The Summer Before Boys

by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  What was I thinking?

  I couldn’t turn around because that would be worse—I’d be facing them. I couldn’t run back to our bags and grab a towel or my shirt.

  How badly I wanted my shirt.

  I knew enough to know that swimming out past my shoulders was, at best, a temporary solution. I’d have to come out eventually, or worse, that boy would come out here in the water too. How long could I hide in the murky green water?

  I could hear the unfamiliar voices coming closer. I could hear the mom telling the boy all the wonderful things about the retreat, the hikes, the campfires, s’mores, the fresh air. It wasn’t working. I was getting nakeder and nakeder and for a full second it was like I could float out of my body and see myself standing by the water. I was a just a flat-chested little girl in big white cotton underpants. But I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

  Even as I felt my mother drape a towel around my shoulders, I knew I would never be the same again.

  ten

  Four o’clock was teatime at Mohawk. You can set your watch by it, Pam would tell us. She knew because she had to close up the gift shop between four and five fifteen every day. Mrs. Smith insisted. She didn’t want anyone shopping or eating ice cream at teatime.

  So then, just as the heat of the day is supposed to be waning but it feels hotter than ever, everyone comes inside to have hot tea and biscuits with homemade jam.

  “We’re not allowed in here,” Eliza said. “So stay low.”

  I didn’t really know what staying low meant, but I already knew that teatime was only for the guests. Aunt Louisa had told us many times not to bother Mrs. Smith—not to get underfoot—not to be using equipment, or taking up space, or doing anything that paying customers were paying to do.

  And teatime at Mohawk was all Mrs. Smith.

  I looked around. The littlest kids had escaped their parents’ handholding and were crowding around the rolling tea cart, reaching between the legs of the grown-up guests and snatching sugar cookies from the tray. A couple of teenagers were milling as far apart from their parents as from each other, leaning against the walls of this huge carpeted room. The older people had gotten there early and taken most of the couches and settees and sofa chairs. Then they sent someone else to grab cookies for them so no one could take their seat. It was dark inside. The shades were drawn to keep the afternoon sun out.

  “Try to blend in,” Eliza instructed me.

  Usually that was easy. Most of my life I feel like I blend in, or maybe I just don’t stick out, which comes in pretty handy in school. There are some kids who always get in trouble; no matter who is talking, the teacher always looks at them first. And some kids that the teacher always relies on, and they are the ones who have to take things to the office or volunteer to read out loud or pass out papers. And then there are some kids who just get left alone. That was me.

  So why did I feel different now?

  I mean, why did I suddenly want to feel different?

  Michael had chased us into the water, which caused my throat to produce a weird giggling laugh I never heard before. I almost forgot how to swim. I started moving my arms and legs but instead of feeling powerful, instead of flying through the water, I was flailing. Instead of feeling the freshness of the water on my skin I was fighting it. And all the while I sensed that Michael was right behind us. I could hear him breathing and splashing and my heart started thumping.

  We all made it to the floating dock at the same time. Eliza hoisted herself up and then me and then Michael. We all flopped onto the wooden planks and stayed there. Nobody moved. No one stood up. No one talked. The dock still rocked, up and down from the weight of our bodies.

  The dock was small and on the busiest days maybe six or seven guests could lay side by side like crayons melting in the sun. But even though we were the only ones there, Michael, Eliza, and I were all pretty close to each other, breathing hard. If there was a way to look comfortable, I tried to find it. I bent my knees just the slightest bit to lift my legs because for some reason I thought they looked better that way. But I was anything but comfortable.

  I was anxious and uncomfortable and I had no idea what to say or do, but it was a good feeling. A new feeling. It wasn’t like Christmas morning, but more like Christmas Eve when you are so excited, even scared-excited, that you won’t get what you really wanted but maybe you will. Or that no one will like what you got for them. So flooded with tension you can’t fall asleep, even knowing that falling asleep is the only way to make morning come. It’s a feeling that you can’t wait to get rid of, but I wanted to feel it again as soon as possible.

