Last Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  Meg’s expression darkened. “Oh.”

  “My hair.”

  Meg jumped off the bed and almost fell over her sneakers, which were lying in the middle of the carpet. “Oh, no, Rosie! Oh, I knew it. I just knew it! I had such a feeling that something was wrong about it all and I couldn’t force you to tell me but ... Those ... those little shits!”

  “Meg!” Rosie cried, feigning shock. “Good thing your mother isn’t here.”

  “Trust me, she would call them something much worse.”

  “Yeah.” Rosie thought of all the times she had heard Mrs. Giroux curse and then apologize for it, sometimes with a laugh. “Probably. By the way, Stella wasn’t involved. I don’t know why she wasn’t there, but she wasn’t.”

  Meg plopped back down on the bed. “Do your parents know?”

  “I told them after I told Dr. Lowe,” Rosie said. “They wanted to confront all the parents but I begged them not to. I was just so—I was just so tired.”

  “But it was such a violation!” Meg cried. “God, it was almost like a rape! Sorry, but that’s the way I see it. Those creeps can’t get away with this! With everything! They have to be punished! They should be thrown out of school!”

  “The big stuff didn’t take place on school property,” Rosie pointed out. “And I can’t prove that it was Mackenzie who sent the text on Valentine’s Day, or that it was her who told people to act like I wasn’t there.”

  Meg frowned. “I bet you could report them to the police for assault. Courtney should be thrown in jail and then someone should lose the key.”

  “Maybe. Probably. But I don’t want to.”

  “Doesn’t your therapist tell you to report them?”

  “That’s not how it works,” Rosie said with a smile. “Therapists don’t tell you what to do.”

  “Well, doesn’t she suggest you report them?”

  “We discuss my options and the possible ramifications of those options,” Rosie explained. “And then I make a decision.”

  Meg made a sound of disgust. “I still think you should rat out those bitches.”

  “Meg!”

  Meg shrugged. “Witches. Whatever. They need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Revenge usually backfires. Unless it’s in the movies.”

  “I’m not talking about revenge,” Meg corrected. “I’m talking about punishment. There’s a difference.”

  “Well, whatever. Hey, do you believe in karma?”

  “I don’t know,” Meg admitted. “I’m not really sure how it works. I mean, what if you do something bad to someone but then you’re really sorry you did it and apologize? Does that mean you still might be punished later on or in another life? Does it mean you’re going to come back as something gross, like a honey badger?”

  “I don’t really know how it works, either,” Rosie said. “But think about ‘crime and punishment.’ They don’t always go together, do they? There’s a good chance that nothing bad will ever happen to Mackenzie, even though she caused other people pain. That’s just the way life is. Sometimes it’s totally unfair and random. And sometimes it’s not. Or it doesn’t seem to be. Sometimes good people get rewards and bad people get punishment. But you can never tell what’s going to happen.”

  “Life shouldn’t be that way,” Meg said, “unfair and random, I mean. But I guess there’s not always a lot you can do about it.”

  Rosie faked a big sigh. “Right. Like, why is Kate Middleton married to a prince and living in a castle and you’re stuck on Pond View Road with me?”

  Meg laughed. “Yeah, exactly like that!”

  32

  Jane parked her car on Sommer Street just off Main Street in downtown Yorktide. The weather was perfect, warm but not too hot, and dry as a bone, which was unusual for summer in southern Maine. The good weather had helped put her in a lighthearted mood, that and a pleasant chat with a good client she had happened upon at her favorite farmers’ market where she had bought ten ears of fresh corn and a variety of greens. If history was any precedent, she thought, smiling, the corn would be gone by morning. Mike was crazy for fresh corn. Actually, so was she, and Rosie could hold her own, too.

  Jane was now on her way to browse through a few of the stores in town. She had decided to buy a little treat for herself, nothing major, just a little something. Retail therapy, she thought, was a fine thing, as long as it was used judiciously. That wasn’t a problem for Jane. She prided herself on having a high level of self-control. Anyone who knew Jane Patterson could vouch for her sense of discipline and order. Not once since her wedding had she blown her self-imposed weekly budget.

