Balancing Acts

by Emily Franklin

  Harley pulls a grey wool V-neck sweater on, topping the outfit with a bright red scarf. “Do I look festive or what?”

  “You do,” Dove says. “I can’t believe how fast time is going. This time next week we’ll be setting up for the holidays—Games Night, the winter wonderland, the formal.” She pauses, wondering what it will be like to be on the serving side of the events. “It’s so odd—I’ve been the one to make off with a bottle of champagne at the dance, and now I’ll be the one patrolling to make sure people don’t.”

  “And what are you going to do now?” Melissa asks.

  Dove lies back on her bed, sighing. “I don’t know—probably take a walk through town and write some letters. I have to check on tickets, too—William’s convinced I should wait until the last possible minute to book my flight.”

  Harley raises her eyebrows. “Sounds like he’s got a case of cold feet.”

  Melissa sits near Dove. “Aren’t you worried you won’t get a ticket if you don’t buy it soon?”

  Dove reaches for the photo of William and puts it on her chest face down. “No—you guys don’t get it. He wants to make sure we get a good deal on the ticket—”

  “We? I thought you were buying it?” Melissa stands up and begins to rifle through her drawers for a clean shirt.

  “No—I’m buying it—but we …” Dove’s voice dips, getting so soft it’s difficult to hear her. “I don’t know. I thought he’d split the ticket with me. But he can’t.”

  “It’s not like you’re rolling in it,” Harley says, unaware of Dove’s past and the fact that she was, until recently, more than rolling in it. “When you’re down and out, other people should help you.” She goes to her mattress and lifts it up, pulling a maroon leather pouch out from underneath. “I’ll spot you the money. You should go now and buy your ticket. If you love him as much as you’ve been saying you do—then you’d be a fool to miss seeing him because of a plane ticket.”

  Dove sits up and at first doesn’t accept the money from Harley. “How’d you get this? Why do you have so much cash?”

  Harley grimaces in disbelief. “Oh, what? A girl like me can’t have cash flow? Am I so beneath you guys that you find it hard to believe I’ve got spending money?” Harley steels herself against any comments and goes on. “Just to inform you—both of you.” She looks at Melissa, too. Dove looks tiny on the bed as she listens to Harley. “You want to know the reason I have this?” She crumples the bills. Forget keeping her past a huge secret. Who cares, now that I’m here, right? Harley sucks in her breath. “Pageants. Stupid, god-awful beauty pageants.”

  Melissa’s mouth hangs open—rugged, brutelike Harley on a runway? “You’re gorgeous, obviously …,” Melissa starts.

  Harley gets close to her, fuming. “But what? Rough around the edges? Sure. That’s me. But if I want to, I can turn into Miss Teen in a second. I might be from a trailer compound, but I can fake it with the best of them.”

  “So you earned the money?” Dove asks, thinking that if Harley knew the real truth about her own background, she’d probably hate her. While she was growing up in a trailer, I was in a house that for all intents and purposes could be called a castle. Hardly fair.

  “Did you think I stole it or something?” Harley puts her hands on her hips, defiant.

  “No, I’m sure that’s not what she meant.” Melissa steps in to defend Dove.

  “Don’t for a second think I didn’t earn this,” Harley says. She holds the crumpled money tightly as though it might disappear. It always did when her mother got hold of it—one minute they’d have crisp bills for food and the mortgage on the restaurant, and the next the bank would call and threaten foreclosure. Harley knows all too well about money slipping away.

  Dove thinks for a minute, the room full with emotions, and then stands up. “Harley—thank you. Thanks for your kind and generous offer. But I can’t accept it.”

  “Why?” Harley takes this personally.

  “It’s just …” Dove takes a deep breath. “I want to stand on my own and prove I can do it—you know, support myself.”

  Melissa opens her mouth to butt in, getting out only, “Do you think your parents would …”

  And then Dove cuts her off. “No, Melissa, my parents have nothing to do with this.”

  Harley offers the money again. “Just think—you could know for sure that you have the ticket. That you’re going.”

  “That would be nice …,” Dove says but shakes her head again. “What if I don’t make enough tips this week to pay you back?”

