Thirty Sunsets

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  Oh, no doubt. You don’t offer a McDonald’s employee a crash course on fruit-free parfait making for just anyone.

  “You’ve only been dating a few months,” I say.

  “Almost a year.”

  I squeeze the T-shirts between my fingers. “If you loved him, wouldn’t you want the best for him?”

  Olivia sets her jaw. “Of course I want the best for him.”

  I open my mouth to respond when we hear the bedroom door creak open.

  “Ready to hit the beach?” Brian asks Bambi.

  “Um … ” She tugs on her ponytail. “Give me a minute?”

  He winks at her. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He shuts the door and I scowl. Whether I’m ready to “hit the beach” or not is apparently a non-issue.

  Olivia and I hold our gaze for a tense moment. That whole “I love him” thread—were we in the middle of that? Just getting started? Are we done now? Neither of us seems to know.

  “Well,” Olivia says, sounding resigned. “Guess I’ll change into my bathing suit.”

  She plucks a tangerine-colored bikini from her suitcase and heads for the adjoining bathroom. I toss my T-shirts into a drawer, bite my lower lip, and bolt out of the room.

  I follow the sound of Mom’s vacuum cleaner into the great room. Without breaking my stride, I unclench my fist long enough to grab the cord of the vacuum cleaner and yank it from the outlet. Mom looks up, startled, as her vacuum cleaner abruptly shuts off.

  “Why is she here?”

  I can see Mom trying to settle into her cavalier oh-just-get-over-it-for-heaven’s-sake mode, but I guess the steam emanating from my ears makes her think twice.

  “Why. Is. She. Here?” I repeat.

  “Shhh,” Mom hisses, nodding toward my closed bedroom door just down the hall. “She’ll hear you.”

  “Tell me! It is not fair that you sprung this on me!” I say, and, crazily, even in the midst of my rage, I’m wondering whether the word is “sprung” or “sprang.” Dad’s an editor; we think about these things.

  Mom’s knuckles blanch as she tightens her grip on the vacuum cleaner handle. “Not everything is about you, Forrest.”

  “Yeah? Well, this is. I’m the one stuck in a room with her.”

  “Oh, please. And will you keep your voice down!”

  “Gladly. As soon as you answer the question: Why is she here?”

  Mom tugs at her necklace. “Because I knew it would mean a lot to your brother.”

  “Duh. Except I thought we both agreed that what Brian wants these days isn’t necessarily Brian needs.”

  She looks at me evenly. “Maybe that isn’t for us to decide,” she says in a clipped voice.

  I fling my hands in the air. “Since when?”

  “Since … ”

  Mom and I both glance toward the hall as we hear doors open—first the one from my bedroom, then the one from Brian’s. He and Olivia both emerge. Brian nods toward the beach. “Heading down,” he says.

  Mom nods. “We’ll join you soon.”

  Brian and Olivia clasp hands and head out the back door, where Dad is doing a crossword puzzle on the deck. Mom points to the electrical outlet, my cue that our conversation is over. Her vacuuming has been delayed as long as she can tolerate.

  Whatever.

  I plug it back in, give Mom a withering look as the vrooming resumes, and join Dad on the deck.

  “Hi, Woodpecker,” he says without looking up from his puzzle. I offer a sulky peace sign.

  “Garrulous,” Dad says.

  “Too easy,” I reply. “Plus, I’m not feeling very garrulous right now.”

  I plop in a deck chair next to his and peer at the ocean. “What was Mom thinking inviting her here?” I say, mostly to myself since Dad is generally on a need-to-know basis as far as Mom’s affairs are concerned.

  “It’s a good sign,” Dad says, still not looking up from his puzzle. “She’s adjusting.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “Adjusting to what?”

  He shrugs. “To letting you guys live your own lives. That’ll come in handy for you too, you know. Wimp, eleven letters, first letter M.”

  “Milquetoast,” I respond.

  Dad jots it down. “Impressive,” he murmurs under his breath. “I was assuming it would be some hip new colloquialism.”

