Thirty Sunsets

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  “I better get going,” I tell her.

  “Hey, is it true that Olivia is bulimic?”

  I roll my eyes. “Gotta go. I promised Dad a game of Scrabble.”

  “Now that’s more your speed,” she says, and though I know she’s being silly, the remark still stings.

  I’ll choose my speed from now on, thank you very much.

  eighteen

  “Ya okay?”

  This is the first chance I’ve had to talk to Olivia alone since our shopping trip.

  “Yeah,” she says from her bottom bunk. “I think Brian overreacted.”

  “Right,” I say, staring at ceiling from my bed. “What’s the big deal about promising your baby to some nice couple from church?”

  She giggles. “That’s what I mean. She never even talked to the couple from church. Brian didn’t exactly get the facts straight.”

  I give a low whistle. “Mom’s gonna love you,” I say.

  Pause.

  “Not that it didn’t hurt,” Olivia concedes. “The fact that your mom thinks we would even consider giving our baby up for adoption … yeah, that hurt. But she’s had a lot to adjust to in the past few weeks.”

  “Whatever. People get pregnant every day, you know. It’s not like she’s dealing with an alien invasion. She’s so naive. Mom has been way too sheltered all her life.”

  Crickets are chirping outside our bedroom.

  “Your mom’s a lot tougher than you think she is,” Olivia says.

  I pause, then ask, “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’m just … getting the impression that your mom is a lot stronger than she seems.”

  I knit my fingers together. “Today when I overheard Mom and Dad fighting … ”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mom was telling Dad he didn’t get a vote about the baby.”

  Silence.

  “What do you think she meant by that?” I ask.

  More silence.

  “And Dad said he didn’t appreciate being treated like an outsider,” I continue, not sure myself why I can’t quite shake these words from my head. “An outsider.”

  Olivia says nothing.

  “You know something I don’t,” I say, and even as I utter the words, I feel a strange sense of clarity. I’m just not sure what I’m clear about.

  “What do you know?” I ask her, leaning up on an elbow.

  “Nothing,” Olivia murmurs unconvincingly.

  I inch myself to a sitting position. “You do. You know something I don’t.” Our ceiling fan oscillates lazily overhead. “What do you know?”

  When Olivia doesn’t reply, I lean over my bunk and face her in the moonlight. “If you knew something, would you tell me?”

  She swallows and averts her eyes. “Of course,” she finally says, then locks eyes with me again. “I’m the BFF who took you bikini shopping, remember? Hey, you’ve got to wear that pink bikini tomorrow. It’s supposed to be sunny all day.”

  I gaze at her for a moment, then plop back onto my bed. “I saw him today.”

  Olivia’s mattress squeaks as she shifts in her bed. “The guy you took the walk with a few nights ago?”

  “Yeah … ” I finger a lock of hair. “We kinda … made out on the beach. Just for a couple of minutes.”

  God. I am twelve.

  “Is it the first time you’ve kissed a guy?” Olivia asks.

  “Of course not,” I say, stunning myself by lying so effortlessly.

  Olivia stands up and faces me. “I thought you said he blew you off when he was with his friends.”

  I nod quickly. “I know it was totally jerky, but he did kinda explain it. He said he was … ”

  “I don’t care what he said,” Olivia says disdainfully. “That’s not okay, Forrest.”

  I shake my head. “No, really, it was just … it was just a misunderstanding. Then he spent the rest of the week painting his aunt’s bathroom—he’s staying at her beach house this summer—and … ”

  “And you were making out?” Olivia prods.

  “Just kissing.”

  “How old is he?” Olivia persists.

  I’m embarrassed that I don’t know, so here comes lie number two: “Seventeen.”

  Olivia runs a hand through her hair. “He sounds like a player, Forrest.”

  “He’s actually very sweet,” I say with an edge in my voice.

  “No,” Olivia says. “New guy. Tomorrow we find you a new guy.”