  Harley shrugs. “Look—I have room and board and I get to ski for free.” She doesn’t add that she’s getting closer and closer to her real goal—landing James Benton—but thinks it as she talks. James sat next to me on the triple lift with Gabe yesterday, and when Gabe took off to help at the main house with decorations, James didn’t mind. He waves whenever he sees me, and he certainly has invited me to enough things—come along and watch me practice. It means something. Tomorrow—tomorrow I’ll tell him how I feel. Or show him. “So I don’t exactly have a need for the money at this moment.”

  Dove swallows, twisting her hair in her fingers. “If I had a ticket, I could do one of those countdown things—you know, when you get to say ‘ten more days and I’ll see him,’ then ‘six more days and I’ll be with him.’ That sort of thing.” Dove imagines peeling calendar pages off, each one bringing her closer to William.

  Melissa collects a pile of dirty pants, shirts, and underwear, amazed at how fast the wash piles up; the shirt she wore on the bus ride here—that seems so long ago already, the black pants streaked with honey from the biscuits she made—at least now she knows the oven cooks unevenly. And the fleece scarf. Even that needs to be washed—partly because it’s a little dirty and partly because it reminds her of last season and throwing herself at Gabe, only to be turned down. And now this year—she had it on when she was at the café with JMB. It’s so easy to like him—too easy. So Melissa takes the scarf and all the feelings tied up in it, and adds it to the pile of things to wash clean. “Maybe you should take the money with you and decide at the travel shop.”

  Dove smiles. “Yeah—that’s a good idea. Is that okay, Harley?”

  Harley nods, glad that her offer to help has been accepted. “Just … you know—don’t say anything about what I told you.”

  Melissa looks up from her laundry bagging. “What, you don’t want word of your glamorous history getting around?”

  Dove pulls on her coat. “I think Harley feels like the rest of us, right? Let the past stay there?” Harley nods. Dove contemplates explaining her own past—but she can’t—not to Harley, who worked so hard to get here.

  Dove pockets the cash from her friend. “Looks like snow.”

  Harley nods. “The forecast report I gave this morning said just a few inches, but I’m betting on more.”

  “Then I’d better go.” Dove makes her way to the back mudroom. “I’ll be back in time to refresh the living room before the cocktail hour.”

  Melissa nods. “Have fun!” Then she sighs. “All my clothes look like shit—either stained or wrinkled or just ugly. Looks like I’m spending my free time Chez Soapsuds.” Laundry is all the way on the other side of the resort, coin-operated and slow. “This is so annoying.” She pulls out a T-shirt, finds it stained, and puts it back.

  Harley tosses a pair of jeans to Melissa. “Do me a favor and wash these?” She makes a prayer sign to Melissa and completes the look with a frown. “Please? I have to escort the horny boys again.”

  “Did we hear our names?” Diggs and Luke appear at the doorway. Melissa rolls her eyes at them but smiles—they’re harmless and sweet. And true, in a few years they’ll be the ones with a legion of swooning fans.

  Harley barely acknowledges them, which Melissa can tell only makes the boys like her more. I’m just not like that, though. She knows how to play it cool and I know how to play it tepid. Oh well—you can’t change who you really are. N
o matter what you leave in the past, you can’t entirely be free of it.

  With a face that gives nothing away, Harley turns to Diggs. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “What’s it to you, Host?”

  “Hostess Cupcake, is more like it,” Luke adds.

  Harley stomps over to them. “I humor you. I trot you around. I let you cling to me. In return I ask you one simple question—what did you hear while you were standing there?”

  Diggs looks slapped. “Nothing.”

  Luke shakes his head. “Really, Harley. We just got here.”

  Harley stares at them a second longer. “Okay—then let’s head out. Skating party, here we come.”

  She leads and the boys follow, but Diggs shuffles behind. He turns to Melissa, giving her a look that informs her he might have heard quite a lot before announcing his presence.

  13

  Don’t let your dirty laundry pile up.

  IN THE DANK BASEMENT of the concrete slab building, Melissa hefts her laundry bag over to the counter and begins sorting. Another chalet girl folds her clothing into neat stacks and smiles at Melissa.

