Summer of Love (7 page)

“Yeah — what about you?”

I sigh and pour leftover frozen sludge into a cup and sip it giving myself mega brain freeze. “I don’t know — I need to work. I’m saving for college, and I told Mable I would…but with all the stuff that’s happened, I just feel like chilling out more. Like I need to recharge.”

Arabella comes and hugs me. “That’s what I figured.”

I pull away and look at her. “So you’re not mad?”

In her ultra-British voice she corrects me, “Dogs get mad, humans get angry. But no, I’m not.” She shows me the coffee schedule again. “Count how many shifts you have, Blue. Then look at how many everyone else has.”

I study the sheet. “So I’m working less than half-time?”

“For now — if that’s okay with you?” She says it like a question so I know it’s totally fine if I disagree. But I don’t.

“I think pseudo-half-time sounds about right.” I wipe the counters as I talk and Arabella punches numbers into the cash register. Aunt Mable refused to get computers, preferring instead to buy a giant antique cash register with a jingly bell that sounds every time you make change — jolly enough to make you somewhat forget that you just dropped nearly five bucks on a large cup of coffee.

Arabella unties the strings at the back of my apron and kicks my butt up the stairs towards are apartment. “Go have fun. Go do something. I’m learning business here. You know, valuable life lessons and all that.”

I feel guilty so I whine at her. “No —
you
should be out at the beach and exploring the island — I should work all the time. You’re my guest!”

“I’ll tell you when I need a break — just stick to your serving blocks…” she shows me the schedule yet again. “And the rest of the time — go get a life!”

“Oh, thanks, now I feel really cool,” I say. But I know she knows me. And I know Aunt Mable — probably even my dad — would agree. My over-thinking tends to bog me down.

“Oh, you are,” she says. “You just don’t know it yet.” She gives me a dramatic wink and then rushes back to take orders from the coffee crowds.

Upstairs, I take my time wandering around the apartment, sitting on the surfboard couch and trying on the various garments Arabella has left on coat hooks — not because she wears them — but for added ambiance. One shirt is a Hawaiian print button down. I slip it on and look in the mirror over the Tiki bar; it’s a rectangle and oddly placed so I can only see my body but not my head. But it’s enough to let me know that even if my bets friend thinks I’m cool, I’m not cool enough to pull off the retro Hawaiian print shirt so I put it back where it belongs — out of my reach.

One week, two beers, three sarongs, four slurred come on from lame-os at the Navigator Lounge, five suncream applications (three from self, one from Chili Pomroy, one from Arabella — e.g. no one exciting), six slices of pizza, seven jogs, eight frozen lemonades, nine half-shifts of serving coffees and creamy drinks, and — to make up for the lack of decent sleepage — finally ten good hours last night.

I wake up refreshed and famished. Good sleep does that to me: bad sleep and I can’t look at food until a couple hours have passed and coffee has made its way into my system. But good sleep — bring on the bacon. Or bread products. Or eggs. Or — enough. “Bels, I’m heading to the Black Dog.”

Arabella’s answer is muffled, from the depths of her covers. Despite the heat, she sleeps with a sheet and two blankets. “Bringmebacktwocreullers?”

“If they have any…” I tell her and shove some crumpled bills into the pocket of my jeans. It’s eight in the morning on Sunday and if you don’t get there early, the best baked goods are gone. “Sleep well,” I add to her on my way out the door and since we’ve been sort of passing by each other at odd hours of the day and night, it never occurs to wonder why she’d want two crullers — and that maybe she’s not alone in her bed.

After I pay for three giant cinnamon sugar twists (no crullers left), I beg two of them and take the other to the beach. It’s low tide and since it’s early, the only people out are families with young kids building sandcastles and daring to dip a toe into the cold water. Being island-bound is awesome — it’s an insular life; we keep seeing the same people over and over again and by now we’ve eaten in all the restaurants, been to all the beaches except the private ones, and pretty much soaked it all up, but it’s great. And being away from emailing, texting, and all the electronic ings is a welcome break. My thumb doesn’t ache and my thoughts don’t revolve around checking messages every two seconds. Every few days, Arabella and I wander to the local library where there’s internet access and check like we did yesterday:

Hello, Love! If you’re reading this, you’re probably at the library. Glad to know that your island experience is still relatively remote. From your phone call it sounds like the summer’s taking up a nice pace. And I think Arabella’s onto something about not planning and just taking it easy, letting (Mable and I used to confer about your tendency to overburden yourself). I know you don’t like the expression take it easy, but I hope you do. Louisa and I will see you in August for Illumination Night if not before — not sure I can wait that long to see you!