  She turned the corner of Sommer Street and onto Main where she came to a sudden halt, her lighthearted mood blown away like dandelion fluff in the wind. Frannie was standing about halfway down the block, on the curb by her car. Her head was bent over her old leather bag, the one she had bought at a thrift shop right after Meg was born. At a guess she was looking for change for the parking meter just to her right.

  The women hadn’t spoken since the day Jane had gone to the Giroux house to demand that Frannie keep Meg away from Rosie. A lot had happened since then. The girls had begun the process of reconciliation. Mike had argued for kindness toward Petey. Frannie had written that note apologizing and asking for Jane’s renewed friendship. And Jane had ... She had clung to her anger and disappointment and pride. That was the truth, and it wasn’t pretty.

  For a half a moment Jane considered ignoring Frannie, walking on by without a word, pretending that she didn’t see her. But she just didn’t have the stomach to snub someone, especially someone with whom she had once been close. She could turn around and walk back to her car. Frannie might never even know she had been there. But Jane remembered the sincerity of Frannie’s note, and allowing a better impulse to direct her next move, she took what quarters she had out of her coin purse and walked toward Frannie.

  “Hi,” she said when she was a few feet from where Frannie was standing.

  Frannie looked up from digging in the bottom of her bag. Jane could see new lines around her eyes (she wasn’t wearing sunglasses) and thought that her expression looked strained.

  “Hi,” Frannie replied. Then, with a nervous laugh, she held up the old leather bag. “I know I have some change in here somewhere. I think it might have slipped into the lining... .”

  Jane held out her hand. “Here, I have three quarters if that will help.”

  “Oh, no,” Frannie said, “that’s okay. I’m sure I—”

  “No. Take them.”

  Frannie put out her hand and Jane dropped the coins into her palm. “Thanks,” Frannie said. “That’s nice of you.”

  Jane was glad to be wearing dark sunglasses; they allowed her not to meet Frannie’s eyes. The thought of making eye contact at such a small distance frightened her. And it confused her. For a half a moment she was tempted to ask if Frannie was free for a cup of coffee. And then she was blurting, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends. I’m just being a good neighbor.”

  “Okay,” Frannie said with another nervous laugh.

  She’s uncomfortable, Jane thought. Why did I say that? And then, more words were coming out of her mouth, again without real intent. “You know that Rosie was cutting herself this past spring,” she said.

  “What?” Frannie stumbled slightly, as if proving her shock. “No, of course I didn’t know.”

  “She was self-harming,” Jane went on, unable to stop, as if some demon puppet master were controlling her. “That’s how badly those girls got to her. All of them. She used one of Mike’s razors.”

  Frannie put her hand to her chest. “Oh, my God, Jane,” she said, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  Jane didn’t respond. Suddenly she felt sick. So much for self-control and discipline. She had used that awful information about Rosie’s ordeal as a weapon. And she had betrayed her daughter by revealing something that wasn’t hers to reveal. Essentially, she had done to Rosie what Meg had done to he
r. Jane realized that she couldn’t risk opening her mouth to speak. She would probably only sob. Or throw up.

  “Is she ... Is she feeling better now?” Frannie asked.

  Jane nodded, desperate to be anywhere else but standing by that curb in full view of the town. Her shame and distress were so great she felt that anyone passing by would know exactly what she had done and brand her as a ... as a bully.

  Frannie looked away from Jane’s face. “Well,” she said, “I have to run. I have a dentist appointment. Thanks again for the quarters. And again—I’m so sorry. About Rosie.”

  Though she wanted to run away, Jane stood completely still, as if rooted to the sidewalk, and watched Frannie Giroux walk off. Her old friend had gotten grayer, she noted. The observation gave her no pleasure at all. She realized that in addition to feeling guilty she felt very sad.

  The impulse to do a good deed had been real and then she had destroyed and invalidated her act of minor kindness. Why had she said what she had about not being friends? She should have simply accepted Frannie’s thanks and walked on. And why had she blurted the awful truth about the depths of Rosie’s despair? The answer was painfully obvious. She had wanted to punish Frannie, and to imply that Meg, too, was guilty of having pushed Rosie over the edge and into mentally ill behavior.