  “What a boring thing to do, huh?”

  Melissa nods. “Not exactly how I’d like to use my downtime.”

  “Are you a nanny?”

  “No—cook,” Melissa says. “Actually, that’s the first time I’ve said that aloud and not felt like an idiot—or a fraud.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m a nanny down in the Cluster Huts.” She points behind her as though the small group of luxurious cabins—primarily hired out by families for reunions or stars with an entourage—are right there. “And I’m only just getting the hang of it. Who knew kids could wear you down? I thought it’d be all finger painting and cookie decorating.”

  “I’m Melissa.” She walks over and shakes the girl’s hand. “You’re a good folder. Sorry—that sounded lame.”

  “No, it’s true—I am an excellent folder. It’s on my resume under special skills.” She puts down her most recently folded item and looks at Melissa. “I’m Charlie.”

  “Short for?” Melissa looks at Charlie—she’s fair with lots of freckles, bright strawberry-gold hair and eyebrows that are even lighter.

  “Short for Charlie,” she laughs. “Everyone always asks me that. But it’s just my regular name.” She looks at her watch. “I have to run. I’m due back right when nap time is over—of course. Anyway, nice to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you,” Melissa says. “Good luck with your charges.”

  “Yeah—Lord and Lady Sinclair—otherwise known as the evil toddler twins.”

  “Sinclair?” Melissa asks, thinking back to Celia Sinclair and her famously rude smirk, and how she deserted her in town at that first shop.

  “As in the nephew and niece of the starlet.” Charlie stacks her clothing in a plastic laundry basket. “I am a good folder—I worked retail every summer. But now—ah, the glamour of watching Celia Sinclair stumble in at dawn with a new guy and the same old hangover.”

  “Is she as mean as she seems?” Melissa starts to toss her whites into the washer. In goes the shirt stained with prunes from that breakfast, and the underwear she wore the first day, bras, and another shirt—the one she wore shopping when JMB gave her a ride home. It’ll be good to clean these, Melissa thinks. Start fresh.

  “Celia’s not that bad—just squirrelly. She wants to egg you on, get you to chase her but then dart away. Something like that. But she’s not all bad.”

  “And you’re assigned to her clan for how long?”

  “Oh, she’s here for a while—through this week, and Holiday Week, and then into New Year’s. Not sure where she goes after that.” Charlie lifts the basket toward the door. “But I heard that this one girl last year was offered a job traveling around—she got attached to the kids while they were here, and I guess just wound up leaving to follow them.” She pauses again.

  “Would you do that?” Melissa adds the detergent and reaches into her pocket for change.

  Charlie packs up her stuff, shifting the weight of her clean clothing to her hip, tilting her head as she considers her options. “Depends—let’s just say I wouldn’t turn down the chance to go to Paris with the Sinclairs—or back to LA—or island-hopping. But who knows.”

  “I guess you have to wait and see what happens.” Melissa wishes she were a patient person, someone for whom this advice wouldn’t be maddening.

  “Right. Exactly.” Charlie lifts her fingers in a wave. “See you!”

  “Bye.” Melissa watches Charlie walk away and goes back to sorting through the colors, turning her shirts right side in, her jeans inside out to avoid too much fading, and her socks so they aren’t balled up. With the taste test night, she does a quick calculation about how many swirled cupcakes she’ll need—enough for the guests, figuring Diggs and Luke will consume more than their fair share—and that people from other chalets can stop by to test out the sweets. I’ll need to counteract the sweetness with something not so sweet—maybe mulled cider. That’s easy—just stick a few cinnamon sticks and cloves into a pot of apple cider and warm it up. Maybe I should do candy apples for my party theme. Matron made it clear that it doesn’t have to be huge and elaborate, just something memorable—food and conversation.

  “Easy, sweet, and tasty,” she says aloud and hears her voice echo back as it bounces off the concrete walls.

  “Now that’s the kind of pickup line I like.” JMB drops a bulky bag onto the gray floor and starts shoving the contents into a washer.

  “Hey,” Melissa says, determined to resist the part of her brain that yells out to her you like him, you like him when she sees his face.

  “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asks.

