Be True to Me Page 10

  “Today’s report is that you smell like sunshine,” I told him. “I’m also getting a whiff of Coppertone, some mustiness from our crawl space, fabric softener . . .”

  “You’d make a good bloodhound.” Gil lifted my chin to kiss me.

  “I can’t help it. You smell terrific.”

  “You smell terrific. What was it again, Lip Smackers and Wella Balsam?”

  “Nice data. You’ll make a killer lawyer one day, Mr. Burke.”

  Gil’s kisses were expert. One of the many jolting things I’d learned from that blue-plastic photo album—Gil looked like he was eighteen by the time he was in seventh grade. And he’d probably acted like it, too. Sometimes high school guys felt like terriers, all sniff and wag and pant until you had no choice but to push them off. But Gil didn’t show me any of that desperation.

  Maybe that’s why we’d ended up going so far . . .

  I folded my arms around his shoulders. Pulled him over me, to feel all his weight. Our mouths met and stayed, and with each kiss came that draggy-melty sensation that there were only the two of us in the world, and that we were the sweetest gifts we could give each other.

  From downstairs, Junior yelled curses at the television.

  We ignored him.

  Junior yelped. Swore, called someone a twat.

  On that word, our eyes popped open. We stopped and came apart. Smiling but annoyed. Gil butted the crown of his head into my shoulder in mock frustration. “Cousin Junior, what a charmer.”

  “Believe me, he wants us to hear him.”

  “I should probably cut him a break. I’d sure be pissed if my cousin was up here necking with you.” He reached over me to pick up my lemonade glass. “He’ll head out to the boathouse once the tennis is over.” He kept the full press of his weight on me as he drank and replaced the glass. “No matter how close we get,” he said softly, looking down at me, “I always want to be closer.”

  My nerves drew up from my center like a gathering of magnetic filaments to meet his next kiss. Deep in my bones, I knew that I wanted Gil to be my first. I’d probably known from Punch Night, when we’d sat out on that damp beach till midnight. But these past days, opening one by one into our bright, hot, blooming summer, had me at a fever pitch.

  Downstairs, Junior bellowed.

  I fell back. “He’s such a bonehead. You know he’s doing it on purpose.”

  “Betcha Nastase’s losing. Only Junior would back Nasty.” Now Gil clicked the remote control that turned on the Burkes’ newest gadget, a Sony TV, no bigger than a toaster oven and battery-rechargeable.

  The camera was all over Borg. First in a close-up on his foxy, serious face. Then a cutaway to his slow-motion victory slam over the grass. Then back to Borg, shaking hands and double-kissing officials.

  “Wow! He did it!” I sat up.

  “And he’s only twenty.” Gil whistled low as he leaned in to watch, too. “Youngest Wimbledon champ ever. Pretty hot upset—reminds me of Tommy Train cleaning everyone’s clocks in the junior volleyball tournament.”

  “What the—you’re comparing Tommy Train’s volleyball serve to Wimbledon? Ha! Gil Burke, you are turning into a total Sunkie!”

  Gil laughed like he was in on the joke, but his eyes were puzzled. “How do you mean?” he asked, after a pause.

  “I mean how this place is so soft. Come on, you’ve seen Alabama State football. I bet even your neighborhood dodge ball game plays harder than Tommy Train. But here at Sunken Haven—he’s an animal! Whoa, Tommy’s put down his rum punch—watch out for his offensive spike!” We were both laughing now, so I wasn’t prepared for the directness of Gil’s next question.

  “You’re not gonna play the Junior Cup rematch this summer, then, are you? Against Jean Custis? Too easy, right?”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “I mean, since you got the trophy last year.” Gil reached out and curled a twist of my hair around his finger. “Maybe she needs a turn. Make her feel good.”

  “Listen to you. You’re still kinda sweet on Jean, aren’t you?”

  “Nah. I shouldn’t have said that. Play to win. Do what you want. Obviously.” Gil’s fingers grazed my shoulder blade, and then his hand pressed, warm, down my spine, which had gone rigid at the mention of Jean.

  “You still think about that one dumb date, huh.”

  “It wasn’t dumb.”

