Twenty Boy Summer (14 page)

twenty

Frankie crashes into me at the sound of her mother's voice and I yelp, though from the shock of Frankie stepping on me or Aunt Jayne wandering up the shore to meet us, I can't decide.

"Going somewhere?" Jayne asks, surveying our gear.

I've become quite adept at lying on this vacation but still haven't mastered the skill of instantaneous fabrication under extreme pressure. That's more Frankie's specialty. Unfortunately, the queen of far-fetched fairy tales is cocooned in a state of shock behind me, unmoving and silent.

"We were just, um, we were going to -- we wanted to --" I hope my stammering snaps Frankie back to reality, since Jayne is too close for me to give Frankie the swift mule-kick-in-the-shin she deserves.

It works. Frankie drops her blanket and heads down the stairs with purpose to meet her mother.

"Anna and I wanted to come out to the water to get some night shots," she says. "You know, for the trip documentary."

Aunt Jayne eyes her closely. "In full makeup?"

"Mom, we don't want to look all
hideous
on camera."

"I thought you two were exhausted?"

"We were," Frankie says, twisting her bracelet around her wrist. "But now we're rejudevated."

"Rejuvenated," I say, translating for Jayne. "Right. And you need blankets because..."

"Because we might want to lie down and look at the stars." Frankie has an answer for everything.

Aunt Jayne looks from her daughter to me, to the blankets at my feet, and back to Frankie before letting out a long sigh and shaking her head. "Frankie, I --"

"Mom, why are you out here alone, anyway?"

If you can't afford an attorney, Frankie "Teflon" Perino will be appointed to you by a court of law.

Aunt Jayne opens her mouth, but Frankie counters again before any sound comes out. "Do you want to be in our movie?"

Jayne laughs as Frankie heads back to the stairs to pull her camera out of its bag, adding credibility to our threadbare tapestry of lies.

"All right, all right." Aunt Jayne throws up her hands and ushers us back across the lawn. "But let's do it on the deck. It's freezing out here tonight."

Tonight? As opposed to other nights you've been hiding out in the shadows as your doting daughter and I slipped away into the darkness?
My heart is thumping its way up my esophagus and into my throat. I swallow it back down and shoot Frankie a sideways look that translates to, "Did your mom see us sneak out the other night, and if so, why hasn't she said anything?"

Frankie responds with a lift of her eyebrow. "Doubt it," the broken little wings tell me.

On the deck, we interview Jayne, asking her how she'd redecorate the beach house, the lawn, and the entire shoreline if given the opportunity. This amuses her, and as she plays along with our silly questions, I relax, convincing myself that she doesn't know about our previous boy-filled escapades and, by some inexplicable break in tonight's chain of horrific events, accepts our documentary cover-up story.

"That's a wrap," Frankie says. "We have to do some editing before we can show it to you, though. We want it to be a surprise when we get back from the trip."

By editing she means transferring all the parts with Sam, Jake, and our secret life in the shadow realm to a separate DVD and slicing in the loop of random shots she and I took of us splashing, swimming, reading, and generally behaving ourselves on the beach, sans boys. We filmed it all in about twenty minutes the first day, but that's the beauty of swimsuits. No one expects a change of clothes to indicate the passage of time.

After Aunt Jayne goes to bed (at least, after she
tells
us she's going to bed), I turn to Frankie. "Okay, I know you're good. I've seen you snow teachers and security guards and my parents and all manner of responsible adults, but your mom isn't
that
stupid. There's no way she believes us."

Frankie shrugs. "Whatever."

"Forgive me, o great one. I should not have doubted you." I bow in admiration.

Frankie is unaffected, her eyes far away and glassy. "Frank, what's wrong?" I ask. "Do you think we're busted and she's just waiting to tell your dad?"

Nothing. "Frankie?" I'm getting concerned. The last thing I want is for the trip to be cut short because of our stupidity.