  “Okay, so you’re not chickens,” Michael said. He leaned up on his elbows, water dripping from his head onto his shoulders.

  That was a nice thing to say, I thought.

  I should say something back. Something clever. Something really clever. Something to make me stand out—for once. So I don’t blend in.

  “You’re just a jerk, Michael,” Eliza said.

  “Yeah, a dumb jerk,” I added cleverly.

  Most of the guests had dressed for teatime, put on pants and shirts. There was one man in a jacket. Some of the mothers had summer dresses and little low heels. But the kids looked pretty much the same. Like we did. Shorts. Wet hair. Flip-flops.

  “Oh no,” Eliza said, poking me in the side. “Why is he here?”

  “Who?”

  We had gotten close to the food table without being noticed. It was pretty crowded today. Mrs. Smith was circling around on the other side of the room, making sure everyone knew who she was. We could grab a cookie or five, a scone maybe, a handful of strawberries.

  “Michael,” Eliza whispered. “He never comes to teatime. He’s gotten caught so many times his father would kill him if he finds out.”

  “He’s here?”

  “Yeah, now we better go or we’ll all get in trouble.”

  He’s here. And he never usually comes. But we are here. And he’s here.

  “C’mon,” Eliza said. “Don’t worry. I can get us stuff from the kitchen. Let’s go. My dad will be mad too, if Mrs. Smith catches us. Michael always gets caught. He’s got a sign around his neck or something. C’mon.”

  I tried to look around the room quickly but I didn’t see him anywhere. Eliza pulled me through the side doors and onto the porch. Maybe it was just as well. If I had the opportunity to say one more clever thing today he might never want to talk to me again.

  eleven

  Mrs. Jaffe gave each of us—Peter and me—a notebook. The black-and-white kind that are so hard to write in and have pages that don’t rip out. She told us it was for our feelings, the ones we might not want anyone else to know. She asked that we write in it at least once a week, and bring it to our once-a-month meetings with her.

  But, she said, she would never read it. Never ask us to read it out loud. At the end of each meeting we had “quiet writing time” and we were supposed to write in it then, too. We were supposed to write about our parents, and the war, and what it felt like to worry if your mom or dad was going to live or die. Mrs. Jaffe didn’t mince her words. No one else said things like that, like “war” or “die.” It was scary but kind of a relief.

  Spelling doesn’t matter. Grammar and structure doesn’t matter. This isn’t about school, Mrs. Jaffe told us. It’s about listening to your own feelings. Owning them. Not being afraid of them.

  I heard Peter make a sound under his breath. I thought it was dumb too, but I did it, every week, a little bit, and a little bit more. At the end of the school year, Mrs. Jaffe encouraged us to use our notebooks whenever we felt we needed to. And it did help. I wrote about my mom being in Iraq, about how much I missed her, and how many days until she was coming back. And for the longest time, that was all I wrote about in my journal.

  Saturday was errand day. Usually Aunt Louisa let us stop at McDonald’s and Uncle Bruce might let us rent a movie. Maybe two. Eliza and I always wanted to go into town.

  �
�You can’t stay alone, Julia,” Eliza said. She even stamped her foot.

  “Leave her alone, Liza,” my Uncle Bruce said. “We all need to be alone sometimes. This is a small house—nobody gets to be alone too often. Now get your shoes on and let’s go.”

  As soon as Aunt Louisa and Uncle Bruce and Eliza were gone, I took out my notebook. Maybe I was going write something about my mother, about missing her phone call for the second time in the same week. Or about the war, about missing limbs, or convoys or IEDs. No one should even have to know what an IED is, but I do. It’s an improvised explosive device. I could have written about all those things, since they were on my mind, but I didn’t. I wrote his name instead.

  M-I-C-H-E-A-L.