  “Oh, are we trading lines now?” Melissa puts the colored clothing into the wash, adds detergent, and slips coins into their slots. The room fills with the pleasant hum of machines, the gentle whirs and clicks of laundry. It’s okay being with him. Really. He’s a buddy. I’m his buddy. JMB hoists himself up on the counter.

  “Okay—right now. Worst lines you can think of.” He leans his forearms onto his thighs. Melissa sees the cuff of his gray waffle-weave shirt is ripped, and fights the mental image of being in that shirt—not necessarily with him, but in it—borrowing it the way girls do in the movies, sexy and comfy in their boyfriends’ clothes. But he’s not my boyfriend! the other half of her brain shouts to the first.

  “My friend bet me that you wouldn’t take off your shirt in public,” JMB says.

  It takes Melissa a second to realize it’s just a line. She shoots back with, “Is that a mirror in your pocket? Because I can definitely see myself in your pants.” She cracks up and so does JMB. This is good, healthy, she thinks. I’ll break my pattern by saying all these things that I kind of feel, and then they’ll be out of my system. She takes a few steps closer to JMB, not touching him, but right next to him so she’s leaning on the washing machine in front of him and he’s up on the counter. With her legs stretched out at an angle, his feet nearly make contact with her knees.

  “Should I call you in the morning or nudge you?” JMB gives her an overtly sleazy look.

  “They call me coffee, I grind so fine.”

  “I’m conducting field research to find out how many women have pierced nipples.”

  Melissa crosses her arms over her chest instinctually. “That’d be a no.” She thinks, then does a strut to him. “The voices in my head told me to come talk to you.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. Then you can be semipsycho and make face time.” JMB drums his fingers on his knee. Then he hops down, getting so close to Melissa she sucks in her breath. His chest presses against her. He leans in, with a Russian accent whispering into her ear, “Are you my contact? Code name: Natasha?”

  “Da,” Melissa replies, her whole body tingling with his touch. She wants to keep him close, but the part of her that knows better pushes him away with an outstretched
palm. “If I could rearrange the alphabet I would flip the m and w.”

  “What?” JMB wrinkles his brow.

  “You know, flip the m and w …,” Melissa explains and realizes it’s the perfect solution—if there were two JMBs there’d be one to be her buddy and another to be her unrequited crush. “You’re not a twin by any chance?”

  JMB shakes his head. “Okay—lewd.”

  “I like cringe-worthy ones better.” Melissa takes his place on top of the counter. JMB stands in front of her, in the perfect position for her to wrap her legs around his waist and have him kiss her. “Lewd. Okay.” She looks at him and he stares at her, grinning.

  “Am I going to offend you? Really—I don’t want to piss you off.”

  “Are you making excuses for not having any lewd lines?” Melissa asks. “What’re you going to do when you’re at a bar and want to pick some hottie up?”

  “I’ll just fall asleep next to her,” JMB says, laughing.

  Melissa looks to see if he’s serious or joking, thinking back to waking up next to him under the white tent. “Why did you do that, anyway?”

  JMB shrugs. “I couldn’t leave you there—and despite trying to rouse you, you were pretty out of it. So I just figured …”

  Melissa cuts him off. She can’t bear the thought of hearing from him directly that he wouldn’t leave a friend alone, that he wouldn’t want a friend to wake up in a strange place, that of course he didn’t want someone else to bother his friend. “I’m feeling a little off today; would you like to turn me on?”

  This halts him and his train of words. “Hi, my name is Milk. I’ll do your body good.” He steps in, just a little closer to her.

  Melissa looks at the scar on his lip, focusing on it so she won’t lean in and be tempted to kiss him. “If your right leg was Christmas and your left leg was Easter, would you let me spend some time up between the holidays?” They stare at each other in mock drama and then—right as it’s getting intense—Melissa cracks up. Heaving laughs ripple through her stomach.

  “Oh my god.” JMB laughs so hard tears well up in his eyes. “Okay. One last one. You go there.” He positions Melissa by the three washers. “I’ll be here.” He stands across the room by the washers. He acts like he’s just seen her and does a double take, then walks across to her. With his hands on her shoulders, he leans down.