The Complete History of Why I Hate Her

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  Lounging on the dock after breakfast, me with a copy of Pride and Prejudice on my lap—mandatory summer reading—Lucy explains that Nigel is a nephew of Pete’s, and therefore, like all Lovells, he is expected to gain some understanding of the family business during his “imprint years.”

  “So that’s why he never drinks or lets loose at the beach parties,” I say.

  Annie nods. “His older brother screwed up big-time when he was here. Nigel is expected to behave differently.”

  “He’s being groomed,” says Lucy.

  Carly shoots me a “told you so” look.

  Someone shouts and we all turn to look. It’s Kevin coming down the hill.

  “Hey, Cannolis,” he calls.

  “What are you shouting?” Brita asks.

  “Cannolis. Carly, Nola—suppose I could call them ‘Canola,’ as in canola oil, but ‘Cannolis’ sounds so much nicer.”

  “And sweeter,” I say.

  “And yummy,” Carly says.

  “And why do you need the Cannolis?” Lucy asks.

  “You had a phone call,” he says, turning and walking back up to the inn.

  “We both had a call?” I ask.

  “I told Dom and Harrison to call us,” Carly says, reaching for more sunscreen.

  “You did?”

  “Sure. I told Dominic you’d never had lobster before. He insisted on taking us to Eaton’s, and I suggested that Harrison come too.”

  Brita looks at me. “You’ve never had lobster?” she asks.

  “My mother is allergic to shellfish,” I say. “Harrison agreed?”

  “Of course he agreed. Why wouldn’t he?”

  Brita persists. “But why haven’t you had lobster? You could have ordered one in a restaurant.”

  I know why, but I don’t want to say, Because my sister is sick, on a strictly vegan diet (one of the gazillion things she’s been made to try), and when I’m with her, I won’t eat things she can’t eat. Exactly why I needed this summer. I just shrug.

  “Ack,” Mariah says, throwing her People magazine down. “It’s going to be one of those times.”

  “What do you mean?” Annie asks.

  “Lucy has Will. Now Carly has Dominic and Nola has Harrison. Annie, you will no doubt be hooked up with Nigel before the summer’s over.”

  Please let Mariah be psychic.

  “What makes you say that?” Annie asks, but her pink cheeks give her hopes away.

  “And me? I have leprous old Mr. Franklin at table eight.”

  “But you didn’t mention me. I’m a single woman, Mariah,” Brita says.

  “Huh,” Mariah snorts. “Not for long. You, Brita, are never single for long.”

  I don’t even try to contradict Mariah. Maybe, like Annie, I harbor hope.

  That night after work Harrison pulls up in front of the barn in an old Jeep, and I realize that without him, the vehicle-less Dominic wouldn’t have transportation to Deer Isle—and to Eaton’s Lobster Pool. Had Dominic asked to borrow the Jeep? Had Harrison suggested they double? Or had he kept things more open, saying, Why don’t the four of us go? Maybe this was his way of staying in the Carly competition.

  He comes around to open the passenger door, but Carly doesn’t wait. Instead, she hoists herself up with the roll bar and into the backseat, laughing. Feeling like the maidenly aunt, I thank Harrison for opening my door as I climb in.

  “So how is it, growing up outside of Boston and all, you haven’t tried lobster?” Dominic asks me as we pass the live lobster tank on the way to our table.

  “Well, I have tried eating those little legs,” I say, taking a new tack this time. “My father brought home a lobster when I was little and gave me those spindly legs to suck on.”

  “Oh, the abused child,” says Carly, “thrown mere morsels.”

  “You know, there was a law on the books during Colonial times,” Harrison says, bringing his chair closer to the others, “that prohibited people from serving lobster to their servants more than twice a week.”

  “Poor peasants—some things haven’t changed for the better,” Dom says. He pulls a six-pack of beer from a cooler.

  “You can do this?” I ask. “Drink your own beer in this restaurant?”

