The Summer Before Boys (5 page)

Except the cold, it turned out. The cold kept us from diving right into the lake and swimming out to the dock.

“It's freezing.” I put the top part of my big toe into the water. Suddenly I wasn't so hot anymore.

“It's so cold.”

We both stood, facing the lake, facing the rise of the cliffs on the other side, facing the spot where the sun was burning another hole in the sky. Waves of heat already shimmering in the air. It was still early. Only a few guests were here at the beach, and a couple of early swimmers, the ones that did laps across the width of the lake and back.

“Chickens.” A voice seemed to come from under the stone steps.

When I turned around no one was there.

“What was that?” I asked Eliza.

“Oh, that's Michael. It's just Michael and his brother,” Eliza told me.

“Who?”

“You don't know them. They go to a different school. Their dad works here too, taking care of the horses. They're really annoying. Don't even look at them.”

But I did. I mean, I attempted to look.

“No one's there,” I said.

“There's, like, a little opening, a little cave under the stairs. They're probably in there.” Eliza took another baby step into the water. “It's freezing.”

“Of course it's cold. It's a glacier lake.” Michael popped out from the rocks and onto the sand. He was alone. No brother in sight.

“I know what it is, Michael.” Eliza answered but she didn't take her gaze from the water. “I've been here as long as you have.”

Michael had dark hair, cut so short he looked like he was in the army. He had blue eyes. I could see that from here.

“That makes you an even bigger chicken, then,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? Why's that?”

“Because you're acting like you're so surprised. It was a big huge iceberg that broke off and got left behind from the Ice Age. What'd you think? An iceberg's gonna be warm? I swim every day, not like you.”

I just listened. I shifted my head back and forth from Eliza to Michael, who were talking to each other as if I wasn't even there.

“That was hundreds of years ago,” Eliza said.

“Millions,” Michael corrected her, but I saw him looking at me. “Who's this? You guys related to each other or friends?”

Usually we don't answer that question. Over the years Eliza and I have learned when to give out the truth and when not to.
If you don't want to explain anything, if you don't want to make more conversation, then the less information the better.

“We're not friends,” I just blurted out. “I'm her aunt.”

Now Eliza spun around.

“Her what?” Michael asked. He came even closer.

“Nothing,” Eliza answered. She narrowed her eyes and gave me a look. “Just leave us alone. We're going to go for a swim.”

“No, you're not. You're both too chicken. The water's too cold for you.” Michael spoke in a high-pitched whine, a girl-imitation.

He was not being very nice to us. There was nothing even all that interesting about him, except his blue eyes. But he seemed interested in us. So why then did I do what I did next?

“Maybe it's too cold for you,” I said. I dipped my hand into the shallow lake and scooped it up and flung it backward. I think if Michael had not been rubbing his eyes in his make-believe “girl” cry he might have seen what I was doing and ducked out of the way. But as it was, I got him right in the face with a handful of water.

“Hey,” he shouted and he lunged at me, which I suppose I knew was going to happen. There was only one way out and that was in. I grabbed Eliza's hand and started heading into the freezing-cold lake, because that's what you do when you are being chased—you run.

Because this, apparently, this fluttering-in-the-stomach-I-have-no-idea-why-I-just-said-that kind of thing, is a whole different kind of magic than Doc Miller, pioneers, and Indian captives—but it felt like magic all the same.

B
efore my mother ever went to “summer camp”—when September 11th was just the day after the 10th, a day before the 12th—and way before my mother left for Iraq—we would go away in August for a week to the college retreat in Ashokan. The three of us.

Since my mom worked at the University Health Center we got to use a cabin, take out the boats, and borrow any camping equipment we wanted. It's a perk, my mom said, and for the longest time I thought a “perk” was another word for a family vacation.