  “But do you think about her? I mean, since you had that great time in New York and you kissed her and everything.” Shut up, Fritz. From time to time I’d bring up Jean to see how he’d react. I hated that I did it. Hated how I poked around it, letting my mistrust nag at me, when Gil never gave me any reason to doubt him.

  “You know why I kissed her. I’ve said why. I kissed her because it was that kinda night.”

  “What kind of night? A night of true confessions and darkest secrets?”

  “Fritz, I feel like we’ve already been over what kind of night it was.” Gil seemed to be tugging for the right way to put it. “Jean’s a friend. And sure, we had a pretty good vibe in New York. But this was before I even met you.”

  “The other day I caught her staring at me at the candy store. If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the floor. I’m sure Jean’d take you back anytime.”

  Gil stretched. Scratched at his stomach lazily. “Why does it feel like you’re fishing for compliments here? You know how crazy I am for you. But I’m not gonna say I don’t think Jean’s sweet or nice or a good time—because she is.”

  In all my years at Sunken Haven, I’d hardly ever thought about Jean Custis. It was Daphne who was the golden girl—the one I’d have worried Gil might fall for. But this summer, Jean was out from under Daphne’s shadow. I’d find myself noticing things about her—her smooth, long neck and straight shoulders, her dewy eyes, those crisp, tailored dresses.

  “Jean’s great,” I said now. “Especially how she thinks it’s 1932 instead of 1976.” I sounded catty and I hated it. Drop it, Fritz. “I love how she says words like nifty and fellow like she got pulled out of a time capsule.”

  Gil’s fingers found and dug at my ribs, tickling me. “You know, where I’m from, that’s called trash talk. And we’d call someone doing it mean as a one-eyed badger.”

  “Oh, Gil, you nifty fellow, stop tickling me or I’ll pee!”

  He stopped. We lay side by side, our breath heavy with laughter. Privately, I vowed never to mention Jean Custis again. It brought out something low and a little bit pitiful in me. On the television, Nastase’s face was slack with defeat. Why did the camera always linger on the loser?

  I clicked the set mute and kissed Gil, and he kissed me back, and then in the next second we were wild all over again, our mouths melding and our bodies pressed up hot and aching for each other.

  Gil knew I was his girl. I loved him, but maybe even more important, I understood him. With me, Gil could confess not just politics and ambitions, but the small stuff, too. Like how hick he felt when Junior made fun of his accent in front of Carp and Weeze, imitating how Gil said “caint” or “turrble” or “insurance.” He told me how his stepdad was the worst kind of redneck who used to rough him up, and how he’d never imagined he’d get this shot at bettering himself, he was so used to his stepdad’s voice in his ear. Gil knew Carpie was hard on him, too—but the idea that Carpie truly cared made all the difference, in Gil’s mind.

  I might have had a loving family instead of a jerk stepfather, but I knew how much it meant to be self-made. With Gil, I could explain how my dad enlisted for Korea right out of high school, then met my mom in a Laundromat when he was stationed at Camp Bullis and she was barely out of her teens. They’d built a solid life together, buying a dining room set on layaway and every year saving up enough for a family vacation, and they wanted even more for Kevin and me—college, for one. My mom was proud of my being here at Sunken Haven, and my friendship with a high-class girl like Julia Tulliver, because it meant I’d been brought up right. It meant I knew how to hold a
fork and shake hands. Not even Julia could fully understand these things. Gil did.

  “You want to meet me after my lunch shift?” I asked, after we’d let go of each other. “I’ll be off by three.”

  Gil paused a long pause. “Tiger wants to hit Floyd’s Clam Shack and then shoot hoops.”

  “Your loss.”

  Celebrations were revving up on TV. “Damn. Bjorn Borg’s only a year older than me,” Gil said. “Now he’ll be rich and famous forever.” The jealousy in Gil’s voice took me by surprise.

  “You’re doing okay. The Burkes have adopted you for the bargain basement price of your soul.”

  Gil went quiet.

  From downstairs, we heard the front door open.

  “I’m hoooome,” sang Weeze.

  “Time to hit the road,” I muttered, as I reached under my shirt and rehooked my bra from where Gil had just as deftly unhooked it. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July,” I reminded him. “A big night.”

  A perfect night for that. For us.

