Mom still hasn’t pressed me about what happened to my hair, so I guess she really did believe me when I lied to her about cutting it myself. I didn’t know I was such a good liar. I don’t think that being a liar is a good thing to be, but I guess I’ve become one anyway.
Like yesterday. At lunch, Meg asked me a bunch of questions again, like why hadn’t I told her I wanted short hair and where did I get the idea to cut my hair when it was so beautiful long. I made up a story about having wanted short hair for a long time and other stuff I can’t even remember now. I think she suspects that something is weird. She kind of looked at me funny, but she hasn’t come right out and asked me what really happened. I don’t know what I would tell her if she did. I think I would probably stick to my lies. I don’t want to make everything worse than it already is.
Mom has a line she quotes whenever she hears about some politician or celebrity lying, which seems like every week. It’s from Sir Walter Scott, but I’m not sure exactly from what poem. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” I think I finally really understand that line now.
I feel so embarrassed and totally helpless. Every time Mackenzie or Courtney or Jill sees me in the hall or the cafeteria they make some comment on my hair. “What a cute haircut! Who’s your stylist?” Stuff like that. So far Stella hasn’t said anything to me. Actually, she usually looks away when the others make those comments. I’m not sure how close Stella really is to the others. But I don’t want to find out. I wish they would all just disappear.
I wish I would just disappear.
R.
13
It was an absolutely perfect summer day, about eighty degrees with low humidity and a virtually cloudless sky. If you believed in omens, and Rosie kind of thought that she did, Yorktide’s annual Independence Day celebration was going to be a lot of fun.
The Pattersons got to the fair at around eleven o’clock, after their traditional July Fourth breakfast of pancakes and bacon (sausage for Mr. Patterson) at the Maine Diner. The fair was pretty much the same every year. There was the rickety Ferris wheel (Rosie’s mother had never let her go on that; she said it was too dangerous), and the carts selling hot dogs, and the vans selling greasy, sugary funnel cakes. Over by the bouncy castle for little kids, the volunteer fire department had set up a few small grills and were selling hamburgers; whatever profit the department made would go into a fund for local sick children. Near the firemen’s table was another table at which a bunch of local women were selling their homemade desserts (there were lots of whoopee pies, of course) and preserves. Next to them a Baptist church group was selling coffee and tea. Some years there was a tiny petting zoo, but that depended on what local farmers were interested in bringing their animals. A quick scan of this year’s fairgrounds told Rosie that there was no petting zoo, but for the first time a popular, long-standing duo, Lex and Joe, were booked to play blues and jazzy songs all afternoon; Rosie’s father was psyched about that. And Rosie’s mother was looking forward to seeing one of her favorite local jewelry makers, an artist who came to the event each year with a new supply of necklaces and bracelets and earrings made with beach glass and stones smoothed by the ocean’s waves. Mrs. Patterson said that his prices were reasonable, so she usually bought herself something. Last year it was a silver necklace with a pendant made of bright blue sea glass. Rosie had heard that for some reason, blue was the hardest color of sea glass to find. It was a very pretty necklace.
It was too bad that fireworks weren’t allowed at the fair, which went on into the night, but the neighboring town of Ogunquit was sponsoring its annual fireworks display down by the beach. Rosie was seriously hoping her parents would be into going. But it was unlikely. Her mother hated fireworks; if she was forced to be around them she flinched and covered her ears before the display even started, and she was always worried about stray sparks landing on her bare arms. Her father just didn’t care about fireworks. He just didn’t see the big deal. Most years Rosie had gone down to Ogunquit Beach with Mrs. Giroux, Meg, and Petey. Of course, this year that wasn’t going to happen. With all that had gone on in the past weeks, Rosie hadn’t realized just how much she missed spending time with Mrs. Giroux. She could be fun in a way that her own mother was definitely not, like when she slipped and said a bad word and then tried not to laugh at herself for saying it. She doubted that Mrs. Giroux missed her in any way, though. Why would she? Adults didn’t miss children who weren’t their own, right?
