“It’s not another arrest, I hope,” Liz said. I shook my head. She wrinkled her nose and leaned closer. “You need a shower, darling. You’re a hot mess.”
“Yes,” I said, taking her hands. “I am a hot mess. Something’s happened to me. Something big.”
“You did it with the bartender?”
“No,” I said. “But it’s, um, along those lines. We drove out to some dunes, and…” I fanned myself with my hand and giggled.
“Darling.” Her face brightened as she balanced the laundry basket on her hip. “Did he blow your whistle?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. “I think, maybe.”
“If he had, you’d know,” she said, patting my arm.
“Wait! Then I think he did.” I bit my lip.
“So he spun your top, did he? He sounded the alarm? Flipped the switch?”
“Um…”
“Did you see the light, darling?”
“Yes!” I jumped. “Yes, I did!”
“Wonderful!”
“It’s so wonderful.” I leaned against the wall.
“Now, I must warn you.” She took hold of my shoulders. “Your body is currently emitting bonding hormones. You mustn’t pay too much attention to them. It’s just biology. He is not God’s gift, no matter what your hormones are telling you. You must promise me that you understand this.”
“I can’t promise anything.” I giggled, sliding down the wall.
“Shall we go tell George?”
“What? George is here?”
“That’s my big surprise,” she said. “George Gust is in the kitchen.”
“George!” I hadn’t seen him since last summer, since his book had been published (with my name in it).
“And we have a reservation at Black-Eyed Susan’s. Come on, let’s tell him.”
“Liz, don’t you dare.”
“But it’s such delightful news,” she said, laughing her loudest laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be very happy for you.”
“Liz,” I said, showing my most serious face as she hoisted me up. “No.”
“George!” Liz said, dragging me into the kitchen. “Here she is!”
“Hi!” I said. In his black T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers, George Gust looked almost identical to the way he had the first time I’d met him in this very kitchen and discovered him eating my sandwich, even though he was now a New York Times best-selling author.
“Cricket Thompson, faithful intern and birthday girl! I was starting to worry you weren’t going to come!”
“Oh, she came!” Liz said, beaming. “She came, George!” My cheeks burned from my hairline to the tips of my ears down to my throat. I shot Liz a look and turned back to George.
“I’m here for a book signing at Mitchell’s,” he said. “Can you believe it, Cricket? After all that work last summer?”
“I know! And it’s great to see you, George, but I’ve been told I’m a hot mess. So I’m going to go take a shower before dinner. I can’t wait to catch up.” I turned to go.
“Hurry up,” George said. “Our reservation is in fifteen minutes.”
George told us about his big news over dinner in the back garden at Black-Eyed Susan’s. As we feasted on cold corn soup with chunks of crabmeat and avocado, pan-seared diver scallops, local lettuces with fried green tomatoes, and linguine and quahogs, George told us he had a new book deal, this one about the life of Hillary Clinton. “So many women connect with her,” George said. “And there’s good reason for it. I’m interested in the psychology of Hillary, her many contradictions and how she’s changed the idea of the American woman.”
“Is it weird that you’re writing this and you’re not a woman?” Liz asked, as she helped herself to another glass of the wine. I was sticking to water.
“Not at all,” George said. “You wouldn’t say that if it were a woman writing about a man, would you?”
Liz considered as she sipped. “No, I suppose not.”
“But trust me: my editor and I thought of that. And I have to get this exactly right, because my last book has been so successful. And this advance they gave me? It’s no joke. So, I’m under a lot of pressure.”
“Are you rich now, George?” Liz asked, eyes popping.
“Let’s just say my wife and I were able to make a down payment on an apartment in Park Slope.” Liz and I looked at him blankly. “For a journalist, that’s basically a miracle. So I really have to deliver. My career depends on it.” He furrowed his brow and he looked a bit pale.
“You just need a female perspective,” I said, spearing a scallop. “You know, as you write. And you can interview a lot of women, get a lot of perspectives.”
“Exactly,” George said, smiling and twirling up a big spoonful of the linguine and quahogs with his fork. “Too bad you’ll be busy at Brown, Cricket. I could use you in New York.”
I felt a little rush of adrenaline at the idea of myself in a smart-looking dress, walking down a New York street with a notepad under my arm. I thought about Nina and all her New York stories. Maybe I could have my own.
“Brown is a great school,” George said. He shook his head, laughing. “What an opportunity. You know, the admissions people at Brown would’ve laughed their asses off if I’d applied there.”
“You don’t think you would’ve gotten in?”
“Not in a million years. Make it a trillion.”
“But you’re a famous author. I always assumed you went to Yale or Harvard or something.” My phone rang. It was a Rhode Island number I didn’t recognize, so I ignored the call. It was probably a wrong number. I silenced the phone and placed it on the table.
“In high school I was lot more interested in girls than grades. My SAT scores were a joke. I barely got into CUNY.”