  “Look around, Nolie,” Carly says. “Everyone’s brought their own.”

  “But we’re—” I catch myself before shouting out that Carly and I are underage. “Sorry,” I say.

  The others look at one another and shake their heads. Naïve? Yes. Cute? Not. But they quickly forgive me and make a big deal of tying on my bib, demonstrating the use of the lobster crackers and the pick, and giving me little tips throughout the meal.

  Carly makes a show of eating the tomalley (not for me, thank you). Harrison leans over to wipe some green stuff off her face with his finger, and I feel my heart snag. Nothing you couldn’t have guessed, I tell myself. I mean, who wouldn’t be attracted to Carly? Let it go. Let him go.

  One pound of clams, one lobster, one baked potato, and two beers later, I’m feeling as if I may not be the world’s most desired girl, but I have had the ideal meal. I look across the table and smile.

  “Miss Nola, I do believe you’re drunk,” says Dominic.

  “Drunk on this meal, maybe,” I say, though I am feeling a wee bit tipsy. “I can’t believe I’ve experienced seventeen years without lobster.”

  Harrison leans over and ruffles my hair. Dominic laughs.

  Somehow I’ve become their pet. It’s all right. It’s still fun.

  “I’m bored with this,” says Carly. “What else can we do?”

  Chapter 13

  “Pull over!” Carly shouts before we drive back onto the mainland.

  Harrison takes a sharp left and parks in the lot of a dingy roadside motel.

  “Let’s go out on the bridge,” she says.

  “Not me,” Harrison says, opening a tackle box between the front seats and pulling out a mega-pack of M&M’s. “I’m happy right here.”

  I’m reminded of our first meeting when he told me he’s a Taoist. Harrison has nothing to prove.

  As he holds out the bag to me, I search my under-functioning brain for some reason to stay where I am. How about, I’m wildly attracted to this guy, and maybe if you two leave, we’ll jump each other or … or … hell, I can’t think of any other reason.

  “Come on, you!” Carly says, pulling on my shoulder. I glance at Harrison, whose face poses a question. An invitation? A test? I can’t read it.

  Carly stands by my side, waiting, and I slide out of the Jeep.

  Dominic gives us a history lesson as we walk across the bridge in the fog. This is a suspension bridge spanning around 330 meters—supposedly the same design as the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in Washington, which collapsed like a ribbon in the wind.

  I figure Dom’s just trying to scare us.

  But Carly’s not scared. She walks to the center of the bridge and sits up on the railing. We move in closer to protect her.

  “Hold my hands,” she says.

  We obey and she suddenly stands on the rail. Her hair and shirt blow in the breeze. She looks like some sort of goddess up there.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Carly?” Harrison calls, joining us after all.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” Carly asks, seeming not to hear him.

  “No,” says Harrison. “When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it.”

  I feel familiar fingers grabbing my heart and wish I’d called home … or written that promised letter. “I kind of believe in it,” I say tentatively, reaching for the waistband of Carly’s jeans with my free hand, “or at least life after death. But it might be wishful thinking.”

  “If I come back, I want to be a tree,” says Carly, stretching her body upward. “A tall, majestic tree. I’d just stand, spreading my branches and growing taller every day—surrounded by all my tree friends.”

  “Come here, Miss Tree,” says Harrison, holding his arms out.

  Who cou
ld resist?

  Carly jumps into that embrace, and the four of us lope arm in arm back to the Jeep.

  “Are you all right?” Carly asks as we’re getting into our pj’s. “You’ve been quiet since the bridge.”

  I don’t want her to think it’s anything she’s done—it isn’t. “You know my little sister?”

  “The one you write?”

  I didn’t know she’d noticed. “Yeah,” I say. “She’s really sick.”

  “Like … cancer?”

  I nod.

  Carly paces around the room. “But it’s a good cancer, right? One of the curable kinds?”

  I picture my mother’s face as she says, “If one more person asks me if this tumor is the good kind, I’m going to scream. There is no good kind!” But Mom gets it, really, and so do I. People want to make things okay for us. You get used to it.

