Twenty Boy Summer (3 page)

That doesn't stop her from plotting the downfall of my innocence on our upcoming trip. In
her
mind, we'll be ignoring a direct missive from the God of Summer Vacations if I don't ditch the big V once and for all somewhere along the Pacific coast.

"How could I forget the Albatross?" I ask. "You bring it up every five minutes."

"Just trying to keep it fresh." She rises from the floor and holds out her hand. "Anyway, your virginity is the least of our pretrip problems. Come on -- your house."

four

Upstairs in my room, Frankie pans my closet with her video camera, doing her best movie-announcer-guy voice:

"In a
world
where summer dreams really
do
come
true,
Anna and Frankie plan the vacation of their
lives.
There will be
beaches.
There will be
bathing suits.
And there will be
boys.
But something
lurks
just below the surface, threatening to
ruin
the A.B.S.E. if these clever, beautiful gal-pals don't turn their attention to its
immediate
resolution:
Anna's wardrobe is a total nightmare!
"

Owing to Frankie's tireless quest for the smallest ratio of fabric to flesh legally allowed, her summer attire -- and even most of her winter set -- is always beach ready, featuring cute halters, short skirts, and strappy black sandals.

Owing to my
mother
's tireless quest for the ultimate deal, combined with her standard-issue fashion immunity,
my
wardrobe -- taken as a collection -- should be tried, convicted, and hung. Devoid of
anything
cute, short, or strappy, my closet houses an anthology of half-price, off-season sale items typically excavated from the basements of overcrowded department stores where I elbowed my way past mobs of middle-aged women bargain-hunting in the loose underwear bins.

"What do you suggest?" I ask, fingering the shirts that hang in front of us.

"I don't even know where to start." She turns the camera on herself and makes an exaggerated shrug in front of the lens. "Just take it all out and throw it on the bed."

I'm not in the mood to dismantle my entire closet, but I do as she asks. It makes her smile, just a little bit, so I don't fight her. Sometimes when she looks happy like this, I watch her from the corner of my eye and wonder if my best friend is still in there somewhere, the one who used to stage elaborate weddings for our dolls and deal me an extra thousand dollars in Monopoly so we could conspire against Matt. In the postdeath murk of our relationship, I don't know if I'll ever see that Frankie again. We're such different people now; if I met her on the street today, just like this, we would never be friends. But once in a while, her smile comes back -- however fleeting -- and I see her, really
see
her, and know I'll do anything to keep her here a little longer, to keep her from slipping back into the coma of silence that nearly overtook her last year.

Even if it means talking about clothes and boys and milk-shake diets instead of things that matter.

"Anna Reiley's wardrobe malfunction, take one." Frankie films while I toss heaps of unwearable clothing on the bed by the armful. I have a few passable favorites, supplemented by frequent raids on Frankie's closet, but I force most of the embarrassing ensembles into hiding, where they wait in vain for the day when they, like their more stylish brethren, might be called into fashion service.

"God, Anna. What are
these
?" Frankie sets down the camera to grab a pair of old jeans with her finger and her thumb as though pants can transfer a contagious virus.

"They're my old favorite jeans from middle school. They have good memories."

"Anna, ankle zippers are never good memories. And what the hell is
this
thing? It's completely ruined."

My mouth goes dry as Frankie pulls a white tank top from the plastic bag I've kept it in for the past year, stuffed behind all the shoes on the closet floor. It has splotches of purple, crusty and fading from its original birthday blue. At first I didn't want to wash it because it reminded me of that night and everything it was supposed to turn into. After he died, I didn't want to wash it, get rid of it, or do
anything
to it.

Ever.

"Garbage pile," Frankie says, ready to cast it aside.

"Don't!" I dive toward her and snatch the shirt out of her hands with more force than I intend. It's the only surviving witness to the night Matt and I changed over from friends to whatever it was we became, and it's nearly impossible for me not to cry.

"What's
with
you, Anna? It's just a white tank. You can get a new one for like five bucks."

Don't worry. It's our secret.

"Sorry." I'm surprised and glad she doesn't recognize it. I run my thumb back and forth over a crusty bit on the shoulder strap as a five-second version of the cake fight flashes behind my eyes like a movie stuck on quick search.
Don't cry over spilt frosting, Anna.
"I just -- I like this one."

"What for?" she asks.

Just tell her.

"It's from the -- it's just the --" I bite my lower lip.

Tell her.

"Anna? What's wrong?"

Oh, it's nothing, really. Just that it's from the first time your brother kissed me and made me promise not to tell you. And I was in love with him forever, and he was supposed to tell you about it in California, and we were all going to live happily ever after. I still write him letters in the journal he gave me, which he doesn't answer, since he's dead and all. But other than that? Honestly, it's nothing.

"Anna?" She watches me with her sideways face again. "Huh? Oh, sorry. Nothing. I'm fine. I -- I'll get rid of it later. Anyway, look at these." I swallow the lump in my throat, shove the tank behind some shoe boxes in the closet, and pull out a pair of tiny Snoopy flip-flops. "Remember when we had matching flip-flops in third grade?"