  “ ‘Hip,’ ” I repeat dryly. “Gee, Dad, you’re so with it.” I plant my chin in the palm of my hand. “She’s a total flake, you know,” I say, watching Brian and Olivia as they start splashing in the surf. “Just like her mom. You know her mom’s not in the picture, right? She split when Olivia was, like, two. ‘Split.’ That’s one of those hip new colloquialisms.”

  I expect Dad to chuckle, but instead he tosses me a Significant Look. “Don’t judge people by their parents,” he says.

  I turn to face him. “Geez. What’s up with you?”

  “I mean it, Forrest,” he says. Uh-oh. My real name. I really struck a nerve.

  “It’s true,” I say. “About her mother, I mean.”

  “Even more reason to admire Olivia,” he says.

  My jaw drops. “Even more? Like we’re tallying reasons to admire her? Hmmm: One, she looks smokin’ hot in a bikini. Two, she looks smokin’ hot in a bikini despite the fact that her mother ditched her when she was two.”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “Enough.”

  I huff. It’s extremely difficult to piss Dad off. Leave it to Olivia to provoke this response. One more reason to admire her, right?

  But I forge ahead anyway. “Why don’t we tally reasons not to admire her?” I say. “Like how she’s totally unsuited for Brian and how she derailed his lifelong dream of medical school. And how I’m stuck sharing a room with her for a month.”

  “Be nice,” Dad says, but his tone is lighter. He’s doing his crossword puzzle again.

  This emboldens me. “Why is everyone suddenly okay with Brian blowing off Vanderbilt?”

  Dad fills in a word. “He’s a big boy. He’s entitled to live his own life.” He tosses me a glance. “Just like you are.”

  “But I’m making good choices!”

  Dad nods. “Good for you. Mom and I are proud of you. We really are. And we’re proud of Brian—whatever his choices and however his life unfolds.”

  I turn my gaze back to the ocean, a sea breeze blowing through my hair. I shake my head slowly. “Just when I’m ready to stomp some sense into my stupid brother, you and Mom go all kumbaya on me.”

  Dad lays his puzzle aside, stands up, and tousles my hair. “How about stomping in the sand instead? Your mom will be out here soon with her cleaning supplies, and I’m not in the mood for a face full of Windex. Ready to hit the beach?”

  I frown, but then scrunch my nose at him. “I’ll grab the surfboards.”

  nine

  “Wipeout!”

  I point at Dad and laugh as his head bobs out of the water after being swamped by a wave. He gives me a thumbs-up sign and grabs his surfboard, unbowed and ready for another round.

  I sit on my surfboard and use my arms to paddle deeper into the surf, the whoosh of the undertow skimming my legs. Spittles of seawater splash my face with every motion.

  Once positioned waist-deep in the water, I face the beach, steady my surfboard, and wait. I let a few waves pass by. A better one is coming, and I’m patient. I can sense the biggest waves building, feel it deep in my bones. An eerie calm settles in, as if the sea is taking a deep breath in preparation for a convulsive heave.

  “This is the one,” I say to myself, then hop aboard the smoothly waxed fiberglass. I plant my feet firmly, slightly angled, then bend my knees and spread my arms, tipping left, then right, then left again, keeping myself balanced as the crest of the wave pushes me higher, higher, higher …

  Then comes the adrenaline ru
sh, riding the wave, owning the wave, as it blasts me to the shore in a mad, dizzying surge of pure energy.

  I love how unpredictable the rides can be. Sometimes the whoosh subsides gradually, allowing me to teeter above the sea virtually until I reach the sand. Other times, the wild ride ends in a dizzying explosion in the water, me grasping my board desperately as the churning sea tosses me about and spits me out. No matter which way it shakes out—easy or hard—Dad and I invariably have grins on our faces as we get back on our feet.

  It’s supposed to be Dad and Brian and me riding the waves, of course. But Brian is lounging on a beach chair on the shore next to Olivia, their fingers lazily intertwined. This may be the first time I’ve ever seen Brian just lie on the beach. He’s usually surfing, or jogging, or swimming, or throwing a Frisbee, or at least reading, for god’s sake. But now he’s lying there doing nothing. Such is life with Olivia.

