Alexa ordered the fish tacos with the street corn. Morgan first claimed to want a grilled cheese from the kids’ menu but Alexa nixed that right away. They were in coastal Massachusetts! In summertime! Grilled cheese was not a native dish. Morgan sighed and ordered the fried fish plate. Better. The fish was cod, and local. Morgan requested no straws for either of them.
When Morgan lifted her arm to shield her face from the sun, Alexa could see that underneath her Ivivva tank top she was wearing a sports bra. A training bra, their mother called those, embarrassingly, and Alexa felt a surge of tenderness for her little sister, because she seemed to be training for a race for which she hadn’t yet registered. How long had it been since she and Morgan had done something alone together? Too long.
“Did you break up with Tyler?” Morgan asked. “Or did he break up with you?”
“Getting right to it, huh?” Alexa sipped her straw-less water.
“Well, did you?”
“Technically, yes,” said Alexa. Their food arrived, and for a few minutes they were busy and silent, eating. Alexa offered the street corn to Morgan, who shook her head violently.
“I don’t like Tyler that much,” said Morgan.
“No? Why not?”
Morgan dipped a fry into ketchup and considered this question. “I just don’t think he seems very nice all the time.”
Alexa was almost seven when Morgan was born. The year Morgan turned six and entered elementary school Alexa was already ensconced at the middle school, wearing a bra and getting noticed for her well-put-together outfits. That was the year the crop top came back, and Alexa got dress-coded more than once. She’d come home from school, tugging off the T-shirt they’d given her at the nurses’ office, and there Morgan would be, wearing her certified Disney Anna dress and wig and singing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” at the top of her phlegmatic lungs.
In one year Morgan will be the age Alexa was when she first had a boyfriend (an ill-fated romance, please don’t remind her); in two, the age when she sneak-watched Fifty Shades of Gray with Destiny. (Their mothers had dropped them at Cinemagic for what the mothers thought was the evening showing of the second SpongeBob movie: Sponge Out of Water.) She supposed she hadn’t given her little sister enough credit for maturing all of these years—for having her own, sometimes possibly anguished, interior life.
“No,” agreed Alexa. “He’s not very nice all the time.”
“Is that why you broke up with him?”
After Fifty Shades, emerging from the lobby into the parking lot, Alexa and Destiny were shell-shocked, unable to meet each other’s eyes. Neither would ever admit it, but both wished they had stuck with SpongeBob. Sometimes, after all, innocence was a blessing.
“Yes,” she said. “And you should do the same, if you ever have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anyone in your life who doesn’t treat you well. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Morgan.
“I mean it for real, Morgs. Seriously. That’s really important, okay? You have to take care of yourself. Promise me.”
“I promise,” said Morgan.
Alexa had so many other things she wanted to say to Morgan: don’t grow up too fast, stay true to yourself, think for yourself and talk for yourself and don’t turn down dessert, and show your body if you want to but not if you don’t. “You know what I do if I find myself in a tricky situation?” she asked.
“What?” Morgan was all ears—well, and elbows and collarbone and ketchup-smeared face, but mostly ears.
“I ask myself what Peter would say to do. I find I really don’t go wrong if I do that.”
Morgan stared at the water for a moment, taking this in, and tears filled her eyes. One dropped onto the napkin in front of her, and then she nodded. “I like that,” she said. “I’m going to do that too.” After a beat she said, “You know who I do like?”
“Who?”
“That one who came to Canobie Lake with us. The one you were holding hands with on the street the other day.”
“Cam?”
“Yes. Cam.”
They ate and looked at the water. The sun shifted and Morgan started to squint.
“I like him too,” Alexa said at last.
“Maybe he should be your boyfriend.”
