Instead of clasping my hand, Will rested his arm on mine and traced the inside of my wrist with his thumb. For some reason, this made my upper lip tingle. And not in a bad way.
I was just resting my head on Will’s shoulder and getting up the nerve to breathe something romantic into his ear when I heard someone tumble into the seat right behind us.
Will and I peered over our shoulders.
“Owen?!” Will said through gritted teeth.
“Dude, I couldn’t take the chick flick,” Owen said. “There was a shopping montage in the very first scene! Hey, did you guys get any popcorn?”
Will’s thumb left my wrist.
My head left his shoulder.
And let’s just say, after that, I didn’t miss one minute of the movie. (But at least it was horrifically good.)
For the rest of the Monsoon—as Will and I came to call that rain-ruined week—we saw each other only during damp, snatched moments at The Scoop.
So at night, we talked on the phone. And talked and talked and talked.
“You were in my dream last night,” Will said during one of our epic conversations. I was on the screened porch during a lull in the rain. I lay on the hammock at an angle with one big toe on the sandy floorboards, pushing the swing back and forth.
“Will, that is the cheesiest line,” I said with a laugh.
“No, it’s true,” he said. “And believe me, it wasn’t that romantic. We were in a supermarket; this endless grocery store. We kept going up and down the aisles like we were searching for the exit, but there never was one. It was actually kind of boring.”
“Okay, that doesn’t seem good,” I said with a frown.
“Well, I know I was happy to be with you,” Will said. “I was just ready to get out of that stupid store.”
“Hmm,” I said. “What was in our cart? No melons or whoopie pies, I hope. Because that would just be too ridiculously Freudian.”
“Or, from what you’ve told me, Woody Allenian,” Will said, laughing.
Another late night, I lay on my bed with the phone between my ear and the pillow. I watched the raindrops spatter my skylight. They made me think of these little water balloons Caroline and I made one night when we were eight. She was sleeping over while our parents went out for dinner together, leaving us with a sitter. We filled about a hundred balloons and nested them in a box, like a giant, jiggly litter of baby animals. Then we waited on the balcony. We waited for four hours. Finally my parents came home and we pelted them with every balloon in our box, after which Caroline wasn’t allowed to sleep over for a long, long time.
I told Will this story because I knew it would make him laugh.
And because that was what we did during these meandering conversations. We told each other our silly stories and ancient memories and random thoughts. They were our ways of revealing ourselves to each other, even if we didn’t always realize it. Sometimes these talks felt more intense, more intimate, than kissing.
“So you were always scary stubborn,” Will said about the four-hour wait with the balloons.
“Just like you’ve always had issues with crustaceans,” I retorted. One of Will’s silly stories had been about him crying when his parents boiled a batch of lobsters during a long-ago vacation in Maine.
“Yeah, I was scarred by the murder of my little friends,” Will admitted. “I don’t know what I was thinking asking you to go ghost-crabbing that night.”
“Oh, I know what you were thinking!” I burst out with a laugh.
Will laughed too.
“Yeah, I guess I was,” he said, speaking in a shorthand that we both understood. “I guess I was.”
And then we got quiet for a moment. I listened to the distant creaking of Will’s front-porch rocker. He could probably hear the soft slap-slap-slap of the rain on my skylight. And both of our minds swooped back to that night with the ghost crabs, the night of our first kiss.
“I wish I could see you right now,” Will said, his voice low and a little husky.
I wanted to see him too. Desperately.
It was the desperation that made a small part of me not want to see Will too.
Mostly, being Will’s girlfriend made me feel the same way I did after acing a test in school: a little light-headed, a little proud, and somehow utterly relaxed while also buzzing with excitement.
But given that Will was a boy, and not an English midterm, my emotions were more complicated than that.
The more I was with Will, even on the phone, the more I wanted to be with him. I was starting to feel like I could never get enough of him.
