Haven Point

by Virginia Hume

  Her mom’s students still adored her, but supervisors were another story. Whenever she got a new job, she’d get the star treatment for a while, but eventually the disappointment phase set in, and Skye had a front-row seat. She would cringe at the increasingly fake concern. Your mom has been ill a lot lately. Is everything okay?

  She had begun to realize her mom’s constant job changes were less about chasing the shiniest new object in arts education and more a strategy to leave before she completely drained the reservoir of goodwill.

  Somehow her mom managed to stay sober through the school year and even wrangled another contract, so at least Skye wouldn’t have to change schools for senior year. From the start of summer, though, Skye had been on red alert. The fear of a relapse nagged at her constantly. The third week in July, Skye came home from babysitting and found her mom passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of wine on the floor. Skye called Gran, who made the usual arrangements. Her mom was off to rehab, and Skye was off to Adriene’s.

  Like always, Skye felt relieved. The bad thing happening was never as bad as waiting for the bad thing to happen, and it was always nice when her mom was in someone else’s hands.

  What she didn’t feel anymore was hope. It was like the Escher print her mom had on her art room wall, of ants on a Möbius strip. You think the ants will eventually reach the other side, but there is no other side. They always end up back in the same place.

  The hiccup came three days after she arrived, when Adriene’s parents were called to Greece for a family emergency. After a bunch of phone calls between Gran and Mrs. Maduros, it was arranged that both Adriene and Skye would go to Haven Point.

  Skye knew it would be different with Adriene there, but she had pictured it like summers when she was little, when she enjoyed Haven Point without thinking about the fact that she didn’t belong. As they headed to the party, she realized she had not taken into account how much Adriene could be like an anthropologist.

  When they arrived at the lawn above the yacht club, Adriene looked down, surprised.

  “That’s a yacht club?” Adriene asked, pointing. Except the porch around two sides, the yacht club looked like a big square wooden shed.

  “Yeah. Fancy name, not a fancy place,” Skye replied.

  The party, which was for the high schoolers, was a typical low-key event. Other than a table with sodas and a few bowls of chips and popcorn, the only thing that said “party” was the stereo in the corner blasting Bruce Springsteen. Adriene looked around and laughed.

  “Your mom wasn’t kidding. This place is so white,” Adriene said.

  Skye had grown up surrounded by all kinds of people: black, white, brown, gay, straight, old, and young. But other than occasionally saying they should move to a less “vanilla” neighborhood (a statement she was way too disorganized to act on), her mom didn’t make a big point about it. She just seemed to like people who were interesting, who had distinct points of view, and she’d chosen a career and workplaces where she’d find them.

  She never hesitated to point out how homogenous Haven Point was, though.

  “That place doesn’t even have canine diversity,” she said once, rolling her eyes. “Labs and goldens, goldens and Labs.”

  Skye didn’t disagree. Neither did Gran, for that matter. Skye once commented to Gran that all the kids on Haven Point looked the same—so different from what she was used to. (In comparison, Skye’s schools were like little United Nations meetings.)

  “Change does come to places like this.” Gran sighed. “Just very, very slowly.”

  Adriene, of course, managed to find the potential benefit.

  “You know, I’m actually kind of exotic here,” she said.

  They grabbed bottles of water from the cooler on the table. As Adriene opened hers, she looked around. The inside of the yacht club was prettier than the outside. Nautical pendant lights hung from exposed beams, and the glossy wood-paneled walls were crowded with sailing paraphernalia.

  “Wait, is that your mom?” Adriene pointed her bottle at a large placard hanging between a signal flag and an old ship’s wheel. It listed the winning crews of the annual Stinneford Cup Junior Sailing race. Near the top of the second row, it read 1966: Charles Demarest, Anne Demarest.

  “Yeah. I forgot about that,” Skye said. “That’s her and my uncle Charlie, the one who died before I was born.” Her mom had never mentioned it, but Skye had once noticed the silver cup from the race on a shelf at Fourwinds, and Gran told her the whole story.