"Anna, we had matching
everything
back then. This," she sweeps her hand over the clothes, "is a fashion -- a fashion
Heidelberg,
as you would say. I don't know when we got so far off track."

I
know. I remember the exact moment Red started dropping us off at the mall with his credit card, telling Frankie to get whatever she needed and that he'd be back for us in a few hours. "Nothing like a little family trauma to kick-start a decent wardrobe," she'd say, pretending not to cry while trying on piles of expensive clothes from all of our favorite stores.

"It's
Hinden
burg, Frank. And if you're feeling nostalgic for matching outfits, you're welcome to join me and Mom on our next trip to Shay's House of Bargains."

"There must be
something
savageable in here."

"
Salvageable.
And there isn't."

"Yeah, that's what I said. Salvageable. As in, able to be salvaged. Besides, all we really need are bikinis, jean shorts, and sandals. And maybe a dress or two for going out at night. Come to think of it, maybe we should get a --"

"
Bikinis?
In
public
?!"

My world is crashing down around me!
Frankie -- long and lean, olive skin, fat in just the right places and nowhere else -- will be
stunning
on the beach. But me? I picture my blue-white skin and untoned, freckled arms hanging unattractively out of a two-piece. No one wants to see
that
unprepared. I look Frankie up and down and chew on my thumbnail. Perhaps a beach vacation with my
stunning
best friend isn't such a great idea. "I don't think so, Frank."

"Anna, no one will notice us if we're wandering around in old-lady clothes. They'll think we're pregnant or something."

"Rather than wanting to
get
us pregnant?"

"Exactly."

"I don't know, Frankie. I don't think --"

"Anna, you're gorgeous, and you know it. You just have to stop being so shy about it and start working it. Dab on a little lipstick, walk straight, throw your shoulders back, suck your stomach in, stick your boobs out -- and work it!"

In my mental movie of "working it," I do okay with the lipstick but concentrate so hard on straightening, throwing, sucking, and stick-outing that I don't notice a surfboard or driftwood or a small child underfoot and I trip, sailing over said unseen obstacle and face-planting in the hot sand.

"Not gonna work," I say.

Frankie climbs onto the bed and grabs my shoulders. "It
is
gonna work. Believe me. You're perfect!"

"You really think so?"

KABOOM!

Frankie and I both let out a squeal at the unexpected thunder. To me, the sudden change in weather is a clear sign that the universe does
not
want me to wear a bikini. As the sky darkens and the downpour starts, I catch Frankie gazing out the big bay window behind us, watching needles of rain come straight at the glass. She stares at it for a long time, tracing a streak of water down the window, distant. She does that sometimes -- like her mind splits and one side stays here with me while the other is off living an entirely different life in the distance with people I can't see or hear.

"He loved the storms at night, remember?" she whispers, more to her reflection in the window than to me. I nod and rest my head on her shoulder. It's the most she's said about him in a long time.

five

The next morning, entirely against my will, Frankie asks Aunt Jayne to drop us off at the mall and leads the charge to her favorite store -- Bling. Everything inside -- including the staff -- is either see-through, rubber, glittered, or some combination thereof.

Leaning against the floor-to-ceiling speaker system behind the counter, a blonde only a few years older than us flips through the pages of this month's
Celeb Style
and bobs her head, dangling silver hearts dancing above her shoulders to the techno bass behind her.

Never deterred by a woman in a black rubber halter-top, Frankie taps on the counter. "Hi," she shouts over the music. "Did you get the new swimsuits in yet?"

Rubbergirl, whose ripped denim shorts look like underwear with pockets, raises an eyebrow at Frankie and jerks her head toward the far corner of the store.

"Thanks," Frankie says.

"Whatever." Rubbergirl turns the page and releases a long, my-life-is-so-hard sigh.

Thankfully Mom isn't here to witness the exchange, or we'd be waiting around for Bling management so Mom could share a long and painful commentary on how Rubbergirl's lack of customer focus reflects poorly on the entire clothing industry.

"She's new," Frankie assures me, dragging me to the corner where the girl had so obligingly directed us.

After handing me her camera with explicit instructions to keep filming, Frankie takes a deep breath and gets to work. She weaves her way through racks of swimsuits, foraging like a mother antelope for her starving babies, passing over colors or styles that are "soooo last year" or "too blah blah blah for the beach." When she finds something with potential, she tugs on the fabric to simulate a hard day in the surf and holds it to the light to ensure it has the right amount of see-throughability.

After fifteen minutes of hunting and gathering, Frankie emerges from the racks with two armloads of try-ons. A broken fingernail and a slight breathlessness are her only battle scars.

"You take this half, and then we'll switch." She passes me a pile of shiny, sparkling spandex as we move into the fitting room and hole up in adjoining stalls.

"I think we should stick with black," I say to Frankie as I crack open the dressing room door to show her a particularly hideous orange thing stretched across my backside -- the third atrocious suit I've tried on. "It's supposed to be slimming."

