Last Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  There’s only one way to find out, Meg thought. Start talking and see what happens.

  “How were your allergies this year?” she asked, looking to the profusion of wildflowers for conversational inspiration.

  “Not too bad,” Rosie replied. “I think it had something to do with the weather being so cold for so long. I guess. Or maybe I’m growing out of them. I read on the Internet that you can grow out of allergies.”

  “That would be good. Remember that year when you could hardly go outside for, like, all of May?”

  “Yeah. That was horrible. My nose was as red as Rudolph’s!”

  Meg laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was that bad!”

  “Did Tiffany get into a college in Florida?” Rosie asked after a moment.

  “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t seen her since school ended, but before that she told me that she was never coming back north.”

  “Not even to see her family?” Rosie asked, surprise in her voice.

  “I don’t know. That’s what she said.”

  “I don’t think I’d ever want to live far away from home.”

  “Really?” Meg asked, reminded of her earlier, panicked thoughts. “I think it might be kind of cool to move far away. Maybe California or maybe even someplace in Europe, like, I don’t know, Amsterdam. You could start your life over and be anyone you want to be.”

  “Who do you want to be?”

  “I don’t know. Just ...” Meg laughed. “Not this me.”

  Rosie shrugged. “Well, when you get older you’ll be someone else. Not entirely, but you’ll definitely be different. We all will. That’s the one thing you can always count on. Change. For a while I forgot that, but it’s true. Nothing ever stays the same.”

  Which meant, Meg thought, that bad things might get better. Or worse. “What happened with Carly?” she asked, eager to drop the subject of change. “I mean, do you know if she’s going off to college?”

  “I don’t know anything about her. I don’t think we even talked after Thanksgiving last year.”

  “Yeah. She wasn’t really into the big sister thing, was she?”

  Rosie laughed. “Not really.”

  A guy riding a red mountain bike caught the girls’ attention. Meg guessed he was about seventeen. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, so she could see his face, which she thought was pretty cute. And his legs were long and muscled. That was good, too.

  “Do you still like Justin Bieber?” Rosie asked as the guy rode past.

  Meg shuddered. “Ugh. I am so over him.”

  “Me, too. Not that I was really into him in the first place. He kind of looks like a girl. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And he’s kind of short. Shorter than me, anyway. I suppose that shouldn’t matter to me, but for some reason it does. I know the only thing that’s supposed to be important about a person is what’s on the inside, but ...”

  “Yeah,” Meg agreed. “I’m not sure I’d want to go out with a guy a lot shorter than me. I mean, what if I wanted to wear heels? Anyway, now I like Robert Pattinson. His eyes are sooooo gorgeous and he’s sooooo moody. Maybe not in real life, though. Anyway, I’ve loved the Twilight movies for years, but I never really got how gorgeous Robert Pattinson is until now.”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty cute. And I definitely like vampires more than werewolves. All that hair is gross!”

  “Blah! And werewolves probably stink.”

  “Oh, you know who else is cute?” Rosie said. “The guy on that show Psych.”

  Meg frowned. “Which one? There are two guys.”

  “The goofy one. The one who pretends to be a psychic. His name on the show is Shawn.”

  “He’s okay. But he’s kind of old. He’s probably thirty or something.”

  “Yeah,” Rosie said, “but he’s so cute. And he’s so funny and witty. I definitely like a sense of humor. And I think I might like older guys. I mean, when I’m old enough to actually date.”

  “But you wouldn’t date a thirty-year-old when you’re sixteen, would you?” Meg asked, her eyes wide with disbelief and just a bit of horror. A thirty-year-old guy was almost old enough to be her father! Ugh.

  Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it might be illegal. I mean, for the guy. And there’s no way my parents would allow it!”

  Meg laughed. “I can’t even imagine what my mom or your parents would say if either of us brought home an older guy!”

  “I don’t want to imagine it! I think my mother would freak out even more than my father.” Rosie leaned forward and reached into the small saddlebag behind the seat of her bike.

