Be True to Me Page 16

My Coop, my rules.

  “We’ll take a break from crochet and get back to it Monday,” I instructed at the end of the afternoon. “Tomorrow is Sunday tie-dye, so remember your whites.”

  A few girls cheered and clapped, as if I’d invented Sunday tie-dye.

  By the time I’d finished tidying up, the sun was draining color from the sky. Another day, done. I knew my parents were annoyed that I was not attending Italian Night at the club, but Bertie was coming over to watch television later, and that was about as much excitement as I wanted.

  The next morning, I went downstairs deliberately late so that I wouldn’t have to go to church, to find Mom waiting for me in one of her twinsets.

  “Jean, I really must put my foot down,” she began. “You skipped services on the Fourth—which I allowed, because it was a holiday—but you skipped last Sunday, too. God himself does not take off the whole of July. We are all going to church this morning, are we understood?” She was spooning coffee into cups of boiling water for herself and Dad. “I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready while Dad and I have a second cup.”

  My heart thudded. Church might mean Gil. I’d been so successful at avoiding him since our last lunch that the very possibility of seeing him this morning came as an icy shock. “Okay.”

  “Skip as much amusement as you insist, but you can’t skip church,” Mom said, as if she were cutting off my argument. “You can’t keep sneaking to the Coop every single day.”

  “Mom, I said I’d go. I just need to change clothes.”

  “Good. Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I found a Pop-Tart in the breadbox.

  “Also,” said Mom, in a firm, smooth, everything-has-been-decided voice that made me look up. “After service, the Hastys are hosting a brunch for Reverend Franklin. And I want you to come to that, too. With Dad and me. You’re feeling awfully ‘outside the fold.’ ”

  It was a Sunken Haven custom to host a brunch for the guest pastor, who we rotated every three weeks. I knew Mom’s invitation was more of a command than a request.

  “Sure,” I said. I followed her out the French doors into the heavy morning heat. “I’m not against church or church brunches or anything.”

  “You’ve become invisible,” said Mom in that same, hard-polished voice. To Dad she said, “Jean will be ready in ten.”

  I ripped the foil and bit into the Pop-Tart, savoring its candy-sweet strawberry filling.

  “Glad to hear,” said Dad. “When I was younger, there was something queer about girls who kept themselves away. Girls who retreated from all the fun.”

  I bristled to see my parents exchange a look of alliance. They’d obviously been talking about me. “I’m not hiding,” I insisted. “What do I have to hide from?”

  “Good. Nothing.” Mom smiled at me over her mug. “It’s settled.”

  And so I finished my Pop-Tart, found a favorite sundress in the back of my closet, and walked with my parents to church. I’d taken some time with my hair, clipping a side barrette in it and using a little mascara and lip gloss—just in case. But I relaxed when I didn’t see any of the Burkes.

  It was slightly strange to be among my friends again, waving and smiling as if I hadn’t been ignoring everyone for days on end. I knew Sara and Rosamund had been irritated with me, even if there was nothing specific they could accuse me of having done.

  My parents were right; I had been hiding. But it felt worse to be part of things.

  After church—thankfully, among the throngs of Wolfes, Todds, Tingleys, and Knightleys, none of the Burkes had shown up—we all walked over to the Hasty house. Me in the middle. I had a slight sense of being in custody. As if my parents thought I’d make a break for it and race off with a box of watercolors, hightailing it to the Coop.

  “Hark! The palace gates,” Dad said, with cheerful sarcasm, as we came within view of the scraggly dwarf pines and the wooden sign that read “Catch-All.”

  Nobody called the house Catch-All. Nobody called it anything except the Hasty house. Then again, the house didn’t look healthy enough to have a charming name. The roof was choked in ivy and the lawn was a wilderness of salt-meadow grass and weeds, which gave it the look of a manor under a fairy-tale spell. Most everyone at Sunken Haven knew about the Hastys’ finances. Some people said the problem was that Hasty money was so old that none of the new Hastys had learned how to earn more of it.

  Mrs. Hasty had prepared a large buffet brunch on the covered porch. My palms began to sweat, seeing how crowded it was already. Would the Burkes skip church but come here?

