The Boy I Love (3 page)

Holly and James tried to move past this discovery—I mean, it was hardly Holly's fault—but they just couldn't. For one thing, the wedding had been planned at our farm (we had never been happy calling it a plantation, and obviously, now this was even more the case). James just got more and more weirded out, and then the question came up as to the possibility of what if they were somehow
related
, and everybody just became more guilty and more confused, and finally they called the whole thing quits. It was the saddest thing in the world and also—in my opinion—the most unfair. It wasn't Holly's fault her ancestors owned slaves.
She was the nicest, kindest person I'd ever known in my whole life. All she ever did was help out people of every stripe and color and situation. If she'd been around during slave days, you can bet she would have been working full-time for the Underground Railroad, escorting everyone north. She was the last person who should have to pay for someone else's crimes.

Thinking about this, I felt a wave of sadness. I was getting my party, but Holly didn't get hers. I headed upstairs to change into my barn clothes, then grabbed a couple of carrots from the refrigerator. And even though I knew my mother had an afternoon of forking straw planned for me, and even though I felt plenty bad for Holly and James, I couldn't help but walk with a little bounce in my step. Because I knew that all my mother and father wanted to do these days was cheer Holly up. If it cheered her up to know I was headed to a party at the beach, then you can bet on Saturday night that's exactly where I'd be going.

*   *   *

On Friday afternoon I couldn't wait to see Ry, my guitar teacher. He had been at Tanglewood in Massachusetts all summer, teaching at a music camp. I came downstairs carrying my guitar case, wearing a cutoff denim skirt and a tank top, my hair loose. When I got to the foot of the stairs, Dad told me to march right back up and put on something decent.

“And don't even think about wearing something like that
to your party tomorrow,” he ordered. I swallowed my anger but closed the door to my room gently. I wanted to slam it, hard, but knew that anything seeming rebellious could end up in exactly what he wanted, which was an excuse to go back on his promise to let me go to the party on Saturday. I came back down in baggy khaki shorts, a white sleeveless oxford, and my hair in a ponytail.

“Happy now?” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

“Ecstatic,” Dad said. He opened the front door for me. “You look prettier like that anyway,” he said, and I rolled my eyes. This was the man who had chosen my mother, after all, who owned no shoes except flip-flops, sneakers, and riding boots. Dad's favorite outfits for males and females alike consisted of flannel shirts and beat-up Levi's.

Maybe to make up for annoying me, Dad let me drive to the music store. He hated driving on real streets with me more than anything in the world, so there was a lot of yelling my name and covering his eyes, plus he had this imaginary brake of his own that he kept stomping on.

At the music store I hauled my guitar out of the backseat, and Dad looked mighty relieved as he jumped over into the driver's seat. I waited for him to pull away before I took my hair down and tied my shirt so that just a tiny bit of midriff showed.

“Hey there, Wren,” Ry said. I smiled at him. It's true I'd had a little crush on Tim Greenlaw when I was just a child.
But Ry made me feel like a girl from a romance novel. Allie didn't think he was handsome at all, but that didn't bother me. He could play all kinds of instruments, including the piano, a twelve-string guitar, and a Dobro. Plus he could sing, plus he recited poetry in this voice that was calm and excited at the exact same time. He would do it to make a point, like a poem could actually clarify something, a thought or an idea. I know this must sound completely corny, but when Ry does it, it's not corny at all. It's just totally cool.

Ry closed the door to the lesson room behind us, which may sound promising, but unfortunately, one wall was a huge soundproof window so everyone in the store could look in and see us having our lesson. Ry and I took out our guitars and started tuning. At least he did. I always just pretended to be tuning my guitar until he finally took it away from me and did it himself. “Have you been working on ‘John Barleycorn'?” Ry asked, tightening up my C string.

“Yes,” I lied. I almost never practiced between lessons. Ry pretended not to know this, but then he would make some comment that should sound like a compliment—about my natural ability—that clearly implied I didn't put in any effort whatsoever.

