“I saw Jean on the court yesterday,” said Bertie. “She’s in top form.”
“Yeah, I was just saying,” added Gil.
“You’re competing again this year, right, Fritz?” asked Junior.
“I guess. I haven’t practiced much.” Fritz stretched her arms to gather her slippery-fine, sun-streaked layers off her neck and into a twist that she jammed in place with a chewed swizzle stick she’d picked up on the bar.
“Give the other girls a chance, right?” Junior raised his beer. “We should hit a few around sometime, Fritzie. Like clinic days. You always used to wallop me. I bet this year you’d eat my dust.”
“Dream on, Junior. You’ll never catch me eating anything of yours,” Fritz drawled, as the guys all laughed, Junior loudest of all.
“You’re a natural athlete, Fritz,” admitted Bertie, “so it’s too bad you’re not committed to the discipline of the sport. That’s what becomes crucial about tennis. Discipline. It’s where Jean will end up roasting you.” He was defending me, and I was comforted by his chivalry—yet at the same time, I hated that Bertie thought I needed defending at all.
“Oh, man, you’re probably right, Bertie.” But when Fritz leveled me with her wickedly beautiful cat’s eyes, I felt as if she were mocking Bertie and me both. That she found us clownish and dull, and would be laughing about us with Julia later. The whole night was turning sour, and I wished a trapdoor would open under my feet. I took a sip of punch. I willed the alcohol to fuzz out the intensity of this moment.
I knew what a guy might see in Fritz. More than prettiness or sexiness, she had a flair for the unexpected—from how she moved, to what she said, to how she said it. She couldn’t be predicted, and apparently this made her fascinating.
What I couldn’t bear was that Gil—my Gil—had fallen for it.
Except he’d never been my Gil. And I’d been an idiot to imagine otherwise. I didn’t know where to look or who to turn to, but I needed space to breathe.
From the open arch of the ballroom, which had been fashioned into a dining room for tonight, Rosamund and Sara were signaling me. I nodded.
“Yes, let’s go,” said Bertie, as if we’d made a decision together. “The quicker dinner is over, the quicker we get to the other thing.”
The other thing was Rosamund Wembly’s party. I knew that Gil and Fritz had heard Bertie. Why not invite them along? Nobody should be excluded from a house party. Then again, why did I need to be the one to make Gil’s evening perfect, if he was interested in Fritz instead of me?
Gil and Fritz. Swallowing their names together was like taking a teaspoonful of poison.
“What other thing?” Gil asked. “Is there a party after this?” Something in his eyes reminded me of that night, the way he’d been so worried about being denied entry to Hollander’s.
“If there’s a party, you can count on me to know about it,” I said lightly. It wasn’t a brag. It was true. But I knew that Gil had heard what I meant.
“It’s over at the von Cott place,” added Bertie.
“Ah, okay.” Gil nodded, pleased.
“Fun,” said Fritz. “I’m game.”
“Cool.” Gil flicked Fritz’s upper arm. Just as he’d done with me that night, in the cab. In a conversation full of awful moments, the flick was the worst. It reminded me of something so good, so private, all gone.
“I’ll go tell Julia,” said Fritz. “She’s with Oliver, out on the deck.”
“Spectacular!” Bertie winked. “See you in there.”
“Good grief, Bertie, why did you lie?” I murmured, as we separated and moved off into the dining room. “There’s no party at the von Cotts tonight.” Or any night. The von Cotts were away. Nobody was even renting their house this summer.
Bertie pulled out my chair. “It was a joke. Junior says that Southern-fry cousin of his is a kiss-up who’s got his uncle totally fooled.”
“Well, who can blame Junior for getting bent out of shape? Gil Burke is soooo much better than Junior Burke,” said Sara, plopping onto the seat next to mine. “Oh, crab salad. Yummy.”
More crab salad. I pushed my plate away and drained my punch as Sara dug in. The room was a sea of white: white linen-covered tables; thick, white, centerpiece lilies ringed in white plates of gelatinous crab. Across the room, I saw Fritz and Julia sitting with the Tullivers, and I watched Gil settle in at the Burke table at the far end.
