His jaw worked, but he finally took the books. “You should think about this.”
“You should think about not being an asshole.” I gave him a tight-lipped, defiant smile. “Good luck with that.”
Five
A list of things my grandmother wouldn’t talk about:
—Traveling from Germany to the States, by herself, as a child of four
—Her first years in America
—Her parents, who were gassed on arrival at Auschwitz
—The war
—Nazis
—Being German
—Being Jewish
A list of things my mom wouldn’t talk about:
—Her relationship with her mother
My fourth day on the island, Mom emailed me with a subject line of ??? and no body, save a link to an Atlantic article about how teens today spent less time with their friends in person than a decade ago and reported feeling lonelier.
Thanks Mom!! I replied.
Mom couldn’t always read inflection in my emails, but even she would probably notice the sarcasm wrought by my double exclamation points.
Gmail instantly alerted me to a new message, because Mom apparently thought email and texting were the same. Are you lonely??
In her case, the double punctuation signaled not sarcasm, but earnestness. She worried about me way too much. I called her.
“Hello?”
“I’m not lonely, Mom. I have a job—”
“Wait! I need to fix the ear thing—hold on . . .”
I rolled my eyes and clicked on a link in the article’s sidebar about climate policies to read while I waited.
“Okay. Hi. Did you like the article?”
“Do you think I’m lonely? I’m not lonely.”
“I know.” Her defensive tone made it clear she was lying. “But it says . . .”
“Mom. Have you not noticed my million friends?”
“True.” She switched to hopeful. “You have a very good group. But what about on Nantucket? You don’t know anyone!”
“My roommate is nice. I met her friends.”
“Okay. Good. Because, you know, people are pack animals. You need a pack.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“You haven’t called me since you arrived.”
Sometimes convincing Mom I was well-adjusted felt like my raison d’être. She occasionally panicked about her parenting skills, as though I was a soufflé in danger of collapsing. I suspected her own parents hadn’t been particularly nurturing, and so Mom felt pretty in the dark about how to behave. (To be fair, O’ma and O’pa’s parenting had probably been influenced by their own childhoods. They’d been a bit more like: Are the children alive, fed, and not in imminent danger from Nazis? Cheers, everything’s going great.)
“I’ve only been here three and a half days,” I reminded Mom. “And I literally just called you. And texted you every day.”
“I suppose.” She still sounded woeful. “Should we Zoom?”
We video-chatted for forty-five minutes, my brother Dave wandering in and out, Dad quizzing me about the seashells on Nantucket (I had no satisfactory answers). Mom wanted to know about every person I’d come into contact with in enough detail to map out our relationships on a whiteboard. I was not, I must admit, reticent in complying with her demands.
My parents were cute. Painfully-in-love cute, write-mushy-Valentine’s-Day-cards and forget-other-people-exist cute. They still flirted, about getting married and their first date. Dad joked about how he’d meant to marry rich, and Mom always retorted she’d meant to marry rich, and then the two of them wound up smirking and stealing kisses.
It did a number on you, growing up around people madly in love. It made you think their kind of love was not just attainable, but necessary. It made you think your partner should act like you made the tides move.
This was probably not healthy.
When we hung up, I flopped backward on my bed. Sunlight crossed the ceiling, and summer air drifted in from the open window. Sure, I’d been lonely once or twice in the past few days, but you don’t say so to worry-prone moms. So what if sometimes I was lonely? Everyone was lonely. Re: this Atlantic article.
I wished journalists would go back to hating on millennials and leave my generation alone.
I picked up my phone, pulling up my roommate’s number. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Me:
Hi! I remember you mentioning beach plans this Saturday? If they’re still on, I’d love to join
Jane:
Yeah, for sure! Also I’m at my aunt’s tonight for “quality family time” lol but I’ll be home tomorrow
On Saturday, Jane and I headed to Jetties Beach, stopping first at her family’s bakery for picnic supplies. Pictures of the Azores hung against one whitewashed wall, while shelves of dry goods lined another. Customers snaked up to the register, behind which lay pastries and overflowing baskets of bread. We snuck me into the back, loading up on containers of kale soup and linguica sausage and suspiros—chewy meringues.
