Local Girls

by Jenny O'Connell

  “No way. I was up before the alarm even went off.”

  “Just couldn’t wait to get fishing, right?”

  I smiled and Henry smiled back. “Right. So where to?” I asked.

  “Same place as always.”

  Henry put his hands back on the steering wheel and we headed toward Seth’s Pond.

  The roads to West Tisbury were empty and we made it there in less than fifteen minutes, during which I realized Henry and I could, in fact, spend more than two minutes in the truck without running out of things to say. The ride to Seth’s Pond was actually easier than the ride from the ferry with Mona, probably because we’d had a few days to work up to it.

  Henry parked the car along the side of the road and we walked down to the pond. I offered to carry the tackle box, but Henry insisted on carrying all of the gear himself, so I followed him, making sure to keep far enough away that I didn’t impale myself on the fishing rod resting over his right shoulder. Henry led me past the small sandy beach and then along the edge of the pond, holding the tree branches aside so they wouldn’t snap back and hit me. Finally, when we could no longer see the beach or much else, Henry laid the pole on the ground and dropped the tackle box.

  “Is this it?” I asked, pointing to a spot that was sandy and rocky and not exactly a spot where I’d choose to sit for the next two hours.

  “This is it.” Henry kicked aside some rocks and then squatted down and unlocked the tackle box. “Take a seat.”

  I did as I was told.

  It was still early enough that the mist hung over the water, lingering like a cloud that wasn’t quite ready to lift. We couldn’t even see across to the other side. For the next five minutes I just sat there, observing everything around me, while Henry went through what I assumed was his daily routine.

  I’d never walked this far around the pond before and from this view it was entirely unfamiliar to me, the smell heavy and wet and slightly mildewy. The trees loomed large, leaning toward the edge of the pond as if trying to eavesdrop on the fish and insects that created ripples as they landed and flew away again. Every once in a while the smooth veneer of the water would be broken by a bug or a fish coming to the surface for a nibble. A small spot on the water became a perfectly round ring, and then another and another, until they became a series of concentric circles that grew larger and extended farther out until they disappeared, blending into the calm water once again.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Henry asked, diverting my attention away from the water.

  “Tell me what?”

  “That it was like another world.”

  “It’s definitely different, I’ll give you that.”

  Henry stooped down next to me, his right shoulder so close I could smell the fabric softener on his sweatshirt. Zilda was a big fan of fabric softener.

  “You have a tattoo,” I told him, in what was supposed to be a conversation starter but instead sounded like an accusation.

  Henry turned to look at me. “Yeah, I do. Why?”

  “No reason, I guess I just never thought you were the type.”

  “And what type is that?” Henry watched me, waiting for an answer. Then he broke into a smile. “I’m just busting on you, I know what you mean.”

  “So why’d you do it?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Apparently, everyone on the Whittier hockey team has one, so after the first practice of the season a few of us new guys were designated to go do it.”

  “So they made you?”

  “No, they didn’t make me, it’s not like it’s mandatory or anything. When we went I actually wasn’t even planning to go through with it, I just figured I’d watch. But then I started flipping through these books filled with designs and I thought of it.”

  “What is it?”

  Henry pulled his sweatshirt over his head and turned his back to me, and even though I knew I should be looking at his shoulder blade, I couldn’t help looking at all of him. His tanned, smooth skin stretched taut across his back and I wondered why I’d never noticed before how broad his shoulders were.

  “Can you see it?” he asked, the sweatshirt still over his head.

  It took me a second to refocus on the tattoo, but when I did, I recognized the design immediately.

  The tattoo wasn’t an exact replica of the island, but more like the lazy-frog version, a loose interpretation that resembled a frumpy frog sitting on his butt with his legs splayed out to either side. It was weird because if Henry hadn’t moved to Boston, I seriously doubt he would have etched the island into his skin with permanent ink.

  “It’s the island,” I said softly.

