My Almost Epic Summer (3 page)

“Yep.”

“I like it. It doesn’t look as sticky-uppy.”

My hand automatically reaches to smooth any lingering cowlicks. “Thanks, Lainie.”

“Will you draw my new haircut in your notebook?” she asks. “Pleasepleaseplease?”

“If you want.” Although Lainie’s slant-edged bob makes her more pumpkin-headed than ever.

“Can we go to Larkin’s later today?” asks Evan.

“Sure.”

Lainie sits with her round fists in her lap. She has a way of waiting that’s so intense, I can’t finish my ice cream in peace. So I uncap my pen and flip to the
I.W.I.
section. “Hold still and do a fashion pose.”

Evan looks up from where he’s mopping up the dog barf and laughs. I reach down and cuff him. It’s not Lainie’s fault he’s the cute one, with Judith’s green eyes and black curls, while poor Lainie ended up with her dad’s pale, wilting hair and uncooked-muffin face.

Lainie Prior’s old hairstyle, an appalling shag, is in the
I.W.I.—Indulge Without Intent
index section. The creation of this section stemmed from a very awkward episode last year, when Britta’s mom had badgered me about posing for my
Heroine Heads
book to the point where I finally had to break it to her that, as a rule, regular mom hair was just not inspiring.

“And here I thought my hairdo was so hip and jazzy.” Ms. Gilbert had laughed, even as her eyes had turned all beady, waiting for me to relent. But I wouldn’t, and consequently Britta didn’t speak to me for four days. Hence the
I.W.I.
Artistic integrity is one thing, but when it starts to ruin friendships, then it’s time to compromise.

Once my notebook is finished, I am planning to tear out all the nonheroic
I.W.I.
pages.

“Last time you babysitted us was March,” says Lainie, “and before that, two times in February, and one time last November. Now you’ll be here evwy day.”

“Don’t say
evwy,”
I say. “You’re almost nine years old. You’ve studied the letter
r.”

“Mom says you didn’t come back because we don’t have a TV or good snacks like sour cream and onion potato chips,” says Evan, with an impressive burp that he blows in Lainie’s direction, “which is what all babysitters like.”

“That’s true,” I admit.

“So then we had Mrs. Lupini, only we called her Mrs. Zucchini.” Evan pauses for my unforthcoming laugh. “But, uh, she always forgot to turn off the stove, so Mom decided we were old enough to watch ourselves. Except last month Lainie ran away because she was one of the only kids in the whole third-grade class who didn’t get invited to Gretchen McCoy’s birthday party.”

“Shutyourface!” screeches Lainie so loud that Poundcake starts to whimper.

“Well, it really happened!”

“So? It’s private!”

“And then Grandma came to visit and she slept in Lainie’s room, but Lainie peed in the bed—”

“I hate you!” Lainie makes a lurch for her brother and knocks over Judith’s apple basket arrangement instead. Apples go rolling off the table and thud to the floor. Evan aims a kick at Lainie’s knees and she gets a fistful of his hair. Poundcake increases his whimper to a howl.

“Lainie, let go of Evan, or I quit.”

Lainie lets go. She looks blotchy and pitiful. Gretchen McCoy is obviously onto this.

“Ta-dah!” I show her my sketch.

“Ooooh!” Lainie puts her hands behind her back to show that she’s remembered the look-don’t-touch rule of my notebook. “You’re the best hairstyle drawer in the whole entire world to infinity,” she says, her voice solemn with certainty.

It’s a funny thing about Lainie’s compliments. While I always partly want to slap them off, they also make me feel so good that in the end I never do.

 

 

 

JUDITH’S BIKE IS a tired old fossil that owes half its weight to rust. We are hardly out the driveway on the way to Larkin’s before sweat is trickling from pores I didn’t even know I had. In spite of what my mother believes, the fresh air feels horrible. July is
Crime and Punishment
weather. Hot with a blanket of humidity to make you think you’re going insane before you’ve done anything wrong.

I should check out that book again, for hairstyles. But as I recall,
Crime and Punishment
has mostly men and some prostitutes.

Evan ignores all that I tell him about bike safety, which actually funnels down to one rule—don’t kill yourself. He does pops and back pops and skids and stands. Lainie pedals too close at my side and comments on anything Evan is doing that is hazardous or illegal.