Next, we headed to Jane’s aunt’s house, which had a front yard covered in hydrangeas and a handful of bikes in the back. Jane nodded at a baby blue one. “You can borrow Aria’s. Sorry it’s so twee. Aria likes everything to be Instagram perfect.”
The bike had a wicker basket attached to the front, with a pink ribbon laced through the bands. “I love it.”
We biked down narrow island roads lined with wildflowers, past twisty trees and Cape Cod–style houses. The strips of sand between grass and pavement broadened until the road opened up at the beach parking lot. We locked up the bikes and burrowed our feet in the warm sand, grains sifting between our toes. Cotton-puff clouds drifted across the bright blue sky, and people packed the beach. It was a perfect summer day; the temperature hadn’t risen high enough to be painful, and a soft breeze tugged playfully at us.
The same group from last week sprawled across a haphazard map of blankets and towels, the corners of which were pinned down by shoes and purses. Jane’s best friend, Lexi, sat shoulder to shoulder with a South Asian girl I hadn’t met before—her girlfriend, Stella, I bet.
“We’ve arrived.” Jane placed our baked goods in the center of the blankets. “You may thank us.”
Evan, the preppy rich boy, grinned. “A little full of ourselves, are we?”
“Rightfully so.”
Someone connected their phone to speakers, and music blasted out. Bags of chips and pretzels burst open and seltzers popped. Jane tugged off her crop top and wiggled out of her shorts, and I did the same, revealing the more conservative of the two bikinis I’d brought for the summer. Someday I’d wear the scandalous red one. But not today.
When half the group started a game of touch football, the remaining girls gossiped about relationships. I listened, pleasantly sunbaked, pinned by the heat to my towel. The warmth had the same relaxing properties as a massage, draining my tension down and away into the earth.
Stella turned to me. She wore a leopard-print wrap over her one-piece, and long earrings dangled against her neck. “So, what’s your deal? Seeing anyone?”
“Nope.” I remembered Niko’s admonishment to have some chutzpah. “I wouldn’t mind a summer fling. I, um—I dated a boy at home last year, but he dumped me to concentrate on college apps.”
“Ugh, boys,” Stella said. “Don’t worry, though, this is a great place to get flung. Lexi says you met Noah Barbanel when you broke into Golden Doors.” She waggled her brows.
Lexi tugged on Stella’s hair. “It wasn’t technically breaking in.”
“It was. You’re an accessory to a crime.” Stella dropped a kiss on Lexi’s lips. “It’s why I love you. I’ve always had excellent taste in accessories.” She returned her attention to me. “So?”
“He’s a jerk,” I s
aid firmly.
Jane smirked. “Don’t worry, you can always make out with randos at beach parties.”
I refrained from admitting I’d never made out with a rando (though I had kissed Tessa Fogelson’s second cousin at her bat mitzvah, but he turned shy and ran away from me, which, wow, what a confidence boost) because the rest of the group rejoined us then, flopping down on the blankets, animated and loud, a whirl of long limbs and sweat. Evan snagged Jane’s water and chugged it. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Secrets.” She grabbed her bottle back and used it to smack his shoulder.
Pranav folded himself down next to us, staring at his phone. “Sydney’s coming.”
“Sydney!” Jane chirped. “Great! How is she?”
“Good. She got in last night.”
Sydney must have been Pranav’s girlfriend—also from England, and also an architecture intern.
“You guys smell,” Stella said. “Also, it’s hot. Who wants to swim?”
“Gotta eat first,” one of the boys said around a mouthful of sausage.
“I’ll go,” I told Stella.
We headed down to the water. The waves slipped over our feet, frothing at our ankles before pulling away in a web of white. Before us, the world was bright blue. “Count of three?” Stella said, and we plunged forward, shrieking. The ocean closed around me, silent and dark.
