The Last Summer of the Garrett Girls

by Jessica Spotswood

  “No, thanks,” Bea says. She doesn’t like marshmallows. It’s a texture thing.

  “We’re friends now, right? You beat me. You got valedictorian. But now we’ve graduated, so none of that matters anymore,” Chloe slurs, linking her arm through Bea’s.

  Is that how it’s supposed to work? After years of competing with Chloe for the best grades, the highest GPA, and positions on the yearbook staff, they’re…done? Chloe’s off to the University of Pennsylvania, and Bea’s off to Georgetown, and their old rivalry doesn’t matter anymore?

  When she gets to Georgetown, will there be a brand-new Chloe to contend with?

  The thought is so exhausting that Bea wants to cry.

  She won. She was valedictorian. She got the best grade in AP English. The newspaper advisor said she was the best editor they’d had in years, that she was practically guaranteed a spot on the Hoya staff at Georgetown.

  But Bea’s brain keeps reminding her that it’s not enough. She’s not enough. Maybe all the people who say she’s talented are lying, or maybe she fooled them somehow, through luck or hard work, but someday, they will figure out the truth.

  She shivers despite the June heat, despite Chloe’s sweaty skin pressed against hers. It’s like her worst nightmares have slithered out from beneath her bed to chew on her. Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough, they chant, while Chloe chatters on like nothing’s wrong.

  “Where’s Erik?” Chloe asks. His name brings Bea back to the present.

  “Camping with his dad.” The party is too loud. There are dozens of people from her class here, all of them laughing and having fun and eager to spend time together before everyone heads their separate ways come August. Why can’t she have fun too? Why can’t she stop thinking so much?

  “Oh,” Chloe says. “It’s weird to see you at a party without him.”

  Bea frowns. Surely she’s come to one of the Penningtons’ parties without Erik. Hasn’t she? She wracks her brain, trying to remember, and can’t. Who would she have come with? She has friends from newspaper and yearbook, but after school, she was always too busy with Erik and Arden and studying. It never bothered her that she didn’t have a best friend, like Des has Em and Kat has Penelope. Erik was her best friend. It never bothered her when people said their names like one: Bea-and-Erik.

  Lately, it infuriates her. She wants to be Bea, only Bea, but she isn’t sure she remembers how. They’ve been dating for five years. Who is she without Erik? What would it be like to be single? Or to kiss someone else?

  Gabe Stewart Beauford’s sunburned nose and easy grin pop into her head. He couldn’t be more different from Erik. Erik is nerd-cute, combed blond hair and square black glasses, polo shirts and Nantucket Reds. She can’t imagine any scenario in which Erik would take a summer off to restore an old house and live on a boat. That isn’t nearly goal-oriented enough for him; it wouldn’t be impressive on a transcript. But there’s something about Gabe, about how fantastically chill he is, that intrigues Bea.

  “Bea?” Chloe waves a hand in front of her face.

  “Sorry. I’m going to get a beer.” Bea doesn’t actually want a beer; she thinks beer is gross; she just wants to escape Chloe. She digs through a cooler and snags a Diet Coke. It’s sweet and fizzy on her tongue. But the party is still too close, too loud. She’s not in the mood for making small talk, for being asked another dozen times where Erik is and pretending to care.

  She does care, though. She wonders if he and his dad got the new camp stove to work, if they caught any fish, if they’re getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. If Erik’s reading by lantern light in his sleeping bag right now.

  Bea loves him, even if she isn’t in love with him anymore.

  She makes her way through the stubbly field down to the river and walks along the water till she reaches the rickety old fishing dock. She sits at the end and lets her legs dangle out over the dark water. The reassuring lap of it against the wooden pilings calms her. She takes a deep breath, and then she’s crying.

  She stuffs a hand over her mouth and tries to stifle the sound, but trying to cry silently makes her throat ache. Her shoulders shake with the force of her sadness. She can’t stop. She hasn’t cried like this since she turned nine, her first birthday without her parents. Jesus, she misses them. She could really use advice from her mom right now.