  “So, here,” she said, handing Meg a pink envelope. “I got this for you. Happy birthday.”

  For a tiny moment Meg was confused. Well, not exactly confused, but ... surprised, even stunned. It happened to her whenever something beyond wonderful occurred, that momentary feeling of disbelief. And then it came to her that, yes, Rosie was actually giving her a birthday card. After all that had happened between them, Rosie was wishing her a happy birthday. She thought she was going to cry and was seriously glad she had worn her clip-on sunglasses.

  “Thanks,” she managed to say, hoping Rosie didn’t hear the quaver she heard in her own voice.

  Meg took the envelope and opened it. She read the card, with its simple message. It wasn’t hand made and it didn’t say the word “friend,” but it was a card. It was a start. It was a big start.

  “Sorry it’s a day late,” Rosie said.

  “Oh, that’s okay.” Meg slipped the card and its envelope into her own saddlebag. She usually threw cards away after about a week, but this card she thought she might keep for a long time. “Thanks, again.”

  “What did your mom get you?”

  “She got me two new tops,” Meg said. “They’re okay. One’s a little tight, so I might have to return it. I doubt I’m going to lose weight! Petey made a card out of construction paper and about a pound of glitter. My dad, of course, did nothing.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Meg shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s not like I expected to hear from him or anything.” Though, she thought, it would have been okay if he had sent a card.

  They sat quietly for some time. Meg began to feel, just a bit, like it really was the old days when they could sit side by side and just look out across the water or stare up at the clouds and not have to talk to communicate. She thought about the weekend Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had taken the girls to a lake somewhere in New Hampshire. It was during the summer Meg turned ten. She and Rosie had spent the days swimming and playing tag and eating ice cream. In the evening they had sat on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, Rosie with her nose in a book, Meg watching the sun as it set and the fireflies as they dipped and darted. When it got too dark for Rosie to read, they would walk back up to the small cabin Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had rented and play board games and cards and eat more ice cream. Meg was convinced she would never forget that weekend, no matter how many great and exciting things happened to her in the future. It was as near to perfect as she could have imagined. Of course now, at fifteen, her idea of an absolutely perfect weekend away would be one that included cute guys to look at and lots of shops to browse through.

  The thought of shopping made her think of one of her favorite stores, Stones and Stuff. It was where she had bought the heart-shaped rose quartz pendant for Rosie’s fourteenth birthday. Meg shot a quick glance at her friend. It had been months since Rosie had worn that pendant. Meg wondered if she ever would wear it again. Or maybe she had thrown it away, back when Meg had betrayed her. She hoped not. She didn’t feel brave enough to ask. Now who’s the coward, Meg thought wryly.

  Thinking about the heart pendant reminded Meg yet again of her own less-than-spectacular birthday. Her mother had asked if she wanted to have some friends over. Meg hadn’t even given the suggestion a moment’s thought. She had no good friends other than Rosie. The idea of asking a bunch of people she barely knew to celebrate her birthday with her seem
ed beyond lame. And the weird thing is that people would have come. There were always girls who would say yes to an invitation to a party, even if they didn’t really like the person giving the party. It was a chance to dress up and maybe get a goodie bag from the hostess and maybe, just maybe, get to play a kissing game if the birthday girl was cool enough to invite boys.

  Well, Meg liked boys a lot, but she didn’t feel cool enough to invite them to her house, not yet, and besides, even if she did invite some boys, she doubted any of them would come. There were way prettier and nicer girls at school. And her grades were really good, especially in math and science, and sometimes that turned boys off. It was unfair, but there was no way she was going to pretend to be stupid just to get a guy!

  Anyway, she wanted to tell Rosie how the idea of having a party without her was unthinkable, but something held her back. She thought it might embarrass Rosie at this point in their new relationship—if it even was a real relationship. Besides, she didn’t want to make herself sound so emotionally needy. Even though she was.