“Really?” My whole life had been about getting into the right college, but here was George, with a shiny new book deal, a best seller on his hands, and a Park Slope apartment, and he hadn’t gone anywhere fancy. He was one of the smartest, best people I’d ever met. Did college not actually matter that much?
George twirled up the last of the linguine and threw his napkin on the table. “What do you say: Juice Bar for dessert?”
“Yay! I love the Juice Bar, and Liz will never wait in line with me.”
“Some things are worth waiting for, Liz.”
“Not tonight. I need to get back for a late check-in. But you two go. I’ll see you back at the inn. Thank you for dinner, George. And I’m so happy to finally have a rich friend in New York.”
“Don’t get carried away,” George said as he counted out bills to pay the check. “Come on, Cricket. Let’s blow this pop stand.” We were halfway out the door when I realized I’d left my phone on the table. I glanced at the screen. The Rhode Island caller had left a voice mail. I’d listen to it later, I thought. Whoever it was, they could wait until after we’d gone to the Juice Bar.
“Maybe I could work for you from Brown,” I said to George as we stood in line at the Juice Bar. The late ferry had just come in, and the new arrivals streamed past with their bags over their shoulders, faces lit up with visions of what their time on the island held for them. “I could come to New York on the weekends. I bet I could even find a way to get credit for it.”
“There’s nothing I’d like more,” he said. “You did a great job for me last summer. You have a great attitude. You’re smart, fast, and fun to be around. You kept me organized, provided insight, and kept things running smoothly.” I beamed at the praise. “But I’m going to need someone full-time. Not just weekends.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it? I’m going to New York soon anyway,” I said as the line moved up and we stepped inside the screen door. “I need to audition for Woody Allen.” I hadn’t made any concrete plans to do this, but it was on the list and I was going to make it happen
somehow.
“Woody Allen? You’re an actress now?”
“No, not at all. It’s for this, um, project I’m doing.”
“What kind of project? For school?”
“No, it’s research,” I said, studying the menu even though I knew exactly what I was going to order. “Personal research.”
George clapped his hand on my shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Thompson. You’re always working something out. You’re always thinking, always questioning. It’s the mark of a good person. And a good journalist.”
I made a mental note to stay in touch with George, always.
“So, what’s it going to be?” George asked when it was finally our turn to order.
“Chocolate peanut butter, in a waffle cone.”
“Make that two,” George told the pimply ice-cream scooper as he stuffed a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar.
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was getting ready for work, that I listened to the mysterious Rhode Island voicemail message. I was sitting on the sofa, lacing up my Easy Spirits, when I played it on speaker.
“Hi, Cricket. This is Claudia Gonzales from Brown University admissions. I’m calling with some important information regarding your status. You were admitted with the understanding that you would maintain the exemplary behavior you demonstrated in high school. Our office received some disturbing news regarding an incident on Nantucket. It’s crucial that you return my call as soon as possible.”
Thirty-four
I HAD A HALF HOUR until I had to be at work. I stuffed my feet into my sneakers and called Claudia Gonzales at the Brown University Admissions Office. I tried her three times, but she didn’t answer her phone. I could only leave her a voice mail. I called back and dialed zero to try to reach a human.
“I got a very important message from Ms. Gonzales,” I told the girl who picked up. “I need to talk to her.”
“It’s only me in the office right now,” she said. “And I’m just on work study.”
“Can I have her cell-phone number? I need to talk to her, like, now.”
“Um, I’m not supposed to, um, give out any numbers.” I wanted to reach through the phone and throttle her. “Um, I think I need to go,” she said, and hung up.
I flew into the inn’s kitchen, where Liz was preparing a salad.
“What’s happened now?” she asked.
“I might not get into Brown,” I said, my voice rising in panic. “They know that I got shitfaced and broke into Something Natural. They know everything.”
“What?”
I played her the voice mail. I was short of breath, studying her face as she listened, hoping that she might have a brilliant British insight or some take on the situation that would mean this was no big deal. But she just shook her head and said, “This is bad, really, really bad.”
“I know,” I whispered. The panic was climbing back down my throat, clogging my air passages. I sat down and put my head between my knees.
“It was Jules who told them,” Liz said.
“We don’t know that.” I couldn’t believe it, but it was the first time the question of who had contacted Brown had entered my mind. Until now, it had just seemed like the all-seeing god of college admissions, the one I’d lived in fear of, to whom I’d prayed with all of my extracurricular activities and made sweet offerings of bright, shiny report cards, was now striking me down out of displeasure.
“Then who was it?” Liz asked. “Do they read the Nantucket police blotter?”
I closed my eyes and placed a hand on my churning stomach. I didn’t want to think about it. I tucked in my Breezes T-shirt. “I have to get to work. I need to taste the specials so that I can accurately describe them.” As if this were my biggest problem. How was I supposed to recite a speech about wild salmon when my future was in ruins?
Liz put her half-made salad in the fridge and grabbed her keys. “You must talk to this Brown University woman right now. I’ll drive. You dial.”
“I tried calling Brown,” I said, following her out the door. “Claudia Gonzales has gone home for the night.”