  Mom, I’m not in love with Erik anymore. I need to break up with him, but I don’t know how. I kept thinking after AP exams, and then it was after finishing the yearbook, then the last issue of the paper, then finals, then graduation… I’m such a coward. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t know if I even want to go to Georgetown anymore. I’m so tired all the time, but I can’t sleep. What should I do?

  Bea tries to conjure up her mom’s face, her voice, her smell, but she’s left with only a hazy smile and soft red curls and the scent of fresh bread. Mom loved to bake bread. She said kneading it was relaxing.

  Bea can’t remember the exact sound of her voice anymore, the tenor or rhythm of it. The realization makes her cry harder.

  Behind her, footsteps slap against the weathered wooden dock.

  Bea hastily scrubs at her eyes. She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this. Imperfect. Out of control.

  “Hey, I thought that was you.” It’s Gabe. “How come you’re down here by yourself? Everything all right?”

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice is all froggy. “How do you know Dylan?”

  “I don’t. Savannah Lockwood invited me,” Gabe explains.

  “Savannah Lockwood?” Bea echoes, disgusted.

  Gabe peers down at her. “Seriously, are you all right?”

  “Why? You want to take a picture? I hear I’m pretty when I’m sad,” she snaps, scrambling to her feet. Gabe takes a step back, hands up, and she softens. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, I deserved that,” he says ruefully. “For what it’s worth, I bet you’re pretty all the time.”

  Bea shakes her head. She’s not begging for compliments, but she knows she’s not a pretty crier. She’s sure that her eyes and nose are all red and her mascara has probably left wet black trails down her freckled cheeks. She can’t remember if she used the waterproof kind or not.

  “I don’t really want to be here,” she admits. “I’m not in the mood for a party. But my sisters all wanted to come.”

  “How many sisters do you have?” Gabe asks.

  “Three.” She smiles a little as she remembers them bickering earlier. She’ll miss them if she goes to Georgetown. When. “Des drove, so I’m stuck till they’re all ready to leave.”

  He fishes a set of keys out of his back pocket. “You want a ride?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your date.” It hits Bea that she’s jealous. Of Savannah.

  Gabe grins, like he knows what she’s thinking. Jesus. How insufferable. “It’s not a date.”

  Bea hesitates. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Nope. Just got here,” he says. “I’m fine to drive. Promise.”

  “Okay.” Bea bites her lip. She doesn’t want to be here, but she doesn’t necessarily want to go home. “Is that invitation still open? To see your boat?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He starts off toward the rows of parked cars. “You need to tell anybody you’re leaving?”

  “I’ll text my sister.” Bea sends a quick text letting Des know she isn’t feeling well and is getting a ride back. She doesn’t specify with whom or that she’s not going straight home. In the unlikely event that Gabe does turn out to be a serial killer, there will be lots of other people down at the marina and over at Captain Dan’s Seafood Shack to hear her scream.

  Gabe opens the passenger door of a gray pickup. “Thank you,” Bea says.

  Country music plays low on the radio, and the windows are rolled all the way
down. The wind rushes through the cab and through Bea’s hair, and the fields are full of fireflies, and she starts to feel better. She catches Gabe looking over at her occasionally, and she can tell he wants to ask why she was crying, but he doesn’t. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, tapping along with whatever’s on the radio.

  Gabe parks in the marina lot and then leads the way down the maze of docks to the Stella Anne. He steps onto the deck, taking Bea’s hand to help her down. His hand is big and warm and callused, and he doesn’t let go right away. Bea’s heart begins to beat faster.

  “Come on in.” He lets go of her hand to push open the sliding glass door and flip on a lamp.

  Bea looks around curiously. The walls are wood paneled, and the décor is definitely IKEA minimalism meets college guy. A couple of decks of red-and-white cards, a few dirty mugs and water glasses, and a yellowed Stephen King novel are scattered across the table. Beyond the table is a very small kitchen. There’s a two-burner gas stove, a mini fridge, a sink, and a couple of built-in cabinets.

  “This is so cool!” she says. “It’s like a tiny floating dream house.”