"Everyone wears black," Frankie says. "And we don't need slimming. We need something fun. Something -- ew! Not
that
fun!" She shoves me back into the stall before any passing shoppers can associate her with the orange monstrosity in fitting room A.

"Keep trying, Anna. You'll find the one."

Five more try-ons, five more rejects.
Okay, maybe last year's yellow one-piece with the daisy neckline has potential.

"Frank, this is hopeless. Can't I just wear my --"

"No," she says, stepping out of her stall. "You are not allowed to mention that yellow suit again. I think I found one I like. Come see."

I crack open my door. Frankie is a vision in a sheer white wrap below the artificial glow of the fitting room.

She opens the wrap to reveal a baby blue halter-style suit that ties at the neck and hips and covers just enough of Frankie to keep everyone wondering. It was made for her; evidenced by the mothers and daughters gathering around her like lost sheep seeking her guidance through the tangled pastures of Bling's swimsuit collection.

"Oh my God, that's it!" I emerge from my stall and hug her as though she's trying on wedding gowns. "You look amazing!"

"Does it make me look too fat?" She tugs at the bottom and turns back and forth to look at her butt and stomach in the three-way mirror. "What about my huge ribs? I have man-ribs."

One of the mothers laughs.

"Honey," the woman says, "if I had that body, I'd go to the beach naked."

Frankie smiles. The other moms agree. A little girl stares. Celeb Style,
here she comes.

"Frank, it's awesome. You
have
to get that suit."

"You think? Are you sure?"

"Yes," the lost sheep and I say. "Okay, as long as you're being honest."

"Oh my God, if you don't get that suit I'm not going to California."

"Okay, okay! I'll get it. In the meantime, here." She reaches into her dressing room and pulls out a hanger full of olive green something. "I think I found one for you, too. I know you're a little more conservative about these things."

Locked in my stall, I strip down again and prepare for another painful but predictable rejection.
If this one doesn't work out, I'm going to Alaska instead. No swimsuit required.

I pull and stretch and tie the various parts into position without looking in the mirror. As I stare at the chipped Cotton Candy nail polish on my toes, I imagine walking down the beach in my childish yellow suit with Frankie, Queen of Summer, in soft baby blue. I'll be the sidekick. The second string. The second helping. The second choice.

My head hurts. "Well?" Frankie knocks on the door. "Do you have it on?"

I unlatch the door and push it open, still afraid to look in the mirror.

"Wow.
Wow.
Anna, oh my God. Wow!"

"Bad?" I whisper.

"Um, come here." Before I can say another word, Frankie grabs my wrist and pulls me into the main fitting room in front of the three-way mirror. Thankfully, the sheep have disbanded.

"Look." She nudges me closer. I stare at my reflection. The girl in the mirror stares back. I don't recognize her.

"Anna, you're getting this suit."

"It's eighty dollars."

"Anna, you're getting this suit."

"But I --"

"Anna, you're getting this suit. That's it."

I twist and turn and contort all of my appendages in search of some fatal flaw that will force me to abandon the suit, but I can't find one. Not in the lightly padded halter top that ties at the neck like Frankie's. Not in the boy-shorts bottom that makes my stomach look flat and slides over my hips like a second skin.

"See, I told you you're gorgeous," Frankie says.

"Whatever." I'm still getting used to the idea of showing anyone my belly button on purpose.

"Oh my God," Frankie squeals. "Anna, I just thought of the best idea
ever.
"

"Great. I'll ask Mom to set aside some bail money."

"No, listen." She puts her arm around me and lowers her voice. "It's about the Albatross." Her broken eyebrow seems to be dancing as she wiggles it suggestively.

"Oh, right. Your little pet project." I am simultaneously intrigued and afraid -- a combination I've grown used to over the past year with Frankie.

"It's perfect. We're in California for twenty-three days, right?" She does some quick calculations on her fingers, looking up at the ceiling to concentrate. "If we allow three days for arrival, exploration, and strategy, that leaves us eighteen, nineteen,
twenty.
Twenty days, give or take."

"Twenty days for
what
?"

"Twenty boys."

I think she's joking, but her eyes are set. I must stop this madness before she has us buying the family pack of condoms at the pharmacy.

"Frankie, I'm not sleeping with twenty guys, and neither are you!" She laughs. "Come on, Anna. I just meant that if we could
meet
a boy a day, and maybe do a little test-drive, certainly you could ditch the A.A. at some point, right? We can even make it a contest. Whoever gets the most prospects -- wins."

While the yellow-daisy-swimsuit Anna would never have agreed to such a scandalous contest, the crazy girl in the mirror wearing the olive bikini can't crush Frankie's sincere smile. It's ear to ear, almost all the way to her bright blue eyes, and before I can even
think
about what a bad idea it is, our mission is in motion.

"Twenty days," I say, overjoyed at her lasting enthusiasm. "Twenty boys. I'm in."

Frankie wiggles her eyebrow and takes one more look at our bikini reflections, nodding her approval.

I smile and nod back, challenge accepted.

Cue the movie announcer guy.