Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “I don’t know where you get all these jokes,” I say as if it’s a compliment.

  Seth leans forward and whispers in my ear, “From the firstgraders he plays Simon Says with all day long.”

  However, Uncle Vernon has already started in on him, “What’s the only dog with no tail?”

  As I move away Gwen rushes over to get the full report on what happened with Ray. “Oh my gosh.” She claps her hands to the sides of her face and looks into my eyes. “You’re in love!”

  “A hot dog!” Uncle Vernon gleefully shouts out from behind us.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I glance down at my shirt and shorts for any telltale signs, though I don’t know what they’d be other than some loose buttons or a broken zipper.

  “I can tell by the glow in your cheeks,” she insists and then looks over my shoulder and around the barn for the perpetrator. “Where is he?”

  “Not here,” I say through a mouthful of ice cream.

  Gwen appears completely puzzled. Her radar for new couples is rarely wrong. “Then how—”

  “He canceled at the last minute,” I explain.

  She sighs with disappointment but it’s obvious that something is still troubling her about my appearance.

  “There’s another guy,” I fill in the missing piece. Then the excitement pours out. “His name is Auggie, he’s really cute and nice, and he’s a writer. Just a year older than us, but from Dayton and so I doubt you know him.”

  “Wow, you work fast,” Gwen says with admiration. “And did you two, you know . . . ,” she says, and gives me a mischievous smile.

  “Nope,” I say proudly. “At least not yet. We’re dating like normal people and then whatever happens happens. He’s asked me out again—a picnic dinner in the park. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “You should have brought him to the party!” Gwen is wide-eyed with how stupid I can sometimes be.

  “Oh, he has to work today,” I say. “It’s, uh, a family business.”

  Fortunately Gwen’s mother pulls her daughter away to say hello to some cousins who’ve come by with a gift and I’m rescued from further interrogation. I mean, it’s true that Auggie had to work, since it’s opening day at the track and also the start of baseball season. But I don’t exactly want to tell Gwen that I’m in love with a bookie-in-training. Especially after last year, when my penchant for gambling compounded all of my other troubles. It seems that as soon as any money goes missing, everyone automatically assumes that the person with a copy of The Daily Racing Form under her arm has something to do with it.

  In the far corner of the barn, underneath the hayloft, Jane is talking to Mary-Ella and a few other people I haven’t seen since last year’s prom, so I walk over and join them while attempting to keep the ice cream from melting down my hand. The hayloft has always been the designated make-out area and the grown-ups have agreed not to go up there. I guess they figure the hay is so scratchy that no one will want to remove their clothes. And though some kids manage to sneak up a bottle of vodka, you need to be pretty careful about hiding it in transit because Gwen’s mom makes sure to always have a good view of kids climbing up and down the ladder. For us it’s a party. For Mrs. Thompson it’s a fact-finding mission. And thus it’s safe to say that if a couple does somehow manage to go all the way, there won’t be any paternity mysteries.

  I spot Brandt kicking a Hacky Sack around with a group of guys I vaguely recognize from the science lab, chess club, and Mathletes. Apparently Brandt’s no longer a loner, but firmly established in the high-tech clique—kids off to colonize Mars, clone their pet hermit crabs, and write the next Star Wars. Their crack is to crack the genetic code.

  Brandt jogs over to where I’m standing. “I thought you said you weren’t coming to the party,” he says.

  Not surprisingly, Brandt had gone directly to his job at the community college lab after graduation on Friday. Then he left the house again before anyone was up this morning. Brandt is almost always busy with science projects, computer programs, and Trekkie conventions.

  “My friend from Cleveland couldn’t come to visit after all,” I explain.

  “So is he your boyfriend?” Brandt has a habit of asking personal questions as if he’s taking a government survey.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of Auggie, rather than my past history of dodging Brandt’s advances, I say, “No, apparently not.”

  Brandt appears uplifted. “Maybe you want to go up to the hayloft?” he suggests.