  Gabe grins. “Thanks. Jefferson and I spent all last summer fixing it up.” He points to the small, walled-off room behind the kitchen. “That’s the privy. Marine toilet and shower.” The boat rocks gently in its mooring, but he moves gracefully through the small space and throws open the door opposite the kitchen. “And that’s the bedroom. Sorry it’s a mess.”

  Bea peers in quickly. There’s the double bed she glimpsed through the window, with the rumpled plaid duvet and tangled white sheets. There’s a narrow white wardrobe in the corner, but the wooden floor is a jumble of jeans and boxers and T-shirts. She blushes and turns away, trying not to imagine Gabe standing there shucking off his clothes.

  “It’s so peaceful out here,” she says. All she can hear are the murmured voices of people on a nearby boat and the lapping of the river beneath them. A far-off motor growls as a powerboat approaches.

  “I’d live here all the time if I could. You want anything to drink? Water? Whiskey? Tea?” Gabe moves past her into the kitchen. The floor rocks beneath them on a wave from the incoming boat, and Bea stumbles. He reaches out and steadies her.

  Bea looks up at him. Beneath the scruff, his lips are full and rosy and a little chapped. His hands are warm through the soft gray cotton of her Princess Leia shirt. He smells like spearmint gum and something else, maybe some kind of cologne. It’s a little spicy and not unpleasant.

  I’ve never kissed anyone with a beard before, she thinks.

  Then: I’ve never kissed anyone but Erik before.

  She strides away on the pretext of looking out the front door. “Tea would be great,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Jesus, what is she doing? She wanted to kiss him. She’s never wanted to kiss anybody but Erik, except maybe Chris Evans, who is very unlikely to ever cross her path. What is wrong with her?

  “You want to play cards?” Gabe asks.

  Bea glances at the well-worn cards on the table. “I’m not playing strip poker with you.”

  Is she flirting? She’s totally flirting. Shit.

  Gabe laughs. He has a nice laugh, low and rumbly. “That’s too bad. I don’t think you’d have a very good poker face,” he jokes, but all Bea can think is that she must, because Erik doesn’t know. Erik doesn’t know that she isn’t in love with him anymore or that she wanted to kiss somebody else.

  “Actually, I was thinking Canasta,” Gabe continues. “I found all those cards over at Memaw’s place.”

  “You…want to play Canasta,” Bea says slowly. Is he kidding?

  “Sure, why not? You know how?” He pulls a kettle from the overhead cabinet.

  “Yes, but…you want to play Canasta and drink tea?” She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but…okay, she expected him to make a pass at her. She isn’t sure if she’s relieved or disappointed that he hasn’t. It would have been easier to flounce off and never look back if he had.

  “Well, I’m gonna have a glass of whiskey. But I’m happy to make you some tea.” Gabe pulls a box of herbal tea and a bottle of honey from a cupboard. He fills the kettle and lights the stove. “Momma and I are coffee drinkers, but Ma loves this stuff. Honey lemon chamomile. Says it helps her sleep.” He turns and smiles at Bea while she’s processing that he has two moms. “You want to shuffle and deal? Thirteen cards each.”

  “Um. Sure.” She sits down at the table and grabs the cards.

  Gabe grins, filling a small glass with whiskey and ice. “I should warn you, I’m a Canasta shark. Memaw taught Lyric—that’s my little sister—and me how to play one summer we were at the Gulf. Rained the whole week. Lyric and I play all the time now.”

  “How old is she?” Bea asks.

  “Ten.” Gabe pulls out his phone and shows her a photo of a grinning girl with brown skin and black braids.

  “She’s really cute,” Bea says.

  “She knows it,” he says.

  Bea can’t stop sneaking looks at him as she shuffles and deals. A sort of warm contentment is making its way through her, even without the tea, lighting her up inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  KAT

  Pretending to fall for Mason Kim is surprisingly fun.

  Maybe it’s because they’re both actors. Or maybe it’s because Mase is actually kind of hilarious. He and his friend Maxwell have snagged two long, sharp sticks intended for roasting s’mores and are using them to fence. Mase is winning, jabbing and feinting and backing Maxwell toward the small crowd gathered in an empty field near the bonfire.