I’d be reading a novel, washing my face, or making Benjie a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and suddenly I’d remember a certain kiss. Or a moment when Will’s fingertips had grazed the side of my neck. Or the feeling of his warm hand resting for a moment on top of my head before skimming down my hair. I’d literally relive the sensation, my eyes fluttering shut, my body giving a little shudder. My mind was like a luxurious landmine. At any unpredictable moment, I might be overwhelmed by a memory, by a feeling, by Will.
I loved being so consumed by Will. Adored it. But I kind of hated it too, because I felt like a huge part of myself had been wrested from my control. I mean, sometimes you just want to make a peanut butter sandwich without being overcome by your own passion, you know?
The fact of August 29 only made it all worse. That’s what turned my desire for Will into desperation. I hated to hang up the phone each night, even after we’d talked so much we were dry-mouthed and half asleep.
I’d watch the weather radar online to try to pinpoint the one lightning-free hour when I could safely dash to Will’s house for a fifteen-minute make-out session, then dash back without being electrocuted.
My ice cream–making skills were off. One batch was bitter with too much vanilla. Another ice cream emerged from the churn as a masterpiece, one of the most subtly delicious flavors I’d ever invented. Only then did I realize that I’d forgotten to write down any of the ingredients I’d used and had no idea how to re-create it.
Every time I even glanced at a calendar, I had to fight off tears.
Basically, I felt completely out of control. And as Will had already figured out, I didn’t like being out of control. Since he was both the cause and the cure for this feeling, however, I was flummoxed as to what to do about it.
When the rain sputtered out for the last time on Saturday afternoon and Sam hatched the idea for a double date, it seemed like the perfect way to reunite with Will. I could be with him all night, but with my friends there to diffuse the intensity, the need, I was feeling.
Maybe I’ll get used to being with Will again and I’ll get a grip, I’d told myself as I got ready. I carefully chose my favorite pair of holey jeans and a fluttery, cream-colored off-the-shoulder top. I dusted my face with shimmery powder and swept my hair into a loose topknot with a couple of chopsticks. I looked cool, breezy, and probably a little too wholesome for our destination—The Swamp.
“So this is the famous Swamp,” Will said when we arrived. “If possible, it’s even … swampier than I expected.”
“The name don’t lie, my friend,” Sam said, clapping Will on the shoulder.
“Oh, please, the whole island’s a swamp after all that rain,” Caroline complained, grabbing a tea-stained cardboard menu off the bar and fanning herself with it. “You know it’s bad when my hair is frizzing.”
I would have laughed, but I was too high-strung. I felt about as vulnerable as an oyster in high season.
We picked a round table near the wall of screens that divided the dining room from the deck. Like the rest of The Swamp, the table looked like it was one hard wallop away from splintering into little pieces. It was fork gouged and wobbly, and its putty-colored paint was peeling. On the table was a roll of paper towels (no holder), a sticky jar of jalapeño vinegar, and about eight different kinds of hot sauce.
The Swamp walls were darkly paneled. Every surface that didn’t ho
ld a dart board was covered with artwork made by Arnold Eber Senior, who was the father of Arnold Eber Junior, who owned The Swamp. Mr. Eber Senior was an outsider artist who pretty much made the same thing over and over again—life-sized preachers cut out of old sheet metal and painted with metallic car enamel. The preachers wore candy-colored suits and had black pompadours, as well as voice balloons coming out of their mouths that said You’ll burn in hell, sinner! in about fifty different ways.
“Isn’t this a bar?” Will asked, glancing at the neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign by the door. There were also foamy pitchers on just about every table except ours. “How can anybody take a sip of alcohol with those guys staring at them?”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart,” said a high, scratchy voice above our heads. Our waitress had just tossed a bunch of neon-colored wristbands onto our table. Stamped on each band in blocky letters was the word UNDERAGE.
“Hi, Helen,” Sam, Caroline, and I singsonged together.
“Put ’em on, kids,” she said, sounding bored. She fluffed up her white-blond bangs with her frosty pink fingernails. No matter how tan and leathery Helen got in the face, she would always have the hair and nails of a teenager.