Everyone was getting comfy, sipping ice water and buttering rolls. Soon the Burke table disappeared from view behind the seated crowd, until all I could see was the top of Weeze Burke’s marigold-blond bouffant.
Had I done my best with Gil? Maybe if I went over and explained that Bertie had been kidding? I could hear my own voice, soft in his ear. “Gil, that was only Bertie’s joke! The real party’s at Rosamund’s house, on the bay. Right after Punch Night. Come by!”
The pain of my disappointment was working through me like venom. Punch Night was as agonizing as I’d predicted, but in miserably different ways than I’d envisioned.
Gil hadn’t been standoffish. He’d been friendly and sweet.
But the unspoken pull that Gil and Fritz had on each other had shut me out.
And now I was standing alone, trapped inside the burning-down walls of my hopes.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Bertie handed me a freshened drink before he reseated himself at my side. When had he left? How quickly had I finished my last punch? I took the cup. Tried to click in, though I felt partly anesthetized. Gossiped with Sara. Chatted with Bertie, who always glowed under extra interest from me. Finished half my plate of roast beef and baked potato. Clapped along with everyone else when the waiters blowtorched the baked Alaska. Allowed Bertie to trot me over a third drink.
Then I stood, a bit unsteady. It was now or never. I’d invite Gil to the party, and then maybe he’d ask me to dance? Yes! It would be the most natural thing!
And perhaps in that easy moment of reclaimed closeness, Gil would finally realize how much he’d missed me.
There were only coffee servers breezing around the room, delivering teas and Nescafé. I had an easy path, but I moved with care. Gil was still seated, his head bent, listening respectfully to his Aunt Weeze.
Slowly, I wound around the tables, pausing to say hellos.
And then—Fritz. She swooped across the room, light as a toy glider, beating me to Gil in the last moment.
It was deliberate. She’d seen me. She was cut-and-plunge intercepting.
No, no, no!
I had to stop. I watched, sick to my stomach, helpless to do anything. Now Fritz was leaning into Gil’s ear. And now he was standing.
And now they’d slipped out the side door to dance on the deck.
I could feel the silly, confused half-smile on my face as I turned around and stumbled back to our table. There was nowhere else to go.
“Here you are, Beautiful.” Bertie’s body was in a full sail of attention. “Care to dance?”
“I’d love to.”
I allowed Bertie to take my hand and lead me outside. I made myself not look over my shoulder, not once, to where I knew Gil and Fritz were taking up space in a far, dark corner. I felt as if I’d been riding too long on a roller coaster. I bumped and twirled with Bertie, and then with my father and then Coach Hutch and then Bertie again.
“Do you have a headache, Jean?” he asked, peering at me. “I can take you home, if you like.”
“Not at all.” I smiled at him, then said in his ear, “but let’s leave for Rosamund’s now.”
He nodded, ever ready to be my coconspirator. A few minutes later, we’d pushed off, our flashlights rolling in our bike baskets. Our lights beamed and swerved as we pedaled along the walk.
Memories were sticking at me like needles. The hot press of Gil’s lips against mine. He’d kissed me with such purpose that night. As if choosing me. As if claiming me for more important activities. Things that, so far, I’d only done with Bertie.
Sweet
old Bertie. Even now, he was being so chivalrous, biking ahead to give me more light, guiding my path through the breeze-dampened darkness. By tenth grade, Bertie and I had gotten pretty close to having sex, but we’d never tried it. Bertie always acted as if he didn’t mind. He talked as if we’d made a mutual decision to wait. I knew Bertie would do it in a heartbeat if I wanted. But now, when I thought about my hookups with Bertie compared with that one kiss from Gil, I knew sex could be two entirely different acts.
Even if Gil never kissed me again, he’d ruined Bertie for me.
Would Gil ever kiss me again? At the club, when I’d mentioned that I was always first to know the parties, I could sense his attention. He wasn’t all laid-back Southern charm. Gil liked to be in the right clothes, the right places. There were specific things about me—Sunkie things—he wanted to understand. Fritz was so aggressive and unladylike. Well, she might appeal to some animal nature in him, but she’d never satisfy all his cravings about his uncle’s world.
