The Guardian

by Katie Klein

She stiffened.

  “Of course not,” Carter answered for her. “We’ll go early.”

  “I’m in, then.” I looked at Selena as I said this, expression screaming: I never liked you, but I’m not entirely certain she was perceptive enough to pick up on this.

  Carter pulls into my driveway around 10am on Saturday. When I pass through the living room, Mom is on the couch watching the Shopping Network. You’d think this would be torture: watching a program that hawks items you could never, in a million years, afford. But Mom is always watching the shopping channels.

  “I’m at the beach,” I tell her.

  “Sunscreen?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the television.

  “In my bag.”

  “Sunglasses?”

  I roll my eyes. “On my head.” I reach up and touch them, just to make sure. “I’ll see you at Ernie’s.”

  “Be careful,” she warns.

  I open the front door and bounce down the steps. It surprises me, actually, how excited I am. A day in the sun is exactly what I need, even if I have to spend it with Selena and Vivian.

  “Hey,” I say, opening the passenger’s side door. I toss my tote bag to the floorboard and climb in.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I reply, reaching around to grab the seatbelt. I’m not exactly a breakfast person . . . unless I’m eating it for dinner, apparently.

  “I thought I’d grab us some sodas and snacks at the gas station, just in case,” he explains.

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  He backs out of the driveway and into the street.

  Already, cars fill The Strip. The happy colors of the homes lining the side streets don’t seem quite so obnoxious in the spring air. Houses boarded up for the last six months are open. Women in bikini tops and visors and men with beer guts hanging over the bands of their swim trunks occupy roof porches and huddle in driveways, catching up with neighbors after their extended coastline hibernation.

  “Are you going to be able to swim with that thing?” Carter asks, nodding toward my cast.

  I look down at my wrist, still covered in what is now a dingy, gray cast. The edges are fraying, the inside perpetually damp, and though I keep spraying it with body spray, the funk never fully dissipates.

  “Actually, I have no intention of getting in the water today. I mean, it’s still early.” I think for a moment. “Not that the sun or sand will be good for it or anything.”

  “When does it come off?” he asks.

  “I have an appointment next week, then it goes in a wrist brace for a few more weeks.”

  “That’s good news. We should celebrate,” he says.

  “Celebrate the day my hard cast comes off?” I ask, glancing over at him.

  “Why not?” He checks the rearview mirror and changes lanes. When I don’t respond, he clears his throat. “I actually have something in mind.”

  I slant a look sideways. “What?”

  “There’s this thing. At the club. It’s some kind of Friends of the Library fundraiser. Basically there will be dresses and tuxedos, and a lot of drinking and dancing. It’s a reception and silent auction. There’s food, a good band. . . . I don’t know. Should be fun.”

  “At the club?” I ask, an eyebrow lifting in surprise.

  “Yeah.”

  “You said those things weren’t fun,” I remind him. I mean, how many times had he uttered those very words every time I wasn’t invited?

  He clears his throat. “Well, maybe with you there it’ll be better.”

  I turn back to the window and watch the sky: a bright, cloudless blue.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” I remind him.

  “My mom has plenty of dresses. She said you could borrow one of hers for the night. You two are close to the same size. Or . . . I could take you shopping,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

  I let out an extended exhale. This pushes back our whole “taking it slow,” thing. I mean, if we’re going out again. . . . “No. It’s okay. I guess I can wear one of your Mom’s. I mean, if she offered.”

  “So that means you’ll go?” he asks, gray eyes cautious.

  “Yeah. I mean, I have to check with my mom, but I’m sure it’s fine. When is it?”

  “Saturday night. I’ll pick you up early. You can get ready at my house.”

  I’ll have to tell Ernie I can’t work the dinner rush. Maybe Flavia will cover for me, or I can pull a double shift on Sunday. I pull the visor down, then flip open the mirror cover. I tilt it up a bit, so I can see in the back seat. I fully anticipate finding Seth there, a mischievous grin on his face, ready to make a sarcastic remark, or roll his eyes. Knowing how he feels about Carter, I doubt he’ll be impressed with this new development.