  “It’s gonna be rowdy.” This was Gil’s semicoded way of saying “we still don’t have a place of our own.”

  We both wanted our first time to be special. Nothing was going to happen here in the Burkes’ rec room. Or out on the briny, bug-biting dunes, or up in the Morgue, with its boiling heat and plywood walls.

  “Last week was fun, searching. Like that B and B in Robbins Rest.”

  Gil nodded. “That place looked good. Not too rundown. What was it called?”

  “George’s,” I said. I finished tucking myself into my waitress clothes. “We could look again this afternoon. Put down a deposit.”

  Gil sat up. Cracked his knuckles. “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, Fritzie. Right? I’m okay with it not being tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s the Bicentennial. It’s sort of a big-deal day already. Don’t you think?” I glanced down, tying the strings of my waitressing apron. I was shy to meet Gil’s eye. The words were hard to find. “I don’t mean to sound overly practical. But the Bicentennial’s the one night nobody’ll notice if we stay out till Monday morning.”

  When I looked up, Gil was staring at me. He nodded yes, but I sensed he wasn’t all the way there yet. “All I mean is that if it doesn’t work out for tomorrow . . . July Fourth is just another Sunday.”

  “You don’t feel like I’m pressuring you, do you?” I spoke in a tough-guy voice.

  “No, but . . . I know it’s a heavy thing for girls,” he answered, serious.

  “It’s heavy for you, too, right?”

  “Sure me, too. But it also feels like my responsibility. To get us right.”

  It was a new thought. Would this be Gil’s first time, too? I’d never asked, and he’d never offered me any specifics.

  Or maybe it was the opposite situation, and Gil had been with lots of girls, and he knew exactly how unspecial sex could be, so he wanted it to be perfect?

  Funny thing about Gil—I could easily imagine the truth both ways.

  “Four o’clock,” he said, suddenly. “Okay? We’ll go on a ride. Outside Sunken Haven. Head back to Robbins Rest, make a reservation, deposit, whatever you do.”

  “Yes!” I moved toward him, hooped my arms around him. “Yes times a hundred.”

  “You’re such an amazing girl, Fritz,” he whispered. “I don’t want to screw us up. Especially something like this.”

  I let my chin drop back to steady him in my gaze. “It kind of knocks me out how you care this much.”

  Gil’s slow, answering smile charged me to my highest voltage. “Meet me at the gate. We’ll go check out George’s again. I’ve got a good feeling.”

  One last head-spinning kiss. Then I snuck out, down the stairs, rippling a wave good-bye but not stopping for Junior, and steering well clear of the kitchen, where Weeze was fixing up her usual, a pitcher of martinis. Slipping out the door and vamoosing before she caught sight of me. Last time I was here, she’d made a point of asking me to remember to call her Mrs. Burke, even though the entire island referred to her as Weeze.

  And even when I apologized, she still looked peeved.

  I cringed to recall it. Sure, Weeze didn’t like outsiders. Everyone knew that. She’d be pleased as punch if Gil ever dropped me for Jean. It was dumb to dwell on what I couldn’t change. But lord love a duck, when had I ever sneaked out of a Sunken Haven home in broad daylight? How had it come to this?

  I straddled my bike and took one last look around me, the long grass bending in the wind, the salty taste of Gil’s kiss on my lips, the burn of the sun reminding me of our own heat. I wouldn’t let that snob Weeze Burke wreck my day. Her view was overrated, and her nephew belonged to me.

  JEAN

  “You know how life’s got these gray areas . . .”

  It was a secret between us. Then it was a lot of secrets between us.

  The first secret of that night was my virginity.

  I knew it had shocked him.

  “There’s blood,” Gil had whispered to me.

  He’d held his fingers up to the window. Moonlight had spilled a heavy glow through the dormer window onto the bed sheet.

  I’d seen the blood, too. My head had been reeling on that hard single mattress. I knew the blood had come from me. I hadn’t known what to say, so I hadn’t said anything. The New York sophisticate had flown. It hadn’t occurred to me that Gil would get to find out it was my first time. I hadn’t thought about evidence. I’d been so caught up in being the girl who’d brought the bottle of Beefeater’s.