  “She’s doing chemo,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to make myself or Carly feel better. “For the second time. But she’s got a chance.”

  “Phew,” says Carly. She comes over to where I’m sitting on the bed and gives me a big hug. “What’s her name?”

  “Song.”

  “Don’t worry, Nola,” she says, standing again. “She’ll be fine. I like her name. Have I told you my doctor’s name is Dr. Ache? And my dentist is Dr. Moss?”

  She turns off the light and we lie in the dark. For a few moments I’m lost in my thoughts of Song, and then I’m not sure, but I think Carly might be crying.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She sniffs. “My best friend in grade school died of cancer,” she says. “Leukemia.”

  It’s my turn to get up and hug her.

  Chapter 14

  It rains for the next week and we have no place to go. The barn has been overtaken by cranky guests playing cribbage or watching family movies that Nigel schedules at regular intervals. The kids race around, pulling games off the shelves and then abandoning them. Forget about even getting near the computer—everyone is suddenly desperate for outside contact.

  At first we’re all kind of psyched to hide out upstairs: read, write postcards, learn something new (Annie taught a few of us how to knit), but after days and days the barn has become cold and damp and the rain on the roof is a ceaseless drum.

  Weather puts everything on pause: no beach parties, no “spontaneous” meetings along the road, no chance of bumping into someone during a run. Counselors at Robin Hood are required to turn in all their electronics when they arrive at camp—so texting with the guys isn’t even an option.

  “I can’t stand another minute of hanging around here,” Carly says, stretching out on her bed.

  That’s when we hear Nigel below. “I think that’s a great idea, Mrs. Winston. I’m sure some of our staff would love to challenge the kids to a game of Monopoly.”

  Carly looks at me with fear in her eyes.

  “Carly and Nola are upstairs, I think,” says Annie. “I could get them.”

  “The Cannolis!” says Mrs. Winston. “The kids will be thrilled.”

  When did the guests start calling us that? Carly and I leap up and collide as we head out the door. I start to take the stairs, but she grabs my arm, “Too risky.”

  I follow her to Lucy and Brita’s room; they are presumably holed up in the maintenance shack, watching a movie on Will’s laptop. Carly shuts their door and then opens the window that faces a big maple tree at the back of the barn. It takes her three seconds to unfasten the screen, lift it out of place, and let it drop to the ground. “Hurry,” she whispers.

  There is no time to tell Carly that heights and I don’t play well together, that I have never in my whole life climbed a tree—never mind a tree that’s slimy from a week’s worth of rain. I crouch on the windowsill and lean forward to grab the one branch that looks as if it might have a chance of holding me.

  “You can do it, Nolie,” she says, and I believe her. My foot slips when I try to step onto the tree, and I grasp at anything I can—sure that my arms are being pulled entirely from their sockets. Miraculously, I don’t plummet to the ground. I regain some footing and freeze for a few moments, letting my heart slow down.

  We can hear Annie calling us, and with that, we climb downward, finally shimmying to the ground. My belly is badly scratched, we’re covered in mud and bark, but we’re laughing.

  Carly takes my hand as we make our way through the woods, and I wonder why people stay inside when it rains. The woods are magical when wet. Colors I probably wouldn’t even notice—lime green moss, red mushrooms, and yellow wildflowers—glow in the drenched half-light.

  “Watch,” says Carly, turning over a big rock. Some bugs scramble away, but just sitting there is an orange spotted newt.

  “He’s so cute!” I say. “How could you have possibly known he’d be there?”

  She shrugs, like she made him happen.

  The woods end abruptly, and we find ourselves standing on the edge of a rock cliff. Both the small patch of grass at the top and the layered rock are slippery, and I instinctually grab on to an evergreen shrub to ensure that I stay right where I am. To our right are scrubby paths that probably follow a gradual descent to the ocean docks. The waves below are churning and crashing from all the rain.