  The back, though, is empty.

  * * *

  The beach is packed by the time we arrive. Selena and Vivian are already perched in their lounge chairs just behind the snaking line of debris from high tide. Our feet sink in the warm, white sand as we move toward them. I kick off my flip flops as soon as we reach the dampened tide line and continue on, careful to avoid the jabs of broken shells brought in the night before.

  “You made it,” Selena says. She flashes a bright smile, happiness directed solely at Carter.

  “We’re here,” he replies. We spread our towels on the sand. I remove my shirt and slip off my shorts and sit down. My bathing suit is a year old. Last season. It’s tight in all the wrong places. I dare them to say something about it. The wind off the ocean whips my hair into my eyes. I remove my sunglasses and re-adjust them on my head to keep it off my face.

  I reach into my bag, find my sunscreen, and start slathering it on my arms and legs with my good hand.

  “Need help?” Carter asks.

  “No, I’ve got it,” I reply, wiping a lotion-filled palm across my stomach. “Thanks.”

  I’m begging for splotches, but the last thing I need is Carter’s hands all over me.

  Carter and Jason move in front of us and begin tossing a football. I lean back, head on my towel, feet buried in the sand. Despite the cool breeze, I can feel the sun’s rays penetrating the layer of sunscreen. My face warms and my skin tingles. I stifle a yawn.

  “So what’s up with you and Carter?” Vivian asks.

  I turn my head and open one eye. I assume she’s looking at me behind those huge, bug-eyed sunglasses, but I’m not certain as they cover half her face. I close my eye and move back toward the sun. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” she replies. “We just can’t quite figure out if you’re together or not.”

  “That’s my business. Not yours,” I remind them.

  “But you’re still going with him to the Friends of the Library Gala on Saturday,” Selena states. I look at her. “He told me all about his brilliant idea,” she goes on, rolling her eyes. “Even thought I might be willing to loan you a dress, when he knows full well we are not the same size.”

  A smile perches itself on the edge of my lips. “Yeah. I know. I don’t quite have the jiggle that you do, yet.”

  She scoffs. “It’s such a waste. You’re completely below him, and you don’t even want him,” she says bitterly.

  “And yet . . . he picked me.” I stand, adjust my bathing suit top, and step away from my towel. Distracted, Carter misses Jason’s latest toss. The football skitters end over end across the sand. He lunges for it.

  “Where you headed?” he asks, playing it off.

  I brush the hair away from my eyes. “I just want to stick my feet in for a minute. I’ll be back.”

  “What did you say to her?” I hear Carter ask as I move toward the water, maneuvering through the crowd. I pause, waiting for a dog-walker to pass, before stepping into the ocean. The water, travelling just above my ankles, is frigid. My feet are shocked alive with icy needles, then go numb.

  I start walking, sinking with every step, feeling the pull of the sand underfoot as the water sucks it back to sea an
d spits it out again. I peer through the water, probing for shells as I make my way down the shoreline.

  “Not much worth keeping is there?” a voice asks.

  I look up, tucking my hair behind my ears so I can see. There’s a guy—just a bit taller than me, with blonde hair that seems to want to curl, though it’s dripping with salt water. He’s wearing a wetsuit and dragging a surfboard. What strikes me the most, though, nearly rendering me speechless, are his piercing blue eyes—like tropical seas: sharp and crystal clear.

  I smile politely. “Um, not really,” I reply, looking away.

  “The tide does a number on them. And you have to get up really early if you want to find the good ones.”

  “I’m not an early riser,” I confess.

  He laughs. “Me either.”

  Another swell rolls in, splashing my calves with ice water. I suck in a breath. “The waves any good?” I ask, nodding toward his surfboard.

  “Nah, not really,” he replies. “But, you know, I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Better you than me.” I look out across the water, scrunching my nose. “It’s freezing in there.”

