Last Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  For the first two years of their marriage, the Pattersons lived in a small, charming first-floor apartment in Boston’s South End. Jane grew herbs and flowers in the tiny backyard and in the good weather they ate dinner there at a small plastic table. Jane had loved living in Boston. She regularly went to the Museum of Fine Arts and the ICA and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. And the shopping was wonderful, even for someone like Jane, without a lot of disposable income. The vintage clothing shops were the finest she had ever seen, and the antique shops on Charles Street were stuffed with fascinating items.

  But then Mike suggested they move to Maine, where he had been born and raised. He had grown homesick for what he called a simpler way of life. Cars that actually stopped for pedestrians. Natural beauty for the asking. An average workday that actually ended at five in the afternoon and not at nine at night. And, most important, neighbors who would go out of their way to help when you needed them.

  In spite of her mother’s protests, Jane had agreed to the move. At first, she found it difficult to adjust to life in semi-rural Yorktide. But she did have the experience of having been at college in a small New Hampshire town, so before long she settled into the local rhythms. And because she wasn’t the sort to flout conventions and bring attention to herself, Yorktide accepted Jane Patterson. When she wanted to go to a museum, she got in the car and drove north to Portland or, in the summer, to the Ogunquit Museum of American Art. When she needed an afternoon of retail therapy, she browsed the countless antique shops throughout York and Cumberland counties. In spite of what her mother had thought, southern Maine was hardly a backwater.

  From the start the Pattersons had agreed to have at least two children. But it took a few years before Jane finally got pregnant and gave birth to Rosemary Alice. And then just after Rosie’s first birthday Jane’s mother passed away; her father was long gone, as were Mike’s parents. Jane found herself feeling terribly alone in the world. To have another child seemed paramount. For the next few years she struggled to conceive again and to maintain a pregnancy, but it was not to be. What remained was a small family that developed into a very tight and self-sufficient unit.

  But Jane wondered if their family unit had been in some ways too tight and self-sufficient. Maybe she had put too much pressure on Rosie to be her companion, when instead she should have been encouraging Rosie to make a wider circle of friends. But everything had seemed so cozy and perfect, just Jane, Mike, and Rosie, and right outside that tiny circle of two, Frannie and Meg.

  Jane put her head in her hands and sighed. She would never forget the afternoon when Rosie admitted that she had kept quiet about the bullying because she had been afraid to disappoint her parents. Jane remembered feeling stunned, as if she had been physically struck. How, she wondered, had she been responsible for establishing a home in which her daughter, her only child, was more careful of her parents’ feelings and expectations than of her own? It was horrible. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  And she had had no inkling of what was going on in Rosie’s head all those months.

  She remembered thinking that maybe she should have been reading Rosie’s diary all along. If she had, she might have seen evidence of Rosie’s distorted thinking. She might have been able to stop the abuse before it got too bad. But if Rosie had found out, Jane might also have lost Rosie’s trust for good. Secretive behavior, like snooping in someone else’s private space or like telling a lie, most often would out.

  Jane took a sip of the now-tepid tea she had made almost an hour ago. In the past few weeks she had been wondering if bullying was really on the rise or if it had always been there in large numbers, just ignored or misunderstood. She tried now to recall any incident from her own childhood in which she might have been bullied. No, there was nothing, unless she counted that girl in grammar school who used to run up behind her and step on the back of her shoes, pulling them off. Jane had never told anyone about that, in spite of the scrapes on her heels caused by the girl’s heavy shoes. She hadn’t wanted to cause trouble.

  Just like Rosie.

  And then ... There was another girl from grammar school, a pretty, sweet, dark-haired girl. What was her name? Try as she might, Jane simply couldn’t remember that or anything else about her other than the fact that some boys and girls used to tease her about her weight.