Love, Dad

P.S. I wouldn’t feel parental and intrusive enough without asking about your essays and if you’ve started them. I’ve had the pleasure of reading a couple from other students and think it’s best if you get an early start as they seem to require a bit of revision. Xo.

Love that my dad can make me smile and grit my teeth in one minute. Love that he knows me well enough to tell me to chill out and love the fact that he’s right about the essays but that I hate the fact that he is. But the only other exciting email I had was a mass emailing I found only because Arabella took so long to write back to her famous royal ex-boyfriend Toby who still plagues her with long missives about their old life together. Plus, I saw she had an email from Asher in her inbox and I was so tempted to read it or ask about it to see if he mentioned me, but it’s a sore subject for both of us so I didn’t. Instead, I sorted through the junk and spam and found:

Mercury — For security reasons we have changed the password to this year’s Malibu gala. The new entry code is the fifth planet from the sun. We will follow this mailing with a personal call from one of our staff. Regards, Teeny and Martin

That I received bulk mail from Martin Eisenstein’s film company and his wife is just plain funny. But he did say when I met him in England that you never discard an address or contact; you just add them in until you need them later. He can’t need me for anything but he could serve as entrée into the California world of which I know nothing. And maybe it’s time I scheme a way to get out there even if it’s only for a couple of days to go to that party, even if it’s just for the utterly surreal aspect of going to an event I’ve seen profiled on tv and in celebrity mags for years. Of course, it’s an all-blue party (guests are reportedly supposed to be fluid, like water, all the better to mix and mingle) but that’s just a drop in the bucket (heh) in terms of problems associated in getting there. I mean, flying three thousand miles is hardly a drop-by. But maybe an excuse will pop up.

Notable correspondence missing from email account=Jacob, evil Lindsay Parrish (whom I figured would torment me from time to time this summer with her fall plans for school domination), and anything from my mother. Somehow, with Mable gone and her treasure hunt in full swing, I thought she’d line up a talk-show moment where my mother suddenly enters my life after nearly eighteen years of absence. It’s not that I’m desperate to find her (or obviously I would have made more of an effort), but without Mable, there’s a gap. A void where there once was this maternal figure and of course I know no one — not even Galadriel (aka birth mother) could fill the spot Mable did — but my biological and emotional curiosity is piqued. Fifth planet from the sun=Jupiter. That I know this bit of info isn’t startling — but the realization that all I’d have to do to get to Martin’s party is plan a college interview in California is — Stanford? UCLA? Santa Cruz? It doesn’t matter which one — any of them would be cause enough to head out there (or at least validate the trip in my dad’s eyes and, um, wallet). Note to self: head back to the library to check on fares out west ASAP.

Leaving my flip flops and email thoughts in the car, I walk for a long time, shrugging off the broken mug handle, the search for love and missing mothers, pre-college perfection behind. Past the grey shingled houses, past the bloated bluffs, I go all the way until my mind is clear. I sink into the sand and relax in the warmth of it. Even though it feels slightly postcard-Zen-tacky, I watch breathe in and out and wonder what’s missing. Then I realize: my journal.

The depository for all my thoughts, lyrics, lists, and gripes, my journal is off on its own adventure overseas. Poppy Massa-Tonclair, my writing advisor in London (and right now on the New York Time bestseller list as well as the recipient for that famous literature prize) has it. She let me know she received it but hasn’t told me a grade or comment. Then again, it’s kind of an unusual final project — and while I hope she knows it’s not a cop-out, part of me is very aware of how revealing it is. The unedited me is not something I show that frequently.