“Call her at home,” Liz said as we climbed into the Jeep. “She must understand what’s at stake.”
“I don’t have her home number. They don’t just give home numbers out.”
Liz made a show of removing her cell phone from her purse and dialing a number as she started the engine. “Hello, operator? I’m looking for a number in Providence, Rhode Island. A Claudia Gonzales.” I handed her the piece of paper on which I’d written her name. “G-O-N-Z-A-L-E-S, as in Sam,” Liz raised her eyebrows and nodded. She scribbled on a piece of Cranberry Inn stationery, trying to get the pen to work. “I’ll take all three.” She spat on the end of her pen and wrote down three numbers.
I called all three Claudia Gonzaleses while Liz drove. The first one didn’t speak English, the second sounded like she was a hundred years old; but on the third try I found the Claudia I was looking for.
“How did you get this number?” she asked, sounding too young to be in charge of my life.
“You’re listed in information,” I said. Liz nodded, as if to confirm that this was totally valid. “I didn’t know what to do and I had to talk to you.”
“At least you recognize that this is an emergency,” she said. I put my hand back on my stomach as it flipped once again, and Claudia Gonzales went on to explain that she’d been sent a video in which I’d identified myself and exhibited behavior that was in no way in line with Brown’s code of conduct. Liz watched as I nodded and made notes.
Ms. Gonzales explained that in the next few days I was going to get a certified letter that stated that I had a hearing in a week in front of the Brown Student Conduct Committee. She would be there along with an academic dean, and, because of my place on the team, so would the lacrosse coach. I had one week to prepare an explanation and defend my place at Brown. I jotted down: “video,” “one week,” “place at Brown,” “defend myself.”
“We want to know why you did this,” she said, “and what your thoughts are upon reflection. We take this kind of thing very seriously.”
I wrote “why?” and underlined it twice. After I hung up, I closed my eyes.
“Well?” Liz asked. We were parked in a shaded spot near the restaurant.
“Someone sent them a video of that night at Something Natural.”
“Jules! I told you!”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head. “We’ve been so good lately.”
“Well, are you still accepted to the university?”
“I have to defend myself,” I said. “In some kind of hearing.”
“But you’re not kicked out?” Liz asked.
“No,” I said. “Not yet anyway, but I’m in deep shit.”
“Maybe your bartender has some ideas,” she said, noticing Ben walking through the back door of the restaurant. She squeezed my khaki knee. I was wearing my ugly thrift-store pants. “In the meantime, we’ll both think about how to get you out of this, yeah?”
“So, you have to go on trial? Again?” Ben took my hand in the little alley behind the restaurant. We were hiding out for a few minutes before opening.
“Something like that,” I said.
“I don’t get it. Who sent the video?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, who took it?”
“Jules,” I said.
“But she wouldn’t send it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Have you told your parents?” Ben asked, placing a steadying hand on my lower back.
I shook my head no. I wanted to stay here, in the shelter of his arms, in the alley between Breezes and the Wamp, for as long as possible.
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” I never thought I’d like being called “honey” or “sweetie” or any
of those names old guys sometimes casually tossed off at the restaurant, but right now, it felt comforting. I leaned against him. For the first time, he felt like my boyfriend. I closed my eyes as those bonding chemicals Liz had warned me about flooded my bloodstream.
“So, what’s your plan?” asked Ben.
“I’m going to do what I always do,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Fight like hell.” Behind Ben, a nighthawk looped through the sky, searching for dinner. Dad used to point out their long, pointed wings on our bike rides on summer evenings in Providence.
“You’re one tough girl,” he said.
“I’m an attack wing,” I said. “In lacrosse.”
“And in life,” Ben said, as he kissed the top of my head. “Sadie’s going off island for a few days tomorrow. You can stay with me if you want.”
“I’d like that,” I said. His arms felt strong and protective. Older.
“We’d better get back in there. Tonight’s going to be a nightmare. We’re booked solid.”
Ben was right. That night we didn’t have one rush or two rushes. The whole shift was a rush. What everyone said was true. August was the busiest, craziest time of all. I made more mistakes than usual. A lady who’d ordered the lobster roll with butter got it with mayonnaise. A fat-fingered man who’d wanted the bluefish wound up with the snapper. But their complaining looks and sharp words barely registered, and thankfully, even Karla was too busy acting as both hostess and busboy, and even hopping behind the bar at one point, to notice. I kept thinking about Claudia Gonzales’s words and that video. I barely remembered it, but I could picture Jules filming Zack and me and telling us to put our arms around each other.
As I bused a table, gathering dirty glasses and dessert dishes onto a tray, another memory came back to me: of Jules flinching when I told her about Nina’s life list. I dumped the glasses and plates at the dish-washing station, realizing that Jules’s sending the video to Brown was another version of what had happened last year, when I’d spoken at her mother’s memorial service. Jules had been very angry, but instead of telling me like a normal person, she had lashed out.
Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) Page 15