  “Yeah. Wet suits work. It’s not helping my hands or feet, though.”

  “Salt water in the eyes,” I add.

  “You’re implying I’m no good,” he teases.

  I shrug.

  “Ah. So you were watching.”

  “For a minute, maybe,” I reply. The wind continues to whip my hair in my eyes, lashing my face, making it impossible to concentrate. “You aren’t terrible.”

  “Do you surf?” he asks.

  “Not hardly. I’m just a critic.”

  “We could change that. I mean, I’m no professional, but if you want to learn we’ll grab a board and get you out there.”

  I lift my arm, introducing him to the fatigued pile of plaster that has become my cast. “I’m not exactly the athletic type,” I explain.

  “Ouch. What happened?”

  “Car accident. But still, I’m not very coordinated.”

  “We’ll take it slow. I guarantee I could get you standing after a few tries.”

  I smile. “Yeah, thanks for the offer, but I’d rather watch.”

  “You mean you’d rather criticize me.”

  “Something like that,” I say, laughing.

  “You’re welcome to hang out,” he continues. He nods toward a group about forty feet behind us. Two guys and a girl. The guys are also dressed in wet suits. The girl is in a one piece, bare arms sporting a variety of large, colorful tattoos. Hair an unnatural shade of red. They’re watching us.

  “Thanks, but I’m with friends. They’re. . . .” I glance behind me, but I don’t see Carter or Selena or anyone. Apparently I wandered further than I thought. “Back there,” I finish.

  “Friends? Boyfriend?” he inquires.

  “Sort of friends. Sort of boyfriend,” I reply. “It’s kind of screwed up.”

  He nods, understanding. “Should’ve known.” He laughs, looks down at his feet as he drags his toes through the sand, then back up at me, staring beneath his lashes. “I’m glad you told me before I asked you out. That could’ve been embarrassing. You know, getting rejected and all. On the beach . . . in front of all these people.”

  My cheeks sting with heat at the realization.

  He was going to ask me out?

  “Maybe some other time, though.” His fluid blue eyes sparkle, the colors seeming to dance inside them. I blink a few times, and, for a moment, find myself trapped in them. Drowning. “If you change your mind about the surfing thing, you know where to find me.” He winks at me before walking away, towing his surfboard to where his friends are waiting.

  I study him for a moment, the motions and movements and the way he carries himself—confident, unlike anyone I’ve ever met—then turn around and head back.

  NINE

  I move down the long hallway, stopping at every mirror I pass, just to make sure the other me—the beautiful one—is still there. That she isn’t just an apparition. My shoes click across the marble floor. I twirl across the Fleming’s foyer, feeling the music in my body, and, for once, not afraid to dance to it.

  “Wow,” Carter says, exhaling loudly. “You look amazing.” He moves closer.

  I stand straighter and smooth the folds of the pale blue dress at the waist, feeling my cheeks flush with heat. “Your mom got a hold of me,” I explain, hardly able to hide my smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” His brown hair is gelled and spiked in the front. His gray eyes glimmer and he looks wickedly handsome in his black tuxedo. My heart pumps faster.

  This is what it used to feel like.

  “My hands are shaking,” I confess. “Should I be this nervous?”

  “No, you’ll be fine. Most people will wind up too drunk to remember who you are, anyway.”

  I examine my reflection in the foyer mirror, turning slightly so I can see the back of the dress Kitty Fleming let me borrow. I run my fingers through my short, silky hair, thankful I talked Mom into coloring it for me. I spent an hour in the drugstore, studying different shades to find the perfect color, before finally settling on a strawberry blonde that was more strawberry than blonde.

  Then, on Thursday, my hard cast was removed. After six weeks of trying to keep it out of the shower and out of the rain and out of the way at work, it had nearly disintegrated. It was a dingy, grayish brown and ripping apart at my palm. My nose curled every time I got a whiff of it. After the doctor cut it off, my arm felt strangely light, like I could fly away with a wave. My mouth fell open in horror at the shriveled remains of what was once a nice, functional arm. It was pale: a ghastly, glowing white, wrinkled and prunish.