My fingers gripped the handlebars. I could almost hear my heart pounding with the outrage of it all. Tonight, my good manners had landed me in second place.
And that was so unfair. So wrong.
My head swam with unhappiness, too many cocktails, all the things I wanted to scream.
Bayview was one of the smaller homes, a knotty-pine fisherman cottage, built in the earliest years of Sunken Haven. Inside, kids already had the drinking games going, but Rosamund and some of our set stayed outside on the porch.
We settled in. Glancing around at everyone, I felt restless and at odds. The flickering citronella candles made Sara look strange, and I started laughing, and then I couldn’t stop.
“What? What’s got into you?” Sara asked.
“It’s just, you . . . you look like a little sailor pumpkin,” I told her. “Like, your collar, and then your face is round, like—”
“Okay, I get it, Jean. I’m hilarious.”
Now Sara looked like a grumpy pumpkin. “Grumpy pumpkin,” I said, to hear the two words together. Knowing that I was annoying her seemed to make it funnier. “Pumpkin head.”
“You know what? I don’t need this.” Sara stood up and slipped inside. After a moment, Rosamund followed.
“For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Jean,” said Bertie quietly. “People might think you’ve been smoking grass.”
“Smoking grass? Bertie, are you trying to sound cool? Because I don’t think you have a permit for that.” I dissolved into giggles again, but it wasn’t funny—and I knew it wasn’t. I couldn’t seem to break myself out of it.
“Jean, it takes us all by surprise when you get silly,” said Bertie. “It’s not like you—usually—to show such bad form.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about bad form, when you told Gil Burke that the party was at the von Cott house!”
“Please. He’s the newbie. That’s called tradition, to rib the new guy.”
“He’s not the usual kind of new guy. He’s new to the Burkes, he’s new to our whole crowd. You can joke a bit, but you don’t want him to feel unwelcome.”
“The way you were looking at him tonight, I’m sure he felt plenty welcome.” Bertie stood. “I’ll go get drinks.”
Bertie rarely jabbed. I went quiet. Bertie and I had known each other so long, we even sounded like an old married couple. I didn’t want to continue the argument.
Now I was alone on the porch. I leaned back against the railing and closed my eyes. My head hurt, my thoughts felt soupy and confused. I wished I’d invited Gil to this party when I had the chance. Even if he’d brought Fritz, at least they’d be here, instead of thrown on each other in an empty house, doing God knows what. Meantime, I was stuck in this night, hurt and wounding everyone in my orbit.
Bike bells jingled. I peered through the shadows to see Oliver Olmstead and Julia Tulliver brake out front. There was no sign of Gil and Fritz behind them.
“Jean, nice to see you here.” Julia held my gaze as she climbed the steps.
“Where’s Fritz?” I asked, as Bertie, returning with our drinks, resettled himself more closely next to me, then made a late-night decision to yoke his arm around my shoulders.
“Bertie banished her and Gil to the von Cott house. Remember? So they went off and did something else.” Julia dropped into a chair. She popped the can of root beer that she’d brought along.
“Bertie and I were just talking about his bad joke.”
“Hey, I was only playing,” said Bertie. “Sunken Haven isn’t some vast metropolis. It’s not hard to find out where the real parties are.”
“You look upset, Jean. Do you have something against Gil and Fritz?” Julia dealt me a smug look. “As a couple, I mean?”
“Me?” I psshed. “I don’t even know Gil Burke.”
“He told us that he went out with you once, in New York.”
At my side, I felt Bertie go tense.
“Carp asked me to show him around—goodness, it was nothing!” There was a squeak in my voice that mortified me. But it felt like they were shining a watchman’s flashlight right into my hidden secret.
“Didn’t mean to activate the volcano.” Julia smirked.
“It was nothing,” I repeated softly.
My head was really pounding now. Too much punch, too much disappointment. I took a sip of my drink and craned my neck, peering into the cottage kitchen, scouting for a place to relocate, away from Julia.
When Rosamund saw me staring through the window, she rolled her eyes and said something to Sara, who nodded.
“That date was nothing,” I said again, even though nobody was talking about it anymore. “Gil liked that I got him into Hollander’s. I mean, it’s a bore to me. I get in there all the time. Maybe it was cool for Gil. But it meant nothing to me.”