  One time ... Jane shuddered as details of the memory came roaring back to her. How could she have forgotten this? One time a boy had grabbed the back of the girl’s collar and shoved an unwrapped chocolate candy bar down her shirt. Jane had seen it happen. It was a warm day. The candy bar quickly began to melt against the girl’s sweaty skin, staining her pale pink shirt with a thick streak of brown. And then ...

  Nothing. Jane couldn’t remember what had happened next. Had anyone helped get the candy bar out of the girl’s shirt? Jane knew for sure that she herself had done nothing, just like she had done nothing about her own unhappy experiences. She had been shy and self-effacing as a child, absolutely unwilling to call any attention to herself. And, it seemed, she had been unwilling to help another girl in distress because it might have directed the spotlight on her.

  What Jane did remember was that the girl had not returned to school the following September. Jane’s mother had learned that the girl’s parents had enrolled her in a small, exclusive private school in another town where, they hoped, she would not meet with what everybody had then called “teasing.”

  In fact, Jane thought now, absentmindedly twisting a stray piece of ribbon around her finger, that poor little girl hadn’t been teased, she had been bullied. She had been terrorized into leaving school and losing what few friends she might have had. It was a terrible story. Jane hoped it had a happy ending. But she would never know. Even if she could recall the girl’s name, what right would she have to contact her, especially after having failed her so terribly? And besides, what could she possibly say to the now-middle-aged woman? “I was an accessory to your humiliation all those years ago. And I’m sorry.” It was a true fact and a true sentiment, but neither would be very helpful. Better to let the past remain buried.

  The phone rang, startling Jane out of her uncomfortable musings. Caller ID told her that it was one of her longtime clients, Mrs. Barnet. Jane’s stomach sank.

  “Hello, Mrs. Barnet,” she said, her voice artificially bright.

  “Jane,” Mrs. Barnet said, without a greeting, “I’m calling about my dress.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Mrs. Barnet. It’s almost completed.”

  “Almost? You said it would be ready by last Thursday. It’s now Monday.”

  “I know,” Jane said, “and I’m sorry.”

  “The party is this weekend.”

  “I know,” Jane replied, mustering patience. “I assure you I’ll have the dress ready for you to pick up the day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, let’s hope so. I’ll come by around ten Wednesday morning.”

  Jane thanked her justifiably testy client, replaced the receiver on its stand, and rubbed her tired eyes. Her ability to focus had suffered since Rosie’s collapse. She had sewn Mr. Smith’s buttons on Mr. Mendini’s shirt and had misread the measurements she had taken for another client’s skirt. Luckily, she had caught both mistakes before the clients had come for their clothing. Jane couldn’t afford to be losing clients, especially relatively wealthy ones, not in this economy, not with wanting to send Rosie to a good college. With a sigh and great effort, Jane turned back to her work.

  15

  February 14, 2012

  Dear Diary,

  Today is Valentine’s Day. It was one of the worst days of my life.

  I don’t even remember how it all started. Well, yes, I do, actually. It was right after homeroom. I was walking to my first class and when I passed this group of kids, boys and girls, they all burst out laughing. At first I thought one of them had told a joke or something but then it happened again with another group of kids farther down the hall and one of the gir
ls whispered, but loudly, so that I could hear what she said. She said that I must be “desperate for sex.” I was kind of shocked—well, a lot shocked—but I thought that maybe I’d misheard her. It was such an outrageous thing to say.

  Then, at lunch, Meg told me that a boy in her advanced math class showed her a text on his phone. Supposedly, it had come from me, the only Rosie in school. Somehow, it had “gone viral,” if that’s the right term for what happened, which was that almost everyone with a phone had gotten the text, too, not only Roger Jackson.

  The exact words are seared on my brain. I’ll never forget them as long as I live.

  “Roger, I love you with all my heart and soul. I dream about you every night. I want to kiss you. Love, Rosie”

  It must have been written in text language with all those abbreviations, but those are the words Meg recited to me and she wouldn’t lie about something like this. I sat there at the table Meg and I usually sit at for lunch and felt like I was naked, that’s how exposed and embarrassed I felt. So many kids were looking at me and sniggering. I couldn’t swallow a bite of food. Meg ate the oatmeal cookies Mom had packed for me.