  Henry pulled the sweatshirt back down to his waist and resumed looking through his tackle box. “Most people don’t know what the hell it is.” The way he said it I got the feeling he liked that about it.

  “What did Mona think of the tattoo?”

  Henry shrugged. “The only thing she did was ask if it hurt.”

  What I’d really meant was, What did Mona think of him choosing the island over the hundreds of options in the book? “Did it hurt?”

  Henry found the hook he was looking for and stood up before answering. “Like hell.”

  I watched Henry prepare to tie the hook to the line and imagined something that sharp dotting ink into my skin. It didn’t sound appealing.

  “So you like Mona’s new friends?”

  “They’re okay. She had a tough time at first.”

  “How so?”

  Henry reached into the small plastic bucket of worms and held his hand there. “Didn’t you two talk at all this year?”

  “In the beginning we did, but—” I stopped. “Can you please take your hand out of the pail, it’s really gross watching you do that.”

  Henry removed his hand, where a thick, grayish worm struggled to get free, and then slipped the worm on the hook. “Better?”

  I watched the worm dangle. “Barely.”

  Henry moved a few feet away from me, drew the rod back over his right shoulder, and then cast out the line. “How’s that?”

  “Much better.”

  “So go on, you were saying you and Mona talked in the beginning,” Henry reminded me, as if he’d really been listening to every word I’d said.

  “Yeah, we did. But then we didn’t so much.” I hesitated, not sure how much I should tell him. Mona had obviously told him nothing, which made me wonder even more how much she really missed me—or didn’t. But if anyone could tell me how Mona felt, it was Henry. So I continued, even if it made me sound pathetic. “I guess she just found new friends and didn’t really need to talk to me as much.”

  “You know Mona better than that.”

  “I thought I did. I guess we were both just busy,” I answered. “So why was it so tough for her?”

  “Well, she was new, for one, and you know girls.” Henry rolled his eyes at me. “And there was the whole thing about leaving the island and what she’d be missing.”

  “She obviously made friends,” I reminded him.

  “Sure, but the first couple of months she pretty much just hung out with me. If I went out I’d come home and she’d be waiting up for me. If I stayed in she’d sit with me and watch the Bruins.”

  “It doesn’t sound that bad.”

  “I didn’t say it was bad, but it wasn’t good for her either. I always considered us pretty close, as far as brothers and sisters go, for obvious reasons, but there’s a difference between being close because you’re friends and being close because the other person doesn’t have anyone else. I was actually beginning to wonder if she’d ever make new friends.”

  “I guess you’re not wondering anymore.”

  Henry shrugged. “Sometimes she acts like they’re her best friends.” Henry stopped and turned to me as if he just realized what he’d said, and I only hoped he hadn’t seen me cringe. “And other times it’s like she’s just going through the motions. For her birthday she had a part
y and her friends gave her things like bottles of expensive perfume and American Express gift cards. So, honestly, I don’t know.”

  “So you think she would have been happier if she’d stayed here?”

  “Maybe. The thing is, I think leaving the island was good for Mona.”

  “Good for her? How?”

  “I think it sort of forced her to be on her own for once. She used to rely on you an awful lot, and, needless to say, she’s always had me.”

  “I don’t think she relied on me all that much,” I disagreed. “Besides, that’s what best friends do. They rely on each other.”

  “Come on, Kendra. You know what I mean.” Henry tugged the pole back and I watched as the tension on the line increased and then relaxed. I waited for him to finish his thought, but he just kept his eyes on the line, which I guess was his way of indicating that he was finished.

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.” Henry turned the knob on the reel to let out some more line when all of a sudden the pole started shaking. He gripped the handle harder and pulled the rod back, stretching the line tight. “You want to take this?” he offered, handing the rod over to me.

  I shook my head. “I think I’ll just treat this as a spectator sport.”

  Henry began reeling the line in, pulling the rod toward him and then letting it out, over and over until, finally, a fish appeared.