I popped my head out, shivering. Salt clung to my lips and my hair to my head like seaweed. Stella emerged, too, whipping her long black hair back. “Brr!”
We warmed up by swimming, fast and sleek like seals, arms scooping water along and feet kicking away. When we adjusted to the temperature, we floated happily. “Is this your first time on the island?” she asked.
“Yeah. You too?”
Stella nodded. “I came out a few times last year to visit Lexi, but never for more than a night or two. This is going to be even better. This year, we’re going to have the perfect summer.”
I floated on my back, watching the rays of sun streak through the clouds. The perfect summer. I was in.
* * *
“So, what’s the deal with you and Pranav and his girlfriend?” I asked Jane later, as we stood over the twin sinks in our bathroom and readied for bed.
“What do you mean ‘the deal’?”
“Well. You were so nice when she arrived. You embraced her like a long-lost sister.”
“I don’t know.” She sounded miserable, or as miserable as one could be with a toothbrush obscuring half their consonants. “It’s a weird defense mechanism. Like if I’m super friendly with her, no one will notice I’m madly in love with her boyfriend.”
As expected. “Isn’t that a stereotype, though? If you inquire a lot about someone’s partner, it’s because you’re into the person?”
“Oh my god, what?” Jane sounded horrified. “No. That’s not a thing. Oh my god, is it a thing?”
I started giggling and couldn’t stop. “Pretty sure it’s a thing.”
We changed into our pajamas and turned off the lights. Moonlight spilled between our beds. I rolled over so I could see Jane’s silhouette. “Thanks for letting me come today.”
“For sure. It’s hard not knowing anyone. And I could use another friend.” She sighed. “I’m glad Stella came this summer—Lexi missed her so much last year. But—it used to be when Lexi and I had spare time, we hung out, and now she hangs out with Stella, which is normal and I’m happy for them, and I try not to be jealous. But I miss her.”
I got it. I’d been thrilled for my friends: for Brooke, who landed a job as a camp counselor in Vermont; for Niko, off coding at Stanford; for Haley, seeing Spain during her immersion program. But each time I’d learned one of them would be gone, I’d chewed at my nails until my cuticles bled. And I’d run off to Nantucket.
I stared at the moonlight on the ceiling. In the late darkness, it seemed obvious I wasn’t just running from loneliness, or searching for knowledge about O’ma’s past, or fodder for a college essay. I wanted more. An adventure. A sense of purpose.
How hard could those be to find?
Six
On the Fourth, I woke to the scent of sugar and strawberries filling the house. “Good morning, girls,” Mrs. Henderson said when Jane and I stumbled downstairs, lured by the scent, with no more will than Odysseus before the sirens.
“What are you making?” Jane asked.
Mrs. Henderson smiled with the serenity of a baker who knew her worth, and nodded to the cake sitting on the table. Dark ruby strawberries studded a yellow dough. “Strawberry cake for the bridge club’s cookout. My grandmother’s recipe.”
Both Jane’s and my shoulders slumped when we learned it wasn’t for us. “Oh,” I said mournfully. Ellie Mae twined her way between our legs, licked at our fingers, then abandoned us when it became clear we had no food.
Mrs. Henderson gestured behind her, and we realized a second cake sat cooling on the counter. “But I doubled the recipe, because why only have dessert after dinner when you can have it for breakfast, too?”
“And it’s got strawberries, so it’s healthy,” Jane said happily. The three of us pulled up our chairs and tucked in.
After Mrs. Henderson left, Jane and I swapped our pajamas for real clothes and slipped on our sandals. Ellie Mae saw us heading for the door and howled pitifully. Jane grasped my arm. “Stay strong.”
“We’re abandoning her.” I looked back, and Ellie Mae’s barks fell to a tragic whine. Her soulful eyes pleaded with me. “We’re evil incarnate.”