Morgan’s features had been changing steadily over the course of the summer and probably before that. There were new mature hollows in her cheekbones that offered a preview of what her face would look like when she was a teenager and then an adult. Her eyebrows, once they were professionally shaped, would be stunning (those came, frustratingly, from Peter; Alexa would have loved to have them too), and after Dr. Pavlo, the orthodontist who was responsible for Alexa’s smile, worked his magic on the space between her front teeth, Morgan’s smile too would be irresistible.
“Maybe. Or maybe nobody should.”
The rest of the meal they ate in companionable silence, and when Soccer Maya dropped the check, Alexa tipped extravagantly, just because she could.
55.
Rebecca
Brooke always sent actual paper invitations for her end-of-summer party, which Rebecca had to admit was classy. Most people believed that paper invitations deserved to go the way of the milk truck and earbuds with wires. Even so, when she opened the envelope her stomach clenched and she let out an involuntary Ugh.
Last year she had skipped the party altogether, and had been excused because she was still technically in mourning. This year, mourning would be a harder sell. But she didn’t want to go alone. She was tired of going places alone. She wanted to bring Daniel. At the same time, she didn’t want to bring Daniel.
Rebecca could write the script for the whole evening right now. There would be a signature cocktail that people would drink too fast. Eventually, some drunk husband would jump in the pool. There would be at least one scene of marital discord—or possibly two. An unhashed-through argument between friends might make its way to the surface.
Brooke’s children would watch all of the madness from their bedrooms windows, and the sight would cement in their minds the image of adults behaving badly, which they would then lay out as part of their defense when they were caught drinking or vaping weed in high school or (God forbid) middle school.
On a more positive note, the food would be superb, and there would be dancing.
Was that a positive note, though? Did anybody really need to see people over forty shaking it on the dance floor? Well, it was a note anyway.
I’ll be there! She hesitated, then scrawled on the card, Plus one.
56.
The Squad
Naturally Brooke told us that Rebecca had included a Plus One on her RSVP to the end-of-summer party.
Who was it? we wondered.
Esther said Rebecca would bring her Mystery Man. But Tammy and Melanie got all over her for that. If Rebecca had a man, why would he be a mystery? We’d never judge her for having a new man! We wouldn’t judge her for anything! We’re her friends!
57.
Alexa
“Ready?” said Cam.
“Ready for what?” Alexa was wary. The last time Cam showed up at her door and asked if she was ready, he was on his way to pick her up for a brisk hike straight up Mount Major.
“For the water stop. Remember? Yankee Homecoming Ten-Miler? Mile five? I volunteered us. I’m positive you said yes.”
Alexa groaned. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“You did,” Cam confirmed. “You definitely said yes.”
Yankee Homecoming was the big summer event in Newburyport. It lasted a week, with different events every day, and would culminate with fireworks on Saturday followed by a parade on Sunday. The Yankee Homecoming race was on the Tuesday evening before the fireworks and comprised a 5K and a ten-miler; it was almost always unbearably humid during the race.
“Can’t we at least do mile nine?” asked Alexa. Mile nine would be almost at the finish. It would be so much more interesting to watch people who were really close to ach
ieving their goal than those who were seriously considering dropping out halfway through, just before the hills.
“Nope,” said Cam. “Mile five. It’s the best mile. It’s where people really need encouragement because they’re starting to falter. Here, put this on.” He handed her a shirt that said race volunteer on the back. Alexa couldn’t remember the last time she volunteered for anything, or wore an ill-fitting cotton T-shirt, but she put the shirt on. It hung down to her knees. “Sorry,” said Cam. “They were out of smalls by the time I picked them up. I had to get large for both of us. If it helps, you look hot in that.”
“It doesn’t help,” muttered Alexa, even though actually it did, a little.
Once they were set up with their supplies, Alexa peered down Merrimac Street, which was an asphalt wasteland. The sun was so bright and so high she couldn’t imagine running to the corner and back. She wished she’d thought to wear a hat. Most of the volunteers were wearing hats, and Alexa knew a brim suited her. Cam’s hat was from the Newburyport Brewing Company and had a picture of a greenhead on it, for the Greenhead IPA. The green of the hat did something wondrous to his brown eyes. She knew that if she asked, Cam would give her the hat right off his head. But if the old Alexa would have asked for the hat, the new Alexa would let Cam retain it. Moral growth!
