Golden Hour

by Chantel Guertin

  “You guys should totally buy your Eurail passes soon,” Gemma says, and then goes off on a whole spiel about her vacation last summer with her cousin, but I’m watching Dace. How do I tell her I can’t afford to go?

  “We don’t need to buy them right now,” I say, trying to move the conversation on.

  “Yeah, Dace’s gonna work with me at White Water World,” Ben says, taking a swig of his beer. He puts his arm around her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a white off the shoulder peasant-style dress that gives her skin a golden glow.

  “You are?” I say, realizing this could solve all my problems.

  Dace gives Ben a look and twists out from under his arm. “No. I’m not. He’s dreaming. Besties before the resties. Sorry, Big Ben. Pip and I have plans.”

  “But Pippa could work at the water park too,” Ben says. “We already talked about it. Remember, Pip?”

  I gulp my drink and let the alcohol burn the back of my throat. “Well, kinda. And I guess we could do that, actually.” I say. “Make some money this summer.”

  “What the Helsinki, Pip,” Dace says, throwing back her drink and slamming her cup on the ground beside her. “The plan is to backpack ’crosh Europe, remember?” she slurs. “Also, what do you need the money for? ’Snot like you have to pay for Tisch. You didn’t get in.”

  Whoa. That was harsh.

  “I didn’t get in yet. And I don’t have parents who can drop thousands on me to do whatever I want, like it’s nothing. You don’t get it. Rent and food and my tuition and . . . New York is expensive.” But it comes out “expenshive.”

  “OK, let me get this straight,” Dace says. “You’re telling me now that you’re not going on the best trip of your life because you have to save for a college you didn’t get into? Just work when you get back. It’s not like you’ll even need money living at home next year.”

  Ben puts a hand on Dace’s knee to get her to stop talking. She hasn’t said anything I haven’t thought a hundred times, but it’s so much worse hearing it out loud. What if I don’t get into Tisch and have to live in Spalding next year, with no plan, while everyone else moves away or moves on . . . Dace reaches over and grabs Ben’s beer, takes a swig then points it at me.

  “I’m just saying, we had a plan, Pippa. And you can’t think only about yourself. My plans to travel next year are based on where we go in the summer. I’ve been researching my trip for months.”

  “Oh come on, Dace. You’ve memorized a bunch of landmarks and use them instead of swears. And I’m not stopping you from going. I just can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can’t. You’re only thinking about yourself. As usual.”

  “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t even be in this predicament if I’d thought about myself this past year, instead spending every single Sunday for months with you. That’s selfish?”

  “I didn’t ask you to come visit me. You don’t get to lord that over me.”

  “Then don’t say that I think only about myself. But yes, now? Maybe I am thinking about myself. So what if I don’t want to take a slacker year?” The second the phrase leaves my mouth I regret it.

  “Slacker year? That’s what I’m taking? That’s what you think of me?”

  “No. I—just. You know, your meditation word was Be. Mine was Succeed. We’re just on different paths.”

  “I’m on a flaky path of privilege, and you’re such a driven artiste. That’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” Dace stands, dropping Ben’s beer can. “You think I don’t have ambition just because it’s not like yours? But remember? I had a plan. And it didn’t work out. My drive to succeed nearly killed me. But you’re so self-absorbed you can’t even see that other people’s problems are just as valid as yours.” Dace pushes her way out of the living room toward the front door.

  I turn back to the group, all eyes on me. I try to say something but I can’t focus on words that would make any sense at this point. Then I stand and run up the stairs, into my room.

  “Hi Pippa,” Charley says from where he’s lying on my bed, still fully clothed, playing on his handheld video game device.

  “Hey, want me to tuck you in?”

  “Yeah,” he says sleepily.

  “Move over,” I say, crawling onto the bed, and pulling the covers up over us.

  “We’re having a sleepover in my room . . .” he says, but my eyes close before I have a chance to correct him.

  SUNDAY, MAY 7

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh . . .” Pain. My head is pounding. The room is too bright. My mouth, too dry. Sitting up triggers a wave of nausea. I lie back down again. The lemonade mimosas. The party. The fight with Dace.

  Summoning the strength and the willpower, I roll over onto my side, wincing, and then swing my legs down to the ground and try to sit up again. Then stand. Another bad idea. I rush to the bathroom and make it just in time—if throwing up in the sink instead of the toilet counts as making it in time. I slide down the tile wall to the floor and try to bury my head in the fluffy floor mat.

  I need to know what time it is. I splash my face with cold water and dry my face, gargle some mouthwash and then crawl back to my room to look around for my phone. I can’t find it. I try to think back through the night, then remember that after the fight with Dace, I went to my room and passed out. I just left everyone to party in my house.

  This is not good.

  I pull myself up and head downstairs, bracing myself for what I know is going to look like post-party pandemonium.

  But when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I stop. It’s spotless. I look into the living room and every square inch of it is completely impeccable. Not a cup, chip or beer bottle anywhere to be seen. And then I notice someone on the couch. Faded jeans, gray T-shirt. Dylan. He looks up. Then sits up. Blue high-top Vans hit the floor as Dylan blinks a few times and looks around.