  But I’d also sneaked in the purity, and the complications along with it.

  I hadn’t even fully processed what I’d just done. I’d been fixated on the sting between my legs. I hadn’t touched the condom, and Gil hadn’t let me near it after he was done, though I’d seen him use his hand to keep it in place as he’d pulled out. Everything inside me felt slippery and peeled, and I couldn’t settle my thoughts into any one complete reaction.

  “I better go,” was the next thing I’d ended up saying.

  Gil had sat up, modestly bunching the sheet as he bent to scoop his sweatpants off the floor and wriggle into them as quick as he could. He picked up my clothes and passed them to my outstretched arms. “Let me walk you to your bike.”

  Outside, he’d hugged me for a long time. I’d let myself bask in the full-body heat of him. But his hug also meant the end of everything. The end of us. Garbled as my head felt, I was not too drunk to understand. He’d kissed me on my cheek and forehead, not my lips. He’d had me and now was refusing me, all in the same night.

  When he’d stepped back, I could tell how strange he felt about it.

  “We’re still friends, right?” I’d asked, clumsily.

  “Aw, Jean. You know we’re friends. Better than friends.”

  But I’d returned to Lazy Days in a fog of gin and regret.

  The next morning, I had been so nervous about running into Gil that I’d made my parents late for church. We’d slipped in during the first reading and taken the last pew, closest to the exit. I’d been terrified of the prechurch chitchat, of pretending with any of the Burkes that everything was normal.

  Throughout the service, I’d stared at the back of Gil’s head, my heart thudding, wondering what was going through his mind. Was he even thinking about me at all?

  I’d bolted home afterward, sneaking away from my parents before I had to endure the postservice social. I’d been so sure I’d run into Gil at Tiger’s grill-out birthday party later that afternoon, I had called Bertie to change plans, and we’d biked all the way over to Ocean Park to see Taxi Driver instead.

  Bertie was always happy with any plan I made with him—even if it meant skipping a big party.

  “Are you okay, Jean?” he’d asked, over pizza, after. “You’ve been so quiet.”

  “I’m A-ok. I’m great.”

  But I hadn’t been okay. My emotions had ricocheted between furious and depressed. Thinking about Gil and Fritz together at Tiger’s had m
ade me want to slug someone. It wasn’t Bertie’s fault, I’d reminded myself.

  Home again, behind the gate, I let Bertie take me to the dunes to make out. It was as if I wanted to test how unexciting it was with Bertie, after being with Gil.

  I also felt guilty, of course. I’d betrayed Bertie. I’d gone and had sex with Gil on a—what? Drunken whim? Desperate last resort? Gossamer hope that Gil would think that our time together was irresistible, and show up here on my doorstep, pledging his undying love for me?

  I might not be a virgin anymore, but I was still a childish daydreamer.

  That night, I lay sleepless all night in an agony of self-questioning.

  Did Gil hate what we’d done? What was our status now?

  I had to know.

  And so the next morning, after breakfast, I biked to the bay, where Gil was teaching Minnows. Sitting with my book, I kept myself at a distance on the sandbanks, near the boathouse. Not bothering him. Unless my very presence was a bother?

  Gil didn’t seem preoccupied by me. He smiled and waved.

  “Hey, Jean. How’s it going?”

  Still friends. Just as he’d promised. But then he kept himself busy. He turned a shoulder away from me while he was in the water. He never caught my eye, not once, maintaining a purposeful stride to and from the boathouse supply shed that stored the boogie boards and arm floaties.

  After class, I kept an eye on him as he struck up an intense conversation with Tiger, centering himself tight in Tiger’s focus so that they could leave together. Something about the way he kept his back to me seemed purposeful.

  I went home sick with frustration, with feelings I couldn’t explain to anyone, or even to myself.

  The next day, I showed up at the bank again, and Gil was plain startled. He avoided looking at me until the end of class. Then he put up a hand and snapped me a wave that was almost like a salute as he and Tiger ambled off, talking sports.

  I knew Gil figured I was making a scene. But I thought about him so much, could it be that he really never thought about me? What had he imagined I was going to do, drift away from him? I couldn’t.

  Even if I must have seemed a bit unbalanced, hunting him down.