Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue)

by Leila Howland

  Karla spun around on her office chair to check the schedule hanging on the wall. “I’ve got you covered for the weekend, but you have to figure out Monday.”

  “But I told you—”

  “Ask Amy. She’s off, although she’ll have had a really tough weekend. Being down a waitress in August is no joke.”

  It occurred to me I could just quit at the end of the week. If I was lucky enough to still be attending college, I had seven thousand in the bank, and I could probably make another grand in my next four or five shifts. But I’d promised Karla that I would work through the end of August, and she’d been so nice to not fire me after my arrest that I didn’t want to break that promise.

  “Amy’s the only one?”

  “Better say pretty please,” Karla said as I left her office. “With sugar on top.”

  Amy was sitting at the bar refilling salt shakers. All of her behavior now made sense. Trying to get rid of me. Her high fever of emotions. Her lipstick and mascara.

  “Amy, I have a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?” She didn’t look up as she poured a steady stream of salt into the delicate, silver-topped shaker, then tapped it to shake off the excess.

  “I’m wondering if there’s any chance you can cover for me on Monday?”

  “After that weekend of double shifts? No frickin’ way. I’m going to the beach.”

  “Please.” I sat on the barstool next to her and faced her. “It’s really important. I need that time if I want to get back into college. It’s my one chance to correct the mistake I made. Imagine making one mistake that had the potential to ruin your life.”

  “I don’t need to imagine,” she said, screwing on the top of one saltshaker and reaching for another. Maybe it was because of her small stature, but until Ben told me that she was also Amelia, I had thought Amy was my age. Now that I really looked at her, I could see some fine lines around her eyes. I could see long nights in the library and the broken engagement. I could see that she was twenty-seven.

  “Because you cheated on Ben?”

  She turned to me with fanned fingers and anxious eyes. “He told you?”

  “I found a picture.”

  “He has a picture? What picture? Where is it?”

  “I found it at Sadie’s house. I think it’s from your engagement party.”

  “He took you to Sadie’s?” Her chest caved. Her eyes webbed with red.

  “We’re not together anymore,” I said.

  “Oh!” She gasped with relief. The lines around her eyes softened. “What happened?”

  “He’s not over you.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Basically.”

  “I love him so much,” she said, hiding her face. “I just got freaked out, you know? It was one stupid night. I turned down an internship to come here and try to get him back, but he met you.”

  “He doesn’t love me,” I said, reaching over the bar to grab a cocktail napkin. I handed it to her and she dabbed her eyes. It was true. No matter which way I’d dissected it, I’d come to the same conclusion. He liked me. He liked teaching me how to surf and how to drive stick. He liked playing the guitar for me and building fires by the ocean while I watched, soft with awe. And I’m pretty sure he enjoyed making me feel like a firecracker on the Fourth of July in the dunes of the nature preserve. I guess if you’ve had an older girlfriend for a while, it would feel good to be the one who knows something for a change, but it didn’t make his heart any more available, and there’s just no substitute for someone’s heart.

  “He’s here,” I said, watching Ben walk through the door with his earbuds in. As he took in the two of us huddled by the bar, his pace slowed. He looked genuinely nervous.

  “Don’t tell him I cried,” she whispered as she hopped off the stool.

  “I won’t. Are you going to cover for me on Monday?”

  “Yeah, fine.” She pushed the tray of saltshakers toward me. “Finish these while I go fix my makeup.”

  “What was that about?” Ben asked as he stepped behind the bar. “Or should I even ask?”

  “Amy’s going to cover for me on Monday,” I said.

  “That’s it?” Ben asked, setting up his cutting board and knife.

  “I told her I knew,” I said, taking over the salt duties. “She really loves you, you know.” Ben seemed unmoved as he rinsed off lemons and limes. I wiped the extra salt from the rim of the small container with my finger.