"It doesn't matter, Anna," she finally says. "She sees what she wants to see."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you think she's so cool and everything, but sometimes I wish she'd just -- I don't know, get
mad.
Yell. Call me out on my lies. Be disappointed. She doesn't even care."

I picture Aunt Jayne on the deck that first night, red-eyed and severe, pressing me for the truth about her only daughter. Her only living child.

"Yes, she does, Frank. You can't say that."

"Whatever. I'm not her precious dead son. I'll always be second."

"I don't think it's like that, Frank."

"You have no idea what it's like."

I look at my feet and don't talk for what feels like a long time. Frankie sighs, breaking the silence. "Sorry -- it's not you. I don't know what my deal is tonight. We're not busted. That's the main thing. Let's go."

Some invisible force -- the Force of Sam -- wants to pull me back to Smoothie Shack, but I resist. We can't risk getting caught again, and it's way too late.

"No, Frank. We're, like, two hours late. They won't even be there."

"Fine. Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

I watch her face for another opening, another chance to convince her that her mom really does care, but her eyes are set against the chill coming in off the ocean.

End of discussion.

Tomorrow comes quickly, the sun falling through the window and warming my feet like a hot bath. Frankie's awake and smiling at me from her bed across the room, the sourness of last night evaporating in the new light. We shower and dress as fast as Frankie's glamour routine allows, inhale some cereal and juice for breakfast, and run outside before Red and Jayne invite us on another family tourist trip. After a quick stop at the community pool for our fake boat clothes, we head down the beach.

We don't need to go all the way to the Shack -- we find Sam and Jake in the alcove, laughing it up with a hideous, frightening, evil, super-cute girl. My heart sinks into my stomach, and in an instant I turn into a bad friend, secretly hoping that the cutie belongs to Jake and not to Sam. It's all we can do not to turn back before they notice us.

"Hey! Over here!" Jake sees us and waves us out to the water.
She must be with Sam.
For a moment I don't think my legs will work, but Frankie nudges me to set our stuff down and drop our beach cover-ups. I follow her out of numb obligation, angry that he's already with someone else, and angry that I let myself care.

We get into the water, and Sam runs up to hug me. My first response is entirely physical, acting before my mind can process the situation and prepare a more appropriate -- that is, bitchy -- reaction. His bare legs and chest are warm against me in the water, and I know if I stay like this it won't matter how many other girls he has.

I pull away just as Jake introduces the girl. Now that I see her body -- rather, lack of body -- I think I'm almost old enough to be her mother. At least her older sister.

"This is Katie," Jake says. "My kid sister -- the one I told you about."

"Whatever," she says. "I'm not a kid."

Katie.
I totally forget about his sister. I'm so relieved and embarrassed that I almost laugh out loud. She's only three years younger than me, but it feels like there's a lifetime between us. When I look at her easy smile and happy eyes, I can't remember the last time I felt that way -- probably back when Frankie still had two whole eyebrows.

We spend the morning with the surfing trio until just before lunch, when a group of girls clad in pink beckons Katie to join them for ice cream. Before she ditches us, Katie hugs me and Frankie goodbye in the BFF way of kid sisters. She's sweet, and I feel bad for wishing evil things on her when we first arrived.

Whether I like Sam is no longer a question -- at least not one that I can lie about. It's all I can do not to count down the remaining twelve days of the vacation, after which I won't see him again.

But I can't think about that right now.

Once Katie's gone, Frankie and Jake become an undulating, kissing, indistinguishable mass of flesh and highlights sticking out of the water. If things progress any further, I'm going to have to upgrade the rating on this public spectacle from PG-13 to R.

Thankfully, Sam is nothing like Jake. Just his foot brushing against mine under our secret layer of ocean is enough to drive me crazy, and within five minutes I know I'll meet him out here tonight, even if I have to leave a ransom note to fake my own kidnapping.

Several hours later, Frankie and I cautiously test our new escape route, hoping to avoid the ransom note plan. This time, we wait until Aunt Jayne is definitely in her room and definitely not making any sounds. Then we stuff the beds, tiptoe downstairs, exit through the front door, and cut back to the beach through a neighbor's yard several houses down. It adds five extra minutes to our arduous journey, but it's better than running into a renegade parent out for a midnight stroll in the sand.