After some time there rose a stir of excitement as the lead runner came toward them. There was a slight bend in the road before the five-mile point, and with the sun and the undulating heat he looked almost like a mirage. The people lining the street cheered. One volunteer held out a cup of water, but Cam leaned over to Alexa and said conspiratorially, “The first ten guys never take water. They’re too focused. They can’t break pace.”
He was right, but after the fastest people went by and the pace became somewhat normal, people were happy to have the water. Some of them even paused to say thank you, or at least to grunt pleasantly. Cam had prepared a string of helpful platitudes, and he said them over and over. “You can do it!” he said. “You’re stronger than you think you are! You’ve made it halfway! The worst is over!”
Alexa wasn’t sure that the worst was over at all (wasn’t a big hill coming right after this very water stop?) but still she appreciated Cam’s optimism and she could tell that the runners did too. She found herself getting a little caught up in the excitement. When one man went for the cup and missed, spilling it all over Alexa, she jogged a few steps after him with a fresh cup. He was so grateful that she couldn’t help herself: she panted, “The worst is over!” She ran out of breath before she had a chance to add, “You can do it,” but she figured he got the point.
The number of runners decreased from hordes to large groups and eventually to a slow trickle. After some time the pace slowed even more and the stragglers started to pass by. Many of them stopped outright to take the water, and some walked a little before recommencing their slow jog. And then Cam said, “Isn’t that Tyler?”
“Where?” said Alexa. And, “I doubt it.” Tyler was not a distance runner. However, as the figure Cam was pointing to grew closer she did recognize something in his gait (Tyler was the tiniest bit bowlegged) and in the musculature of the shoulders.
“Ugh,” she said. “It is Tyler.” Instinctively she held out a cup of water. She wasn’t going to shirk her duties because of a personal issue.
When Tyler got to her, he stopped. It was almost as if he knew Alexa would be here, as if he’d run five miles just to get to her.
“Hey,” she said uncertainly. “Good job?” She smiled.
Tyler did not smile back, nor did he take the water Alexa held out. Alexa was getting a bad vibe. An angry vibe, the vibe Tyler gave off when the lacrosse team lost a big game; the vibe that appeared when it took him three tries to pass the test for his learner’s permit. (He twice got stuck on the question about how far ahead high beams and low beams let you see.)
“I didn’t know you were running,” Alexa said.
“I just jumped in with some of the guys at mile three. I didn’t want to pay the entry fee. How would you know if I was running or not? And who’s that?” He nodded his head toward Cam. Cam was busy refilling water cups from gallon jugs at the far end of the table.
“Nobody,” said Alexa. “Don’t you want to keep running? To finish the race?”
“I know who he is,” said Tyler. “Don’t worry, I know exactly who he is.” And then he turned his head away, and then back toward her, and if she hadn’t actually been there she never would have believed it, because Tyler spit on her. Like, actually spit. On Alexa’s arm. There was a gob of spit on Alexa’s arm.
“What the hell?” cried Alexa.
“Oh, sorry,” said Tyler. “My bad.” And then he smiled a smile so awful that Alexa’s blood ran cold despite the hot evening. She could not believe she ever ever ever was attracted to Tyler. She couldn’t believe she’d bought him the Bluetooth headphones he was too cheap to buy for himself the previous Christmas, and that she very seriously considered sleeping with him after junior prom, and probably would have had he not passed out in the back of Lucas Spaulding’s father’s BMW.
Tyler broke back into a slow jog and continued along the course, rounding the corner that led to the hill. Alexa wiped her arm with the bottom of her volunteer shirt (she was grateful now for all of the extra material) and walked back toward the water table. She wanted to cry—she felt shocked and violated and frankly she couldn’t believe what had just happened—but with everything in her she forced the tears to remain in her eyes.