  “Not bad, Mase!” Kat calls grudgingly. She likes having a reputation as hard to impress.

  “I took a stage combat class last summer,” Mase says without looking away from his opponent.

  Maxwell trips over his own feet and turns it into an elaborate pratfall. Mase pokes him in the chest with the gooey marshmallow end of the stick.

  “A hit! A very palpable hit!” Maxwell hollers, then pretends to die a dramatic death with a lot of gasping and groaning.

  Kat and Pen and the rest of the crowd applaud. Nearer the bonfire, Spencer Pennington and her friends roll their eyes, and Kat suspects they’re complaining about how the theater kids always have to make a scene. As usual, any attempt at cowing her only inspires Kat to make more of a scene.

  “My turn,” she says, scooping up the stick next to Maxwell’s prone body.

  Maxwell sits up. “Revenge my foul and most unnatural murder!” he moans, à la the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and then flops back down.

  Mase ignores him. “You want to fence with me?”

  Kat grins. “I want to kick your butt.” She hasn’t taken stage combat, but her Theater I class did the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) last spring. It required a lot of swordplay. And she has all those years of ballet to her advantage; she’s graceful and super flexible, not to mention sneaky.

  Mase gestures like Mercutio in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet. “Bring it.”

  “En garde!” Kat calls. They circle each other warily. More theater kids have gathered to watch, including Adam and Jillian. Perfect.

  Kat lunges forward, but Mase parries. She backs away, and he advances. They circle each other like gladiators in the ring, striking and retreating. Then he attacks with a flurry of blows, knocking her stick askew. Kat barely keeps hold of it and grand jetés away.

  “This isn’t a dance party, Garrett,” Mase growls.

  “I’m sorry; are my methods too unconventional for you?” she teases. “When I win, you have to go get me a Diet Coke.”

  Mase parries her thrust and drives her toward the bonfire. “What do I get if I win?”

  “What do you want?” Kat asks flirtatiously.

  They cross sw
ords and get in each other’s faces. “How about a kiss?” Mase asks, low—but not so low everyone around them can’t hear. He projects well.

  “Ooooooooh,” the crowd says.

  “Get it, Mase!” Maxwell hollers.

  Kat looks into Mase’s dark eyes. He has incredibly long, thick eyelashes. “Okay.” She twirls away, hiding a smile. This is excellent romantic banter. She couldn’t have scripted it better herself. Everyone will find it adorable, even if it does require her to lose the bout. She hates losing—but if it’s in the service of the plan, it’s ultimately a win, right?

  They exchange a few more blows and parries. Maxwell is leading a cheer for Mase; Pen is shouting encouragement to Kat. Mase expertly backs Kat toward the bonfire. Then he feints, and she falls for it, and he knocks her sword into the grass. It turns out she didn’t actually have to pretend to lose.

  “Do you acknowledge defeat?” he asks.

  “Never!” Pen yells.

  Kat gives Pen major side-eye. “Temporarily.”

  Mase steps closer. “May I?” They are almost exactly the same height.

  “You may,” she says graciously, closing her eyes. He wraps an arm around her waist, and she expects to be dipped into an elaborate stage kiss. Instead, his mouth moves over hers, soft and warm and sweet. He tastes like marshmallows and chocolate. His hand hovers at the small of her back for a moment, and then he lets go, but he doesn’t step away.

  “Yeah, Mase!” Maxwell cheers.

  Mase silences him with a glare. “Hi,” he says, blinking at her.

  Kat smiles, a little dazed. It was fake, but it was also a really nice kiss. Better than nice. Adam could take some lessons. Like, not all kisses have to involve tongue, for starters.

  “Hi,” she says back.

  “I’ll still get you a Diet Coke,” Mase offers.

  She threads her fingers through his. “Maybe later.”

  Maxwell’s truck is parked nearby. They climb onto the gate and sit, legs swinging, hands clasped, while Maxwell and Pen and a bunch of their friends take turns making s’mores with the swords.