Anyway, Rosie figured that Meg might be at the fair, probably with Petey in tow. She hoped to see Petey and maybe even say hi to him, but that probably wasn’t going to happen, either, given the current situation.
Only a few nights earlier Rosie had heard her parents arguing again about Petey. They were in their bedroom, talking in low voices, but Rosie, tiptoeing her way to the bathroom, had stopped and heard most of what they were saying. Basically, her dad was worried about Petey and wanted to start spending time with him again. But her mom was dead set against it.
Her mother had said that spending time with Petey Giroux would be betraying Rosie.
Her father had countered that the boy was innocent of all wrongdoing.
The argument had gone on long after Rosie had tiptoed back to her own room and closed the door. For at least another hour she could hear her parents’ voices, occasionally raised and then hurriedly lowered, and then raised again.
Deep down, Rosie agreed with her father. She thought that her mother was being too harsh. But she wasn’t sure she had the right to say anything to her father or to her mother, given the fact that she had been eavesdropping and wasn’t supposed to know about their argument. Besides, she felt kind of guilty about being the cause of her parents’ argument. Her parents never fought. At least, Rosie had never heard them fight before the other night. She would talk to Dr. Lowe about the Petey situation at her next appointment. She didn’t want to be responsible, even in an indirect sort of way, for making someone, especially a child, unhappy. Dr. Lowe would probably help her decide if she should speak up.
“Hey, Rosie,” Mr. Patterson said as they approached a garishly painted game booth. “Do you challenge me to make three perfect shots?”
It was that game where you had to throw a ball into a hole on a big board that was painted as a clown’s face. The hole, of course, was his mouth. Rosie wasn’t much for games, with the sole exception of Scrabble, a game she couldn’t help but win even if she tried to lose for her father’s sake. She didn’t have an ounce of competitive spirit, which maybe was a bad thing. But she didn’t see how that was going to change.
“No,” Rosie said. “I don’t challenge you. But you really want to try it, don’t you?”
Mr. Patterson grinned and handed his money to the grizzled man inside the booth.
“Your father wants to show off his throwing arm,” Mrs. Patterson remarked with a smile. “He was quite the pitcher in high school, or so he tells me.”
“Hey,” Mr. Patterson said, “I might be old but I’m not dead. Here goes.”
In rapid succession, he sent all three balls right into the clown’s mouth, surprising the grizzled man, who said, “Holy crap,” and then, “Begging your pardon, ladies.”
“Way to go, Dad!” Rosie said, patting her father’s back.
“My hero!” Jane kissed her husband’s cheek.
Mike claimed his prize, a stuffed pink rabbit—Rosie’s mom loved rabbits—and the Pattersons moved off in the direction of the jewelry maker Jane wanted to visit. While her mom and dad considered the necklaces and bracelets and earrings, Rosie’s eye wandered. Fairs were fun, she thought, for all sorts of reasons. The pageantry and the colors and the music were all exciting and made people feel good, like for a short time their troubles didn’t matter. And somewhere underneath all the festivity, in a way Rosie was only beginning to identify and understand, there was an element of otherness, of danger, of things being not quite what they seemed. Carnivals, fairs, and the circ
us—they were all a little bit grotesque. It surprised Rosie that she felt drawn to that element of otherness. She was pretty sure that was something she wouldn’t admit to her parents. They would only worry and think she wanted to get a tattoo or a piercing or dye her hair purple.
Her mom’s laugh brought Rosie’s attention back to the moment. As she turned to see what had pleased her mother, she caught site of two startlingly familiar girls....
It was Mackenzie Egan and Courtney Parker. They were only yards way, standing together by the guys selling funnel cakes. Mackenzie’s dark brown hair literally shone in the summer sun. She was wearing a floral patterned sundress that came to just above her knees and super-high wedges. A pair of enormous black sunglasses covered half of her face and she was carrying an equally enormous pink bag. If someone didn’t know better, Rosie thought, they would think Mackenzie was a Hollywood star. Courtney was wearing what she usually wore in hot weather—a pair of super-low-cut jean shorts and a tight T-shirt that showed about three inches of her stomach. Courtney had gotten in trouble once for wearing that kind of T-shirt to school, but Rosie figured there was probably no dress code for a public festival. That was part of the otherness and the danger... .
