in the middle.

“Promise me I can do you hair before you leave?” Arabella asks when she’s near the door.

“Yes, fairy god mother, I’ll stop by the café on my way out,” I curtsy for no reason.

“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” she says and then she leaves me alone so I can pick some music to put on, so I can get ready for the dinner party, so I can admit to myself that I am actually hoping for some kind of romantic evening — not a lot, just a little. Is that so much to ask?

The entrance to The Manor Club is marked by a two enormous white statues. Curved and smoothed to polished perfection, they are meant to look like two curved hands welcoming you inside the property. Welcoming you in, that is, if your personal worth is upward of one hundred million and your family name is known in the business sections of The New York Times or financial papers worldwide. Staring at the white comma-shaped behemoths now, I think that they are far from resembling hands (even though yes, art is open to interpretation): instead they resemble fangs.

Set back from the ocean with lawns enough to play football (though that would be most unacceptable), The Manor Club is host to many an island wedding and gala event. That Henry is having a dinner party here shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Money seems to bite me in the back when I’m least expecting it, or when I nod off — like with the Hadley students who hang out at lunch and eat the same crappy deli meats as I do but then when spring break roles around they’re not holed up watching reruns like I am, they’re off jet-setting to Istanbul or Ibitha. Even Arabella every once in a while seems plucked form another (more profitable) planet.