  I must look horrified because he immediately says, “Just to talk. You know, to catch up. Back at the house I never get a chance to be alone with you.”

  Yeah, there’s a reason for that, I think. And besides, no one goes up to the hayloft to talk. But Brandt is sort of sweet, with his watch that tells time on all seven continents and probably in at least three galaxies, and so I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “It’s probably better if we talk down here,” I say. “There are a lot of people I haven’t seen in a long time.”

  Brandt nods in understanding but his face looks more like I’d just told him there would be no more reruns of Star Trek—and not just for The Next Generation, but all generations. Then a pile of loose hay gets kicked over the side of the hayloft and lands on our heads, followed by a girl’s sandal and a cascade of giggles from above. It seems safe to assume that someone is getting lucky.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE NEXT MORNING I AWAKE TO THE SOUND OF A LARGE THUD against the door to the summerhouse, as if someone has hurled a basketball or a dead woodchuck at it. The good news is that even though the sun says it’s only about 7 A.M., I don’t have a hangover, like after keg parties at school. About the most damage you can do at one of Gwen’s heavily chaperoned soirees is a sherbet-stained tongue or else a sprained wrist from too much tetherball.

  When I first open the door I don’t see anything but grass and gardens. However, a loud sniffle directs my attention to the area next to the steps. Squeezed between the small cement porch and a forsythia bush is what appears to be the top of my sister Louise, hunched over and with shoulders shaking as if she’s crying.

  “Louise?”

  She stumbles inside and curls up into a ball on the couch. It’s obvious I’m the first stop after one heck of an all-night party, since her makeup is smeared, her hair is a mess and reeks of beer and smoke, and she’s decked out in a skimpy top and Lycra hip-hugger pants. Though I suppose there’s no need to be jealous, since my T-shirt still smells of horse manure and burnt marshmallows and I have a hunk of peanut stuck in one of my molars.

  “Louise, what is going on?” I sit down on the couch next to the bed. “Are you drunk?”

  But Louise only curls up tighter around herself and continues to weep.

  “Are you hurt?” I walk over and gently pull at her limbs, checking for broken bones and other signs of an accident. Everything appears to be working, though she’s definitely way too thin. Maybe she is into drugs.

  Still no reply.

  “If you don’t stop crying and tell me what’s wrong I’m going to have to call Mom and Dad.”

  “No!” She appears to panic.

  I start to feel panicked as well. Where is the despicable wiseass sister who I know and love to hate? What could have possibly happened? I stand over her and go for the worst-case scenario. “Louise, were you raped?”

  “No . . .” She turns her head away. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

  Oh boy. Maybe I should call the police. No, she’d just take off. “Okay, you got drunk and something happened.”

  She nods her head yes.

  “Something bad?”

  “I don’t know.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve and I retrieve the tissue box from the end table and hand it to her. She blows her nose and then says, “I think I had sex with Tim.”

  “What do you mean, you think? Did he drug you or something?”

  “Jell-O shots,” she says, as if that explains everything. And if you’ve ever had the sweet-tasti
ng vodka-loaded cubes, it does. Downing a dozen is like eating dessert. And throwing them up leaves a cool smooth aftertaste like gargling with shaving gel.

  “We were fooling around and then it gets all blurry and I woke up feeling really sick. And kind of sore.”

  “Well, you were a virgin, right?” I say this hopefully. And thankfully she nods her head yes. “Was there any blood? Does it feel as if you had sex?” As if I would know how it felt. Because now it’s clear I’m destined to become the spinster aunt, sewing dowries for all my younger and more desirable female siblings.

  “I don’t know.” Louise resumes sobbing. “It happened in his dorm room. And the next thing I knew, Karen was dragging me out to the car because her brother needed it to go to work in the morning.”

  Louise goes into extra-strength distress. “Hallie, what if I’m pregnant?”

  Oh shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.

  “Mom and Dad will kill me!”