Rosie quickly looked away from Mackenzie and her sidekick. She was pretty sure they hadn’t seen her, at least, not yet. For some reason, she hadn’t even considered that Mackenzie and her friends might be at the fair. She felt stupid now for not having thought about running into them. She should have prepared herself somehow. Or maybe she just shouldn’t have come at all. Mackenzie and Courtney would laugh at her for coming to the fair with her parents instead of with some friends. They might even come over to her when her parents’ backs were turned and say something nasty about—
A woman behind Rosie suddenly barked a command at her child. Rosie’s entire body twitched at the harsh sound. Instantly, she felt and heard a loud buzzing in her ears, or maybe it was in her head. Her vision suddenly blurred and she felt incredibly hot, as if she was burning up from the inside.
Something weird was happening. Maybe she was having a panic attack. She tried to remember what Dr. Lowe had advised her to do in this sort of situation. She tried to imagine Dr. Lowe’s round, pleasant face, her shoulder-length silver hair waved around it, her blue eyes bright and concerned. She tried to hear Dr. Lowe’s voice, calm and reassuring. But the image failed to form and the voice remained silent.
“Rosie, what’s wrong?”
This voice was very low and very distant. It might have been male or female, Rosie couldn’t tell. She thought it sounded vaguely familiar but she wasn’t sure about that, either.
“Oh, my God, Mike, I think she’s going to faint!”
Yes, Rosie thought, hearing that very low and very distant voice. I think I’m going to faint. She became aware of hands on her arms and then, a moment later, a plastic cup of water being put to her lips. She felt some of the water dribble down her chin but managed to swallow a bit, too.
Slowly but surely her vision cleared and the awful buzzing in her ears stopped.
“I’m okay,” she said, though she thought her voice still sounded a bit odd. “I’m fine.”
“We should get you home,” her mother said firmly. “Just in case.”
“It was just the heat, that’s all,” Rosie protested, but she saw from the look on her mother’s face that she, too, had seen Mackenzie Egan and Courtney Parker. There was no point in lying about the real cause of her distress.
“Even so,” Mr. Patterson said, “we’re going home.”
Rosie fought back tears of shame. “I’m sorry I ruined your day. Dad didn’t even get to hear the band.”
Her mother linked arms with her and they headed toward the parking lot. “You didn’t ruin anything,” she said briskly. “We all had such a good time.”
“Did you even get to buy a piece of jewelry?” Rosie asked quietly.
“Oh, I don’t really need another piece of jewelry!”
“And I’ve had more than my share of junk food for one day,” Mr. Patterson added.
Rosie managed a smile. It was true. Her dad had eaten two hot dogs, a funnel cake, and a whoopee pie. He had even bought a candy apple, in spite of the fact that her mom had warned him he could break a tooth biting into it. His teeth, Rosie was glad to see, had survived.
They reached the parking lot and Rosie, without looking back to the fairgrounds, slid into the backseat of her family’s car. She wondered if Mackenzie and Courtney had watched her retreat. She wondered if they had seen her distress. Well, she thought wearily, it’s too late now.
As her father pulled out of the spot and turned toward the exit, Rosie saw Meg standing with her mother and brother by the booth closest to the exit, almost as if they had followed the Pattersons to the parking lot. Even from this distance Rosie could see the look of concern on Meg’s face, and on Mrs. Giroux’s. Rosie thought that her eyes met Meg’s for a second as her father drove past them. But maybe, she thought, slumping against the back of the seat, I was imagining it.