  Jane was ashamed of herself. She had wanted Frannie to feel bad about herself and about her child. What did that say about her? That she was a mean-spirited person. That maybe Rosie wasn’t the only one who should be talking with a therapist.

  A car passed by, loud pop music blaring from its open windows. Jane flinched, whether from the surprise of the noise or her own embarrassment, she couldn’t say. She had just behaved like one of those disgraceful women on those reality shows like Real Housewives or Mob Wives. You didn’t have to watch them, and Jane didn’t, to be aware that they were absurdly popular. Who were these women living lives where vindictive, spiteful behavior was considered the norm and even encouraged among so-called friends? Well, just how true to life those shows were, Jane couldn’t really say. Were women really so horrible to each other as a matter of course? She didn’t want to think that they were, but suddenly, a memory of something that had happened back in college was making itself heard.

  One of her suitemates, a girl she had liked enough to consider a friend, had stolen Jane’s boyfriend. Jane had been devastated. She had been in love with Derek. At least, she thought she had been. Of course, not all the blame for Jenna’s success at luring him away could be laid at her door—Derek had made the decision to cheat—but still, it was mean and nasty of Jenna to have betrayed another woman, especially a woman she lived across the hall from.

  Jane cringed as the memories came flooding back now. She would never entirely forget walking into the suite and finding Jenna and Derek kissing on the couch. She had been absolutely shocked, so stunned she had just stood there and stared at the two, unable to speak. After a long moment, they had become aware of Jane’s presence and Derek had shot to his feet and stumbled toward her, spouting excuses and explanations. Jenna had stayed on the couch, her expression smug, complacent, and triumphant. Jane had pulled away from Derek’s pleading hands and literally run out of the room and then out of the building. She had kept on running until she felt sick to her stomach and been forced to stop.

  It had been really hard for Jane to accept the fact that Jenna had shown such blatant disrespect for a friend’s romantic relationship. And the most confusing part of the entire episode was that only a few weeks later, Jenna had dumped Derek. Had she even cared for Derek at all, or had she stolen him away just to cause another girl pain? Whatever the case, Jane had learned a bitter lesson about trust and about choosing friends wisely. She had not forgiven Derek, in spite of his determined attempts to apologize and win her back, and she had not forgiven Jenna, either, though Jenna didn’t seem to care. She hadn’t apologized and she hadn’t seemed upset by Jane’s giving her the silent treatment for the rest of the semester.

  Another car passing by on Main Street, this time one with a problematic muffler, shook Jane back to the present. To this day she hadn’t forgiven Jenna Marsh for what she had done to her back in college. Maybe that was all right. But was it all right that she still hadn’t forgiven Frannie for a betrayal that wasn’t even her direct doing?

  Jane suddenly felt very, very tired. She had come into downtown Yorktide to indulge in a little personal shopping, but now shopping was the last thing she wanted to do. Besides, she didn’t deserve a treat. Her earlier good mood completely gone, Jane walked slowly back to her car on Sommer Street and drove directly home. There was a floor to wash and a hall carpet to spot clean and a kitchen cupboard to rearrange and put back into perfect order, all before Mike came home for dinner.

  33

  Dear Diary

  I have nothing to say.

  Dear Diary

  I have nothing to say. Again.

  Except that I hate myself.

  Like that should be a big surprise.

  There’s nothing about me to like. There never was.

  34

  Meg finished slathering sunblock on her legs and arms. She loved the look of a tan, but her mother had drilled into her head the dangers of sun exposure. “And we can’t afford for you to be getting cancer,” she had said. What did that mean, Meg wondered, that if she did get sick her mother would abandon her on a lonely stretch of highway and let the moose take care of her?

  “Want some?” Meg held out her tube of sunblock.

  “No thanks,” Rosie said. “I put a ton on at home. It’s supposed to be more effective if you put it on before you go out.”