The next week passes quickly, our days filled with swimming and sunning and catching up on sleep in the sand, our evenings spent hiking the length of the beach to the Shack. Each night I'm with Sam, things get more intense, closer and closer to the ultimate end.

Sometimes when I'm with him, something will remind me of Matt. A shooting star, the smell of someone's shampoo, a long laugh, a turn of phrase from someone passing by along the shore. When it happens, I close my eyes, count to ten, and will him to go away. To leave me. To give me back my memories so that something as simple as a song floating out from behind a bonfire doesn't bring me all the way back to him every time.

It never works.

twenty-one

"So, did you or didn't you?" On the way back from our ninth successful moonlight mission, I laugh and grab Frankie's shoulders. She started telling the story ten minutes ago, and she's only to the part where they went skinny-dipping. She's way too starry-eyed, and frankly, this uncharacteristically romantic version of my best friend is freaking me out.

"Frankie, yes or no? You've been debating it all week. Come on!" She looks at me sideways, letting her dancing broken eyebrow do all the talking.

"You dirty girl!" I tease. "So?"

"I was trying to tell you before, but you just wanted the punch line."

"Come on!"

"Sorry, I guess you'll just have to find out what it's like for yourself."

I look at her hard, forcing my smile into hiding. "How do you know I haven't?"

The weight of the potentially devastating news that I actually had sex without telling her hits her like a wrecking ball. She simultaneously drops her bag and her jaw, cocking her head sideways to begin the scolding. She really knows how to make torture fun.

I work up my best devilish smile and walk past her on the shore. "Let's go, Sloppy Seconds," I say. "Aaaa-nnaaaa!" She whines behind me, kicking at the sand and refusing to move until I acknowledge her discomfort, sympathize for the appropriate length of time (it varies by offense), apologize for said offense (even if it isn't mine), and spill every detail.

"All right!" I've built up a relatively high FPT (Frankie Pout Tolerance), but this is getting out of hand. "We didn't do anything yet. Not like
that.
I would have told you."

"I guess." She picks up her backpack, only partially convinced. "Come on, Frankie. You know I tell you everything."

She smiles, and I wonder if there will ever be a time when those words don't burn on their way out.

"Too bad," she says, Queen of Everything, her little Anna still bumbling down the beach with the big fat albatross. "I guess you'll have to wait till the party tomorrow night to join the big-girls' club. Did he tell you about it?"

One of Jake's surf students has this huge house near Moonlight Bay. His rich parents are supposedly up north all weekend with their rich friends doing rich-people things like polo or something, and he'd probably never be able to face his friends again (what respectable young man
would
?) if he didn't take full advantage of the opportunity by throwing a giant beach party, complete with half-naked girls in a hot tub and plenty of underage drinking. I can picture it now -- just like the parties on TV where too many people show up, something expensive gets broken, and the poor little hot girl cries about how hard life is, gets drunk, and throws up on herself.

Frankie and I have never been to
those
parties. Historically, our parties have been more like small gatherings -- Frankie, me, and one or two other girls trying to concoct something out of the cooking sherry and orange juice. Since Matt died, our party crowd is even smaller -- me and Frankie sneaking drops of rum into our Diet Cokes from the sample-sized bottle stashed in her sock drawer.

"Yeah," I say. "We won't be able to stay long or drink too much, though." Since our run-in with Aunt Jayne, Lady of the Night, we've been extra cautious. Extra quiet. Never too late, just in case Jayne is wandering around outside again. Making up a story about filming a moonlit documentary is one thing. Stumbling drunk and deflowered through the front door is quite another.

"Right," Frankie sighs. "I wish there was some way we could just come back in the morning. I'm sick of sneaking around in the dark."

"No kidding. More importantly, I believe you were about to tell me the rest of the Jake story?"