The journal thoughts lead to thoughts of college, of applications and essays I have yet to write, which leads to my as-of-yet unrouted college tour, which leads to heart palpitations and very definitely not the summer Zen I was seeking. So before stress sucks the sun from my day, I look at the waves. Who told me to count them? Oh, yeah — I remember Charlie holding me by the waist and telling me to count the waves to calm down. It works — as long as I don’t think of him.

If I had my journal, I’d make a list of things to do. But maybe that’s the point — I shouldn’t make so many lists. I should just do what I want. So I dig my feet into the sand and don’t realize I’ve fallen into a light napping state until I sense I’m being watched.

“Hey,” Henry says and touches my thigh with his bare foot.

“What’d you find?” This from Jay Daventree, one of Henry’s college friends.

“A girl!” Henry shouts and smiles. “She washed ashore and appears to be human.”

“I’m part mermaid,” I say and sit up.

Jay and Lissa and a bunch of Henry’s friends who look vaguely familiar wave as they create a beach oasis with chairs and umbrellas and a portable grill.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Henry says and sits next to me.

“I should say that to you…this is a public beach, right?”

Henry looks at the water and slides his shades form the top of his head to his eyes. “Yup — Jay decided he wanted to mingle with the masses.”

“How charitable,” I say and smirk.

Henry shrugs. “Basically, I think he worked his way through the girls at the beach club and needs to cast a broader net.”

I laugh and stick my tongue out. Say what you want about Henry and his money and his crowd, but at least he’s aware — he doesn’t live in the financial oblivion that sop many of the posh people do. “Maybe I should stick to swimming at the pond this week,” I say and pretend to fend Jay off.

Henry takes off his shirt and I sneak a side glance at the abs on display. “I’m heading in — care to join me?”

I point to my tank top. “I don’t have a suit.”

Henry raises his eyebrows and grins, “This girl here says she doesn’t have a suit!”

As if this is a bat signal in the sky, Jay, Jason Landry, and some other guy runs over from their beachside antics and carry me, with Henry on their shoulders and swing me like a kid into the waves.

“Ah! It’s freezing!” I scream and sound so girly I want to puke. So then I brace myself for the cold water.

“One! Two!” The shout. Jay has my ankles and Jason has my arms.

“Fine — I can take it!” I say and close my eyes as they fling me into the air. But I never land all the way in the water. Instead, I land in Henry’s arms. He holds me there in laundry basket carrying position.

“Sure you don’t want to do for a dip?” he asks.

I consider it, then feel myself shiver. “Well, I’m already kind of soaked.” I look at him — he’s so tempted to throw me in. “Oh, go ahead, you win. You can…” But before I even complete the sentence Henry swings me at full force up into the air and when I land this time, I am in full bodily contact with the chilly Atlantic Ocean, not the safety and warmth of his arms.

I pop up through the water, my skin tingling from the salt and from the while experience. Right now, I am that beach girl. That tank-top clad woman who gets hoisted from the sand by hottie guys and chucked into the water while squealing. And maybe it looks dumb from a distance, but in the moment, it actually feels pretty good.

“How about a backrub?” Henry asks when I’m all dried off and wrapped in his oversized blue and white striped beach towel. The pattern makes me think of something but I can’t remember what.

“Sure,” I say and spread out the striped towel, lying flat on it. Henry starts rubbing my shoulders. Arabella and I made the definitive list of backrubbing techniques and situations, feeling that all backrubs can be analyzed for content and goals and Henry’s mastery of the art is no exception:

1) The “you look tense” backrub — wherein one person rubs the other person’s shoulder so they can “relax”

2) The pre-hook up backrub wherein you both know where this is leading but you go through the pretense of it anyway to either delay the, um, gratification or so one of you can pretend to be naïve

3) The “I give the best backrubs ever” game wherein you declare this so that the hottie guy has to accept and you get to check out his stunning shoulders or — in the reverse the claim is made by the other person and you’re all “really? I don’t believe you — show me”…and then it goes to rule #2 or to the next rule

4) The “can’t tell if you’re interested in me or not” rub. More tentative, this backrub involved lots of conversation (compared to say, #2, which could be totally silent) to gloss over the fact that the two of you are touching…a lot

5) “Seriously, we’re just friends” AKA If I could be totally honest I would admit I have feelings for you but I can’t bare my soul so I’ll just grin and bear it.