  Meg shrugged and put the tube back in her canvas beach bag. The bag had once belonged to her mother, about a bazillion years ago, back when she had been single. How expensive can a canvas beach bag be? Meg wondered, brushing ineffectually at an old stain on one of the handles. Really, it was time she talked to her mother about getting a new one. Maybe something with a jaunty nautical look, like something Ralph Lauren would design. Only it would have to be a knockoff of a knockoff of a knockoff.

  Meg sighed at the thought and looked at her watch. It was just eleven o’clock. Mr. Patterson had driven them to Ogunquit Beach on his way to a meeting in Portland. He told them he would be back in the area around three. When they were ready to leave later in the day, Rosie would call him on her cell phone and he would come to pick them up. Meg frowned to herself. She couldn’t imagine her own father ever being so thoughtful.

  “I can’t believe my mother still won’t let me have a cell phone,” Meg said now. “It’s insane! You can get these great deals, like a family plan or whatever. It’s so unfair. And what if I needed to call nine-one-one? What if I was running for my life away from some creep? What if I crashed my bike on some lonely road?”

  “It does seem a little ... irrational,” Rosie agreed. “Maybe your mother will surprise you with a phone when we go back to school.”

  “Huh. Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “Anyway,” Rosie said, “if it’s any consolation, I’m not allowed to use mine except for emergencies. Or, like, calling my dad when we want to be picked up later.”

  “That’s all I’m asking! Maybe your dad could talk to my mom... .”

  “No way. He would think it was interfering, which it probably would be.”

  “Whatever,” Meg said with an exaggerated shrug. “You’re probably right.”

  The beach was crowded, which was not unusual for a hot, bright summer afternoon. If you listened closely, you could hear accents from other parts of the United States as well as a fair amount of French Canadian. A lot of people considered Ogunquit Beach as one of the most beautiful in the country. Meg hadn’t been to many other beaches, certainly none outside of Maine, so she couldn’t say if she agreed with that assessment. But it definitely was beautiful and more dramatic than York Beach, with the cliffs along Marginal Way in sight.

  Rosie was wearing a new unadorned, navy on
e-piece suit her mother had ordered for her from an L.L.Bean catalogue. Over it she wore a kind of sheer navy long-sleeved blouse. Meg assumed that was Mrs. Patterson’s idea, as Rosie wasn’t usually into making a fashion statement. Meg was wearing last year’s two-piece. It was slightly faded from sun and salt water, washed-out pink rather than hot pink. Her mother had picked it up at Goodwill for five dollars. She remembered her mother bragging to Mrs. Patterson about the price. It still fit, though Meg was conscious of her thighs, which she thought were too big, and thought that maybe next year, when the suit would definitely be too worn out to wear, she would look for one with those boy-shorts bottoms. That might be a good look for her figure. Or maybe a one-piece with really high-cut legs would be more slimming. If Mrs. Patterson was still talking to me, Meg thought, she could help me choose a flattering bathing suit.

  Meg settled back on her elbows to watch the people around them. That was one of the best things about being at the beach, the chance to people watch. A bunch of older teenagers, boys and girls, were camped out a few yards to the right. As far as Meg could tell, every single one of them was wearing earbuds. Meg thought that the guy in the Hawaiian print bathing suit was really cute but hoped he didn’t accidentally look in her direction because the last thing she wanted was for him to notice that she liked him. Okay, she was wearing her clip-on sunglasses so he couldn’t see her eyes, but he still might be able to tell (she wasn’t really sure what kind of powers boys had when it came to sniffing out girls who liked them!) and she would be incredibly embarrassed. What would she do if he came over to her? Yeah, right. Like he would leave those beautiful girls in their brand-new bikinis for a dull-looking girl with big thighs in an old, faded bikini. Get real, Meg, she scolded herself, looking away.

  A few yards to their left there was an old couple in pretty heavy-duty beach chairs, complete with what looked like a mini-cooler attached to the left arm of each chair. Meg looked harder. Well, she had thought they were old people, but now she realized that they might not be. Their skin was leathery and so brown ... Meg quickly looked away. It was kind of disgusting, she thought. And probably they were going to get cancer. But it was their choice to roast themselves until they looked like burnt hot dogs, so who was she to protest.