  “She cheated on me after I proposed to her. That’s one of those actions that crosses a line. I just don’t think there’s any going back after that. Not for me, anyway.” Amy emerged from the ladies’ room with a fresh layer of bright red lipstick, and my heart broke for her. She was going to wear herself out trying to get him back. “I’m sorry she’s sad, but I was straight up with her. She followed me here anyway.”

  “You’re tough,” I said.

  “Says the attack wing. Hey,” he said, touching my hand. “Are we friends?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I don’t have any guy friends.”

  “You do now. So, do you want to know how to make a perfect martini? It’s a skill that comes in surprisingly handy.”

  For the next five days I was on a strict schedule. Every night I worked at Breezes. Things were always a little awkward with Ben and Amy for the first half hour, but we were too slammed for them to stay weird. Amy was a lot nicer to me now that Ben and I weren’t together. She whispered funny remarks to me about the customers, delivered drinks for me when I was in the weeds, and even took over a table of jerks for me. The busy nights, I went home with at least two hundred and fifty dollars. It all went straight into my bank account. When I reached eight thousand, on Thursday night, I sent an e-mail to Rosemary and Jim.

  Every morning, Jules and I worked out. We ran to Altar Rock. We ran to Surfside. We ran to Cisco. We practiced ground balls and shots on goal in the fields of Nantucket High School.

  “You know what I want more than anything?” I asked, collapsing in the sand after a workout that had ended with a game of catch at Children’s Beach. “A sandwich from Something Natural.”

  “I don’t think we’re welcome there,” Jules said, laughing.

  “They probably have our pictures in the back.” I laughed. “Nantucket’s Most Wanted.”

  “Let’s go to the Juice Bar, where they don’t know about our criminal history.”

  “Hey,” I said as she grabbed my hands and pulled me up. “Did Zack break up with Parker?”

  “Not yet. But don’t give up on him, Cricket.”

  “It’s too late.” It was like Ben said. There were some things that you couldn’t go back from.

  “When it comes to love, it’s never too late. Come on,” she said, dusting the sand off her butt. “Let’s think of what you’ll say in this letter to Woody Allen.”

  “Do you think he’ll actually let me audition if he knows the whole story?”

  “You never know,” Jules said. “Hey, have you ever had a watermelon cream from the Juice Bar? You have to try one. They were my mom’s favorite.”

  Later, when I was writing my letter to Woody Allen, explaining Nina’s life list and my mission to reenact it, Zack called. I didn’t pick up. If he chose to stay with someone who would do what she had done to me, he didn’t love me. He called twice more, but I didn’t answer. I deleted the voice mails without listening to them. Liz found the address of Woody Allen’s agent. I mailed the letter on my way to work.

  Every day, I worked on my presentation. I pored over the Brown Web site and wrote down what they were looking for in a student: inspired, talented, motivated, creative, resourceful, committed, independent. I focused on those qualities in my speech. I found the picture of Nina, now permanently bent from the night I’d thought about ripping it up, and Liz made copies for me to give to the committe
e as part of my presentation.

  Jules had asked her dad what he thought “See St. Francis from altar” meant, and he said that he had no idea. Nina had never said anything about St. Francis to him. So, after hashing it out, Liz and Jules and I decided that I would use this fifth item in my speech to discuss the mystery of what was ahead of me at Brown. I wrote about how embracing mystery was the hallmark of a great education, because mystery is what leads us to seek out knowledge.

  Every day, Liz or Jules or both of them listened as I practiced my presentation. They applauded, gave me feedback, or gave me thumbs down if something seemed over the top. I put the whole speech on index cards. The afternoon before I left, Liz told me that I needed to memorize it. The index cards were distracting.

  “She’s right,” Jules said. “It’s going to be, like, perfect if you don’t have to look at your cards.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Should I sing the song, or is that too much?”

  “I say, sing it,” Liz said with passion. “Sing it with all your heart!”

  “Sing just a verse,” Jules said, considering. “You sound really good. But I could also see it, like, getting awkward?”