  I grab my board and walk toward them, shaking water from my ear.

  “Wanna ride?” I ask Olivia, and okay, maybe just a touch of sadism is involved since I can only imagine how spastic she must look on a surfboard.

  She peers up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun even though she’s wearing sunglasses. “No thanks.”

  “Aw, c’mon. It’s fun.”

  “She said no thanks,” Brian mutters.

  I curl my lip. “Thanks for the translation.”

  Olivia sits up straighter in her chair. “Really, thanks for the thought,” she says. “I’m just not really up for it right now. My stomach’s a little queasy.”

  I glance suspiciously at the half-eaten bag of chips by her side. Time to lurch for the nearest bathroom? I settle into a chair next to hers. If she really is bulimic, I want a ringside seat for verification. Maybe an eating disorder would be enough to nip Mom and Dad’s sudden lovefest in the bud.

  “So you’re not the outdoorsy type,” I say to Olivia.

  I feel her eyes settle on me. “I didn’t say that. I said my stomach was a little queasy.”

  Touché.

  Dad calls Brian over for a game of Frisbee in the surf. Brian looks conflicted, but apparently another wordless conversation with Olivia’s eyes convinces him it’s okay to leave her in my evil clutches.

  He squeezes her hand and trots off to join Dad.

  “Hey, mind if I ask you something?” Olivia asks me.

  Ummm …

  “Shoot.”

  “Why don’t you ever have any boyfriends?”

  I literally gulp. What the hell …

  “No offense,” Olivia says earnestly, and have you ever noticed that the only times people say “no offense” are after they’ve offended you?

  I feel blood pounding in my ears. How stupid that I’m speechless. What exactly do I feel? Indignation? Embarrassment? I’m the one who’s supposed to knock Olivia off balance, not the other way around.

  “I know you’re only sixteen and all, but, I mean, look at you,” Olivia says, eyeing my Speedo racerback. Frankly, I’m so flabbergasted at this point that I have absolutely no idea how to interpret that remark. Look at how hideous I am?

  “You’re gorgeous,” Olivia says.

  Oh. I didn’t see that one coming.

  “Right,” I say, staring at my fingers as I twist them into pretzels.

  “You are,” Olivia says, and she seems too genuinely incredulous at the observation to sound like she’s sucking up. “Your figure is amazing. And those green eyes and dimples? Man. Lots of guys in school talk about how cute you are, you know.”

  OMG, this is almost too revolting to bear.

  “They do,” Olivia continues. “I hear them. Or overhear them. You’re a knockout.”

  I swallow hard, suddenly, ridiculously, on the verge of tears.

  “But it’s like you put out these vibes,” Olivia says. She leans toward me. “Are you gay?”

  Something about her casual guilelessness catches me off guard, and I answer the question as easily as she asked it: “No.”

  She nods. “I didn’t think so. So what’s up? Do you want to date?”

  What kind of stupid, insane conversation is this?

  “Forrest? Are you crying?”

  I blink hard. “No. The sun’s in my eyes.”

  Olivia takes off her sunglasses and locks eyes with mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … ”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “No, maybe I don’t want to date. None of the guys in our town, anyway. Talk about a bunch of morons … ”

  Olivia nods, too eagerly. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought … that you’re too smart for the guys back home.”

  I blush. It’s one thing for me to believe that; it’s another for people to believe I believe that. I feel ridiculously exposed, excruciatingly pegged, revoltingly transparent.

  “I give off vibes?” I ask in a small voice.

  Olivia smiles. “Cool vibes,” she assures me. “But kinda …

  intimidating.”

  I press a fingernail against my lower lip. “I’m the one who’s intimidated,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  I’m tempted to let the answer gush out as effortlessly as the rest of my true confessions: I felt kinda pretty when I started high school, and I thought being popular was in reach. I mean, Brian is off-the-charts popular, right? But somehow, I can’t pull it off, and the harder I try, the more of a laughingstock I make of myself. I’m too … what? Smart? Fashion-challenged? Nonconformist? I don’t know, but I know I can’t put my ego through the blender another time. Throw in a few goddesses like you who suck up all the attention, and—oh, and by the way, you’re, like, my number-one disser. Besides, how superficial a goal is “popular”? And who needs those clowns anyhow?