If Larkin’s Pond wasn’t such an overcrowded madhouse of obnoxious kids, their scolding moms and the occasional growly dad, it would be great. It’s very scenic. The water is enclosed by pine trees and divided by buoys. A large wooden dock balances the horizon. The few times I babysat the Prior kids last summer, we’d swim out to the dock and have dive contests. It was actually kind of fun, especially since Lainie was a good enough diver that she didn’t end up in a snit or a sulk, which is the routine outcome of most of her athletic endeavors.

But this year, a wiser Evan knows not to be seen anywhere near his sister.

“Zaps!” he hollers. “Zaps!” He throws his bike to the grass. At first I think this is some kind of dumb fifth-grade faux-curse word like
Zoiks!
until I realize Zaps is actually the name of someone Evan knows. The kid, Zaps, waves and Evan scurries off, ignoring my halfhearted reminder to join up with us for lunch.

Lainie wheels and locks her bike at the bike stand, then plops down stomach-first onto one of the two gigantic beach towels I’ve spread out side by side on the grassy bank. Something I’ve learned from last year’s Larkin’s excursion: define your territory.

“Go play,” I tell her.

“But I don’t know anybody here,” she says.

“Go swim, then.”

“I need sunblock.”

Always something. I reach in the tote bag and toss her a bottle of sunscreen.

“It has to be the SPF forty-five,” she says, “or I’ll burn.”

“You might have spoken up when I had the power to do something about it.”

“It’s fine.” She pouts.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mommy usually puts it on my hard-to-reach spots.”

“You’re too old to say Mommy. And I don’t want to grease up my library book.”

She sighs gloomily and uncaps the bottle, then rubs on white sunblock so thick, she looks like a mime. In my humble opinion, Judith and Dan Prior are doing a terrible job of equipping Lainie for the real world. She’s way too clingy. Beth Ann Morse could show the Prior parents a trick or two. Mom let me babysit myself from age eight onward. By age eleven, I could make meat loaf and balance a checkbook.

Evan and Zaps are playing some game that involves two sticks and lots of yelling. I can tell it’s bothering some of the other moms, but, oh, well, he’s not my child. Lainie stretches out and hums, hoping I’ll suggest a pickup game of I Packed My Grandmother’s Trunk or something equally bleak.

Not happening. Avoiding eye contact, I roll onto my side and take out
Lolita.

Then I see her. She is sitting on a high white lifeguard chair. Smack in the middle and opposite the dock. Hard to miss. But her chair doesn’t need to be so geometrically centered, or so high. Her radio doesn’t need to be turned on to KTZ All-Hits. She doesn’t need to wear that Popsicle red bikini, or that mouthwash blue visor, or a swipe of bleach-white zinc on her straight, perfect nose. Most everyone is already aware of her anyway. The little kids, the older kids, the moms. It feels as if we are all watching her in our own ways. If any of us were asked to describe this afternoon, I’d bet money we’d all mention her.

I raise my book so I can stare more sneakily over the top of it. Who is she? She wasn’t here last summer. She looks like a human but better, built out of more superior ingredients than skin and bones. Her muscles remind me of doctor’s office roll-down medical diagrams, each perfectly separated and defined. It’s hard to check her hairstyle, which appears shortish, thickish and paintbrush black under her hat.

It’s not like I never saw anyone pretty before. Lauren Corey and Tania Amarosa have been considered the prettiest girls in my grade since preschool. But they have nothing on this girl, who is hands down the most beautiful person I have ever seen in real life. The shock triggers my epiphany.

It is the dead-honest truth. I will have birthdays, get my driver’s license, receive my high school diploma and probably go to college, I will definitely leave New Jersey, but I will Never Look Like That. Ever. In the looks department, I will always be average. Average height, average foot size, average flyaway brown hair and average eyes an average color that everyone has seen a thousand times before. I’ve probably understood this all my life, but today, inside this electric moment, the knowledge feels new and cruel.

Then the girl blows her whistle. I watch as she skims rung by rung down the lifeguard chair. Racing and diving into the water and then into a perfect freestyle. Wow, she’s a really good swimmer. She moves so fast that she shrinks into a mini-lifeguard right before our eyes. Because we are all watching her, but it isn’t until Lainie jumps up, screaming like she’s been poked with a pitchfork, that I connect what the girl is doing with what’s going on out in the water.

“Evan!” Lainie’s voice is pure panic.