  “I can’t really imagine your mom sailing,” Adriene said, squinting as if she was trying to do so. “It seems so, I don’t know…”

  “Preppy?”

  “That’s it.” Adriene laughed.

  “My uncle was the real sailor. He was the skipper in that race, even though my mom was older than him. I don’t think she was that into it.”

  As soon as the words came out of her mouth, though, a memory from years before flashed through her mind. Gran and Pop had stopped by one evening when Skye and her mom were in the dining room, Skye doing homework at one end of the table, while her mom stood in front of a tabletop easel at the other end, putting the finishing touches on an oil painting.

  Gran was always interested in her mom’s art, which Skye found annoying. She thought Gran should spend less time encouraging her mom to be an artist, and more time encouraging her to be a mom.

  Gran had stood for a moment looking at the painting: two bold converging lines, slashes of red in the space between.

  “It looks like a sailboat,” Gran had said finally.

  “Well, it’s not,” Anne had snapped, eyes flashing.

  Pop had changed the subject, but Skye remembered how the tension had lingered. To this day, she had no idea what was behind it. But she never saw the painting again.

  “So, do you know any of these people?” Adriene asked, taking in the crowd.

  “Not really, though I’ve met most of them,” she said. She looked around and spotted Charlotte.

  “Over by the door to the porch. Dark hair, green Choate sweatshirt. That’s the girl who told everyone I tripped her during that relay.”

  Adriene looked over and squinted. “Got it.” She nodded. “Hate her.”

  A few minutes later, Ben Barrows walked over, a friend in his wake.

  Ben had gotten cuter. His shoulders were broader, which made him look less gangly, and his skin had cleared up. And he still had that wavy brown hair and big smile she remembered.

  “Hey. Skye, right? I’m Ben. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Of course. Green baton relay team, 1994,” Skye said. She would have been more flattered by his approaching were it not so obvious that his friend was angling for an introduction to Adriene.

  “This is Flip Devereaux,” Ben said. Flip had freckles, a sunburned nose, and spiky blond baby-fine hair.

  Skye greeted him and introduced Adriene.

  Flip seemed a little dazed, but Skye was used to that. Adriene and Skye had both enjoyed metamorphoses in the preceding years. Skye had grown taller (not that she needed to be any taller) but she was no longer flat-chested, at least. Her red hair had darkened to more of an auburn, and she’d tamed it with a better cut and a little effort. She knew she wasn’t like Charlotte, the type who people immediately looked at and said “She’s pretty.” Skye was more the “She’s pretty, actually” type, like people had to think about it for a second.

  Adriene was absolutely gorgeous. She had never been skinny, but her weight had redistributed itself strategically, and she embraced her curves. She wore her thick, dark hair loose around her shoulders. Adriene always drew the eye, but she had been right about standing out in the all-American, pastel blur that was this crowd. Next to her, Flip almost looked like a different species.

  “Flip? Is that short for something?” Adriene asked.

  “Philip,” he replied.

  “Oh? Do you spell Flip with a Ph?”

  “No, with an F,” Flip repli
ed earnestly. A second later, he laughed, embarrassed. “Oh, you’re joking.”

  As Skye was marveling at Adriene’s power to tease guys and make them like her even more, she noticed Charlotte and Cricket heading their way. Her spidey sense told her she and Adriene were poaching on their territory.

  Charlotte approached the table, grabbed a Diet Coke, then looked over at Ben and Flip.

  “You guys have your talent ready?” Charlotte asked, her tone challenging.

  Adriene shot Skye a look. Skye knew she’d have a heyday later with Charlotte’s ruse of getting a soda, which allowed her to toss something into their conversation without having to acknowledge Skye’s existence.

  “Yeah, we’re working on it,” Flip replied.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Charlotte said, as if she didn’t believe him.

  “What’s this about a talent?” Adriene demanded, after Charlotte and Cricket walked away.

  “We’re Junior Sailing counselors, and they have a talent show on Wednesday night. It’s mostly for the campers, but the girl counselors usually do one act and guy counselors do another,” Flip explained. “Ben and I are the only two guys this summer, though, so we’re going to blow it off.”

