Summer of Love (5 page)

Arabella ignores my hint and says, “Just get your car and come back in time to work. I did the early shift and I need to nap now. Off you go. And say hi to Henry for me.”

I watch her walk to her room, flop down on her bed, and then I walk out the door.

Outside, drumming his hands on the steering wheel of his antique BMW, Henry mouths along to The Talking Heads’ “Same as it Ever Was”. I open the passenger door and jump in, putting on my seatbelt and giving him a quick hug in one fluid motion and sing a quick
ba-dum-ba-dum
from the chorus, even though it’s thoroughly annoying to anyone but yourself when you vocalize an instrumental bit.

“How come you’re not singing?” I ask when we’re in stop and go traffic trying to exit Edgartown.

Henry pushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand and downshifts into second gear. “My voice is just
that
bad. Trust me, as lame as I look lip-synching, it’d be worse if I tried to do it for real. Not like you. You’ve got a great voice.”

“Thanks,” I say. It’s a nice compliment but one that’s causing me ever-growing worry. For so long I counted on my voice to carry me to adulthood; as if there were no other possibility of what I could do other than sing as a profession. But sine that certainty is hazy now, the compliment only makes me wish people would notice something else. I remember a girl named Lisa who had naturally near-platinum hair. She had lots of other qualities, too, but Lisa once told me offhandedly that her hair was the only thing people bothered to comment on — not her lacrosse skills, not her cum laude grades, not her speech team award (although, come on, who comments on speech team, seriously). So maybe that’s what I feel in terms of singing — of course I’m grateful for the kudos, even more grateful I can carry a tune and that singing makes me happy, but there’s an increasing awareness that I want more — not more compliments, but more awareness of my other strengths.

“The ride’s not long,” Henry says and he gives a small wave before we pull out onto the street. I look back and see Arabella up in the window looking down at us and wonder why she was watching. “Let’s go!”

We’re off and I breathe in the summer air. Once we’re out of the noise and hum of Main Street, we zip along back roads, past farms and houses until we’re driving alongside the water. Marshy views and the placid inlets make me feel calm and peaceful — kind of like I usually do with Henry. It’s not that he’s boring — he’s just really steady and sure.

“Thanks so much for getting me — and for taking me…” I look around. “…Wherever it is we’re going.”

Henry grins maniacally. “I’m stealing you for my very own…” then, maybe worried his joke revealed something, Henry follows up with, “It’s no problem. Really. If I can’t exploit my father’s power for good, what’s the point, right?”

“I guess,” I say and grip the rolled down window as we take a curve half on the road and half on the sandy shoulder. I wonder if I would mind if Henry took me away, whisked me off to his plush digs to wine and dine me. It sounds easy. It sounds fun. It sounds semi-tempting (um, like there’s even been an offer?) but it somehow would feel really distant, like it would be happening to someone else. Like an outer-body experience.

Henry slows the car down outside a locked chain fence. Everyone has issues with their parents — and sometimes I feel lucky to have the ones I do with my dad — namely that we’ve been so close he now feels the need to make a point of our independence by making me a Hadley Hall boarder. Aside from that, I don’t have many qualms with him. My mother, however — Galadriel — Gala — that maternal mystery is another story. An epic.

“Hey — can you jump out and unlock the gate?” Henry touches my knee to bring me back to earth from whatever parental planet I’ve been visiting.

“Sure — but I don’t have a key,” I hold up my hands as proof they’re empty and hop out of the car. As I take a minute to look at the lightly worn exterior of the BMW, I remember that Lila Lawrence, my shiny Hadley friend who now goes to Brown, has an old BMW, too. It’s like the fact that the car isn’t new and glistening makes it less obvious. That the off-beat colors (hers is purple, Henry’s is orange) gives off an eccentric air rather than just a moneyed one. All those subtleties of wealth — if the cars were this year’s model, it would only mean Lila and Henry came from New Money. And New Money isn’t nearly as posh as old family money. That much I know.

Henry digs into his glove compartment and finds a key ring on which are strung numerous brass, silver, gold, and skeleton keys. “It’s the big square one with the blur rubbery thing on it,” he explains and turns the music up while I attempt to locate the key. Once I do, I stick it into the giant padlock and wriggle it around until the clasp opens.