He handed me back my guitar. “Aren't you going to ask me about my first week of tenth grade?” I said.

“Are you in tenth grade already?” Ry said. “I forgot you'd got so old.”

“Shut up,” I said. I hated to be reminded of how young I looked, especially by Ry. We played the song through once, with him shouting out the chord progressions, and me making all kinds of mistakes. I hoped he would come sit by me and show me the chords by putting his hands over my fingers, the way he used to, but he just kept to his own bench on the opposite side of the small space. After a little while we quit and worked on easier songs, but at the end of the lesson we went back to “John Barleycorn.” After the first verse I gave up trying to play and just sang with Ry, keeping up the melody while he came in with all kinds of cool harmonies.

“Dang,” Ry said, when we finished singing. “You sure do have a pretty voice, Wren.”

And that compliment was enough to keep me smiling all the rest of the day.

*   *   *

Here was the deal we made so Allie and I could go to the party. It took about five phone conversations between our parents to work it out. My parents and Aunt Holly and I would drive into Williamsport and pick up Allie. Then the three of them would drop us off, and while we were at the party, they'd eat dinner at this beach restaurant my mother loved but never got to go to.

“A long dinner,” I said. “A really, really long dinner.”

“A pretty long dinner,” my mom said.

“Long enough,” my dad added.

After dinner they'd go listen to music at the tiki bar and then come get us. They would call when they got to the beach entry. I made them swear up and down that they would not set foot anywhere near the actual party.

“And I'm borrowing a Breathalyzer from Ken Pories,” Dad said on Saturday morning. Ken Pories was one of the police officers who worked with the forest service. “You and Allie are both going to blow into it the minute you get in my car.”

“You are not serious,” I groaned. We were standing in front of our house. I had just gotten back from a horseback ride in the horrible heat with Mom. Sweat and dirt rolled down my face, and the back of my neck itched.

“You'll find out after the party, won't you?” he asked.

Grrrr.

*   *   *

Allie and I had been checking in all day long about what we were going to wear and how we were going to act. Allie was ecstatic—she'd found out that Tim Greenlaw used to go out with a girl named Caroline Jones, but they had broken up, so he was officially available. But I was just psyched about being invited to a cool party so soon. It made me feel like my life was finally happening
now
instead of just in daydreams, and that everything for the next three years might just work out okay. So I spent an unusual amount of time in front of the mirror, straightening my hair. Unfortunately, I have never been any good at doing hair, so I ended up giving
up and pulling it into a high ponytail. I didn't put on any makeup, partly because Dad wouldn't allow it and partly because after my ride with Mom, my cheeks were nicely pink. I put on my Anthropologie dress and knew I would feel good about myself till I saw Allie walk out the door looking like a supermodel. Here's what I've found works best in such moments of jealousy: Just stop and admit that's what you feel. Don't fight it or try to give it a different name. It may be ugly, but if you don't resist it or make excuses for it, it passes pretty quick.

My main worry when I came down the stairs was that Dad would send me back up to change. Through the screen door I could see my parents and Holly standing together at the bottom of the porch steps. They all sounded just sad, Holly's voice full of tears. Her back was to me, but I could see her wave her hand in a sweeping gesture toward our land.

“Maybe it's just as well,” Holly was saying. “It was all built on blood anyway, blood and shame. Maybe we should just let it go.”

“But the horses.” I could hear my mom's voice catch, not wanting to argue with Holly, but not able to stop protecting what mattered most to her—her horses, her strays. Speaking of which, a one-eyed tabby who'd have nothing to do with anyone but Mom wound its creaky body around her ankles as she spoke. “Where would all the horses go?” my mom said, and my dad put his arm around her shoulders.

What were they talking about? Giving up our
farm
? I froze at the thought, and at not wanting them to know I was listening.

I heard Holly say, “I love what you do here, Elizabeth, I truly do. But wouldn't it be better, more fitting, if we just gave the place back to the people who worked it? We could track down all the ancestors of all the slaves and just deed it over.”