  “Perhaps she’s right,” Liz said. “Perhaps Crown Jules actually has a point.”

  “All right, it’s settled,” I said. “I’ll sing the first verse only. And I’ll memorize these”—I waved my index cards in the air—“by tomorrow.”

  “You have the ferry ride,” Liz said.

  “And the bus ride,” Jules added.

  “You’re going to do well,” Liz said.

  “You’re going to kick ass,” Jules said.

  “They’re going to love it,” Liz said.

  “They’re going to, like, readmit you so fast you’ll already be a sophomore,” Jules said.

  “That makes no sense,” Liz said.

  “She knows what I mean,” Jules said with a shrug.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said, pausing for a moment to observe the scene before me: Jules sprawled on my sofa bed, rubbing the silky part of the blanket, and Liz with her legs crossed, one foot bouncing, one hand twirling a curl. They were my two best friends, and they would be for a long time.

  “Thank you so much for everything,” I said.

  “Don’t get sentimental on us till you’re back in,” Liz said.

  “Well, in that case…” I said, as I threw my index cards in the air, took a running start, jumped on the sofa, and tackled them both.

  “You’re heavier than you look, mate!” Liz said.

  Forty

  I HEARD DAD’S TAXICAB WHISTLE from the sidelines as I sprinted to catch a pass from a midfielder named Bitsy, who was anything but. She had to be over six feet tall and her legs looked so strong that they seemed like they could only belong to a professional athlete. Or a man. I caught the pass, which was so powerful it nearly pinned me to the field. But I found my balance, rolled past a defender who looked like she had issued from the same Norse god as Bitsy, and passed to Fiona, a left attack wing so fast I swear her cleats were smoking.

  Even though my lungs ached and a cramp pinched my side and it looked like Fiona was going to score all on her own, I sprinted wide for a pass. My legs were shaking and my heart was beating so fast it was in danger of exploding, but I was afraid if I stopped moving I just might drop dead on the field of St. Timothy’s at the final scrimmage for the Women’s Lacrosse Ivy League Training Camp.

  I’d played lacrosse since the fifth grade, but the girls at this camp were of a different breed. Usually, I was the fastest girl on the field. I knew a couple of players in our high school league as fast as I was: Patricia Cassell, Katie Rothwell, and maybe, maybe Izzy what’s-her-face from Middletown Academy. But this was a whole field of Patricias, Katies, and Izzys.

  And not only were they all fast, they were also driven, well-spoken, and smart. They were in such good shape they could practically fly. They were focused, agile, alert; perfect pictures of health; excellence made physical. There wasn’t a mediocre or even second-best among them. And all together, despite different hair color, skin color, and body shapes, in a weird way, they looked exactly alike. They looked like the finest examples of everyone I had grown up with. They looked like what I had always imagined I would become if I tried my hardest.

  “Lacrosse is our life,” Fiona said when we were stretching out before the scrimmage. She was a junior at Brown, originally from Virginia. “Three hours a day. Every day. And every weekend, too. It’s awesome.” As I stretched out my calves, my mouth went dry.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I smiled. I didn’t know how much these girls knew about my situation.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Just nervous,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” she said, and smiled. “You’re going to be great. Besides, you’re already on the team.”

  When Fiona saw that I was open, she called out a play we’d gone over at halftime. I had never moved so fast or been so aggressive. I sprang free from the defensive wing who was guarding me, taking full advantage of a pick set by Bitsy, leapt up to catch the ball, and slammed it straight into the goal. The whistle blew. My team cheered. Two minutes later, I did it again.

  It wasn’t my stickwork, which was actually weak compared to the other girls’, or my conditioning, which was below par and had me bent over and heaving after I’d scored. And it sure wasn’t that I was more innately talented than the other girls. It was determination, that superpower that can be willed into existence by those with something on the line. It made me better than I should have been. It made me shine. Or maybe it was just that the other girls were playing a game, and I was fighting for everything I’d lost.