  “Do you want to stay here for a while?” she asked after a time. “Or do you want to ride down to Little Harbor and watch the boats?” She was feeling lazy and would prefer to just sit there, but she wanted to let Rose decide what she wanted to do. Rosie had opinions, too, and she seemed to be getting better at voicing them. Now Meg had to get better at listening to those opinions. That’s something her mother was always reminding her about, that other people mattered as much as she did. She knew that, of course, but still, sometimes it slipped her mind.

  “Let’s go to the harbor,” Rosie said. “I love watching the boats coming in and going out. There’s something so peaceful about it. And kind of romantic, too, in the capital ‘R’ kind of way. It makes you think of adventures in foreign places.” Rosie smiled. “Even if the boats are only going out to fish.”

  Meg stood. It will do me good to get more exercise, she thought. If I lose a pound or two, maybe I can keep that top Mom bought me. “Cool,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  23

  Frannie stood at the small counter squeezed between a wall and the fridge, chopping vegetables for a salad. Her dream kitchen would include an entire island just for prep work. She frowned down at the knife in her hand. It was missing its tip. The dream kitchen would also include a new set of knives and maybe some decent copper pots, too.

  Meg was leaning against the sink, eating Oreos. Frannie had counted four so far and if history was any precedent, at least four more would follow. Ah, she thought, youth. When stuffing cookies into your mouth had virtually no ill effects. Unless you counted cavities as an ill effect, and with no dental insurance ...

  “Save some of those cookies for your brother,” she said now.

  “I know. I will.”

  “You kids are going to eat me out of house and home.”

  Meg sighed and put the open packet of Oreos back in the fridge. “You always say that.”

  Frannie shrugged.

  “Mom? Don’t be mad at me, okay?”

  Frannie’s stomach clenched. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I robbed a bank. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I accidentally burned down the house. Don’t be mad at me, Mom. I’ve joined a cult and as part of my initiation I am required to kill you. “That’s a pretty tough thing for me to promise,” she said carefully, “when I have no idea what you’re going to say.”

  “I know,” Meg admitted. “It’s just that, well, Rosie and I have been spending some time together. Talking and stuff.”

  Frannie put down the knife she was using and faced her daughter.

  “Does Rosie’s mom know about this?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Rosie says she doesn’t mind.”

  Frannie wasn’t too sure about that, but as long as Jane didn’t take out her anger on Meg, things might be okay. Or not. Jane might be a protective mother, but that didn’t mean Frannie wasn’t one, too. And if anyone came after one of her children, Frannie wasn’t sure she could be trusted not to go crazy.

  “You know,” she said now, “just because you apologize to someone doesn’t mean they have to accept the apology. And even if they do accept the apology, it doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven. Not right away, in any case.”

  Meg frowned. “Do you think Rosie doesn’t really forgive me?”

  “I don’t know what Rosie feels,” Frannie admitted. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be surprised if there are a few bumps in the road ahead for both of you.”

  “Do you not want me to be friends with Rosie?”

  “Now, did I say that?”

  “No,” Meg admitted. “But it’s all kind of confusing.”

  Frannie smiled what she hoped was a smile of support. “I know. Welcome to life, kiddo.”

  “Mom,” Meg said, rolling her eyes, “I’m not a kid. I just turned fifteen.”

  “I know. It’s just an expression.”

  “Still.”

  “Sorry,” Frannie said. She thought about how Peter had neglected Meg’s birthday again this year. Meg hadn’t even mentioned the glaring absence of a card on the small living room mantel over the fireplace that hadn’t worked in years. Meg was right. She was no longer a kid. She hadn’t been for a long time.

  “Hey,” Frannie said, “you know that I’m proud of you, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t guess. Know it.”

  Meg smiled and loped out of the kitchen.

  Frannie wiped her hands on a clean dish towel. She really was proud of her daughter. It took courage to pursue Rosie’s friendship after having betrayed it so badly. And it took courage on Rosie’s part, too, to give Meg the benefit of the doubt. Even if nothing came of it in the end, there was a lesson to be learned from the girls’ attempt at reconciliation.