  “Blow it off?” Adriene said, in a tone that suggested this was the most poor-spirited thing she’d ever heard. “Come on. You must have some talents.”

  “Ummm…” Flip started, flummoxed.

  “Flip sings in the chorus at St. Paul’s,” Ben said. Skye saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “That’s great!” Adriene said encouragingly. Flip looked pleased for an instant, but then he seemed to realize what Ben was up to.

  “Yeah, well, Ben plays guitar,” he said, glaring at Ben.

  “Oh?” Adriene looked at Ben hopefully.

  “Well, I can play ‘Wild Thing’ by the Troggs,” Ben admitted.

  “What, you only know two chords?” Adriene rolled her eyes. When she returned her attention to Flip, Ben looked at Skye and held up three fingers.

  Three chords, he mouthed, pretending to be serious. Skye acknowledged his correction of the record with a solemn nod. After a brief sidebar with Flip, Adriene told them the plans.

  “Okay, Ben, you’ll play ‘Wild Thing.’ Flip will sing and do a dance. I’ll choreograph.” She made a “spit spot” motion with her hands. “Where can we practice?”

  Skye stifled a laugh. Adriene might have taken a few dance classes in school, but as far as Skye knew, she had no experience in choreography. Flip, however, had the whatever it takes to please you expression that was familiar to Skye. He’d probably put on a tutu and sing opera if that’s what Adriene wanted.

  Ben, for his part, had the look guys get when they’re torn between stopping a friend from doing something really stupid, and kind of wanting to see what happens. He turned to Skye, his brown eyes dancing.

  “Well?”

  Skye put her hands up and shrugged, as if to say, How can we resist? Without another word, they had entered into conspiracy.

  “Okay, then. To my garage,” Ben said with great decisiveness, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to submit to the demands of a little spitfire he’d never seen before that night. As they headed for the door, Skye leaned over and whispered to Adriene.

  “So, I guess we’re not going to use binoculars and watch through the grasses.”

  “No way. We’re going full Gorillas in the Mist.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in four inner tubes on the floor of Ben’s detached garage, drinking beers. Ben’s older brother had transformed the garage into a party space. It was decorated with discarded lamps on discarded tables, a refrigerator, an old boombox with CD and cassette player, and some beer signs on the walls.

  Adriene was drilling the guys about Haven Point.

  “So, what do you people do here? Croquet? Polo?”

  “Oh my God, Adriene.” Skye laughed and looked up at the ceiling.

  “We don’t play croquet or polo,” Ben replied, pretending to be indignant. “We’re way too busy fox hunting.”

  He’s funny! Skye thought. This was a revelation. And funny at Haven Point’s expense, to boot.

  Flip, who until that point had seemed too intimidated to speak, finally got a question out.

  “So, where do you all go to school?”

  “I go to this super-strict and holy Catholic school out in the sticks,” Adriene said. “Though I’m Greek Orthodox, which means I also have to go to Greek school in the summer to unlearn all the wrong stuff they’re teaching me.”

  “Why’d your parents send you to a Catholic school?” Flip asked.

  “I think they went around the D.C. metro area and graded each school, one to ten, based on how repressive it is. They didn’t stop until they found an eleven,” Adriene said. “Skye’s mom does the same, except on the one-to-ten repression scale, she’s always looking for the one.”

  Ben and Flip turned to Skye and insisted she elaborate.

  Skye used to hate the school question. She knew it was supposed to set up the name game, which she could never play. Oh, you go to Deerfield? Do you know…?

  But things Skye had once been ashamed of were just fodder for analysis to Adriene. Nothing seemed quite as scary once it was taken out of hiding and put under her microscope. And when they had thoroughly dissected that formerly shameful thing, and all the parts were laid out on the table, Skye was able to make her real contribution to the partnership: spotting the absurdities, finding the comic potential.