  “When I was a little girl, this house was one of the prettiest on the ridge,” said Mom as we picked our way around the prickle bushes and up the tangled path.

  “Jiminy Cricket,” said Dad. “How did they allow it to go to seed like this?”

  “Nobody really allowed anything, Dad,” I said. “Fred says his family wants to sell. But it’s not like they can just put this house on an open real estate market. They have to wait for another family from here to buy it. They’re stuck.”

  “Oh my gosh, Fred Hasty shouldn’t be airing so much family laundry.” Mom shook her head.

  “And who could blame anyone here for not wanting to buy it?” asked Dad. “With all the work it needs? You need a bayonet just to find the welcome mat.”

  “The Hastys got themselves into this predicament,” said Mom. “They need to roll up their sleeves.”

  “Personally, I think it’d give Garth Hasty a real boost to see his house come up to snuff again,” said Dad.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Mom, clipping off each word.

  It was one of those rare times that I wished Daphne were around, so that we could exchange a sisterly eye roll. It was something we both made fun of—how our parents liked to use this sharp, know-it-all tone when they talked about things they didn’t understand. For years, I’d heard Dad lecture people on how guitar music was merely a passing fad. And for as long as I could remember, Mom had predicted that all New Yorkers would be in gas masks by next year due to air pollution.

  But this morning, their smug little conversation about the Hastys seemed almost diabolical. Did my parents really think that all the Hastys had to do was shake down money from a magical money tree and—problems solved? Did they believe life was that easy? Did they want Daphne and me to imagine the same?

  This summer already felt more bewildering than I could ever have explained to my parents, even if I’d wanted to. Maybe that’s why I felt so distant from them these days: I knew they didn’t have the answers. Sometimes I wondered if that was partly the reason I preferred to spend time at the Coop, where childish conversation came from actual children, and where the only wisdom anyone needed to dispense was about stuff like how to paint a rainbow, or how many granny squares you needed to make a vest.

  My eyes scanned again and again for Gil. Nothing. Good.

  Pastor Franklin was seated in a throng of moms on the porch swing. On his lap was a plate of toast, eggs, bacon, and fruit salad. Mom scampered off to join. Pastor Franklin might not have been as glamorous as Baryshnikov or Borg, but anyone could see Mom was in the giddy throes of yet another crush.

  Sara, Rosamund, Lindsay Hasty, and a few other girls were in the front room, cuddling with the Hastys’ setter puppy.

  “Well, if it isn’t Jean Custis, in the flesh!” Lindsay looked up at me, her eyes narrowed. “We never see you out anymore. How’s things at Walton’s Mountain School?”

  I kneeled to nuzzle the pup. “Peachy, I guess.”

  Sara made a face. “I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that you volunteer to hang around the Coop with my kid sister.”

  “Libbet’s all right,” I said. “She likes to help.”

  “Watch out for little Libbet,” said Sara. “She never does anything without a reason behind it.”

  “A perfect Sunken Haven girl,” I quipped.

  “Jean, you should come to the volleyball tournament later today,” said
Sara. “It’s on the sports field, so it’s near your precious Coop. Everyone’ll be there.”

  “Maybe I will.” Knowing I wouldn’t.

  “Bertie’s not bad at volleyball,” added Rosamund. “You could show him a little rah-rah cheerleader spirit.”

  I reddened. “Bertie knows I’m supportive of him.”

  “And Gil Burke might be there,” Sara said. I could feel the others listening. “Did you that know he and Fritz broke up?”

  “Oh.” I kept my eye steady on Sara, grateful that she couldn’t hear the sudden, greedy pump of my heart. “I didn’t. Recently?”

  “Gosh, it might have been as long as two weeks ago,” said Sara. “But they kept it pretty quiet.”

  “Was there any reason?” The puppy rolled over on its back. I scratched his stomach. Didn’t look up. I was in a sudden sweat, cold and trembling for information, as opinions on the breakup rolled in and crashed over me from all sides.

  “It was more that the Burkes didn’t like her.”

  “Well, they were way too serious.”

  “Weeze Burke told my mom at tennis club that they were always shutting themselves up in the TV room.”

  “And they’d leave the house and be off Sunken Haven all hours.”

  “My brother heard Carpie Burke say he wouldn’t support Gil if he kept seeing her.”