  “This must be the ledges,” I say.

  “What ledges?”

  I tell her about the Rocky Cove tradition and try to imagine leaping.

  She’s suddenly afire. “Let’s do it now,” she says. “Let’s be the first to jump from them this summer.”

  “No way,” I tell her, lifting my shirt to show her my bloody torso. “I’ve had enough injury for one day.”

  She raises her face to the sky, letting the rain hit her skin directly. “Okay. But we are so doing this.”

  I raise my eyebrows in question.

  “Nola,” she chants.

  “All right,” I whisper.

  “Now you’re sizzling.”

  Chapter 15

  The sun finally makes its reappearance. I’m rocking on the porch after lunch, waiting for the other waitresses to finish up. I have a letter from Song, a single haiku:

  Don’t write just bad stuff

  You don’t have to hide good things

  Write: Wish you were here

  It’s pretty good, I think. Not all of Song’s haikus are. She often writes stuff she knows nothing about, like passionate, undying love. Those haikus come across as, I don’t know, silly. Thirteenish.

  But this one? This one hits the mark. I feel a wash of guilt. Maybe I have been keeping the fun from Song, fearing she’ll feel left out. Maybe I’m feeling guilty about having a life separate from her.

  Nigel drops down beside me.

  He has a pile of college catalogs in his lap. “Where you applying?” he asks.

  “No clue,” I say. I know that I should have some idea by now. But college is expensive. And it’s hard for me to think about being away from Song for any longer than I already will be this summer. If she’s still sick, I’m not going anywhere. “How about you?”

  “Not a question of where I want to go. It’s a given. Colgate. My great-grandfather went to Colgate, as did his son and his son before me.”

  “You didn’t tell, did you?” Lucy asks, slamming the screen door behind her.

  “Nope,” Nigel says. “Not a word.”

  “Tell what?” asks Carly, who follows behind Lucy. She plops down on my knee.

  I don’t mind. I wait to hear what hasn’t been told, but apparently, Nigel and Lucy aren’t ready to spill.

  They chat about the revised time-off schedule—everyone on staff gets one day a week (mine’s Friday)—until all of us are congregated on the porch.

  “Come on,” says Nigel. “Let’s move to the barn.”

  “A meeting?” I ask.

  “You were out running when I announced it,” says Lucy.

  Carly shrugs, meaning, I guess we’ll find out.

  Once we’re comfortable in the rec room, Lucy says
that she and Nigel have worked out a plan for this year’s staff show.

  Nigel says with authority, “We’ve decided not to do a talent show.”

  “What?” the crowd roars.

  “We’re doing a play,” Lucy says.

  Nigel gives us a chance to process this (most think it’s a good idea since they’ve performed their funniest talents in past years) and then tells us, “We’re doing the murder mystery And Then There Were None.”

  “Oh my God!” says Mariah. “My cousin was in that play last year. It’s terrifying!” And then she quickly adds, “I’ll play the butler’s wife. She’s sooo fraaagile.” She gives us her performance of an old woman fainting.

  “You look like the typical Rocky Cove guest,” Annie says.

  “The part’s yours,” says Lucy.

  “Lucy’s our casting director,” says Nigel.

  Lucy looks around. “But if anyone else wants the job …”

  No one says a word.

  “Okay then,” Lucy says. “I thought we could take turns tomorrow reading Vera’s and Phil’s parts—I guess you’d call them the leads—and then I’ll just go ahead and assign the other roles.” Nigel passes out scripts from a stack he produces, and we fool around with lines for a few minutes.

  I’m psyched. Song and I perform for each other or my parents all the time, but I’ve never been in a real play. I’ve always run, and clocking the necessary mileage hasn’t left time for much else—not if I was going to be a contender.

  None of the other waitresses seem to think about the audition for the rest of the day. But the idea of performing in front of people—even if it’s just the waitresses and the maintenance guys—flips me into training mode. So I sneak off with the script hidden in my shorts to practice.