  I sit up abruptly, my legs dangling over the bed. “You sound like Shelley,” I say. “What is it with you two? You find it totally inconceivable that a cute guy could be interested in me?”

  Olivia’s eyes widen. “No. No! I’m the one who told you how cute you are, how guys are always talking about how beautiful you are—”

  “But not beautiful enough for any of them to ask me out,” I say.

  Olivia studies my eyes. “Did this guy ask you out?”

  “Uh, duh,” I say indignantly. “He asked me over to his aunt’s house.”

  She nods, processing the information. “Like, for dinner with them?”

  I huff. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Something like that?”

  “God!” I punch my pillow. “Do I need a permission slip to have a conversation with a guy?”

  “You didn’t say anything about a conversation.”

  “Right,” I snap. “He just walked up to me and started kissing me. And I’m such a pathetic sap that I was just like, ‘Oooohh, sure, I’m a total loser who’ll take whatever crumbs you toss my way.’ Is that what you think of me?”

  “I’m just trying to watch out for you … ”

  “Well, who asked you?”

  She purses her lips and stares at the ground. “No one.”

  I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to snap. Thanks for your concern. Really. But none of this is a big deal. He’s a guy, that’s all. I just wish people would give me a little more credit … or would think I’m entitled to a little attention.” I swallow hard.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Olivia whispers.

  I nod. “Yeah. I know. Maybe we should just get some sleep.”

  But she lingers in her spot, still looking at me.

  “We both need a good night’s sleep,” I say.

  She pauses a moment more, then says, “Okay.”

  I turn to my side and stare at the wall. Maybe I will wear that pink bikini tomorrow.

  I come home from school, walk into the den, let my backpack fall from my shoulders, and settle into the recliner as I turn on the TV. Then I grab my chemistry book and reach to the right to turn on the lamp so I can begin my homework.

  Only the lamp’s not there. That’s weird. The lamp has been to the right of the recliner my whole life.

  I glance around the room anxiously. Hey! I’ve suddenly noticed that lots of things are out of place. The coffee table is pushed up against a wall, and—what the hell—the couch is turned backward, away from the TV. Is this some kind of a joke?

  Then Mom, Dad, and Brian walk into the room and settle onto the backward couch. Dad starts a crossword puzzle, and Mom and Brian are whispering to each other. I try to catch their eyes, but none of them notice me. Or maybe they do notice me and just won’t acknowledge me.

  “What’s going on?” I practically shout.

  Mom shushes me.

  “Tell me!” I demand. “Everything is out of place! What’s going on?”

  “Nothing is ‘going on,’” Mom says prissily.

  “But the couch! It’s turned backward! You’re facing the wall! Why would you turn the couch backward?”

  Mom, Dad, and Brian exchanges glances.

  “What is going on?” I repeat frantically.

 
“Everything is fine,” Dad says.

  “No, it’s not! Everything is weird!”

  Then my dream gets even weirder: Scott walks in. At first, I’m excited; my heart actually skips a beat. But then I’m thinking, “You don’t fit here; you don’t fit.”

  But then, nothing fits anymore … right?

  Scott walks over and squeezes into the chair beside me. Okay, this is a little too close for comfort; he’s taking up so much room that I’m sinking into the chair cushion. I keep slipping farther and farther. I want to tell him “Hey, I’m disappearing into the chair,” but I don’t want to seem uncool, and everybody’s acting like I’m the crazy one, and hey, maybe I am, so I keep my mouth shut as the cushion swallows me inch by inch until I’m suddenly gasping for air. Too late to speak up now.

  nineteen

  I pull my hair into a ponytail and lower my sunglasses.

  It’s noon. I’ve been on the beach all morning, and no Scott sightings. I think briefly about my dream the night before but literally shake it from my thoughts. It was just a stupid dream. So weird that Scott was in it …

  Anyhow, it’s not like I’ve been lying around all morning on the beach waiting for him. In fact, I’ve been in the middle of a good book, and I was relieved nobody bothered me while I finished it.