“You can't give away what you don't own anymore,” Dad said. His voice sounded dark, and I thought that was a very odd thing to say. Whose else would this place be if not ours? I hated the way Dad's shoulders slumped, and the way Mom's neck tensed, and I couldn't stand hearing another word. I pushed the door open with as much noise as I could make, knowing my presence would stop the conversation cold.

The three of them turned. Holly whistled. “Look at you, pretty girl.”

Dad shot her an evil look, and I held my breath. But he didn't say anything about my outfit, so we all piled into Holly's car—which was generally free of dog hair and farm implements and therefore a much more pleasant ride—and headed to the party.

*   *   *

I was so glad that Holly came with us. If it hadn't been for her, my dad would have insisted on walking over to the dunes and checking out the party himself. I realized this
when we pulled up to the beach access and he took off his seat belt at the same time Allie and I did.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You don't need to get out of the car.”

“That's your opinion,” Dad said. Allie and I looked at each other, panicked. If Dad was going to escort us to the party like we were a pair of three-year-olds, there was no point in even going. We would be laughed out of the party, the school, maybe even the entire state.

“Oh, come on, Joe,” Holly said. “Do you have no memory at all? Let the girls go to their party without you embarrassing them to death. We're just going to be gone a couple hours. What could happen?”

“It's funny you of all people would say that,” Dad said, “with the stories you tell from the hospital.”

The next rescue came from a surprising source, my mom. She said, “We can't follow Wren around forever, Joe.”

“I don't see why not,” Dad grumbled. But he stayed put while Allie and I scrambled out of the car. Just as I had expected, Allie looked amazing, even though all she wore was cutoffs and an Izod T-shirt. Have I mentioned that she's about a foot taller than I am, even though she's almost a year younger?

“We'll call when we leave the tiki bar,” Mom said through the open window. “You'd better be right here waiting for us, or I won't be able to keep him from crashing your party.”

We stood there and waved as Holly's car pulled away. Then we turned to each other for last-minute check-overs. Allie gave me some lip gloss and adjusted my ponytail. Her hair looked perfect, with this shiny little barrette in it. She had the much better idea going casual. I felt like a jerk wearing a dress to a beach party.

“Does this dress make me look like I'm trying too hard?” I asked.

“That dress,” she said, “makes you look gorgeous. So quit worrying.”

I reached out and squeezed her hand, grateful. From the other side of the dunes, we could already see smoke from the bonfire rising in the air. I saw a flock of skimmers, flying just below its white strands. We could hear the ocean and smell the seaweed. Our first high school party! Allie slipped off her flip-flops and stashed them under a yucca plant, but I kept my sandals on. They had a little wedge heel, which I figured I could manage even on the sand, and I needed all the help I could get.

By now the sun had started its dip toward the ocean, and I was glad that Allie and I could make our appearance in dusky sort-of light. We headed over to the fire, where a good number of people were already gathered. The first people we saw were a bunch of girls, juniors and seniors, I guessed. A couple of them wore bikini tops with skirts or shorts, and I had another flash of regretting my dress.

The girls looked us up and down, then smiled at one another and turned back to their conversation like we didn't exist. For all they knew we had just wandered in off the street. Allie and I circled around the fire, looking for anyone we knew. A lot of the kids held red plastic cups that no doubt were filled with beer. There seemed to be a pretty steady line of people traveling between the fire and the dunes. I figured they had a keg stashed back there. Allie and I looked at each other, then shrugged. I hadn't seen anything in the car that looked like it could be Ken Pories's Breathalyzer. Still, I wasn't going to take a chance and get grounded for the rest of my life.

“I'd rather be in control of myself,” Allie said, and I nodded, even though it seemed like the other people at the party were having plenty of fun being not so much in control. Just then we heard a low whistle as Devon and Tim walked toward us carrying their red plastic cups.

“Hey, hey,” Devon said, with his Yankee accent. He sounded so happy to see us, my heart gave an extra little
thump, thump
of excitement. “Look who showed up!”