  “Decent size, huh?” Henry pointed the rod at me so I could get a better look at the silvery fish batting its tail from side to side as it dangled in midair.

  The whole idea of watching that fish struggle and then die made me slightly queasy. “I guess so.”

  I wanted to look away, I really did, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of Henry, who seemed so sure of himself as he reached out and took the squirming fish in his hand. I thought for sure he’d drop it, but instead he held it tight enough to hold on but not so tight he’d force it from his grasp. Then he snipped the hook in half with a pair of small scissors and gently slipped the straight part of the hook out of the trout’s mouth.

  I watched as Henry cupped his hands around the fish, held it up until he was staring into its eyes, and then bent down and slipped it back into the water, where he kept an eye on it until the fish disappeared from view.

  I got up and stood next to him. “What did you just do?”

  “I threw it back.”

  “Wait a minute, you don’t even keep them?”

  “I actually don’t like fish very much. It’s called catch and release.”

  As soon as he said it I realized that, in all the years I’d known Henry, I’d never seen him eat a fried shrimp or a bowl of clam chowder. Not even a tuna sandwich. “So you just catch them and then let them go?”

  “Yep.”

  “So Zilda doesn’t clean your fish for you?”

  Henry shook his head and gave me a confused look. “No, why? Did Mona tell you she did?”

  “No, it’s nothing, forget it.”

  Over the next hour Henry caught and released two more fish while we talked. If I thought we’d run out of things to say, our two hours together proved me wrong. Not that it was nonstop chitchat, because it wasn’t like either of us resorted to lame topics just so we had something to say. It was more like talking to a friend, like talking to Mona in a way. I didn’t feel that I needed to censor my words or make sure I didn’t say anything he’d think was stupid, although, because of that, I probably did say something dumb. But Henry just listened and asked me questions and sporadically tugged at the fishing line.

  When it was time to leave, I helped Henry pack up his gear. It wasn’t until we were walking back to the truck that I noticed the mist was gone and I could see clear across to the other side of the pond, the water no longer shrouded in cloudy white. The beach was still empty—it was barely seven o’clock—but I knew that soon Seth’s Pond would go back to being the place I thought I knew. Until this morning, when Henry showed me just how different something could be even if you’ve known it practically your whole life.

  “How were things with Malcolm and Izzy this year?” I asked on the ride from West Tisbury back to Edgartown. Even as I said it, it didn’t seem possible that it had really been a year. Last August, watching Izzy and Malcolm on the lawn pledging to love and honor one another until death do they part, just the thought of surviving the month of September seemed unbearable. And here it was almost July.

  “Probably better than a lot of us predicted.”

  I didn’t have to ask him to elaborate. The whole time Malcolm and Izzy dated we all waited for the day it would inevitably end. The chances of their relationship actually working out were pretty slim—Izzy the single mom who managed a local art gallery and Malcolm the millionaire from Boston. Izzy painted in an old barn behind Poppy’s house; Malcolm had hired a renowned architect from New York to design and build a three-car garage to look like an old barn.

  “Your mom seems exactly the same as when you guys left last fall.”

  “Yeah, she is. Sometimes Malcolm will have some sort of fund-raiser they have to go to and she’ll walk out of the house in a black dress looking like every other Beacon Hill wife on her way to a cocktail party. She’ll look great, really, but only Malcolm, Mona, and I know the reason she has her hair piled on top of her head is that she couldn’t get the paint out of her ponytail.”

  I laughed and Henry joined me.

  “Hungry?” he asked as we spotted Stop & Shop up ahead on the left.

  “I could be, why, what were you thinking?”

  “The usual.”

  Experience had taught me he meant a bagel with cream cheese. “You know, I think I just want to go home and crawl into bed, but thanks anyway.”

  “Imagine,” he said to me as we passed the store where we first met, or at least, where it felt like we first met. “Our first time without a trip to the baking aisle. Maybe we should go down it, for old time’s sake.”