14
Jane sat in the ergonomic chair Mike had bought her, staring at the wall above her worktable. The collage she had constructed from photos torn from magazines and interesting bits of fabric she had collected over time was just a blur of color, lacking the creative inspiration it was supposed to provide. All she could think about was what had happened at the Fourth of July fair. A pleasant family outing had been ruined by memories made flesh. Mackenzie Egan and Courtney Parker. If there was a hell after all, Jane wished they would both go there.
She rubbed her tired eyes and wondered when they would be past all of this mess. When, she wondered, would the pain go away, hers and Rosie’s and Mike’s? When would Rosie be back to normal? Or, even better, when would Rosie be in a place where she wouldn’t feel so vulnerable, ever again?
A life could be revolutionized in a matter of months. Just look at how her daughter’s life had been so drastically altered in the course of one school year. The bullying could have been a lot worse, Jane realized that, but still, the results were bad enough. A happy fourteen-year-old girl didn’t cut herself with a razor blade to make life tolerable. A happy fourteen-year-old girl didn’t have to drop out of school weeks before the end of the semester. A happy fourteen-year-old girl didn’t have a panic attack and almost pass out at a community fair. And a happy forty-two-year-old woman didn’t sit staring into space, brooding about what might have been.
When she and Mike had learned about the abuse, what could they have done differently? What could they have done that might have prevented Rosie from reacting so badly yesterday to the mere sight of the abusers?
Jane didn’t really know. She had wanted to confront Mackenzie’s father back in May, but Mike had convinced her that it would probably only be a waste of time. From what they knew, which, Jane had to admit, was largely hearsay, the girl was virtually on her own and had been even before her mother had run off with that lawyer from Augusta. Besides, who was Jane Patterson to give anyone parenting advice?
As for reporting Mackenzie and the others to the police, well, Rosie had been absolutely against that idea. Besides, there was no real, solid evidence—apart from Rosie’s word—that Mackenzie and her friends were responsible for the harassment. Much too late Meg had admitted that she had known about some of it, but it could be argued—and it would be—that everything had been an accident or an imagined slight. Although how anyone could explain away the cutting off of Rosie’s braid was beyond Jane’s imaginative powers.
Wait. Courtney could swear that Rosie had asked her to cut it off. And someone would believe her. In times of stress, people were often eager to believe the most insane lies as truth, simply to be done with the trouble of having to think and to feel.
Jane shifted in her chair, though the discomfort she felt was entirely in her mind. Maybe she was one of those people who habitually avoided the truth when the truth threatened to be unpalatable. Maybe she just hadn’t wanted to kno
w the real reasons behind her daughter’s strange behavior. Maybe she had been too afraid. Too often it was easier to ignore an unpleasant or a challenging reality than to face it head-on. Like when Rosie had come home that day with her hair chopped off and a story about having cut it herself. Deep, deep down Jane had known that was a lie, but she hadn’t even had the courage to ask Rosie what she had done with the braid. Because then the unpleasant truth might have come out and the family would have been launched into chaos.
Jane rubbed the back of her neck, but the tension that had taken root there refused to budge. She remembered an article she had read online recently. (Whatever you might say about the Internet, it certainly didn’t allow anyone to get away with claiming ignorance of a hot topic.) The article quoted a few experts who believed that single children, especially those who were very close to their parents, stood a higher chance of being bullied than children with siblings. It struck Jane as darkly ironic that forming a close relationship with your only child might actually put that child at risk in the larger world.
Sometimes, Jane thought, being a parent was the most frustrating job in the world. You were damned if you cared too much and damned if you didn’t care enough.
But if there was one thing Jane knew for sure, it was that no matter the challenges, she was meant to be a mother. Since she was a little girl all she had really wanted was to someday start a family. But first had come college and then graduate school. It was not until she was twenty-three years old and finishing her master’s at Cordette University just outside Boston that she met Mike. He was a few years older and working at a large accounting firm downtown. It was love at first sight. They were married within a year of their first date. Jane had no close friends (she never really had), so her mother had acted as her official witness. Mike’s brother had acted as his witness, though after the wedding Mike and Rob had drifted apart for no reason Jane could discern.
Last Summer Page 11