  Putting my arm around her, I say, “No they won’t.” However, I know that of course they will kill her. Actually, Dad will be torn between which to do first, murder the guy who did it or murder Louise for underage drinking and dressing like a tramp. But only if they find out.

  “They won’t find out,” I say. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll help you, I promise.”

  “I don’t want to get an abortion!” she howls through a cascade of tears.

  “Louise, stop getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know for sure whether or not you even had sex.”

  Then I suddenly make a connection—Olivia and her morning-after pills. This is exactly what they’re for! “Louise, this happened late last night, right?”

  “Yes.” The waterworks are slowing to a trickle.

  “Have you ever heard of the morning-after pill?”

  Louise shakes her head to indicate that she hasn’t. It’s no wonder Olivia is always complaining about the lack of information given to young women.

  “It’s a pill that you take after you’ve had sex and it works the same as a contraceptive,” I explain. “We have them here. I mean, Olivia does.” It doesn’t seem the right moment to go into details about Olivia’s back-door pharmacy—how she imports the pills from Europe and makes them available locally because doctors around here won’t prescribe them. Only it’s not illegal because she gives the pills away to anyone who asks and doesn’t sell them.

  “But I can’t tell her what happened.” It’s apparent from the way Louise’s words are crumbling that she’s about to start wailing again.

  “Sure you can,” I try to assure her. “She’s very understanding.”

  “Hallie, she’s the same age as our grandmother! Besides . . .” Louise looks down at the carpet. “It’s embarrassing. And she’ll yell at me.”

  I know from experience that Olivia isn’t in the habit of berating her customers. If anything, it’s just the opposite. She says it’s a waste of time telling people things they aren’t ready to hear, because “knowledge is of little use without wisdom.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll get it,” I finally say. “Wait here.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  OUTSIDE THE SPARROWS ARE COMPLAINING IN HIGH-PITCHED voices and a blue enamel sky blazes overhead. The trees are thick with new leaves that throw complicated patterns onto the ground. Nature appears to have reached a simultaneous peak of beauty and chaos right alongside my sister.

  I find Olivia and Ottavio finishing their tea in the dining room while Bernard is preparing to head off to the shop.

  “Good morning, Hallie!” Bernard practically sings. “Was that Louise I saw going into the summerhouse earlier?”

  Heaven help the person who tries to sneak something past Special Agent Bernard Stockton.

  “I made a Spanish omelet that’s big enough for the both of you. I’m keeping it warm on the top rack. Just be sure to turn off the oven.” He nods toward Olivia as if she’ll never remember, which she probably won’t.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “There’s freshly squeezed pineapple-orange juice and my own special sunflower-seed bread.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Hallie, you appear to be a bit out of sorts,” observes Bernard, who possesses the only known copy of the map of my nerves. “Rather like our old dog, Buster, after he ate an entire devil’s food cake that I’d set out to cool. Is something the matter?”

  “No, no. I mean, I think I need to talk to Olivia for a minute.”

  “Oh,” Bernard’s eyes widen with magnified understanding, as if it’s a feminine situation in which he and Ottavio are most grateful not to be included.

  “Why don’t we go into my den?” Olivia gracefully rises and smoothes the folds of her skirts. With its accordion privacy doors, her den happens to be the only room on the first floor where you can’t be overheard. At least unless Bernard is pressing his ear to the door, which isn’t an unknown occurrence. He claims to be “naturally curious” the way others are natural athletes, thereby implying that the condition is an attribute or even a birthright.

  Olivia sits down at the mahogany writing desk and smiles, as if I ask to have a private word with her every day. Meantime I stand near the door, like an anxious kindergartener down at the principal’s office for the first time.

  I’d planned on saying the pill was for a friend, but since Bernard has already spotted Louise, that would be pretty dumb. “I was wondering . . . I mean, if I could borrow some of those pills . . . because I think my sister . . .” Why did I say “borrow”? What is Louise supposed to do, swallow one and puke it back up so I can return it?

