“Still...”
Josh laughs. “Her mom married a Jewish guy who used to come here when he was a kid.”
“Oh.”
“He brought her here one time and well...”
“Something stuck?”
“Or someone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You and Rory Richards?”
He starts to say something, but the music dies out and the lights dim except for a spotlight that sweeps over to the doors at the back of the ballroom, and everyone starts clapping as two figures sweep in. The music switches to something fast and Spanish-sounding, and everyone sort of backs away from a spot in the middle of the floor as they start dancing. It's Mara, in a pink dress with a flouncy skirt, and a guy I didn't see earlier—Tristan, I'm guessing—in a suit and hat. They move together in perfect unison, playing with her skirt, spinning each other around, bending over backwards in ways that shouldn't be possible. He throws her around like she's weightless, and she stretches one leg up to his shoulder and lets him.
“It's a Mambo,” Josh says to me. “Sort of.”
I wouldn't know a Mambo from a...I don't even a second half of that, that's how little I know. “They're amazing,” I say.
“The little one's Mara,” he says, and I nod like someone who isn't a spy and didn't already know that. “She's something else. I've never seen anyone move like her.” He sounds genuinely impressed, not at all like the guy who snapped at her before dinner. Maybe that was just flirting, or something.
“And the guy?” I say.
“Tristan? He's...not what you would expect, let's just say that.”
“What do you mean?” I say, but he just shrugs and winks at me. I guess I'm not going to get an answer about Rory Richards, either. I don't care about celebrity gossip much in general but it's different when it's right in front of you, in real life. Plus I really do like her movies. Girl's got talent.
Mara and Tristan break away from each other and grab people in the crowd to dance with. “This is how they pitch their lessons at the start of every session,” Josh says. “They come out, show what they can do, make everyone think with a few lessons a week, they'll be able to do it too.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
“I gotta help out with the ice cream portion of the ice cream social,” he says. “I hate to cut the evening short...maybe I'll see you later tonight?” he says.
“Sure. Maybe.”
“All right. Have a good night, Sugar.”
It's stuffy in here. As soon as he lets go of me I slip outside for some fresh air. It's hard to see anything beyond a few feet out of the clubhouse. I can see a few shadowy people heading towards their cabins, people who go to bed early like my mom, and I hear quiet laughter from every direction. I'm just surrounded by people having this gently good time.
I step onto the grass.
My cabin is right here. I could just go right in and fall asleep. I can be one of those early bed people. That's probably what they did back before there was internet. They were so bored they just went to sleep.
I go the other way. There's a streetlamp up ahead through a patch of darkness that doesn't look like it leads to any of the cabin. It's too far away from the rest of the lights. When I get to it, I see a sign a couple feet away—STAFF QUARTERS, NO GUESTS PLEASE. There are a bunch of trailers back here, hidden away under the hill behind the clubhouse. It reminds me of when a carnival comes, and everyone makes a little home for a while, a little community. The trailers have twinkly lights strung between them, tying them all together.
There's a steep staircase built into the mountain that leads up to a few more trailers. I can hear music pouring out of one of them. It sounds tinny and wavy from this far away. Someone's starting down this little bridge that leads up to the staircase. His arms are full, and he drops something big and mutters something. I think it's Oscar.
I jog up to the path. “Hi.” He's holding one of those big water jugs, and there's another one rolling away. I grab it.
“Sugar, right?” he says. “You shouldn't be back here.”
“Let me help you,” I say.
“No.”
“What's up there?”
“Guests aren't allowed,” he says. “You could get in trouble.”
“What are they gonna do, kick me off the property?”
“I could get in trouble,” he says.
I shift the water jug to my other hip.
“Go back to the social,” he says. “Your waiter's gonna be looking for you.”
“Fine.” I force my jug back into his arms, and he shuffles his weight around to keep from dropping them again. I walk away and he keeps struggling.
“Wait wait wait,” he says. “Come here—”
I take the jug back.
“What happens up there stays up there, all right?” he says. “Your mom doesn't want you up there and God knows my boss doesn't want you up there.”
I nod.
“All right, come on.”
I bite back a smile and follow him up the stairs, cradling the water jug. We come up to a another permanent building, short and long and run-down.
“This used to be the old clubhouse,” Oscar says. “Back in the '80s. Now we get to hang out here.” He shifts the water jug in his arms and throws his weight back against the door.
It flies open and music comes pouring out—something that's either not in English or with words way too fast for me to follow and a heavy bass beat pounding at the bottom of my stomach. Actually, I think I have heard this song before. I think they played it at prom, a lot more quietly. And nobody was dancing like this. This has got to be the entire entertainment staff, and it looks like they know what they're doing.
“Come on,” Oscar says. “Water goes over here.”
We weave through people dancing closer than I ever thought two people could get. It's not the awkward grinding from school dances, a girl facing away from a guy while he plants his feet and shimmies a little and neither of them has any idea where they're supposed to be looking. These people have their eyes on each other and just each other, their legs wrapped around waists like wires, hands pulling at clothes, backs arched at angles that don't even make sense. And it's not a guy and a girl, it's guy and guy or girl and girl or guy and guy and girl...