“Did he just spit on you?” asked Cam.
“No,” said Alexa, because she was too embarrassed to say yes.
“Really? Because it looked like he spit on you.” Cam’s mouth was set in a severe line.
“I think he was just, like, spitting out water or something,” explained Alexa. “You know how runners are.” (She had no idea how runners were, and they both knew it.)
“You want me to go after him?” asked Cam.
“No,” she said. “Of course not. Don’t be crazy.” For one thing, Tyler had rounded the bend on Spofford and was now suffering his way up the hill. Or he had dropped out. Either way, he was gone. For another, Alexa thought that Tyler could turn Cam into pulp with a flip of his massive paw if he wanted to. She filled more water cups from one of the gallon jugs even though they probably had plenty. Her hand was shaking, and she couldn’t get the water into the cups without spilling it.
When the last runner had gone by, the volunteers fanned out into the road and picked up the empty cups. There was something very team-oriented about the whole process that Alexa liked, even if they were literally clearing garbage from the street.
“That guy’s a jerk,” Cam said sternly as he held a giant garbage bag open for Alexa to dump the cups into. “I can’t believe you dated him.”
“I can’t believe it either,” said Alexa.
“Well, we all make mistakes,” said Cam. “I’m just glad you’ve come to your senses.” He grinned at her, and then he leaned down and kissed her. Just like that.
“What’s that for?” she asked, smiling.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For being such a good volunteer.”
She rolled her eyes. “You kiss all the volunteers like that?”
He nodded. “It’s what keeps them coming back year after year. It’s why we have such a robust presence at mile five.” The way he smiled at her made Alexa’s stomach do that flippy-floppy thing, and she tried to concentrate on that, instead of the place on her arm where Tyler’s spit had landed.
58.
Sherri
Sherri took a sponge to the stovetop in the kitchen on Olive Street. In her old life she’d hardly ever touched a sponge—the cleaning ladies did all of the dirty work. But she’d grown up as a regular kid with regular chores: she knew how to clean. This stove, though, was almost too much: the marks around the burners had probably been made by years and years of renters, of spilled pasta water and stove-top popc
orn.
Sherri took a break and leaned against the counter for a moment, and that’s when she heard Katie’s quick feet down the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen. She was holding her phone, and her eyes were shiny with excitement.
“There’s fireworks,” she said. “Tonight, for Yankee Homecoming, at the waterfront. Can I go, Mom? With Morgan and the other girls? Can I please go?”
Sherri remembered the awful night on the pontoon, the pop pop pop of the fireworks she couldn’t see, the panic rising in her chest. “Oh, Katie. By yourselves? Or with a grown-up?”
“By ourselves. All the girls are going, it’s totally safe, please, Mom, please please please. Please.”
“No,” said Sherri. “Absolutely not.” The risks were too great. The dark, the crowds, little girls alone. Anybody could grab Katie. Anybody. “I’m sorry, honey. You know I can’t let you do that. You know we have some rules that the other kids don’t have. I don’t want you wandering around downtown in the dark. It’s not safe.”
There was a split second of silence, and then Katie’s face took on a new, hard, mean expression, and she said, “Daddy would let me go. And it’s your fault that he’s not here to let me.”
This was the first time in all this time Katie had said that. It was almost like she’d been saving it up, the single arrow in her quiver, and now she’d released it. Sherri took a deep breath and let the pain from the shot settle. She wanted to say, Daddy is the reason you can’t go. She wanted to say, Daddy is the reason we live here, and my hair looks like this, and I’m working as a receptionist. But she couldn’t say any of that, because that wasn’t her job. And however great her own pain was, Madison Miller’s family’s pain was greater, like a screw pushed through a fingernail, again and again, for the rest of their lives.
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