Frankie laughs, louder than the ocean. "Okay, okay. Listen and learn, my friend. Listen and learn."

By the time she finishes her story, which is patchy and romanticized in parts but seems at least fifty percent true, we're at the front door, peering into the windows for signs of life. Seeing none, we slowly turn the knob and tiptoe back to our room, mission accomplished.

Lying in my twin bed watching the moon through the skylight, I listen to Frankie breathe, deep and happy. The air around her is charged and hopeful and reminds me of summers past, when she and Matt would come home carefree, exhausted, and sun-filled from their annual trip to Zanzibar Bay.

California is good for her. Even Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne seem happy, despite Jayne's late-night wanderings. They've spent most of the trip together, laughing with us at dinner in their old, uncomplicated way. Maybe we've gone back in time. Frankie and I are fourteen again. Matt is asleep in his blue-gray attic room. And Frankie hasn't already been with two different guys --
really
been with them....

But no -- we're sixteen.

Matt's not in the attic. Frankie crossed into the realm of "experienced" months ago, and I'm still a little freaked out about Sam's hands on me, the big scarlet letter V forever emblazoned on my forehead. When I'm with him, I imagine it blinking and sputtering like a neon sign, just before it sparks into its final bright sizzle and then -- black. All I have to do is sleep with him, and the embarrassing glow of the big V will be extinguished.

The whole idea of losing one's virginity is kind of ridiculous. To lose something implies carelessness. A mistake that you can fix simply by recovering the lost object, like your cell phone or your glasses. Virginity is more like
shedding
something than losing it. As in, "Don't worry, Mom. You can call off the helicopters and police dogs. Turns out -- get this -- I didn't actually
lose
my virginity. I just cast it off somewhere between here and Monterey. Can you believe it? It could be anywhere by now, what with all that wind."

I imagine some kids happening upon the cast-off virginity on the shore. They'd have to close down the beach and put up a sign.
Danger! Wild virginity found here! Swim at your own risk!

Why does it have to be so special? Frankie says the first time isn't special. It's a minor inconvenience, an act no more significant than going to the dentist. You schedule the appointment at a mutually convenient time and lie as motionless as possible to expedite the process. The next time -- and all subsequent next times -- can be special, but not the first.

The only problem is that with Sam, I
want
it to be special. I mean, if it happens with Sam. Not that I'm planning it or anything. Other than shaving my legs. Just in case.

It's almost five in the morning, according to the glowing numbers on my bedside clock. I roll over on my stomach and shove my hands under my pillow, soaking in the cool clean of the sheet.

It's great that we can vote and go to college and wear pants and all
that,
but if anyone
really
wants to make a difference in the lives of women, they should invent a magic pill you swallow with a glass of water before bed, and when you wake up -- presto! No longer a virgin! No agonizing over expensive-yet-uncomfortable under-garments! No worrying about how your boobs disappear when you lie on your back to make your stomach look flat! And certainly no lying awake all night trying to figure out a way to sleep over at some stupid party tomorrow just so I can finally have sex with a guy I've known just a couple of weeks -- a guy I may never see again.

But when I think about him touching me, my whole body feels electrified and I know that there's only one thing left to do. Go to the party and sleep with --
Wait -- sleep! Sleepover! That's it!

They say true genius often strikes in the pale moments between awake and asleep.
This
is one of those moments. Whether it's the neon V or thoughts of Sam's hands on my body, the right combination of carbon and oxygen comes together in a single, brilliant spark, a firecracker on the horizon of hopelessness.

It's my most ingenious idea so far this vacation -- possibly
ever.
"Frankie? Frank?" I call her name until she shakes out of her peaceful slumber. She yawns and sits up in bed, stunned and confused beside the blinding light of such a true mastermind.

"Jackie and Samantha called," I say. "Jackie's mom said she can have a slumber party tomorrow night."

The room is suddenly bathed in light, though from the sputtering neon V, my creative genius, the moon through the skylight, or Frankie's beaming smile, I cannot discern.