  But I’m finished now.

  Brian and Olivia are snoozing in the beach chairs next to mine, their fingers loosely interlocked. I put my book on my chair and head toward the surf.

  It’s so ridiculous that my heart is pounding. All I’m doing is taking a walk on the beach!

  “Just taking a walk on the beach,” I actually say to myself out loud. No pep talks necessary, no explanations or justifications, no need for analysis … just taking a walk on the beach.

  I kick beads of water as a wave skitters under my feet, then head east. I tug at my bikini bottom, force myself to stop (this is how it’s supposed to fit, moron), and swing my arms as I step into a loping stride. Swimmers and surfers thrash around in the ocean while kids dig in the sand and old people walk hand in hand.

  I envy the old people, their flabby arms and doughy, dimpled thighs notwithstanding. Their hearts aren’t pounding out of their chests. Their eyes aren’t darting around wondering who may be looking at them and what those people may be thinking. They’re simply ambling down the beach, enjoying the sea breeze, smiling at toddlers, pointing occasionally at sights of interest. Sometimes they’re talking to each other, often not. If they have something to say, they say it, but silence is just fine too. Their relationships are as comfortable as a tattered terrycloth bathrobe. You like their floral one-pieces or the black socks their husbands wear with tennis shoes? Great. You don’t? They couldn’t care less.

  This is Mom and Dad twenty years from now. Actually, it’s Mom and Dad today, just without the dimpled thighs or black socks. That’ll come; Mom’s already complaining about wrinkles, and Dad’s paunch gets a little paunchier each summer. They’ve long since settled into the rhythms of old-couple

  nonchalance. They’ve never struck me as deliriously in love, but they’re as reliable and predictable as the tides. It’s hard to imagine Brian and Olivia in these roles, but if they stand the test of time, they’ll be the frumpy couple walking down the beach a few decades from now. Is that possible for them? Even though I’ve given Olivia short shrift the past few years (and the sudden realization that I may have inherited some of my mother’s bitchiness is nothing short of mortifying), it’s still hard to imagine her settling into long-term coupling, considering her background.

  Dad said not to judge people by their parents, but how can Olivia commit to a long-term relationship when she’s never seen one up close? Her dad seems pleasant enough, and kudos to him for sticking around when her mom bailed, but what happens if you don’t have a built-in playbook when you get married? Being solid is probably the most natural thing in the world to Mom and Dad; both sets of my grandparents have been married for, like, eons. I know Olivia’s heart is in the right place and her intentions are good, but does her relationship with Brian really stand a chance long term?

  I really hope so. Now that we’ve ruled out handing their baby over to the lead alto and her earnest tenor husband in the church choir, I’m starting to feel what it will mean to have a baby in the family, to be an aunt, to watch Brian be a father. I want a perfect life for this baby. I want a niece I can spoil relentlessly, one I can teach to own the world and to never, ever feel excruciatingly self-conscious walking down the beach in her new pink bikini wondering if some guy she barely knows will notice, and …

  And there he is. Just a few yards ahead of me, Scott is playing Frisbee with his friends, just like he was a few days earlier. Oh god oh god oh god …

  Don’t mess this up, I tell myself, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. Play it cool. No windmill arms or lame shout-outs. Play it cool.

  So I do. I just keep walking, grateful my sunglasses are obscuring my eyes. I swing my arms and tilt my chin skyward, just a girl minding her own business, walking on the beach, enjoying a sunny afternoon …

  I don’t slow my pace an iota as I walk past them. Still moving forward, still looking straight ahead, still just chillin’ …

  “Forrest!”

  But I keep walking, acting like I didn’t hear Scott calling my name.

  “Forrest!” he repeats, louder this time.

  I’ve passed him now, so I stop in my tracks, glance backward, adjust my sunglasses, toss him the subtlest of smiles, then flash him a peace sign. And keep walking.