“All set!” I yell over the music and swing the gate open while Henry goes through.

The lot is sandy and deserted save for a mess of cars parked in no particular order.

“Which one do you want?” he asks and it occurs to me briefly as I watch him wander from Bentley to rusting Jeep Wagoneer to VW Bug that he’s only partially kidding. I get the feeling that if I really hoped to leave the lot with a different vehicle, I could merely ask Henry to trade my crappy Saab (my crappy Saab that reminds me of Mable so I will never get rid of it), he’d make it possible.

“I’m good with what I have,” I say and pat the side of my car like it’s a dog. Inside, my piles of books and maps and clothes are okay. “Looks like no one took anything.”

Henry shrugs and walks over. “No one takes anything here — you know that, right? You can leave your keys in your car all day and night and no one would touch it.”

“True — I mean, where are they going to go? You can’t get a ferry reservation until October now…so I guess you’d be stuck.”

He eyes my face, looking for clues of some kind. “I hope you don’t feel stuck.” Henry peers into my car, probably amazed at the volume of junk inside. “That’s a pretty big pack you’ve go there.” He opens the side door.

I thumb to the backpack, “Oh — that’s Jim.” My face it totally straight. “My pretend boyfriend.”

“Hi, Jim,” Henry says and offers his hand to my bag. I try not to laugh. “Thanks for taking care of Love on the ride down — but I’ve got it from here.”

He winks at Jim for my benefit and I consider his words. Does he want to take care of me? Am I that in need of rescuing? Granted, Henry was there at Mass General — he saw Aunt Mable as she withered away — he’s been pretty sensitive about everything, which heightens his appeal. But then again, we’re talking about an improve conversation with my hiking pack.

“Jim’s seen me through some good times,” I say.

“I bet — he seems quiet but able to hold a lot,” Henry says. Then he grins. “I was trying to come up with some metaphor like he’s got deep pockets or something, but…” It’s no surprise that Henry would choose that expression — I get the feeling that despite his relaxed way of being, the fact that his own pockets (or, um, Daddy’s) are way deep is a big deal.

I put my hand on the window of the driver’s side and check my watch. “Shit — I have to go. My first shift starts in an hour and I’m about to win the award for least-showered person on the island.”

“Runner up, maybe,” Henry says and scratches his neck. “But not first place.” He scratches again. “Damn I’ve got so many mosquito bites already and it’s only June.”

“Tell me about it,” I say and give in to my many itches on my legs.

Henry gives my right calf a look. “Jeez what have you been doing? Camping?”

Without pausing I answer, “No — more like crashing outside for no good reason…” It sounds more daring and cool that it was in reality, but I’m kind of rushing to get out of here and also have the sneaking suspicion that even though I pride myself on not being super-chameleon like (e.g. I stay myself no matter where I am or who I’m around), Henry and his heavy-hitting money people make me feel like I should be more adventurous than I naturally am. Or maybe that’s my psyche telling me I really want to be more adventurous. Whatever — I could make myself nuts thinking about all this.

But Henry raises his eyebrows and does that guy cough-chuckle thing that shows he’s half-jealous and half-shrugging so make it seem like he doesn’t care. “Ever heard of bug spray?” He says bug spray like he means to say condom — if that’s possible. Then he adds, “If you went — camping — with me — I’d make sure to bring some Off! Spray — it’s the best.”

I don’t know what he’s picturing — me rolling in the woods with some summer hottie — can you say fat chance? How about me lusting lamely at a high school party. With a sinking feeling, I remember that part of my whole friendship with Henry is built on the pretense that I am closer to his age than I really am. I should just blurt out that I’m still at Hadley — that I’m not a Brown student like Lila. But those are the kinds of corrections that are best made right away. Once you let time go by it’s so much harder trying to tell the truth — like if you don’t know someone’s name and then you hang out — you feel like an idiot asking later. So I keep my mouth shut.

“I haven’t done a lot of camping,” I say, wondering if this whole conversation has a double-meaning. Haven’t gone camping, haven’t had sex. Does he know? Or am I nudging myself?

“So sleeping outside doesn’t constitute camping?” Henry asks.

I shake my head and open the car door. “It wasn’t camping — it was just…nothing.” Nothing is how I explain my continually confusing interactions with Jacob.