  I wish I knew his last name. I could write more, more letters to play with and decorate.

  And then I wrote it again. M-I-C-H-E-A-L. And I wrote it again. I didn’t even ask myself why I was doing this, I just was. Because, as I wrote his name, it was like he was closer to me. It was his name. It belonged to him, the letters filled the page, and little movies played in my head—almost without my permission—of how many different ways I might bump into Michael again. How could I make it happen? I had tried all week and the whole while I couldn’t let Eliza know what I was doing.

  Like on Wednesday.

  “You don’t even like horses, Julia,” Eliza had said.

  “I never said that. I like horses. All girls like horses, don’t they?”

  Black Beauty was one of my favorite books. And Misty of Chincoteague.

  “You never did before.”

  “Well, I do now.”

  We were walking toward the stables. I figured if Michael’s father works here maybe Michael hangs out and helps him. And so far, Eliza was buying this. I was just glad she couldn’t hear my heart thumping.

  “Well, hold up your dress, then,” Eliza said. “It’s so dirty in there. Mother doesn’t really want me doing things like that anymore. Remember?”

  I looked down at my pinafore but it wasn’t there. Usually it would be hanging just below my knees, brushing the tops of my boots. If everything was the same, I would be grateful not to be wearing a corset yet, grateful I could still breathe freely, run freely, and play. Not worrying about how ladylike I looked. Not like the fancy ladies who always look so weary, who don’t walk but glide across the room and fan themselves slowly, in between sips of their tea.

  But it wasn’t the same anymore.

  And Michael wasn’t at the stables.

  And then on Friday.

  “Why don’t we go swimming,” I suggested and I wondered if Eliza could tell. Could she tell I wasn’t wearing my swimming bloomers? That I didn’t have my parasol. I hadn’t been able to conjure up even a single sash, eyelet, or petticoat of muslin.

  “Alas,” Eliza said. “Off to our daily swim.”

  She couldn’t tell, and Michael and his brother were at the lake. They were both on top of the log, their legs running in place, gripping it and letting it spin under their feet at the same time. They were facing each other, laughing. Michael didn’t see us, see me.

  “I don’t want to stay here,” Eliza said. I wasn’t sure which Eliza was talking. Was it Olden-Day Eliza or just Eliza Eliza? But at that moment I didn’t care any more than I had to in order to keep her next to me, long enough to be seen—by Michael.

  The log was anchored on one end to the floating dock. The other end was tethered to a huge concrete slab on the shore. It was a famous tradition at Mohawk. Apparently it was an original log dating back to when the beach was first dug and the hotel first opened to the public.

  “C’mon, Julia,” Eliza said. “We can come swimming later.”

  Then I knew it was Eliza Eliza doing the talking, because Olden-Day Eliza would never say “c’mon.”

  Every fourth of July in the real olden days, before the picnic on the great lawn, the men—the guests and the employees—had log-spinning contests, while the women had to sit on wooden chairs, in high stockings, shoes, bathing dresses with long sleeves, and floppy wide-brimmed hats. And watch. Olden-Day Eliza and Julia could have stood on the beach and watched the festivities. Of course, girls weren’t allowed to swim at the same time as the boys.

  But Eliza was done trying to get me to pretend with her. She might not have figured it out completely but she knew I wasn’t paying attention. And now she just wanted to go.

  “We can catch a ride back with my dad,” she told me. “If we leave now.”

  There wasn’t really anything I could do, standing there in the sand, to get his attention. Let him know I was there—had sought him out, in fact. Though I wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing or not. Probably not.

  But I was finally there, after days of trying to figure out how to bump into him. I couldn’t just leave now.

  “Julia, c’mon.” Eliza reached out her hand to me. She was just Eliza, my cousin, my niece, my best friend in sixth grade, in New Hope Middle School and for all my life. And I couldn’t just let her down.