  “Dylan?”

  “Whoa.” He rubs his face with his hands. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  Dylan never even came to the party. Did he?

  “Did you clean up?”

  “I figured you weren’t going to be in any shape to clean this place up this morning. Despite your stellar garbage picking skills.”

  I sit down on the couch beside him, my shoulder brushing his. Tingles everywhere.

  “It was pretty bad in here,” he says. “Not gonna lie.”

  “Thank you.” I put my head in my hands and lean forward.

  “You feel that good, huh?”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Hang on.” He gets up and heads to the kitchen, and I realize I probably look as terrible as I feel. But at least I swigged that mouthwash. He returns a second later and hands me two Advil and a can of Coke. “Trust me on this. There’s something in it that will magically make you feel better.”

  I take the Advil and open the can of Coke and take a swig.

  He sits back down. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen your Instagram?”

  My small head shake hurts. “Can’t find my phone.” He pulls out his. A few clicks later he turns it to me.

  My feed is full of drunken party pics. Some feature other people. Most are selfies of drunk me. Some of them have been in my feed for 10 hours. I posted these? Rubbing my eyes doesn’t make the pics any less blurry, but the likes and comments are in focus. Dozens of likes. A bunch of comments. I spend hours setting up shots, creating themes, editing images, posting at scheduled times, and these shots only get a handful of likes and even fewer comments. Then I get wasted, take a bunch of terrible, poorly composed shots at the same party and post them all within a few hours and they do better than all my other photos combined? I groan. “So embarrassing.”

  He tilts his head. “You want my honest, totally pedestrian opinion?”

  I shrug.


  “These pics—sure they’re not the best photos ever, but they’re real. They’re like the stuff you used to take pictures of. Real people, real emotions. You have this way of capturing people and really showing them. And somehow despite not being able to have any control over lighting, you managed to make these look good.”

  “Our house has really good lighting. My dad was pretty crazy about it, actually. I guess most photographers are. It’s all about the dimmers.”

  Dylan gives me a dramatic eye roll. “Pippa, you have a great eye. Even when you’re wasted. It’s not about the dimmers.”

  “Anyway,” I say, looking around. “I can’t believe you cleaned everything up for me. It’s, like, cleaner than it was before the party. As if you’d do all this for an ex-girlfriend.”

  “I was kinda hoping we could get rid of that ‘ex’ status,” he says, shifting his body and wrapping his arm around me. I lean into him. “Come here,” he says, and we nestle in together on the couch, our bodies spooning.

  “I missed you, Philadelphia Greene,” he says.

  “Me too.” I barely manage to get it out. We lie there, and I listen to his steady breath, letting my eyes close.

  *

  “Pippa?”

  I open my eyes and see Mom standing in the entrance to the living room. It takes me a minute to clue in, and then it all comes rushing back.

  I jolt upright, flinging Dylan’s arm off me. “Mom!” I say too loudly, standing up and realizing I’m still in my see-through-dress-over-bikini ensemble.

  “What’s going on?” she says, just as Hank comes in the door, carrying their overnight bags.

  Mom looks from Dylan to the front door, where I notice the garbage bags piled up in the entranceway. In particular, the clear bag packed with beer cans, vodka bottles and Solo cups.

  Mom pulls her hair back off her face, the way she does when she’s really upset, and then says, “Hello, Dylan.”

  “Hi Mrs. Greene,” Dylan says, standing. “I should go. Um, I’m sorry?”

  Hank stares at me. “Where’s Charley?” I’ve never seen his eyes so wide. His voice is filled with panic.

  My stomach drops. It’s a good question. Among all the other stuff I’ve done, I’ve lost Hank’s son?

  Dylan saves me again. “He’s up in your bedroom, Mrs. Greene. Watching Big Hero 6 on his tablet.” Then Dylan gives me a small wave and slips out the front door.

  “This is what you do the one time I leave you alone?” my mom says quietly. “You have a party?”

  “I’ll take Charley home,” Hank says. He seems to be frozen, probably paralyzed with the thought that this is what his life is going to be like when he moves in.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mom says. “Because we have quite a lot to talk about, Pippa. Starting with explaining to me why you didn’t tell me that you got waitlisted.”

  I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating for a minute. “Hank told you?”

  “Hank didn’t tell me anything.”

  Hank bends down to pick up Charley’s shoes. “Charley, let’s go,” he hollers upstairs. “Holly, call me . . . later.” After an awkward minute where no one says a word, Charley’s sneakers are on and they’re out the door.

  Mom turns back to me. “What on Earth possessed you to lie to me about Tisch?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say. Head really pounding now, I sink down onto the couch. “I meant to tell you right away, and you didn’t answer your phone, so I texted you and it autocorrected. And then you thought I got in. I swear. And I didn’t want to let you down, and I thought I could fix it myself.”

  “And the trip to New York? What was that?”

  “I went to try to convince the program coordinator to let me in.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” Mom says, her voice softening. Her eyes examine my face, as though the answer is written there in cryptic code.

  “I don’t know.” I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I try to swallow, but no go. “It all got so out of hand.”