Jane faltered. Ellie Mae wagged her tail, low and hopeful.
“Dammit,” Jane said. “Fine, let’s take her.”
Leash in my hand, the three of us headed into town. Ellie Mae became more and more ecstatic with each new person she encountered, and there were many new people, an island full, shipped in from Boston and the Cape and who knew where else.
We found our group eating ice cream on a patch of grass. Lexi waved a tiny plastic flag printed with the stars and stripes as we approached. “Woo-hoo, America.”
“Are we being ironic right now?” Jane asked. She sat down next to Pranav, whose girlfriend Sydney hadn’t showed up yet, and gave him a bright smile.
This boded well.
After Sydney and a few more friends arrived, we joined the mobs of people downtown. Jane and I had our faces painted: an elaborate black-and-silver mask around her eyes; a red-and-gold phoenix curved over my cheek and temple. We watched a dunk tank and a watermelon-eating contest. A water fight erupted, long sprays arching above the cobblestones. We screamed and ran through, Ellie Mae happily tossing herself about before shaking the water on innocent bystanders.
When a parade wove down the street, Evan hoisted me onto his shoulders so I could see better. I grabbed hold of him for support, laughing gleefully, while Pranav raised Sydney similarly. Jane clutched Ellie Mae’s leash and beamed up at Sydney like a star about to burn out. The crowd before us was a swirling mass of pale pink shirts and mint green dresses and lemon-yellow skirts. It moved, slow but constant, colorful and festive. More guys wore American-flag shorts than I’d ever seen before.
Then the people before us changed once again, revealing Noah Barbanel on the sidewalk, surrounded by half a dozen other teens who looked like they’d been airbrushed by wealth.
I saw Noah before he saw me, but only by a second. He froze when his gaze marked me. For a suspended moment, we both stared at each other, before I swallowed hard and tapped on Evan’s shoulder. “Put me down?”
Evan bent his knees and I swung my legs onto the pavement, intimately aware of my sopping-wet hair and my T-shirt clinging to every curve. I looked like a drowned rat. Not exactly the way I wanted to present myself to my hot island nemesis. “Noah.”
“Abigail.” His attention shifted. “Hey, Evan.”
“Hey.”
/> Right. Evan and Noah were both rich summer boys. Of course they knew each other.
As Evan said hello to the others, Noah and I kept our cautious gazes on each other. Then the crowds swirled us apart, but my heart kept beating fast, like prey confronted with a predator. I can help you or hinder you.
Stella grabbed my arm. The red-white-and-blue sparkler headdress she’d secured on top of her braid crown bobbed. “Was that Noah? He’s stunning.”
“Too rich,” Lexi said from her girlfriend’s other side. “He’ll give you a stomachache.”
“He’s not butter and sugar,” Stella said.
“I was making a metaphor about how he’s not healthy.”
“I’m not sure metaphors work like you think they do.”
My breathing slowly returned to tempo as my friends argued about the merits of Lexi’s metaphor. This was fine. I was fine. I bent over Ellie Mae, whose long pink tongue lolled as she panted. “We’re doing great, right, girl? So great. We’re so calm and great.”
Ellie barked and sloppily licked my face.
Bleh.
“Hey.” Noah’s voice sounded behind me, and I whirled around, wiping dog slobber off my face, along with red and gold glitter. Oh, wow, I’d totally forgotten I had face paint on.
Noah, on the other hand, looked as beautiful and arrogant as always, though his curls spiraled more tightly and ungainly than usual, like he’d spent the morning on the beach. “We should talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.” I glanced toward my friends, who’d meandered farther away while I’d consulted Ellie Mae. Noah and I were alone in the shifting crowds. Around us, the festivities and music continued, everyone so wrapped in their own lives we could have been in our own private room. A small child knocked into my leg, stared up at me with wide eyes, and kept going, towed away by his indifferent mother. “You threatened to blackmail me.”
“Give me a chance.”
“Why should I?”
The Summer of Lost Letters Page 6
