by Jenn Bennett
But, see, I don’t think it’s what Mom wants. She’s not happy. Sometimes I think there are other reasons why she’s only interested in random encounters—she’s escaping something, hiding something. I tell Lucky, “It almost feels like … I don’t know. An addiction? A gambling problem? Something she does to stop feeling depressed? I don’t even know.”
“Is she depressed?”
“I don’t think so? She doesn’t act like it. She’s just a very private person, weirdly enough. I think everyone in my family is. Like, that’s just the Saint-Martin way. We all keep a part of ourselves locked up. She’s kind of hinted that my grandma was the same way, and I guess I do the same thing to her, because I haven’t told her about my plans to go to Los Angeles.”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding a little forlorn.
“Anyway, it’s none of my business, I guess. I just want her to be okay, you know?”
And that’s true, I realize. Even if I don’t want to keep moving around the country with her, being dragged from town to town, it doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I want her to be okay. I want her to be happy. It makes me feel bad that I can’t help her.
That I’m not enough for her.
“I wish she’d talk to me about it,” I tell Lucky, “but it’s kind of a forbidden topic. Everything about her relationships and her past is. So it’s hard for me to help if she won’t let me know what’s wrong,” I tell him, kicking my legs in the water. “I used to think maybe my dad could make her happy. Like maybe she was doing all this as a way of punishing him somehow? Like a cry for help? I don’t know. That sounds stupid.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Anyway, she really, truly couldn’t care less about my father. So I don’t think it has anything to do with him. It’s something else. I just wish I knew what.”
“Maybe you should just ask her.”
“You think I haven’t?”
He doesn’t say anything. I don’t say anything. I just lie in the water, thinking about why he’s asking all these questions. Then I remember something I’d forgotten in all the recent drama. “Hey. You wouldn’t happen to know about anyone who was in the navy and recently came back to town, would you?”
He squints at me in the sun. “That’s an odd question.”
“Evie’s mom mentioned something when she called, but she clammed up and wouldn’t tell Evie who it was. Gave us the impression that it was someone from high school my mom would want to avoid so badly, she may have had second thoughts about moving back here.”
“I see,” he says. “Sounds dramatic.”
“Right?”
“Maybe you should ask your mom.”
“Have you not been listening? She’ll never tell me.”
“What about your grandma?”
“We’re not close like you are, apparently,” I tease. “So you really don’t know any navy dudes? No one in town? Anyone your parents might know?”
His face squinches up. “You think this has something to do with your mom’s depression?”
Wow. I don’t know. That’s a weird way of looking at it. I also get the strange feeling that he’s avoiding answering my question. I’m probably being paranoid. Regardless, I’m afraid if I keep thinking about all this, it’s going to ruin our lovely day. Because it is lovely. And I’m not letting my mom and all the question marks in her past take it away from me.
This is mine.
“Think you’re ready to try floating on your back?” he asks. “Last swimming trial of the day before we go home.”
“No. Yes. No. Do I have to?”
“Completely up to you. It’s fun, though.”
“Okay. Let’s try.”
The back float is much harder than on my stomach. So hard, I’m almost positive I can’t do it, and I think he’s getting frustrated with me? Or maybe I’m getting frustrated with myself. Because once I completely give in, stop worrying about water getting into my ears … then it happens.
I’m weightless.
I float on my back, looking up at the blue sky, feeling my body being buoyed by the warm harbor water, gently rocked. I float while Lucky paddles beside me. While he lets go and swims around me. I float while he smiles and slyly peels up my wet shirt from where it sticks to my skin and kisses my belly button where water pools. I float while he swims beneath me like a shark, pretending to bite my thigh and upsetting my balance—then swimming back around and catching me when my legs sink.
“Hey!” I shout, laughing and splashing as I grasp his neck.
“Scared of a little ol’ fish nibble?”
“Scared of drowning, you jerk!”
But it strikes me that’s not true.
I’m not half as wary of the water as I was before we came out here. And when he wraps his arms around me, legs treading water around mine, and kisses me, mouth wet, chest pumping up and down with the exertion of swimming and holding me up, I’m not thinking about the horizon or the possibility of drowning. I’m not thinking about town gossip or whether my mom is happy. I’m not thinking about Adrian Summers or the broken windows, or the ticking time bombs in my life.
I’m not thinking about anything but the two of us.
About this.
This joy.
Right now.
Maybe, just maybe, I could be a water rat, after all.
Kablam.
KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING: Doorknob hotel sign placed inside a plastic picture frame and mounted with wall-hanging putty on the outside of the bedroom door of Evie Saint-Martin. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 16
Lucky and I take the Narwhal out almost every evening for a couple of weeks to the same spot. Turns out there’re these wristbands that Lucky found. You wear them on your pressure points, and they help stop nausea caused by seasickness. Well, that and the antihistamine that I’m now taking before we set sail.
I’m unscrambled, and I can be on the water without wanting to die.