Henry takes a couple of steps backward, his sneakers scratching on the sand. “Usually when people insist something’s nothing, it’s something.”

I smile without showing my teeth and sigh. “You’re probably right,” I say and drop it. If he wants to think I’m Miss Camping Expert — or whatever we now think camping means — that’s his deal. “Thanks again for helping me get my car back. I couldn’t have waited until Monday.”

“It’s no problem.” Henry gets into his car and closes the door. “Any time!” He waits for me to drive through the gate so he can lock up and then cups his hand like a megaphone near his mouth. “Come surfing tomorrow — there’s a group of us going.” I nod and give him the thumbs up. “Ask Arabella — she knows the details!”

I bet Arabella does know the details. Even though she’s my friend and I love her — and I am so appreciative of the apartment and he general presence, it’s a little hard for me to totally accept that she’s made a name for herself already on the island while I am still new. Of course I’ve been here for all of five hours but the island doesn’t feel like it’s mine yet. Maybe after I get settled in at work — if I ground myself in grounds — heh.

Top reasons I know I am not going to commit to a life in the service industry:

1) I cannot get “would you like sugar in that?” out of my head

2) Asking people if they prefer one or two percent, full fat or skim is only fulfilling in the sense that it gets them off your back for a millisecond until they insist on seeing just how much froth is on top of their cappuccino

3) Despite the fact that I’m decent at multi-tasking (e.g. I can steam milk, plate a side salad with sautéed pumpkin seeds and chevre while answering the phone and repeating for the twelfth time that we’re “open until we’re not” — the catch phrase Doug and Ula invented that I think is rude but they find cool) the job I have only makes my condition worse.

My condition being SIMH. Sym-huh. Stuck Inside My Head.

“But it’s not like you’re working in a library,” Arabella says when I tell her my career concerns. “And it’s not like you’re going to be serving coffee for the rest of your life.”

“I know — but…” I look out at the sidewalk from the window in the kitchen while Arabella slathers on her nightly face mask. “And I’m not trying to be melodramatic…”

Arabella mimes violin playing and continues to spread thick algae-colored goop around her cheeks, forehead, and all the way down her chin and neck.

I turn to her and undo my hair from its restaurant restraint (not a hairnet but an old rubber bracelet of Mable’s that I sometimes wear on my wrist, other times in my hair). I let the red mass of it fall across my bare arms, covering my face until I’m peering out a hair curtain. “With singing, I get to express myself. And it’s just that I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that it occurred to me tonight as I slopped out my millionth latte, that if I don’t find a job where I actually do that — express myself — I’ll just be one of those mumbling people.” Arabella raises her eyebrows underneath the sludge and her face mask shows signs of cracking. “No, I’m serious. You act and get out all of your emotions or you redecorate and have this visual way of getting your ideas across. But what am I supposed to do with my life so that all of this…” I point to my head like it’s a container, which I suppose it is.

“You could teach,” Arabella says and watches to see if my ranting and raving is finished for the evening. The red retro clock she hung up near the surfboard mounted as a desk reads just past midnight. I closed the café when a solid fifteen minutes had gone by and no one came in. But did I lock the door? I think so.

“Teaching is a possibility,” I say like I’m done with college and ready to go out into the real world. “But I’m not sure.”

“Well, lucky for us both that you don’t have to decide tonight. Now — I’ve got four more minutes of being frog woman and then I’m rinsing it off and going to bed.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Minus the frog stuff.”

Arabella peers out the window, looking at the bluish moonlight that casts an eerie glow onto the empty cobblestones. Down the street, bars are open, drinkers and dancer and drunken duuuudes (those prepster party people who end up elongating every vowel) are still only halfway through their Saturday night. Luckily, the café is situated far enough away from the noise that we’ll be able to sleep in peace.

Peace until, that is, there’s a knocking downstairs. I jump and say, “Ah!” like someone booed me from behind a corner.

“Relax, Bukowski,” Arabella says and holds up her finger in the one minute position while she goes downstairs, her sexy shortie bathrobe (maroon, silk, quite revealing) balanced only by her clumpy green face. Two minutes later, Arabella emerges from the café and starts picking at her flaking face mask like nothing happened.