  “I don’t know … ” I say instead.

  An awkward moment hangs in the air. “Well … ” Olivia finally says. “I think you’re really pretty. I just wanted you to know.”

  Another awkward moment. I’m trying to stammer a response, but nothing comes out.

  Olivia puts her sunglasses back on and settles back into her chair.

  Thank you.

  That’s what I was going for.

  ten

  “How do you like your burgers, Oh-live-and-let-die?”

  Olivia recoils. “I’m not really hungry.”

  I’m not sure which is more irritating: Olivia dissing Dad’s burgers or Dad giving her nicknames (and McCartney-esque ones at that; sacrilege!).

  “Ya gotta eat!” Dad says cheerily.

  “Um … maybe just a small one. And well done, please,” Olivia says.

  Okay, the spell has definitely been broken. Whatever cachet she accumulated earlier in the day with her “you’re really pretty” comment has been obliterated by her “I’m a princess who can’t eat my hosts’ disgusting food” routine. What is it with this girl? Who doesn’t eat burgers?

  “How about if I make you a salad?” Brian cajoles into her ear.

  “I made a salad,” Mom snaps.

  “Did you remember not to add any onions?” Brian asks, and OMG why don’t we just hire a personal chef already for this insufferable diva.

  “No onions,” Mom says in a tight voice.

  “I hate to be so much trouble,” Olivia says, and then Dad starts chortling about how she’s no trouble, no trouble at all, why, come to think of it, he’s not a big fan of onions himself. Puh-leeze.

  “And we have rolls, right, Mom?” Brian says. “Olivia really likes rolls.”

  “Who has rolls with hamburgers?” Mom asks sensibly, and I suppress a smile. What a weird development, that Mom is emerging as my beach BFF.

  Olivia casts Brian an annoyed glance and he says, “Don’t you like rolls?” And, god knows, we’re all waiting with bated breath to hear the answer to this fascinating question.

  Sh
e mouths a response to him that I can’t decipher. It’s quite the quandary to not be clear on her feelings regarding rolls.

  I dig my fingertips into the arms of my cedar chair. Let’s see: six five-day forecasts equals, hmmm, OMG, ninety meals, give or take a couple, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand.

  “What do you like, Olivia?” I ask. “I mean, besides cantaloupe.” Oh, and celery. Remember the delicious celery we served at Brian’s graduation party?

  She blushes. “I just don’t have much of an appetite lately.”

  Brian glares at me. Really? Really ? I’m having to suffer through a game of Twenty Questions regarding her food preferences and he’s glaring at me ?

  I suck in my lips and wonder if I’ll end up hating Brian ninety meals from now. But as pissed as I am, I already know the answer to that. Nothing could make me hate Brian.

  Not even Oh-live-and-let-diet.

  “Ready for another?”

  We’ve all watched in awe as Olivia wolfed down her well-done burger in two bites flat. So she’s not made of porcelain after all.

  “Um … if you have enough,” Olivia tells Dad. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought. That was delicious.”

  Brian smiles broadly. Mom, sitting safely in Olivia’s periphery, rolls her eyes.

  Dad heads back to the grill. “Another well-done burger coming up,” he says.

  “Um … on second thought … ”

  All eyes fall on Olivia, whose face has suddenly turned gray. She jumps up and runs into the house. Mom and Dad exchange glances, and Brian runs after Olivia.

  “What the hell … ” I say, craning my neck to follow her path.

  “Forrest,” Mom sniffs. “Language.”

  “Do you think she’s okay?” Dad asks Mom.

  I jump to my feet. “No! It’s not okay to puke after every meal!”

  I glance at Mom, then Dad, then Mom again, but I can’t read their expressions. Is bulimia one of those “hip new” diseases they can’t wrap their heads around? Are we still in protect-Brian’s-feelings-at-any-cost mode?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, toss my paper plate aside, and stomp down the steps toward the beach.