  At first, it was just the two of them, laughing as they idly deconstructed anyone and anything. But one night, Skye had a revelation while watching a stand-up comic on late-night television. The comedian had mined her crazy family for material—found the through lines and matched them up with stories. Yes, the audience laughed, but the comedian got there first.

  That’s what Adriene and I do! Skye was no pro, obviously, but she wasn’t trying to get on Johnny Carson. She just wanted to get through high school.

  Over time, she and Adriene had taken the show on the road. And since they’d spent hours analyzing Skye’s schools, which Adriene found endlessly fascinating, Skye was more than prepared to respond to Ben and Flip.

  “Hmm, let me see.…” Skye paused and looked up, as if summoning something from memory, then began ticking them off on her fingers. “There was the grade school with faceless dolls and pine cones for toys, the ‘invent your own knowledge’ school, the one where we sang hymns to Gaia and buried coffee cans filled with cow manure to please the earth spirits, the one that believed there were no wrong answers, even in math.…”

  Ben and Flip laughed.

  “I was so jealous,” Adriene said. “Total anarchy.”

  “Yeah, until she worked with me at a frozen yogurt shop and realized I couldn’t calculate change without the cash register,” Skye said. “As you probably figured out at your schools, there actually are wrong answers in math.”

  “I’m still jealous,” Adriene insisted.

  “Are you artistic, too?” Ben asked, after Skye described her art teacher mom’s never-ending quest for the perfect school.

  “Not one little bit.” Skye sighed. “My poor mom.”

  “Oh please,” Adriene said. “She’s creative, and her mom knows it. Skye’s a writer. She even won a humor writing contest.”

  “Adriene, stop,” Skye said, embarrassed. Why was Adriene talking her up? They were only there because Flip had given Adriene an opening to do her Jane Goodall thing.

  “Oh, all right. She’s being humble. Anyway, it’s time we got working on your talent,” Adriene said.

  Flip looked a little disappointed, as if he hoped Adriene had forgotten, but Ben hopped right up.

  “I’ll go grab my guitar.”

  They spent the rest of that evening and the next in Ben’s garage. Ben played his three chords, and Adriene choreographed a ridiculous dance for Flip, which involved a lot of stomping and hand gestures.
Skye was in charge of costumes.

  On Wednesday night, Skye and Adriene arrived at the country club moments before the talent show began. The room was filled with parents and siblings of campers sitting in folding chairs in front of the portable pipe and drape they used as a stage.

  Skye hadn’t had much to work with in the costume department, but when the curtain opened on Flip and Ben, the crowd went crazy. Flip really did look like a “wild thing” in his dark shirt and dark pants and the floor-length wig Skye had made by stringing together pieces of dried seaweed.

  Ben and Flip were awarded an honorable mention for their effort—a triumph, especially since the judges overlooked Charlotte and her friends’ Spice Girls act.

  After the talent show, the four of them went to the beach. Adriene, prepared to finally reward her adoring protégé, promptly disappeared into the darkness with Flip.

  “Mission accomplished.” Skye laughed. When she turned to Ben, Bud Light bottle raised, she saw he was peering at her closely.

  “Not quite,” he replied.

  She looked at him questioningly, not sure she understood his meaning. Or, rather, afraid of the disappointment if she misunderstood it. They had laughed so much, and Skye had felt a powerful tug of attraction, but it was hard for her to believe he felt the same.

  “While his friend’s mission was accomplished,” Ben said, in a deep narrator’s voice, “he had a mission of his own.”

  He took her hand, led her out of the light of the beach club, and kissed her. It was soft and sweet, and she felt it from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. They didn’t separate until they heard Flip and Adriene’s voices.

  “You should have done that for the talent show,” Skye whispered, before Flip and Adriene were close enough to hear them.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said, pretending to consider it. “Flip’s not really my type.”

  The four of them had another five days together before Adriene’s parents returned from Greece and she had to leave.

  Skye, who was staying on Haven Point for another week, worried things with Ben might die out once Adriene was gone, but she and Ben continued to see each other whenever he wasn’t working.