The cabin was always dark and thick-smelling when we first stepped inside. It took a while for your eyes to adjust, but your nose really never did. It kind of always smelled wet, like the inside of tree would smell if I were an elf or a gnome. The start of
one particular week, I was probably five or six years old. My dad was still unloading our stuff from the car but my mom and I were so hot we just couldn't wait. Or, I didn't want to wait.

“But Daddy hasn't gotten my duffel bag,” I complained. “I don't have my bathing suit yet.” It was a long walk from the parking lot, through the woods, to the cabin. Who knew how long I would have to wait for my dad to walk all the way to the car and get back.

“Well, we can just walk to the water and put our feet in,” my mother said. “Then we'll go for a real swim after lunch, how about that? All three of us.”

The lake at the college retreat was man-made. It was dug out of the land to hold water for the reservoir, to hold water for all of New York City. It was clean, no seaweed and not too many fish, and not too deep at this end, and not very cold, not in August, anyway. And in this one spot, they had brought in sand and roped off a little swimming area. No one else was here.

My mom and I stood at the water's edge in our shorts and T-shirts. The sun had climbed well over the tops of the trees and perched there.

“Can't we swim now?
And
after lunch?” I asked my mom.

“Well, if we had waited for Daddy. But now you don't have your suit on, sweetie. And neither do I. But if you want to go in a little—not too far. I'll watch you from here.”

I had done it many times. I always went in our backyard blow-up pool in just my underpants. I mean, of course I knew I was a girl but it hardly mattered back then. Boys were boys because they said so, but really, there was no difference. Just the month before, Brendon Harris, my next-door neighbor, and I came back from a long playground afternoon, and our mothers stripped us down to our underwear and sprayed us both with the garden hose. No biggie.

“Can I?” I asked my mother. The lake looked so good. It would cool me off. I wanted to put my face in the water and open my eyes. You could see the little rocks and sticks under the water in the sand, like a tiny, make-believe miniature world.

“Of course,” my mother said. She was already pulling off my shirt and steadying my arm so I could step out of my shorts and flip-flops. “I'll be right here.”

The sun spread across the skin of my bare shoulders like fire, like hot fingers. The sand whispered heat on the bottom of my feet. I walked carefully forward. The water was just warm enough, moving so slowly, letting my toes sink into the sand. And everywhere it was quiet. When I looked up at the sky, it was blue. When I looked back at my mom, she was watching me. Everything was just as it should be.

Until I heard voices. Voices talking the way you do when you think no one else is around. A family—I heard a mother and
a father, and then a boy. The boy was complaining. He didn't want to be here, not at the lake. Not in a boat. Not at the college retreat at all. He did not like it here, he was saying, over and over.

I do not like Green Eggs and Ham
.

I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

I froze.

I was naked in only my underpants. I had no shirt on. I may have only been five—or was I six already?—but I was suddenly naked, or half-naked, and it was horrible.

My body, which had just been warm and free and mine, was not anymore. I was petrified and more embarrassed than anything had ever made me feel before. And I was ashamed for having thought I could do this. Swim in my underwear. Out here in the wide world.

What was I thinking?

I couldn't turn around because that would be worse—I'd be facing them. I couldn't run back to our bags and grab a towel or my shirt.

How badly I wanted my shirt.

I knew enough to know that swimming out past my shoulders was, at best, a temporary solution. I'd have to come out eventually, or worse, that boy would come out here in the water too. How long could I hide in the murky green water?

I could hear the unfamiliar voices coming closer. I could
hear the mom telling the boy all the wonderful things about the retreat, the hikes, the campfires, s'mores, the fresh air. It wasn't working. I was getting nakeder and nakeder and for a full second it was like I could float out of my body and see myself standing by the water. I was a just a flat-chested little girl in big white cotton underpants. But I didn't feel like myself anymore.

Even as I felt my mother drape a towel around my shoulders, I knew I would never be the same again.