  I am devastated. That’s not an exaggeration. When Meg told me what the text said, I almost passed out. Of course I would never tell a boy I loved him in a text message, even if I did love him!

  The whole rest of the day was just awful. It was like this big conspiracy. No one came out and said anything like “Hey, Rosie, nice text!” so I couldn’t just walk up to the kids who were giggling and say, “I never sent that text. It’s all a lie.” Maybe I should have done that anyway, but I didn’t. And if I denied sending it, wouldn’t some people just think I was just having second thoughts about having done it? There’s some line my mom quotes about a lady protesting too much. It means that if you constantly deny doing something, you’re probably guilty of doing it after all. At least, people are going to think that you’re guilty.

  I just didn’t know what to say to anyone!

  Later, when I was at my locker packing my books to go home, Mackenzie winked at me and gave me kind of a sly smile as she was walking by. I just know she sent that text to Roger and then, somehow, to everyone else in our class, but there’s no way she’ll actually admit it. I don’t even know if there’s a way you could prove that she was responsible.

  Roger has always been nice to me before, but now he’s furious with me even though I swore to him that I didn’t send the text. But why would he believe me? Who am I? I’m not popular. I’m nobody.

  He actually yelled at me after school and said I should leave him alone and quit stalking him and that he wouldn’t go out with me even if I were hot, which I’m not. He said some more stuff, but I think I might have been in shock because I didn’t really hear exactly what he was yelling. Finally, he just walked away and I just stood there. A bunch of other kids in our grade were watching and listening to the whole thing. I heard a few of them laugh and then someone, a boy I don’t know, told them to shut up. Finally, I was able to walk away. If anyone said something to my back, I didn’t hear it.

  I feel so bad. I don’t know what to do. Like I said, I just know it was all Mackenzie’s fault, but I can’t prove it, and even if I could, what would be the point? I don’t think I would be brave enough to report her to the principal or to a teacher. I know I wouldn’t be.

  Why is she doing this to me?

  Another weird thing is how Meg reacted to the whole episode. She said she couldn’t understand why I got so upset. She said it was just a practical joke. She just couldn’t see how humiliated I felt. How humiliated I still feel. No one’s ever done anything really bad to her. Maybe that’s why she can’t be sympathetic. But she’s my best friend, so she should at least try to understand how I feel. Right?

  But maybe Meg is right. Maybe I did overreact. I shouldn’t blame her for my own mistakes. Mom has always told me I’m a very sensitive person. It’s true, I am. Maybe I do need to learn how to laugh off all the stuff Mackenzie is doing.

  But I just don’t see how I can do that.

  How did all this happen?

  R.

  February 23–26, 2012

  Dear Diary,

  School is closed for a few days. I’m so relieved. I’m not going to think about having to go back.

  Mom, Dad, and I just got back from a couple of days in Boston.

  Meg said she was jealous I got to go to Boston. I think she was hinting that she wanted to come along, and I think that if I had asked Mom and Dad they would have said fine. But I wanted to be away from everything that reminds me of school. Even Meg.

  Not that it worked. No matter how hard I tried to forget those girls and everything that’s happened, I just couldn’t. We went to the Museum of Fine Arts and there was this exhibit of medieval illuminations and even though it should have been really interesting to me because I love history, especially European history, it wasn’t. I just looked at those tiny little illustrations in brilliant blues and pinks and greens and felt ... nothing. I used to love the aquarium, too, but this time, it was like there was this heavy blanket over me or something, like everything around me was really ... distant. Like all of my senses were dulled. It’s hard to explain.

  Of course, I pretended I was having a good time and I think Mom and Dad believed me, because neither of them asked questions or gave me funny, suspicious looks. I hate lying to them but if I told them how I’m really feeling, they would be so upset. It’s better I keep everything to myself.