  “Hey!”

  But I’m still walking.

  “Wait up!”

  I slow my pace and glance behind me, trying to look mildly annoyed. Scott is trotting up to me, his friends resuming their Frisbee game without him.

  “That bikini is smokin’ hot,” he says, touching my forearm as he catches up with me.

  “Thanks,” I say coolly, still looking straight ahead. “Go finish your game.”

  Instead, he swoops closer and kisses my neck. “Frisbee seems awfully boring all of a sudden,” he says.

  I giggle. “I mean it. Go play. I just wanted some exercise.”

  He leans in to kiss me again on the neck, even though I haven’t slowed my stride. “I can think of some other ways to get some exercise.”

  I giggle again. This is how guys talk, right? Granted, I can’t imagine Dad or Brian talking this way, but who knows what kind of lines they used on girls back in the day. I mean, relationships have to start somehow, don’t they? They don’t just wash up on the beach fully formed.

  Scott takes my hand and firmly pulls it toward him, forcing me to stop.

  “Hey … ” I whine playfully.

  “Here’s the thing,” he says, pulling me close and staring in my eyes. “If you don’t kiss me right now, I’m gonna be so bummed that I’ll hurl myself into the ocean, and my foot is still bleeding from where I cut it on a seashell earlier today, so I’ll probably be shark bait, and I’ll—”

  Then I kiss him. Just like that. It feels like the most effortless thing I’ve ever done. I kiss him, and he kisses me back, and my hands link around his neck, and he pushes closer, and we do that little face dance thing again—tilting left and right—and soon, he’s pressing me so close that I can barely breathe.

  “I … gotta go,” I whisper when we finally pull our lips apart, our noses still nuzzling.

  “Go where?”

  I shrug. “I told you. I’m exercising.”

  “Baby, you’re already a ten. Bodies don’t get any hotter than yours.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “We can’t stand here smooching all day.”

  “Oh, I definitely beg to differ.” He leans in and kisses me again.

  The waves lap at our feet. My hips sway. I love pink bikinis.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Scott says after pulling away.
“We can’t stand here all day.” He tosses his head toward the beach houses behind us. “Wanna come check out my aunt’s house?” He raises a single eyebrow mischievously. “The guest bathroom is freshly painted.”

  Um … um …

  “I dunno,” I say coyly.

  “Sure you do.”

  Okay, that’s not a good idea. Take it slow, Forrest.

  He sounds like a player, Forrest. New guy. Tomorrow we find you a new guy.

  Okay, Shelley and Liv, you can get out of my head now. Four’s a crowd.

  “C’mon … ” Scott is cooing, pulling me farther up the beach.

  “Um … I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My house. Come to my house for dinner tonight. You can meet my family.”

  Scott’s face is inscrutable.

  “Come,” I prod. “I want you to meet my brother. You two have a lot in common.”

  Okay, that sounds stupid, considering that the sum total I know about Scott is that he likes Frisbee and can paint a bathroom. But still …

  “Dinner … ” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “My mom is highly annoying, but she’s an awesome cook.”

  He squints into the sun. “What time?”

  “Seven. My house is the one with the—”

  “You think I don’t know which house is yours?” he says, grinning.

  I lean closer and give him a peck on the cheek. “Seven at my house. Now, lemme finish my walk, for crying out loud.”

  He squeezes my hands, then trots back toward his friends.

  My heart feels like it’s about to leap from my throat onto the beach.

  Seven at my house. That has the most incredible ring to it.

  twenty

  “I told you: it’s just a friend.”

  “Well, what’s your friend’s name?” Mom asks, her hands on her hips.

  Damn. Did I really think this through, pulling Nosy Nora into my romance?

  “Scott,” I say, then feel my heart sink as Mom’s eyes widen dramatically.

  “A boy.”

  “Mom, please don’t make this a bigger deal than it is,” I plead. “He’s just a nice guy I invited over for dinner.”