  “Which is kind of a joke, considering Fritz rejected Junior all those years.”

  “The Burkes are being cruddy about it. They think if they’re getting Gil all the right connections, giving him Carpie and Junior’s clothes, then they should get to change up his girlfriend, too.”

  “I heard if they catch him out with Fritz, he’s in deep trouble.”

  Everyone had something to say about it.

  Half an hour later, I’d slipped away, ducking my parents, hurrying home to change out of my church dress, the cotton now damp across the back and under my arms. I took a cold shower, letting the water stream over me in long, freezing jets, and I imagined my blood hardening beneath my numb, goose-pimpled skin. I wished it were that easy—to seal myself off into some kind of icy, emotional vault, so that not even the smallest, most foolish sprig of hope dared to push up from my heart.

  Maybe he really doesn’t love her anymore.

  Of course, I didn’t know the whole story, but my rational mind doubted Gil and Fritz were really over. The girls’ gossip reminded me of what had happened a couple of years ago, when my parents made Daphne stop seeing Andreas Stephanos, the twenty-six-year-old son of their friend Elio Stephanos, who owned our favorite Greek restaurant. We always went to Elio’s on Friday nights. Then Dad found out from Mr. Stephanos that Daphne and Andreas had been out on a couple of dates. Dad was not pleased.

  And that was the end of Elio’s and the Stephanoses, or so my parents had thought. But all Daphne did was get sly. She’d tell my parents she was at glee-club rehearsal or seeing friends, when she was really meeting Andreas. Our parents weren’t much more than stumbling blocks.

  Stop thinking about it. It’s got nothing to do with you.

  For today’s tie-dye project, I’d decided on hot pink. By the time I arrived at the Coop, the girls had already gotten started. They were using sticks to stir their knotted clothes in plastic pails of water stained pink with Rit scarlet-red dye.

  “I’m here,” I called.

  Donna was stringing up a clothesline between two trees. She looked relieved to see me and to relinquish the task. A few wet, whorled hot-pink shirts were already pegged.

  You don’t know the real story.

  Girls came and went, dunking their shirts (or scarves or tennis skirts or pairs of socks) for the fashion transformation. No sooner was one batch done than a new group arrived. Nothing beat a Sunday afternoon of tie-dye and Top Hits radio and juice Popsicles.

  She was just a passing fling.

  “At least we’re not doing any more Fourth of July shirts,” said Donna at the end of the afternoon, when the last of the stragglers had left. “Are you okay, Jean? You seemed kind of thrown today.”

  “Me? No, I’m fine.” I hauled a bucket of dye to the sink, dumped it down the drain, and let the faucet run. “You go ahead. I’ll finish this myself.”

  As I armed myself with a bottle of Fantastik and a roll of paper towels, I could hear the room echoing with voices of girls, singing along with the radio and telling dumb jokes. The windows were flooded with a late, soft sun that made the whole room glow like brass.

  He hasn’t called you, remember. You found out about it from Sara.

  I got on my hands and knees to towel up drip pools of dye, and then I mopped the floor.

  At the sink, washing out jam jars and spray bottles, her voice startled me.

  “Aha! Exactly where your mother said you’d be.”

  Weeze walked in slowly, looking around, deliberately casual.

  “Oh. Hello.” What in the world was she doing here?

  “Bridge club went late, and there’s nothing for dinner. I decided to run in to Ocean Bay, and I remembered your mother said you practically live here. I thought I’d pop in. Pay a call, as they used to say.”

  Weeze was in one of her bright-flowered sunsuits. Her pink visor had lifted the top of her bouffant like a headdress, making her appear very tall. She looked as out of place as a tiara in a surf shop.

  “I guess I do like being here.” Adding, so that I didn’t sound too reclusive, “If I’m not with my friends, or practicing on the courts with Coach Hutch.”

  “Oh, yes. That Junior Cup tournament is creeping up, isn’t it?” But Weeze wasn’t here for small talk. She was paying a call for a reason. Her eyes were bold on me. I turned off the faucet, set a jar in the drying rack, wiped my hands, and waited. “Jean, dear, did you know that Carpie and I are hosting Lobster Party this year?”