  “Sounds like it. Honestly, Pippa, I feel like I’m looking at someone I don’t even know.” She sighs and I feel it: her disappointment.

  “I’m so sorry.” I get up and walk toward her, expecting her to hold out her arms and hug me the way she always does when we fight. But she doesn’t. She folds her arms across her chest.

  “I need to think through all of this, Pippa.”

  I stand in silence, wondering what to do next. She turns and goes into the kitchen. I walk toward the stairs, then stop. She knows about the waitlisting, and the party, but there’s still one last lie. “Mom?”

  She turns to face me, one hand on the kitchen table. “Hmm?”

  “I didn’t apply to any other colleges. That’s why I haven’t heard back from anywhere but Tisch.”

  She stares at me without saying anything, and so I wait, until finally, she shakes her head, slowly. “Wow.”

  I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse than I did when I woke up this morning, but I was wrong. Turns out disappointment trumps a hangover any day.

  *

  I stay in my room, skipping dinner, which isn’t exactly a sacrifice since even the whiff of barbecued chicken I’m getting through my open window is making me dry-heave. But I’m dying for a ginger ale, so eventually I slip downstairs. Mom and Hank are in the yard, their backs to the house, sitting in Adirondack chairs, two glasses of wine on the little table between them. The sun is setting, and I can hear Mom laughing at something Hank is saying. Charley’s kicking a soccer ball against the fence. I can see why Mom would want Hank to live with her—with us. He makes her happy. And when I do move out, whether it’s in the fall or whenever, she will be lonely. Do I really want her to be all alone, just because I don’t want to give up my childhood bedroom?

  I reach into my pocket for my phone, remember I still can’t find it, go upstairs, grab my camera out of the bottom drawer of my desk and go back downstairs, quietly open the sliding door and take a few shots of Mom and Hank together. No rule of thirds, no leading lines, just the two of them, the setting sun lighting the shot. Giving it the golden hour glow.

  Charley catches my eye and waves, then runs inside. “You wanna watch a show together?”

  “Sure. What do you want to watch?” I ask, bracing myself for an episode of Star Wars Rebels. But instead he says Gilmore Girls.

  “No-go on Gilmore Girls. Can’t watch it without my mom. Let’s pick a show just for us.”

  “Yeah!” Charley says, following me downstairs. I smile. He’s not the worst.

  MONDAY, MAY 8

  Monday can’t come soon enough, but when I wake up I feel worse than yesterday. Is it possible to be more hungover on Day 2 than Day 1? No clue, but I drag myself out of bed and out the door to school before Mom wakes. Dace and I haven’t spoken to each other, and I’m nervous about seeing her at our lockers. When I get to school, a bunch of people tell me how fun the party was and want to know if I got busted for having a party. I answer their questions as breezily as I can, trying to be cool. I don’t see Dace, and I remember it’s Monday Morning Meditation. There’s no way I can go in there, so I head back outside and down the field behind the school to one of the large oak trees. Positioning myself so I’m out of sight, I sit cross-legged and put my hands on my knees like Anisha did. I close my eyes and think of a one-word mantra to get me through the practice. But the only thing that comes to mind is Regret. And nausea.

  *

  In Writer’s Craft, we get to choose our own word for the writing prompt, so I stick with my word of the day. Regret for how insensitive and cruel I was to Dace, regret that I’ve been lying to Mom, that I’ve let Dad down about Tisch. When Mr. Jonescu dings the bell, I’ve filled four pages of my notebook.

  I grab the hall pass and head to the bathroom. Pushing open the door, I walk straight into Dace. For
the first time since she got it, she’s not wearing her backpack. Instead, a cute paisley cross-body bag is slung across her chest.

  “Oh thank god.” Dace pulls me in for a quick hug.

  “I looked for you everywhere this morning. I couldn’t find you and I had this terrible thought like, What if you died of alcohol poisoning and I just left you? Why haven’t you replied to any of my texts? Turns out being worried trumps being pissed off.”

  “Sorry. Also I can’t find my phone. Ever since the party. I’ve looked everywhere but it’s MIA. Karma, I guess.” I moan. “I also feel like crap. Is it possible to be hungover for this long?”

  “Doubtful. You’re probably just dehydrated and stressed out.”

  “Stressed out about—” and then I remember. My driver’s test. “Oh no. No no no no no.”

  “You forgot?”

  “My life is in my phone! Yes I forgot! I can’t take it. I’m not mentally prepared. I didn’t even ask Mom if I could borrow her car. You have to take it for me.”

  “I am pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. Maybe for Emma and Gemma, but not for us.” Dace wraps her arm around me. “I’ll take you after school. And you can use my car.”

  “Really?”

  “You think I want to be driving you around when you’re 80?”

  I turn to hug her, though mostly I’m hanging off her. “I’m sorry I said you were a slacker. I didn’t mean it. You’re not a slacker at all. I think I’m probably just jealous that you do have a plan, and it’s super fun.”

  “It’s OK,” she says. “I don’t want to just go to college and waste my parents’ money when I don’t even know what I want to do. I’m not like you. I don’t have a forever dream.”

  “Yeah, well, you did.”

  “Yeah, I did. And you still do. You’re just having a hiccup.”