Strangely, I actually like being on the boat now. It feels like we’re escaping the world for a couple of hours. A safe place. Just ours. And yes, we go out in the Narwhal to practice my swimming in the new bathing suit I’ve bought. But often we do a lot of other things, like:
Talk about the difference between art and craft.
Take photos.
Put our hands all over each other.
Play with Bean the Magic Pup, who sometimes rides along and barks at passing boats.
Trash talk Adrian Summers.
Plot revenge that we’ll never enact.
Put our hands all over each other.
Talk about our failed D&D campaigns from childhood.
Consider a trip out to our old secret North Star boatshed to test out a new campaign.
Decide the boatshed might be inhabited by ghosts or spiders and change our minds.
Watch the Fourth of July fireworks.
Eat iced lemonade.
Put our hands all over each other.
Here’s what we don’t do on the boat:
Talk about me going to California to live with my dad next year.
That subject is off-limits. Maybe if we pretend like it doesn’t exist, it will never happen.
Here’s what we also don’t do:
We don’t tell anyone that we’re more than friends.
I mean, sure. Half the town is probably talking about us. My mom has made the Bonnie and Clyde comments, and Lucky’s parents have been nosy too. And then there’s Evie, who definitely knows something happened in the darkroom … but I don’t even tell her.
It’s not because I don’t want people to know or because I’m ashamed of what I’m doing with my childhood best friend. I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s just no one’s business, that’s all. And this town has proven that they can’t be trusted to handle delicate information with grace. My name’s already being whispered; I don’t need to give the rumor mill any more fuel.
One evening, when Lucky and I were supposed to be heading out o
n the Narwhal to practice my backstroke, or some kind of more salacious stroke, I find him in the boatyard with his father, working late on a last-minute engine problem for a customer.
“Sorry,” he tells me. “They’re paying us overtime rates, and it’s the kind of favor that my dad can’t turn down. Shouldn’t take more than an hour but might be too close to dark for us to take the boat out. Maybe we could stay in? Order pizza? Watch a movie on TV? My house is overrun with toddler cousins at the moment. What about yours?”
“Evie’s home. My mom’s, uh … out. But she might come back by the time you’re done.” I squint at him. “Would that be okay? Or too weird?”
“I’m fine with it, if she is.”
Mom’s definitely warming up to him, and he’s been in and out of the Nook. But he’s never been inside our apartment. I think she’d be cool with it.
Lucky in our apartment. Whoa. I’m a little fluttery just thinking about it. Another first for us. It’s one thing for us to be on our own private boat together, but in public, around other people … that’s new territory. Good territory. It’s just new. And exciting.
“I’ll double-check to make sure it’s all okay,” I tell him. “But I’m pretty sure it is. Just text me when you’re done?”
He checks to make sure no one’s watching and quickly kisses my forehead, holding oil-stained hands away from my shirt. “Sounds like a plan. Mushrooms and olives on my side, by the way. No cheese.”
“That’s not even pizza anymore,” I say, making a face.
“If they have clams—”
“NO.”
He grins. “See you in an hour.”
I cross back over to the Nook and head around back, up the steps, and into our apartment. Looks clean. Okay. At least I don’t have to freak out about that. I text Mom but when she doesn’t reply right away, I’m not surprised. Hopefully she’ll see it before he comes over.
Heading through the living room past our 1950s pinup girl lamp, I make a beeline to Evie’s room and knock briefly on her door. I know she’s there, because the sounds of grungy 1980s post-punk music rattle the walls. She’s probably studying for class and can’t hear me, so I knock louder and then crack open the door and stick my head through.
“Hey,” I shout over the music.
Then I freeze.
Evie’s there, all right. She’s not alone.
A dark head of hair rises from the covers like a mermaid from the water, and for a moment, there’s a jumble of limbs, and I’m seeing way more of my cousin’s skin than I want to see. But when I blink, most of that skin is quickly covered up with a quilt, and a face I never wanted to see again is staring back at me.
Adrian Summers.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
Evie looks at me.
What do I do now? I know I shouldn’t be here, but it’s too late. They’re both staring at me in horror. And I’m staring back. It’s all super uncomfortable, and the music’s still blasting like it doesn’t realize that it’s underscoring a really awkward moment for all of us.
Oh, Evie. Cuz.
Whyyyyyyy?
She blinks at me with big eyes that say: I couldn’t help it. ’Twas the Saint-Martin curse!
And I glare back at her with narrowed eyes that say: All the disappointment.
Adrian’s crutches are propped up against her bed. Some dark part of me would like to race over to them, snatch them up, and beat him over the head with them until he’s got a concussion. But of course, I can’t do that.
Too late to pretend I haven’t seen this. What do I do here?
WHAT DO I DO? My thoughts race and tumble. It’s Adrian.
Adrian.
Anger builds the longer I look at his stupid face. “Thought you were at your aunt’s.”
“I was,” he says, one shoulder shrugging as he props himself up on Evie’s pillows while she tugs the quilt up higher. “Now I’m here.”