“Not exactly shuffleboard, huh?” Oscar says. He takes the jug from me and sets it down on a folding table.
“Do they do this every night?” I say.
“Pretty much. You don't hire a bunch of twenty-year-old dancers and not expect them to be a little wild.” He takes a handful of chips, stuffs half in his mouth, and offers the rest to me. I shake my head.
The doors burst open and Mara and Tristan sweep into the center of the room, hand-in-hand. They're still in their performance outfits—everyone else is it crop tops or sports bras for the girls and no shirts for the guys—but they don't seem to notice. He lifts her up above his head and she slides down him with her legs wrapped around his waist. Technically it's not too different from the stuff they were doing in the ballroom. And practically it couldn't be further away. They didn't have this chemistry in there, this heat. I don't think I've seen that anywhere before.
It's too intimate. It's too much. These two girls are making out in front of me and...they don't even know who I am. They're just letting me into this. I could be anyone.
“That's my cousin,” Oscar says.
I shake myself a little. “What?”
He laughs. “You want to dance?”
“No.”
He points. “My cousin.”
“Mara?”
“No, Tris, her partner. He's the one who got me the job here.”
“Oh, you two look a lot alike, actually.”
Oscar nods. “Except I can't dance. You want a beer?”
“Okay.”
He snags us beers, twists off the caps, and hands me one. I'm still watching Tristian and Mara. The way she flings her hair over his shoulder. How they laugh. How her hips move.
“They're
pretty incredible, right?” he says.
“She's amazing.”
“Mmhmm.”
“How long have they been together?”
He laughs. “Mara, with Tristan? Uh-uh. Only place she'd ever be with a guy is onstage.” He catches Tristan's eye and raises his beer at him. He quirks an eyebrow, raises Mara's hand above the crowd, and leads her over to us. “I hear the showcase was really good!” Oscar says.
“Yeah,” Tristan says. “Who's this?”
“Sugar. She's with me.”
“She's a tourist,” Mara says.
Oscar says, “What, like that usually stops you?”
She rolls her eyes and says to me, “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“I carried a water jug,” I say.
She studies me. “And how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
She groans. “Put her back, Oscar.” A new song starts, and she squeaks a little and says, “Shit, come on!” to Tristan, and they dive back onto the dance floor. Everyone greets them and clings to them like they're celebrities, pulling themselves into one pounding knot.
“I carried a water jug,” I repeat. “Goddamn it.”
Then Mara, through all the people, looks over and catches my eye. I try to look away, to act like I wasn't staring at her, but I'm too late and I know it.
She beckons me over with one finger.
I go.
She pulls herself out of the tangle of people and meets me halfway. “Do you know this song?” she says.
“I don't think so.”
“Here.” She puts her hands on my hips. “You want to fit in, you gotta dance.” She steals my beer and takes a slug of it before she tucks the bottle into her waistband. She puts her hands on my hips. “Like this.”
“Okay.”
“Just feel the music.” She rolls her knuckles over my waist. “There you go.”
I think I forgot how to breathe. But somehow my hips keep moving.
She chuckles. “Oh, Sugar, you're in deep now.” Someone nudges me from behind. “Don't look at them,” she says. “Look at me. Good! Do what I'm doing...bend your knees, here...”
I put my arms around her neck. She smiles at me.
“There you go,” she says. “Now you're getting it.”
Chapter 2
We wake up to another bell.
“No.” Bekah pulls her pillow over her head. “No no no. It's so early. It's like two AM.”
“Good morning, girls!” My mom's standing in our doorway with her jogging clothes, red cheeks, and a sweat sheen. “Rise and shine.”
“You seriously went out running?” I say. “It's ninety degrees out there.” I spent the whole night throwing off covers, throwing off clothes, and trying to lie still when I could still feel bass throbbing in my bones.
“I haven't missed a day since a month after Bekah was born,” she says. “Not about to start now.”
“You're amazing,” I say. “You're Wonder Woman.”
“Hurry up and get dressed or you'll miss breakfast!”
“What's even the point of breakfast without bacon?” Bekah says.
Mom leaves to shower and get changed, and we drag ourselves out of bed and over to our suitcases. “What are you humming?” Bekah asks me.
“What? Nothing.”
She pulls on a sundress. “So guess who I hung out with last night.”
“Who?”
“Josh.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
“I don't know why you always jump to that,” she says. “People can just hang out without it meaning anything, you know. Josh wanted to take you to the ice cream social last night and you acted like you were worried it would get you pregnant.”
“Well I went, didn't I?”
“And then ditched him,” she says. “Leaving him all to me. Can I borrow your lipstick?”
“Yeah. What'd you guys do?”
“Went out to the dock. You know. Splashed around.”
“Ew.”
“Where did you get to?” she says.
“Nowhere.”
“If you found something fun to do in this place and you're not telling me, I'm going to literally kill you,” she says.