F
our o'clock was teatime at Mohawk. You can set your watch by it, Pam would tell us. She knew because she had to close up the gift shop between four and five fifteen every day. Mrs. Smith insisted. She didn't want anyone shopping or eating ice cream at teatime.

So then, just as the heat of the day is supposed to be waning but it feels hotter than ever, everyone comes inside to have hot tea and biscuits with homemade jam.

“We're not allowed in here,” Eliza said. “So stay low.”

I didn't really know what staying low meant, but I already knew that teatime was only for the guests. Aunt Louisa had told us many times not to bother Mrs. Smith—not to get underfoot—not to be using equipment, or taking up space, or doing anything that paying customers were paying to do.

And teatime at Mohawk was all Mrs. Smith.

I looked around. The littlest kids had escaped their parents' handholding and were crowding around the rolling tea cart, reaching between the legs of the grown-up guests and snatching sugar cookies from the tray. A couple of teenagers were milling as far apart from their parents as from each other, leaning against the walls of this huge carpeted room. The older people had gotten there early and taken most of the couches and settees and sofa chairs. Then they sent someone else to grab cookies for them so no one could take their seat. It was dark inside. The shades were drawn to keep the afternoon sun out.

“Try to blend in,” Eliza instructed me.

Usually that was easy. Most of my life I feel like I blend in, or maybe I just don't stick out, which comes in pretty handy in school. There are some kids who always get in trouble; no matter who is talking, the teacher always looks at them first. And some kids that the teacher always relies on, and they are the ones who have to take things to the office or volunteer to read out loud or pass out papers. And then there are some kids who just get left alone. That was me.

So why did I feel different now?

I mean, why did I suddenly
want
to feel different?

Michael had chased us into the water, which caused my throat to produce a weird giggling laugh I never heard before. I almost
forgot how to swim. I started moving my arms and legs but instead of feeling powerful, instead of flying through the water, I was flailing. Instead of feeling the freshness of the water on my skin I was fighting it. And all the while I sensed that Michael was right behind us. I could hear him breathing and splashing and my heart started thumping.

We all made it to the floating dock at the same time. Eliza hoisted herself up and then me and then Michael. We all flopped onto the wooden planks and stayed there. Nobody moved. No one stood up. No one talked. The dock still rocked, up and down from the weight of our bodies.

The dock was small and on the busiest days maybe six or seven guests could lay side by side like crayons melting in the sun. But even though we were the only ones there, Michael, Eliza, and I were all pretty close to each other, breathing hard. If there was a way to look comfortable, I tried to find it. I bent my knees just the slightest bit to lift my legs because for some reason I thought they looked better that way. But I was anything but comfortable.

I was anxious and uncomfortable and I had no idea what to say or do, but it was a good feeling. A new feeling. It wasn't like Christmas morning, but more like Christmas Eve when you are so excited, even scared-excited, that you won't get what you really wanted but maybe you will. Or that no one will like what
you got for them. So flooded with tension you can't fall asleep, even knowing that falling asleep is the only way to make morning come. It's a feeling that you can't wait to get rid of, but I wanted to feel it again as soon as possible.

“Okay, so you're not chickens,” Michael said. He leaned up on his elbows, water dripping from his head onto his shoulders.

That was a nice thing to say,
I thought.

I should say something back. Something clever. Something really clever. Something to make me stand out—for once. So I don't blend in.

“You're just a jerk, Michael,” Eliza said.

“Yeah, a dumb jerk,” I added cleverly.

Most of the guests had dressed for teatime, put on pants and shirts. There was one man in a jacket. Some of the mothers had summer dresses and little low heels. But the kids looked pretty much the same. Like we did. Shorts. Wet hair. Flip-flops.

“Oh no,” Eliza said, poking me in the side. “Why is he here?”

“Who?”

We had gotten close to the food table without being noticed. It was pretty crowded today. Mrs. Smith was circling around on the other side of the room, making sure everyone knew who she was. We could grab a cookie or five, a scone maybe, a handful of strawberries.