  “Yes, I see,” says Olivia, and the pleasant expression on her face remains unchanged. She opens the bottom desk drawer and hands me a little plastic packet with Italian lettering on the outside.

  “She was afraid you’d give her a speech,” I continue, without firm direction, “and . . . she’s already feeling sort of bad. . . .”

  “I don’t traffic in lectures, just remedies that should be available locally. Besides, it’s safe to say that when the old preach to the young we meet with the same amount of success as when the dead talk to the living.” She hands me the typed piece of paper I’d seen her pass out with the pills so many times, but that I’d never before bothered to read. “The most important thing is that just like any other contraceptive, this is not a hundred percent,” she says. “So please remind Louise to follow up with a pregnancy test.”

  “We’re not completely certain that she even . . . you know . . .”

  Olivia appears momentarily perplexed, but if she’s curious she doesn’t ask. And I’m sure Louise isn’t the first girl to get drunk, have sex, and not remember it.

  “Thanks for understanding,” I say. “Louise is, uh, pretty embarrassed, and she’ll be relieved that you don’t want to tell her she was stupid and all that.”

  “Isn’t that what big sisters are for?” There’s a twinkle in her celestial blue eyes.

  In the kitchen I pour two big glasses of juice to take back with me. It’s a long walk to the summerhouse. I hate to sound like my parents but Louise truly does have to straighten out or she really is going to end up in a home for unwed mothers. And what is she doing hanging out with college guys? They’re sex fiends. I think I would know.

  Louise is lying on the daybed in the fetal position, quietly weeping. Unsure if I can pull this off, I take a deep breath and ignore her crying.

  “Okay, I’ve got it.” My voice is stern and I’m acting slightly plucky, like a British heroine, stiff upper lip and all that. “This should take care of everything. However, these are my conditions.”

  When Louise turns to look at me I’m amazed at how she resembles a little girl again, with her tearstained face, and her doelike eyes wide with fear. But I refuse to melt. “Every day after summer school you come over here and do your homework. If you don’t want to baby-sit for Mom then you can make some money weeding the gardens.” I sound just like all the grown-ups I hated so much in high sch
ool. “I need to spend some time finishing a design project for a contest that could get me a scholarship I desperately need.” Honestly, I think, my sister has no idea how good she has it with Mom and Dad still paying for everything.

  Louise appears relieved. Only she doesn’t realize that I haven’t finished with her yet.

  “And I’m sick of these so-called friends of yours. For the rest of the summer if you want to hang out with people then I meet them first.”

  Louise rallies at this final injustice, which I take as a good sign. “Like hell you do! You’re not my mother!”

  “No, I’m not. But if you’d rather, we can call her right now and ask her what she thinks about all this.”

  “Oh, all right.” She furiously pounds a fist into the pillow. And I’m relieved to see a glimpse of the petulant old Louise who once crazy-glued all my drawers shut.

  I hand her a pill and she quickly swallows it, followed by a big gulp of juice. When she removes the glass from her lips the sun hits her full in the face. Now she appears totally wrecked, with dark circles under her eyes and her normally lustrous dark hair a stringy mess.

  “Why don’t you sleep here for a while,” I offer. “I won’t mow the grass until this afternoon.”

  She puts her head in her hands. “Okay, but would anyone mind if I take a shower first?”

  “Not at all. Go ahead.” And I truly wish that washing away this entire experience were only as simple as standing under a hot shower. She looks as if a chapter of girlhood has been closed by an unseen hand.

  Suddenly Louise doubles over and clutches her stomach. “I think I have morning sickness.”

  “I think you have a hangover,” I say. “Don’t you dare barf on my bed. Those are Egyptian cotton sheets with a very high thread count!”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THE FOURTH OF JULY DAWNS CLOUDY AND GRAY WITH RAINDROPS spinning on the sidewalk like shiny silver coins. However, when you are truly in love for the first time in your life, the weather no longer matters. Nor does food or a broken lawn mower seem very important. All that I can think about is that Auggie called to confirm our date—a picnic dinner al fresco on Saturday night.