  The nurse walked me to the sink and helped me wash it in warm, soapy water. The doctor handed me a new wrist support: a gray, plastic brace. Six more weeks. But at least this one is removable.

  I rotate my wrist. It’s stiff, but it doesn’t hurt.

  The country club is massive, more elegant than I ever could’ve imagined. There are ballrooms and party rooms. A spa. Indoor tennis court. Gymnasium.

  Carter grabs my hand as we head to the main ballroom, intertwining his fingers with mine. The gesture feels natural. A mix of feelings courses through my veins.

  “You don’t have to remember any names,” he informs me, voice low. “I don’t. Just smile a lot, and, if you don’t know what to say, you have two options. You can smile and nod and agree, or give them a compliment. If there’s one thing these people like, it’s having hot air blown up their. . . .” He trails off just as we reach the entrance to the ballroom. “Mrs. Jenkins, it’s good to see you.”

  Carter introduces me to the head librarian as Genesis, his girlfriend. I throw him a subtle glance, but I don’t correct him. I smile at her. It’s a pleasure to meet me, apparently.

  Carter keeps his hand placed protectively on my bare shoulder, steering me when necessary. For someone who claims to never remember names, he certainly seems to know everyone, and everything about everyone. In a span of moments I know who has money, who pretends to have money, and who’s out of money. He also points out the socialite perv, the guy I should stay away from at all costs, who will flirt with the tarnish on the silver candelabras if there is any—tarnish, that is. The candlesticks themselves are polished and glitter in the light of the crystal chandeliers.

  “When you come to these things as often as I do, it’s hard not to know everyone,” he explains. “It’s the same people at the same kinds of parties recycled over and over and over again. I swear, they practically beg for reasons to raise money.”

  “Well, the library, you know. It’s a worthy cause.”

  “They’re all worthy causes. I’ve singlehandedly saved whales, raised awareness about the atrocities of seal clubbing in Canada, solicited funds for an African orphanage, attended galas for every possible type of cancer, and you don’t even want to know what happens during election season. Are you thirsty?” he asks, changing t
he subject. “We can get a drink before they put the finger foods out.”

  “No,” I reply, hesitating for a moment. “I think I’m good.” My eyes drift to the tables that hold the items for the auction. I nod toward them. “Can we look?”

  “Sure.” He drapes his arm around my waist, pulling me into him. “Whatever you want to bid on . . . just name it.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “Me?”

  “Why not?”

  “But I wouldn’t know what to bid on, or where to begin, even.”

  “It’s easy,” he says, shrugging casually. “You find something you like, and you put a price on it that you’re willing to pay. Keeping in mind, of course, that what you’re really doing is donating to the library,” he adds, his voice conspiratorially low. “And that the winning bid amount will be announced at the end of the night.”

  “What does that mean in rich person’s terms?”

  “The higher you bid, the better you look,” he clarifies.

  “Oh. Got it.”

  We make our way from table to table, examining each item up for grabs. There are trips, tickets for a helicopter ride, jewelry, artwork, gift baskets filled with makeup and spa goods. . . .

  “Is there something here you like?” I ask.

  “This isn’t for me,” he reminds me. “I’m bidding for you.”

  I bite my lower lip, thinking for a moment. The trips are out of the question, the jewelry I’d have to sell in the event Mom ever got in a bind again, and I’m not really a “day at the spa” type of person. Besides, I want something that will last forever. I focus on the artwork. “I, um, kind of like the photographs,” I finally say, pointing.

  We walk over to a pair of photographs in museum frames. It’s a set by the same photographer. One is an image of three boats on the sand, and the other a dilapidated fence snaking across the dunes. They’re smaller than some of the paintings, the photos themselves eight by ten and black and white.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  Looking at them again. . . . Yes, I’m sure.

  “All right, how much do we bid?”

  I frown. “Carter, I don’t know the first thing about any of this. You decide.”