  “Okay, we can go.” I tried to say it loudly. In the end we caught our ride but I missed “bumping into” Michael whatever-his-last-name-was.

  I wrote his name three more times—M-i-c-h-e-a-l. Michael. Michael—I wrote it in print and then script and then I closed my notebook.

  Like Mrs. Jaffe told me—I was owning my feelings, whatever that meant.

  twelve

  I don’t remember ever wanting to be alone with a boy. I sure never tried to be, but one afternoon for counseling, Mrs. Jaffe was late and for the longest time Peter Vos and I just sat there, at two opposite sides of the room.

  “Maybe this is part of the program,” I said out loud and for some reason Peter answered me.

  “What is?” he said.

  “This. This sitting here. Maybe we are supposed to write in our notebooks.”

  “So go ahead.”

  “Maybe we are supposed to talk to each other.”

  “Go blow,” Peter said.

  “That’s not very nice,” I said, wishing I had something meaner to say back, but I didn’t.

  It was quiet again.

  “We should just go. I’m missing science again.” I think that time I was just talking to myself.

  Peter said, “Sorry.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it. My dad’s coming back.”

  “He is?”

  “Yeah, next week sometime, they told us . . . ,” Peter said.

  “You must be happy.”

  Peter nodded but didn’t offer anything more.

  “So that’s great.” I tried not to sound jealous. I tried to make a joke. “You won’t have to come to these sessions anymore.”

  “I’m scared,” Peter said quietly, as if he wanted to tell me something but he also needed to keep it to himself.

  So I pretended I hadn’t heard.

  They come in person. They come to your house in their full dress uniform and then you know. You know it’s not good news. It’s the worst news, so every day that you are home and you see someone in a uniform outside the window it takes you back for a minute. It takes your breath away for a moment or two.

  Then you see it’s the postman. Or the UPS man. Or even somebody in a navy blazer maybe that you caught out of the corner of your eye but didn’t focus on and your heart freezes for just the split second. In the deployment program before my mom left, I heard about a kid who hid under his bed whenever he heard the doorbell ring. There was a girl who started hysterically crying this one time she got called to the principal’s office. All they needed was to check on a field trip permission slip.

  But I never thought I’d see them at Mohawk. The army. I never expected them to come all the way up here just to find me. To bring with them the news that is too awful to write down in a letter.

  There were three of them, walking up the hill nearing the rose trellises. It was early. How did they get here so early? For once, Eliza and I woke up when Uncle Bruce did a
nd we got a ride with him to the hotel. It was my idea. I didn’t wonder why the army had come to Mohawk instead of my house. I didn’t think.

  I’ve got to run away, I thought.

  They were coming closer. Navy blue, bright white, bright red.

  My brain started spinning. Eliza and I can hang out by the lake all day. We can swim or take out a boat, and either way I can keep an eye on the beach, keep a lookout. I can make sure the soldiers never find me. If they never find me they can’t tell me. If they can’t tell me that means nothing bad has happened.

  “Julia, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  I had thought every day that this could happen, that this might happen—but I didn’t think they should be laughing like that. Why are they laughing?

  Eliza was pulling at my arm. “Julia, it’s a wedding. What are you looking at?”

  The whole thing had lasted ten seconds, if that. In ten seconds my brain flew out of my body, traveled all the way around the world, broke in two, and now I was back to normal. Just like that.

  Like nothing had ever happened.

  It was a wedding. There were always weddings at Mohawk, practically every weekend. The groom, or maybe it was the bride’s family, must have had someone in the military. The whole wedding party was coming over the hill, smiling and laughing and starting to group together. The photographer was telling everyone where to stand.

  thirteen

  An entire hall at the far end, at the top of the carpeted stairs, was roped off with a red velvet cord. The rope hung, swaying heavy in the middle with age. It was hardly even red anymore. That’s where Mrs. Smith lived and it was forbidden to go down that hall or anywhere near those rooms. They were private.

  It was our favorite place to wander.