“Helen,” Caroline protested, “we know you wouldn’t serve us, any more than we would ask to be served. Don’t make us wear the nerdy bracelets.”
“Don’t make me call your mother, little girl,” Helen said, scowling. “Now put ’em on.”
We put ’em on.
“Back in a minute for your orders,” Helen said, swishing away in her very tight white jeans.
I watched Will take in the other Swamp customers. The Swamp attracted a very specific clientele, which didn’t include people like my parents, my teachers, or any other professional types. This place was for fishermen and oil-rig guys, truckers, off-the-gridders, and curmudgeons. And high school kids, because it was the only bar on the island that would let us in—with our blazing wristbands, of course.
It was definitely a slice of the “real” Dune Island.
And once again I was noticing that only because I was looking at it through Will’s eyes. Sam and Caroline were oblivious. They were fixated on the clouds of bugs swarming just outside the screening.
“Look at all those mosquitoes,” Caroline said, pressing her nose to the screen. “They’re as big as birds!”
“Yeah, you know you want it!” Sam called out to the mosquitoes, pressing his bare arm up to the screen. “But you can’t have it, skeeters!”
“Don’t you think you’re tempting fate, teasing them like that?” Will asked with a laugh.
“Whatever, I like to live dangerously,” Sam replied, grabbing Caroline around the waist and giving her a squeeze.
Caroline laughed, but it was a little forced. I reached across the table, plucked the menu out of her hand, and slid it over to Will.
“Ooh, they have boiled peanuts,” Will said when he’d given the short menu a read. “My new favorite food.”
He grinned at me, and I swooped back to us kissing on the wool blanket on the Fourth of July, the salty, briny taste of boiled peanuts still on his lips.
And then I had to look away so I didn’t pounce on Will. I glanced at Caroline, whose lip was curled.
“Trust me, you don’t want Swamp boiled peanuts,” she told Will. “They smell like old-man sweat.”
“Caroline!” I said. “Gross.”
“Sorry, but they do. They do, don’t they, Sam?” Caroline said.
“I like ’em,” Sam said with a shrug. “But if they skeeve you out, babe, we’ll skip ’em. And no crawfish.”
“Wow,” I said. “Sam forsaking crawfish?”
Caroline squirmed in her seat, and I started to get what she’d been talking about when we were at the beach. It was sweet of Sam to be so considerate, but it was also so different. He wasn’t acting like the happy-go-lucky, unapologetic crawdad-eater that Caroline had fallen for.
The truth was, I didn’t really want to suck the head of a mudbug in front of Will either, so I didn’t make a bigger issue of it.
Which left us in awkward silence, until Helen stalked over with a bucket of jalapeño-studded hush puppies. She thunked it on the table along with four red plastic tumblers of sweet iced tea.
“Um, I didn’t order any tea?” Will started to say, but Helen wasn’t hearing it. She spun on the heel of her pink Keds sneaker and bustled away.
“Sorry about that,” Sam said to Will. “Like I said, the name don’t lie. I guess we’re just used to, you know, the rudeness.”
“And the dirt,” I said with a grin.
“And the old-man sweat,” Caroline chimed in, giggling.
“And don’t even think about going in the men’s room,” Sam said.
“Will,” I said, “we can just drink our tea and go back to the boardwalk if you want. I guess when you think about it, The Swamp is kind of gross.”
“No way,” Will said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “I love this place!”
But as he said it, he was looking at me, as if he was saying, I love you.
It made my heart dance around in my chest, but it also made my neck go prickly and sweaty.
“Music,” I announced. I held out my hand. “Who’s got change?”
“I do,” Will said, standing up to go with me to the jukebox by the front door.
“Great,” I said just a little wanly.
The jukebox was not an antique and it wasn’t charming. It was pure truck-stop-issue tackiness, with rainbow-colored lights skimming up and down the front and a digital CD selecter.
The songs ranged from new country to gospel to old country, along with a whole lot of Elvis. I’d always assumed that was the request of Mr. Eber Senior, who painted Elvis hair on every one of his tin preachers.