“I didn't,” I say, because what am I supposed to tell her? I've always been the artsy one, the creative one, with my planned playwriting minor and the clothes I make myself and lots of other tame pseudo-bohemian stuff, while Bekah's into boys and physics club and other very straight things. I'm not going to have her tagging along after me when I go back there. If I go back. She'll be fine with her waiter. She could probably stand to have a little less fun than usual for three weeks.
I couldn't.
We fill ourselves up at breakfast while Josh finds excuses to come over and make small talk with both of us—does he know you generally have to pick a sister?--and then Bekah wants a nap so Mom and I go out on the peddle boats together, taking in the whole lake, dragging our fingers in the water.
“So what do you think so far?” Mom asks me.
“It's...weird,” I say. “Like being in another time.”
“Have you found anyone your age?”
“Sort of,” I say.
“I know this isn't the most thrilling vacation for a teenager,” she says.
“It's okay. Not everything has to be thrilling.”
“See, that's what I thought,” she says. “Sometimes it's nice to just relax. You're so busy in real life with school and everything. And soon you'll be working nonstop in college. Brown might be the fun Ivy, but it's no party school, unless a lot has changed since I was there.”
“I know,” I say. “And parties are even more exhausting than working anyway.” All those boys coming up to talk to you who aren't even interested in you, they just want to be talking to someone, pushing cups of warm beer into your hands, and you always end the night holding someone's hair back over the toilet. Every time.
“And God knows I needed some time off,” she says. “Sometimes it's nice to just...not have to worry about anything. They take care of you here.”
I nod and peddle.
She says, “I just don't want you to...ugh, I don't know. Turn into one some corporate drone from working too hard.”
“You didn't!”
“Oh, of course I did,” she says. “But I was never like you.” She smiles at me. “So creative and free.”
I smile back.
The entertainment coordinator—a real live grown-up not to be confused with the regular entertainment staff—comes through the little beach with a megaphone as my mom and I peddle closer to shore. “On the hour: a magic show in the ballroom!” he says. “Junior circus at the climbing wall! Salsa lessons in the gazebo!”
“I think I might check out those salsa lessons,” I say.
“You? Dancing?”
“Never too late to learn, right?”
“Maybe not! Then you can teach me.”
“Why don't you come with me?” I say as we pull our boat in.
“Nah, I'm gonna go relax by the pool, maybe try to rouse your sister,” she says.
“Oh, okay.”
“But you have fun! Glad to see you trying new things.” She pecks me on the forehead.
I trek halfway across the grounds back towards where the parking lot is, but once I get the gazebo Salsa class has already started and it's Tristan teaching it, not Mara. I try to find a spot on the grass nearby that looks like I just happen to be close by the gazebo and pull my book out, judging myself for about a million things at once. Walking all this way for nothing. Telling my mother I was going to try the lesson and then not. Caring so much who was teaching the class...
I'm close enough to hear. Tristan's cheery and sweet, complimenting the old ladies on their rhythm and reassuring the husbands that don't worry, they're getting it. He demonstrates steps like he's been doing them since he could walk. He makes it look so easy that if there weren't fifty tourists stumbling through it right in front of me, I'd think I
could just get up there and do exactly what he's doing.
The lesson ends with no sign of Mara, and I turn back to my book and try not to analyze my feelings too much, but everyone leaves the gazebo without helping Tristan gather up his CDs or the plastic water bottles everyone left scattered around. I get up and grab some trash.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You're a really incredible dancer,” I say.
“That's sweet, thanks.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
He shrugs and takes the trash from me. “About as long as I can remember.”
“You're so lucky you get to do what you love.”
He laughs a little, and not in a nice way.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says.
“I'm sorry, did I—”
“Hey,” a voice says, from behind me, and there's Mara, leaning against the entrance of the gazebo, looking at Tristan like I'm not even here. “Did you get on the phone with them?” she says.
He snaps his CD case shut. “Yeah.”
“And...?”
“What do you think?” he says. “They won't listen to me.”
“Fuck,” she says.
“I can't talk about this right now.”
I say, “What's going on?”
“Nothing,” they say together. Mara picks the boombox of the floor and slips an arm around Tristan's waist, and the two of them leave talking quietly to each other.
She never even looked at me.
I'd forgotten about Rory Richards coming, but she's there at dinner, eating at a table with either very large friends or very regular-sized bodyguards, chatting with the waiters who come by to refill her water every eight seconds while all of us avert our eyes like we're afraid to look directly after. Everyone's making a big show of not caring that she's here in this way you can tell means that they absolutely do. I think Bekah put on a whole second set of eyelashes.
Though who knows, maybe that was for Josh. After dinner there's a temporary dance floor and a string quartet in a pavilion on the lawn in front of the clubhouse, and while the entertainment staff tries to get the dancing going, most of the younger people are finding places to lean and talk to each other, Bekah and Josh included. Also included? Rory and Mara. They're leaning in close to each other, laughing, while Rory twists a lock of Mara's hair around her finger.
Sugar Summer Page 2