  Incidents in Frannie’s own life had taught her that both girls and grown women could be their own worst enemies, indulging grievances and petty jealousies, at times reveling in animosity. The boss at one of Frannie’s first decent jobs was a case in point. Frannie flinched as the memories came leaping back.

  Mrs. Monroe had found that every little thing Frannie did was wrong. The staples were put too close to the corners of the page. The blue ink she used was not as professional as black. Only the very top button of her blouse was to be left undone. This last edict had really puzzled Frannie. Mrs. Monroe was seriously into showing her own cleavage. Maybe, she remembered thinking, there was a different dress code for bosses. But if that was the case, shouldn’t the boss be the one required to dress more conservatively?

  Anyway, Frannie hadn’t been seeking an inordinate amount of praise. All she had wanted was to be treated with respect and to have her work, which she knew was good, acknowledged as good. The other office staff seemed to escape Mrs. Monroe’s notice. Why was she being singled out for criticism? Frannie had wondered, her stomach fluttering with nerves as she walked into the office each morning.

  One day one of her coworkers, a pleasant, older woman named Martha Klein, suggested they have lunch together. Normally, Frannie brought something to eat from home, but she was feeling so lousy and so uncertain of her talents, such as they were, that she had gladly accepted Ms. Klein’s offer. When they were seated in a booth at a local diner, Ms. Klein, with a kindly smile, said, “You know why Mrs. Monroe is so hard on you, don’t you?”

  “No,” Frannie said, taken aback. She hadn’t been sure the other staff had noticed. “Why?”

  Ms. Klein had laughed. “Oh, dear, it’s because she’s afraid of you! And probably jealous, to boot.”

  “Afraid of me? Jealous? But why?” The idea had thoroughly surprised her.

  “For one, you’re young and attractive,” Ms. Klein explained. “For a woman like our boss, that’s a big threat. And for two, you’re smart and hardworking, certainly smarter than the rest of us. She looks at you and sees someone who could easily steal her job and probably her husband. Silly woman.”

  “But that’s crazy!” Frannie
had cried, then, embarrassed, she said more softly, “I don’t want her job. Or her husband!”

  “It’s not really about you, dear,” Ms. Klein had explained, patting Frannie’s arm. “The trouble lies with Mrs. Monroe. I’m sorry to say there’s not much you can do about it but grin and bear it, learn as much as you can at the company, and then move on. She’ll never promote you, you know. I’ve worked for women like her before.”

  So Frannie had taken Ms. Klein’s advice and moved on to another job as soon as she could. Mrs. Monroe had not been sorry to see her go.

  And then at her third or fourth job—Frannie couldn’t remember which now, as those early jobs all had been pretty much equally similar and boring—there had been a woman named Elaine Blair. Elaine was slightly older than Frannie. She loved to tell silly knock-knock jokes and to go out for beers after work at a local Mexican food chain. She wore wacky jewelry—feather earrings and necklaces made out of chunky plastic beads—and her long and pointy nails were always painted scarlet.

  Frannie and Elaine had hit it off immediately. Before long they were having lunch together every day in the company’s break room or, on nice days, on a small stone bench outside the building, sometimes swapping half a sandwich for a yogurt or an apple for a banana. One night they had even gone out to a singles bar, though Frannie was already with Peter. She had been Elaine’s wingman, occupying the “loser friend” in chitchat while the “cool guy” danced with Elaine. Frannie had really believed they were close friends as well as coworkers, and she was happy about that. It had been a long time since she had had a close friend, not since high school, really.

  Not long after Elaine had gotten a promotion that Frannie had been in line for, one of the midlevel managers, a man in his early forties, had caught up with her one evening in the company parking lot. “Look,” Fred had said, “maybe it’s none of my business. But you seem like a nice person and I feel I should warn you. Stay away from Elaine Blair. You don’t want to be friends with her.”