“You should be in jail. You could have killed an animal. Did you know that? Their pet was inside the offices when you threw that crowbar.”
He looks momentarily taken aback. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t throw anything.”
“I should call the cops right now.”
“Josie!” my cousin pleads.
“You have no proof,” Adrian says. “Who’s to say it wasn’t another car? Or maybe it was Jam or Crandall?”
I have no idea who those people are, but I’m guessing they’re his Golden buddies who were in the car with him.
“Besides,” he says. “What if there were actual people inside my dad’s store when grease monkey threw the rock into our window? Ever think about that? Not animals, but real people. He could have murdered someone when he threw the rock.”
“It was an accident,” I say. “I don’t how many times I have to keep saying it.”
Adrian looks at me funny. “Why did you say it that way?”
“What way?”
He points in my direction. “That way.”
Oh god. How did I say it? My heart races when I glance at Evie’s face. She shakes her head—almost imperceptible, but a shake. A warning. “I just meant that I was there with Lucky that night,” I explain to Adrian. “I was there when it happened, and it was an accident. He wasn’t trying to hit the window. He was aiming for the sign. It wasn’t intentional.”
Adrian looks at me for a second too long.… Finally he frowns and sighs. “Whatever, kid. Let’s just agree that both incidents were misguided. Best for all of us if we forget it and move on. Why are you here, anyway? You need something from Evie? Otherwise, we’re kind of busy.…”
Wow. This guy just doesn’t give a damn. No damns. One minute he’s breaking windows, and the next, he’s up here in my cousin’s room—
Nope. Don’t want to think about it.
I look at Evie and say, “We’ll be having company in about an hour, just so you know.… Might want to clear out.” I strongly suggest you do.
My cousin nods at me, understanding, Cleopatra makeup slightly askew.
“Right. Well, then …” Have a good evening? Enjoy sleeping with the enemy—literally? Please, continue your toxic relationship that is clearly ruining your life? “I don’t know,” I mumble while I exit the room. “Whatever, Evie.”
As I’m pulling the door handle, the second Evie’s head turns away, Adrian puckers up and makes a kissy face at me.
Just for a second, I consider sticking my phone back inside the door and taking a quick photo of him as revenge for what he’s done to me, but my mind quickly sobers to what that photo would entail: He’s on Evie’s bed. Besides. I’m not sinking down to his muck. Screw him.
I slam the door behind me.
At first, I head into my room, but it’s next to hers, and I can hear them arguing through the walls. That’s too weird, so I quickly head to Mom’s room and shut the door, listening for sounds that Adrian’s clearing out of the apartment.
They’re definitely fighting. Good.
I’m not sure whether to be mad at Evie or disappointed. Hurt? It was one thing for her to go to him that first time after the party, when they were in the wreck together, if she was genuinely trying to get him to talk his dad into dropping the department store window settlement against Lucky. But now?
He broke the Karrases’ window.
He showed everyone a nude photo of my mother—thinking it was me.
That’s not okay. And I’m furious that she’d disregard all that like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it is. But even if none of that had happened, he’s still a dick. He still treated her like shit at that party. He humiliated her. He harassed her, sending all those demanding texts. And if he’s going to show everyone nude pictures of “me”—someone he doesn’t even know or care about—then what’s to stop him from doing the same to her if he gets mad enough?
He’s got warning signs written all over him.
Why can’t she see that?
I don’t know what t
o do about it. Talk to her, I guess. Maybe it’s time to talk to my mom—which is a weird thing to think about. We’re such terrific communicators and fine examples of piety. Ugh.
When I’m pretty sure he’s not sticking around, I glance at the closet door in Mom’s room. Grandma’s old closet. Locked. Personal stuff that she didn’t want to move into storage when she left for Nepal.
Maybe old family stuff.
Maybe old photos.
Secrets.
Ever since Lucky and I had that talk about my mom, when he took me out for my first swimming lesson, I haven’t been able to get the navy guy out of my mind. I also haven’t been able to ask her about it, despite Lucky suggesting I do so. My mom doesn’t handle confrontation well. Especially not about her past. Our biggest fights have been about Henry and Grandma—and questions that I’ve asked. About why she never wanted to try to be a family with Henry. About why she doesn’t get along with Grandma.
Asking those things got me nothing but tears. We don’t talk about stuff in the past.
So if I want to know about my mom and the mystery navy guy, then I need to either ask my grandmother—who isn’t here to ask—or try the next best thing.
Snoop in my grandmother’s things.
I know.
I know.
But maybe I can just peek inside and see if there’s anything I can skim without being too invasive.
Maybe?
I dare to jump a few times to reach the top of the closet door, and I’m rewarded with the sight of tarnished metal falling with a ping onto the floorboards.
Well. Bingo. If nothing else, this will get my mind off Adrian’s stupid blond head inside my cousin’s bed. One less secret in the Saint-Martin household …
The key I’ve found is old-fashioned, one that was probably new when they renovated this apartment in the 1940s, and it snicks satisfactorily when I turn it inside the closet door’s lock.