  “I never knew you were so sentimental.”

  “Sure I am. Just ask the fish.”

  I decided to pass on breakfast. It was my day off and I just wanted to go home and do nothing.

  “Well?” Henry asked, slowing down as he pulled into my driveway. “What did you think of your first fishing trip?”

  “It was way too early.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. It was fun. I can see why you do it. I just don’t see why you can’t wait another hour or two.”

  “You’d see when we came home empty-handed.”

  “We came home empty-handed anyway, you do catch and release, remember?”

  “A mere technicality.”

  “A technicality I’m sure the fish appreciate.”

  Henry stopped the car and turned to me. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I glanced toward the front door; inside, my family was preparing for tomorrow’s grand opening. It would no doubt be a long day at the deli and they probably wouldn’t be back home until late, which meant I was on my own.

  “No plans.”

  “I figure we’ve done enough breakfast the past two weeks, so why don’t we try some dessert? I could pick you up around seven and we’ll go get ice cream or something.”

  “I like ice cream.”

  “Good.”

  It was close to eight o’clock and the sun was already casting my shadow against the side of the pickup truck. I looked taller and thinner than in real life, and I wondered what Henry saw as he squinted at me standing there. “Now I think I’m going to go inside, crawl into bed, and go back to sleep—as if this was one long, early dream.”

  “Good night, Kendra,” Henry called as I walked to the front door.

  “Good night, Henry,” I called back.

  Chapter 10

  It was a typical summer night in Edgartown, which meant that, as locals, we were outnumbered about ten to one. I say “we” because, even though it had been almost a year since he’d lived on the island, I figured I coul
d still count Henry on my side.

  Henry had asked me to go out for ice cream. It wasn’t a date, I knew that. Dates were what I went on with Robbie, awkward at first, always checking your reflection in the passenger-side window to see if you had something in your teeth, something clinging to the edge of your nose. A date was two people figuring out what they thought of each other, or at least that was the kind of date I was used to. Even after months with Robbie, I was still trying to figure out what I thought of him. This was different. I already knew what I thought of Henry. But walking down Main Street together, laughing and talking, our arms brushing against each other, I was sure everyone around us thought we were on a date. And the idea didn’t exactly bother me. And the fact that it didn’t bother me freaked me out.

  I discovered, after waiting in line for fifteen minutes behind six of the most indecisive ten-year-old kids I’d ever seen, that Henry was a mint chocolate chip guy. He learned I was a classic chocolate girl. With rainbow sprinkles.

  “Thanks for the ice cream,” I told him, carefully licking the sides of my cone so the sprinkles wouldn’t slip down the sides and fall onto the sidewalk.

  “No problem. I figure it was the least I could do, considering you got up so early just to keep me company.” Henry pointed to a crowd of people forming in the courtyard beside the bookstore. While the adults glanced at their watches, waiting for the ghost tour to begin, little kids chased each other or licked their melting ice cream cones. “Have you ever done that?”

  “Nope. Have you?”

  He shook his head. “But tonight that changes.”

  Henry reached for my hand and pulled me toward the crowd. And even though ghost stories have always made me a little nervous, and I was sure my hand was sticky from my chocolate ice cream, I wrapped my fingers between his and let him pull me along into the waiting group of tourists.

  Our hands were barely touching for a minute, but when he let go I ran my thumb against my fingertips, feeling the slight dampness left behind in the evening humidity, the residue of Henry. I don’t think we’d ever held hands before, not even in elementary school during the square-dancing lesson in gym class. Our hands never even brushed each other as he passed the ketchup across the dinner table to me during one of Poppy’s infamous summer cookouts. Or maybe we had. We had to have, right? In all these years I’d known Mona, Henry and I must have touched somewhere along the way. So why did this time feel different, and why was I still thinking about Henry’s hand, his fingers, and the way he’d reached for me as if it was the most natural thing in the world?