Only then do I pull back to take in the horizon, and now I see the spot of froth and foam. Evan? It couldn’t be
—Evan!
Even as my mind clicks it together, the girl is already there, one long arm out, taking expert hold of Evan, flipping onto her back and hooking her elbow so that it picture-frames his face.

“Evan!” I shout, popping to my feet.

Other people are looking up, startled, and the next moment is mayhem as some of us dash to the edge of the water. I watch on tiptoe, my heart in my throat, as the girl smoothly, calmly brings in Evan. His eyes are closed and his body is sagging. My shock is like the ocean roaring in my ears. Was his skin always so zombie pale? Why isn’t he moving?

“Evan!” I shout again. His eyes don’t open. This is bad, this is bad, oh, this is so, so bad.

“Is he dead?” Lainie is running back and forth, her fingers sucked into her mouth.

“Space, space!” The girl half-carries, half-drags Evan onto the bank. She positions him flat on his back and drops to her knees beside him. Then she pinches his nose and dips her head to his face. Her lips press over his, before she turns and expels. And again. And again. My own breath hurts where it’s sucked up in my lungs.

Finally, Evan coughs, jerking to life like Frankenstein’s monster.

There’s a spatter of clapping, a cheer, and everyone backs off a little—everyone except for Lainie, who flings herself face-down next her brother. “Oh!” she sobs. “I thought my very own brudder was
drownd-ed!”

Evan squirms and turns away from her.

“Give him room,” says the girl. “He’s okay. You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah,” wheezes Evan. “Caught a cramp, no big deal.”

“A’right, folks. Back to normal.” The girl stands and waves off some of the younger kids. “You,” she says to Evan. “Take it easy the rest of the day, huh?”

“Sure.” Evan is staring at the lifeguard in awe and love.

She nods and turns to walk away.

I force my attention from her. “Are you really okay, Evan?” I ask.

His crooked-tooth smile appears on his face. “That lifeguard is super, super hot,” he whispers.

“Hey. Wait a minute.” I sit back on my heels and scowl at him. “Were you faking?”

“Faking? Me? No way.” But his eyes flicker and his smile is impish, leaving me in doubt.

“Ev,” says Zaps, who has crept up on Evan’s side. “Ev, did you think you were dead?”

“Only for a minute. I mighta felt my heart stop.”

The crowd has dispersed. The girl is back up on her wooden throne, hands behind her head, watching the water in a way that now seems just a teeny bit showoff-y.

I approach the lifeguard tower. I feel like I should say an extra thanks, even if I also feel like a feudal serf, talking up to her. “Thanks for doing that.”

She hardly looks down. “My job.”

Her job: a beautiful lifeguard who knows CPR. My job: a dorky babysitter who has narrowly escaped a wrongful-death lawsuit. The girl squints out at the water and slips on her wraparound sunglasses. She wants me to go, I can feel it. “I’m Irene,” I say.

“Okay.”

“I’m that kid’s babysitter. Evan. So if anything had happened to him today . . .”

“Then we’d both be out of work.” She smiles grimly. Why didn’t my teeth turn out like that?

“Yeah, I guess. So. Where do you go to school?”

“Thomas Edison,” she answers. “I’m starting tenth.”

“I’m starting there, ninth. I was at Bishop Middle.”

She looks at me for the first time. “I’m kinda working here now, right?”

From the beach blanket I see Lainie watching, impressed. I wish I knew how to make the conversation last longer. All that comes to my mind is a quote from my Bartlett’s about how silence is our universal refuge and the sequel to foolish acts. But this moment might not be the best time for a quote. “I’m Irene Morse,” I say. Did I already say that?

She turns her head and looks at me hard. We sit in a painfully silent sequel to my foolish act. Then she says, “Okay.” She puts some steam on the second syllable.

“Okay. Well. Thanks again. Bye.”

Her hand ripples. She has already forgotten me.

 

 

 

THAT NIGHT IN my bedroom, I get out my manila envelope marked
P.P.
and sift through the most recent photos that Whitney, Britta and I sneak-took of Paul Pelicano from eighth grade Spring Spirit Day. His face is disguised by red and blue paint—Bishop Middle School colors—but seeing the photos gives me the same queasy feeling. Whitney calls it
being hot for
and
lusting after,
but I think the feeling is best described as
nausea.
Because I feel truly sick when I see Paul Pelicano, even in pictures. He is perfect. Long ago I gave up searching for his tragic flaw.