  Whatever it was, it worked. I saw Coach Stacy smiling on the sidelines. She wrote something on her clipboard. At the end of the scrimmage, when the Brown kids were huddled up, drinking water and trading stories about the summer, she squeezed my shoulder and said, “Great job, Cricket.” The assistant coach winked at me. Fiona gave me her number and told me I could call her if I had any questions or just wanted to hang out with the team in the next few days.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. “But I’m going to be on Nantucket.”

  “You go to Nantucket? I love Nantucket! Do you belong to the Wampanoag?”

  “I work there,” I said. “I’m a waitress at Breezes.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Call me when you’re back in town.”

  “Holy crap,” Dad said, when we got in the car. “You were like a fish leaping out of the ocean. You were like some kind of flying squirrel. Let me see those cleats. Are there springs in there?”

  “I was fighting for my life,” I said as I eased off my cleats and peeled away my socks. My feet were bright red and throbbing. A ruptured blister on my heel was oozing.

  “You know what? You weren’t a fish or a squirrel. You were a warrior!” He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. His forehead wrinkled with amazement. “I’m the father of a warrior. ‘That’s my girl,’ I said when you scored that goal. ‘That’s my girl!’”

  “Yeah. I did all right.”

  “You did better than all right. I’m proud of you, sweetie,” Dad said; he kissed my sweaty hand. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “That’s what you said at my graduation party.”

  “I’m prouder now,” he said, as we passed the white clapboard dorms of St. Timothy’s and the idyllic, pristine Newport coastline came into view. “No matter what happens tomorrow. I’m as proud of you right now as I have ever been.”

  Dad and I went to the Newport Creamery. Dad drank a decaf coffee and watched in amazement as I ate a grilled-cheese sandwich and drank a whole vanilla Awful Awful, the Newport Creamery’s signature milk shake, in about three minutes. I kept telling myself to slow down, but the shake was so cold and so swe
et. If forgiveness had a taste, I thought as I wiped my mouth with my grass-stained hand, it would be this.

  Forty-one

  “YOU ASKED ME TO COME HERE and explain myself, and I thank you for the opportunity,” I said; and I took a deep breath and made eye contact with each member of the committee in the small, formal room in the Brown Admissions Office. Claudia Gonzales looked even younger than she’d sounded on the phone. Coach Stacy was barely recognizable in a suit. Dr. Fantini, a tall, bow-tied dean from the science department, was the third member.

  My hands were shaking, so I clasped them behind my back. I was wearing an outfit that Mom had ironed: a khaki skirt, a white blouse, and navy flats. Mom had blown out my hair and pulled it back with a silver barrette, just as she had done for picture day at Rosewood every year since I could remember.

  Whatever anger and frustration she’d demonstrated when I first told her what had happened had morphed into mothering.

  After she picked me up from the bus station, she’d made me my favorite dinner—spaghetti with clam sauce—put clean sheets on my bed, and even stocked the fridge with my favorite kind of yogurt. And that night, when I couldn’t sleep despite being exhausted, she came into my room with her guitar.

  “Oh, the summertime has come and the leaves are sweetly blooming,” Mom sang softly. “And the wild mountain thyme grows around the purple heather.”

  “Will you go?” we whisper-sang together. “Lassie, will you go?”

  “Remember when I used to sing that to you?” she asked. “Every night, you wanted to hear that song.”

  “Keep singing,” I said. “And then sing it again.”

  And she did—we did, until I fell asleep.

  The air-conditioning in the admissions office wasn’t working. The four of us were perspiring. I took a sip of water from a bottle they had handed me when I walked in. As I fumbled to replace the cap on the bottle, it fell to the floor. Despite the fact that their eyes followed it to the edge of the carpet where it landed, I didn’t dare pick it up for fear I’d spill the whole bottle, knock over the table, send a lamp crashing down, and set the building on fire. I placed the water bottle carefully down and continued.