“Oookay,” said Julia. “It was nothing. Got it.”
“Jean, I think we ought to push off,” said Bertie, standing and pulling me up with him.
Later, as I was delivered to my door, I let Bertie kiss me on the mouth. Then I got a bit more into it, though it seemed wrong. I was kissing Bertie and thinking of Gil. “Tomorrow, I think you need to apologize to Sara,” Bertie said when we’d paused. “She looked hurt.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“You might not think the same way once you’ve slept it off.”
After he left me, I ran up to my room. As bad as my headache was thumping, I knew it would hurt even worse in the morning. I used my top quilt to wrap myself up like a cocoon, willing sleep, and the end of this awful night.
Tomorrow, I’d make it up to everyone. Tomorrow, I’d force myself to stop mooning over Gil Burke. But tonight I’d let myself drown in it. Tonight I was overloaded, bleary, drunk—and a bit astonished, as I sank into murky sleep—by my capacity to feel so much pain.
FRITZ
“Got your eye on anyone here?”
We’d hit it off like bang—firecrackers. Anyone working the lunch shift at the yacht club could have seen that.
But then Gil hadn’t asked me to go with him “officially” as his date to Punch Night—in spite of Julia’s clunky hints the night before.
“He’s playing it careful,” I said, as we got ready. We were over at Whisper—Julia’s mom had all the nicer shampoos and make-up, plus a stronger hair drier. “Last night was fun, but he didn’t kiss me good night, even with you and Oliver swapping spit five feet away. And he’s mentioned Jean Custis a couple of times. Maybe he’s got the hots for her?”
“Ha. There’s no way.” Julia was adamant.
“You never know,” I said. “She’s got that whole fresh-pressed thing.”
Julia scoffed. “Who ever liked a girl because she was tidy? If Gil wants to keep his options open, fine. But I can’t see him with Jean Custis. I could see him with Daphne, maybe. But not Jean. She’s so plain vanilla.”
“Jean always makes me want to check my fingernails.”
“Her manners melt quick as the Wicked Witch of the West
once she has a couple of drinks,” said Julia. “Then she’s sloppy.”
“You just described half of Sunken Haven.”
Later, seeing Jean and Gil together at the bar, their sparkly togetherness kind of threw me. Jean’s face was flushed and she looked so soft and happy, like a princess on her day off. Gil was harder to read. Was he respectful because the Burke and Custis families were close? HANDLE WITH CARE was practically stamped on Jean’s forehead.
Gil never wanted to mess up anything here. I got that. As many summers as I’d been coming to Sunken Haven, I was always aware of when I might appear wrong—my red prairie dress tonight being the latest example. I tried to convince myself that I looked like a “free spirit” in it, but after the first once-over from Sara Train, I knew I should have borrowed Julia’s wrap dress when she’d offered.
Luckily, Bertie Forsythe’s prank moved the night in the right direction.
As we made our way over, I’d been sweating it, imagining the rest of the evening at the stuffy von Cotts’ mansion, where Jean would swan around, giving Gil an earful of stories about how her family and the von Cotts had been best friends since Mayflower days.
But as soon as we got to the big, dark, empty house, I knew we’d been tricked.
“There’s no party here,” I said, half annoyed and half relieved.
“Whoa.” Julia and Oliver, also on bikes, had skidded up right behind us. In their flashlights’ beams, the place lurched like a haunted house. I shivered; Gil drew closer and snapped his sports jacket over my shoulders.
“Jesus, and it’s bug city tonight.” Julia dug in her basket and then began to squirt from a bottle of OFF! “Die, skeeters! Who said the party was here, again?”
“Bertie Forsythe told me,” said Gil. “He looked me right in my eye and told me it was here.”
“Ah, don’t get sensitive about it. Bertie Forsythe’s full of crap, and this is his idea of a joke,” said Oliver. “I’m pretty sure the real party’s at the Wembly place. I heard about it at the beach earlier. ”
But Gil didn’t know how to take it other than personally. It was different for Julia and Oliver—they were Sunkies themselves. The prank hit them at a softer angle.
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