  Like how I started cutting.

  We learned about cutting in health class in a unit about stuff like eating disorders and depression and other bad things that can happen to young teenagers. At first it sounded horrible and gross, and I thought, there’s no way I would ever do something like that. I’ve always hated the sight of blood. I was even really upset when I first got my period, though when I learned more about what was actually going on I was okay. Still.

  I really don’t know why I tried it. It’s like, the idea got into my head and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, the idea just wouldn’t go away. It haunted me almost, following me around like a ghost. And then I stole one of Dad’s razor blades from my parents’ bathroom. And then I did it.

  The oddest thing was that what I learned in class was true. It felt ... good. At least, it didn’t feel bad, like everything else feels these days.

  I did it again after that.

  I’m really afraid of Mom and Dad finding out and hating me or worse, kicking me out of the house. I’m such a disappointment to them already. I just know it. I bet they wish they had another child in place of me. Maybe even someone more like Meg, or even like Mackenzie. She’s pretty and smart and popular. She’s perfect. If I had any courage I would run away. But I don’t. I’m a coward.

  I don’t know why I can’t be homeschooled. I asked Mom and Dad about it. Turns out they are both seriously against homeschooling for all sorts of reasons. They asked me why I was asking about it and I lied and told them I’d heard someone in the cafeteria talking about someone they know who is homeschooled and I was curious. I really wish they would consider it because I really don’t want to go back to school. But maybe it would just be too much work for Mom.

  I couldn’t cut when we were at the hotel. That was hard. Sometimes I wanted so badly to be alone so I could cut, but there was never a chance. Mom and Dad had booked a suite and it only had one bathroom. Even though I had my own room I was still afraid they would realize I’d locked the door and know something was wrong. So when we got home and Mom went out to the store and Dad went to check in at his office, the first thing I did was cut. Maybe it was all the worry and anxiety that had built up, I don’t know, but it didn’t work like it should this time. I just started to cry. For about half an hour I felt pretty hopeless, like I just couldn’t continue to be alive, like I didn’t know how to be alive, and that scared me. Then I heard Mom come home and somehow I managed to pull myself back together. At least, I managed to look like I
was normal.

  I know I should practice my piano, but I just don’t want to anymore. But Mom and Dad pay so much money for my lessons that if I don’t practice every day it’s like I’m wasting their money and being disrespectful of them. And it’s like I’m being disrespectful of Ms. Price, too. Mom told me that Ms. Price had cancer a few years ago and that she lost almost all of her money because of the cost of treatment. So if I give up piano lessons, I’m hurting Ms. Price and her husband, too. Mom and Dad taught me always to think of other people before myself. That’s what I’m trying to do.

  I am so tired.

  R.

  16

  Meg had waited until Mrs. Patterson had left the house that afternoon before going through the pretty wooden gate Mr. Patterson had built in the fence that marked the boundary of their neat and well-kept backyard. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing what she was doing. Maybe she shouldn’t bother to care. But she did care.

  The glass door of the screened porch was open, but the screen door was shut against bugs. Meg knocked loudly. After a moment, she knocked again. This time, she saw Rosie approach the door.

  “I know you probably don’t want to talk to me,” Meg said hurriedly, “but I wanted you to know that I was really worried about you yesterday. I don’t know if you saw me at the fair, but—”

  “I saw you. When we drove away.”

  “I also saw ... I saw who else was there.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “I kind of figured. So, are you okay?”

  Rosie half smiled. “Yeah. It was stupid. I don’t know why I got so upset.”

  “No,” Meg said vehemently. “It wasn’t stupid. That was the first time you’d seen them since ...”

  Rosie opened the screen door and stepped out onto the square of concrete. Her father’s charcoal-fueled grill squatted to one side; along the other stood a row of her mother’s potted pansies.