“It’s two songs for a dollar,” I told Will, flipping through the titles in the jukebox. “Fast or slow?”
“Slow,” Will said, slipping his arm around my waist. I couldn’t help myself, I leaned into him. Perhaps because I’d been trying to resist Will, pressing up against him seemed to feel twice as good as usual.
Still, I didn’t meet Will’s eyes as I made my choices. Only one of them was slow. The other was a swivelly Elvis number.
Only as we were walking back to the table did I remember that Elvis is famous for being so sexy, he’d made teenage girls scream and faint.
Maybe that wasn’t the best choice after all, I thought, groaning to myself.
When we got back to our table, it was Sam who was hot and bothered—but not in a good way. He was standing up and glaring at Caroline, whose arms were crossed over her chest.
“What is it lately, Caroline?” Sam was saying. His face, usually as placid as water, was pale with confusion and anger. “I just want to have a nice night out with you and you’re not in the mood? I haven’t seen you all week!”
“Well, whose fault is that?” Caroline retorted.
“What, you think I control the weather?!” Sam said. “Well, if tonight isn’t convenient for you, maybe you’d be happier if I just left.”
Caroline shook her head and said, “No, I wouldn’t. It’s just …”
She trailed off and shrugged helplessly.
“Well …” Now it was Sam who was searching for words. He spotted me—Will and I had taken a few steps away from the table as if that would give Sam and Caroline some privacy—and gave me a beseeching look.
I gave him a sympathetic grimace, but the last thing I could do was chime in on a fight between my two best friends. Talk about a minefield.
“I need some air,” Sam muttered.
“It’s a screened porch,” Caroline pointed out.
Sam took a deep, frustrated breath, then slammed through the screen door that led to the big deck. Shooting off one corner of the deck was a narrow bridge that led to another, small, circular deck. Sam kept it together while he wove around the crowded tables on the deck, but when he
hit the bridge, he broke into a loopy run.
“He’s going to see the gators,” Caroline said, hanging her head. “Well, I guess this wasn’t the dream date either.”
“Caroline,” I said. “Why don’t I go talk to him?”
Caroline shrugged and nodded.
“Do you mind?” I asked Will.
I saw his shoulders deflate just a bit, but he waved me out.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Go.”
Now I felt torn between all three of the people I was with. But I headed outside after Sam. Before I hit the bridge, I stopped at the cart where the waitresses kept the water pitchers and grabbed a handful of dryer sheets out of a box. They were supposed to ward off mosquitoes if you didn’t have any bug spray handy. I tucked one into my jeans pocket and one into a strap on my sandal. I took the other two out to Sam.
He was sitting at the edge of the deck, dangling his legs over the swamp. He dipped his hand into a plastic garbage can filled with fishy smelling pellets and tossed some to the alligators arrayed in the swamp beneath his feet. There were so many, they looked like a very uncomfortable area rug, all prehistoric crags and sleepy, reptilian eyeballs.
“Maybe you should pull your feet up,” I said to Sam. “You don’t want the gators to think they’re a snack, too.”
“Aw, these guys are so domesticated, they don’t even remember that they’re carnivores,” Sam said sadly. He threw another handful of chow at the alligators, who growled and snapped at one another as they lunged for the little tidbits.
I sank down next to Sam and handed him some dryer sheets.
“Thanks,” he said. “I forgot to get these. And Will was right. The mosquitoes are getting their revenge on me.”
He slapped at a few of them as he tucked the dryer sheets into his pockets.
“Okay, so what is it?” he said, looking me in the eye. “How am I screwing things up with Caroline?”
“Why are you so sure you are?” I said.
“Aw, come on, Anna,” Sam said, looking miserable. “I was bound to. I mean, I waited all that time to tell her how I felt because I was scared it would screw everything up. That I would screw everything up. Now I guess I went and did it, hard as I’ve tried not to.”
Sixteenth Summer Page 15