  “Yes, I did.” Lobster Party was always the last Friday night in July. My parents had mentioned it at dinner the other night. Specifically, they’d been talking about how Carpie wanted to be the next head of the Association after Mr. Forsythe stepped down. Hosting Lobster Party was a way of showing the Association your commitment to Sunken Haven.

  Other things I knew about Lobster Party were that my parents would never let me wriggle out of it, and that I was going with Bertie as his date.

  “It’s a special night, as you know. There are people who’ve been coming to Lobster Night their entire lives. And when you think of how old Mr. Corey is! That’s a lot of lobster!” This was as close as Weeze came to making a joke, so I laughed politely.

  “When members of the Association are called on to support Sunken Haven, it’s Lobster Night that so many of us reminisce about,” Weeze continued in a sort of grand, speech-making voice that made me feel embarrassed; it was as if she’d suddenly forgotten that it was only me here. “It’s such a special evening, starting with that spectacular view of the bay—first from the library, and then as we proceed down the steps to the harbor and gather together for dinner. Nothing fancy, nothing extravagant. But on that special evening, we become more than the sum of our parts, don’t you think? We are one big Sunken Haven family, of shared loyalty and values.”

  I was nodding, nodding, as my mind worked to solve what this was all about.

  “This year, Carp and I invited a few close friends from New York to enjoy Lobster Party with us.” Weeze crossed her hands across her heavy, ship’s-prow chest. “And Jean, we’d like you to sit with us, too. At the host table. With Gil.”

  At first, I didn’t know what to say. I found a cloth and wiped down a bit of the counter. I didn’t want to keep looking at Weeze directly. “Doesn’t he have a girlfriend already?” I asked, giving my attention to a blob of dried paint.

  “You mean Fritz?” She spoke her name so lightly, so sweetly. “You know, as I heard it, Gil and Fritz decided a little while ago to take things slower. I mean, Fritz is absolutely adorable. Don’t get me wrong. But for a night like this, Gil knows he can’t appear next to just anyone. You
are this community, Jean. You know how important it is for people such as Mr. Corey to continue to feel generous and wholehearted toward Sunken Haven. Carpie will be asking for a pledge to refurbish the church. It sustained such a lot of storm damage last winter, from the rafters to the pipe organ. A big night, and the success of the fundraising reflects the success of the host. You’d be a real help to do this for us.”

  The memory looped through me again: Fritz, in her patched jean shorts and his Frank Zappa T-shirt. That kiss. I’d watched him want her, Fritz O’ Neill, who made me feel insecure in ways she never even could have intended—starting with the fact that Julia had replaced me with her, all those summers ago.

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly, as I finally met Weeze’s eye. “I think I’d only be in the way of things.”

  “Don’t be silly. In fact, Gil himself suggested you! He just feels shy about it. But if Gil wants to be a real Burke,” Weeze continued, in that same large, proclaiming voice, “then he needs to assume the mantle of a real Burke, which includes responsibility to this community.”

  I’d never heard an adult speak against Fritz before, even indirectly. Of course, Rosamund and Sara and I had always joked about Fritz, nicknaming her Army Girl or Denim Deb or Fritz Oh-No. But it was strange to hear Weeze Burke, a full-blown adult, tell me that Fritz O’Neill wasn’t good enough to sit at her table.

  “The thing is, Bertie already asked me to Lobster Party,” I said. “And I’m not sure that I can hurt Bertie’s feelings. Even if it’s to help Gil.”

  But I was already lying. One night. A night with Gil. I could feel the drug of him running in my veins, as my imagination vaulted into visions of this new and improved Lobster Party. I saw Gil, staring across the table at me in the flickering candlelight.

  Gil, his teasing, intimate drawl touching on some private joke between us.

  Me, standing, accepting his invitation to dance.

  Us, dancing the way we had to “Daisy Bell,” only this time not in Mrs. von Cott’s dressing room. Not in hiding.

  Us, the way we were meant to be. The way the Burkes saw us.

  “Jean, dear, I don’t like to put you in a tight spot.” Weeze’s voice dragged me back to her. “But maybe you could explain it to Bertie. You know Junior doesn’t have a special girl, either. It would be so nice for us all to have a lovely miss at the table. You, particularly. To balance things out.”