Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (9 page)

She put on the Pants with a wrinkly white linen shirt. She slung her backpack, containing her palette, her foldable easel, and her panels, over her shoulder.

Just as she reached the stairs, Kostos arrived at the front door, delivering a platter of freshly baked pastries from his grandmother. Grandma hugged him and kissed him and thanked him in such fast Greek that Lena couldn’t make out a single word.

Grandma spotted Lena and got that look in her eye. Quickly she invited Kostos inside.

Lena wished Effie were awake. She made for the door.

“Lena, sit down. Have a pastry,” Grandma ordered.

“I’m going painting. I need to get started before the sun gets too high and the shadows disappear,” Lena claimed. It wasn’t technically true, because she was starting a new painting today, which meant the shadows could be any which way.

Kostos migrated toward the front door himself. “I have to get to work, Valia. I’m late already.”

Grandma happily settled for the idea that at least the two would have to walk together outside. Grandma winked at Lena as she followed Kostos out the door. “He’s a
nice
boy,” she stage-whispered to Lena. It was Grandma’s constant refrain.

“You love to paint,” Kostos observed once out in the sunshine.

“I do,” Lena said. “Especially here.” She wasn’t sure why she offered that last gratuitous bit.

“I know it’s beautiful here,” Kostos said thoughtfully, looking out over the glittering water. “But I can hardly see it. These are the only views I know.”

Lena felt the desire for a real conversation coming on. She was interested in what he said. Then she thought of her grandmother, probably watching them through the window.

“Which way are you walking?” Lena asked. It was a slightly mean trick she was setting up.

Kostos looked at her sideways, clearly trying to gauge what the best answer would be. Honesty prevailed. “Downhill. To the forge.”

Easy enough. “I’m heading uphill. I’m going to paint the interior today.” She began drifting away from him, up the hill.

He was obviously unhappy. Did he discern that she’d set him up? Most boys weren’t that sensitive to rejection.

“Okay,” he said. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” she said breezily.

It was kind of a shame in a way, walking uphill, because she’d woken today with a real lust to paint the boathouse down in Ammoudi.

Tibba-dee,

You would hate this place. Wholesome, all-American people doing sports all day. High fives are common. I even witnessed a group hug. Sports clichés all day long.

Almost makes you happy to be at Wallman’s, don’t it?

Just kidding, Tib.

Of course, I love it. But every day I’m here, I’m glad my real life is not like this, full of people like me, ‘cause then I wouldn’t have you, would I?

Oh, I’m in love. Did I tell you that yet? His name is Eric. He’s a coach and 100% off-limits. But you know how I get.

Love your BFF,
Bee

When Tibby got back to Wallman’s, she discovered two things: first, that she had “performed a firable offense” by skipping out on so much of her shift (as Duncan had wasted no time in informing her). She could have a last chance, but she wouldn’t be paid for the part of the day she did work. Tibby was beginning to think she would owe money to Wallman’s at the end of this job.

The second discovery was the fainting girl’s wallet lying next to her own wallet in her plastic, see-through bad-employee bag. Oh, shit.

She found the library card listing the girl’s name: Bailey Graffman. Tibby walked outside to the pay phone. The white pages, thank goodness, listed one Graffman with two
f
s on a street near Wallman’s.

Tibby got right back on her bike and rode the few blocks to the Graffmans’. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Graffman opened the door. “Hi. Uh, my name is Tibby and I, uh . . .”

“You’re the one who found Bailey at Wallman’s,” the woman said, looking fairly appreciative.

“Right. Well, it turns out I took her wallet to find contact information and I, uh, forgot to give it back,” Tibby explained. “There were only four dollars in it,” she added defensively.

Mrs. Graffman looked at Tibby in confusion. “Um. Right. Of course.” Then she smiled. “Bailey’s resting upstairs. Why don’t you give it to her? I’m sure she’ll want to thank you personally.

“Upstairs and straight ahead,” the woman instructed as Tibby trudged up the steps.

“Uh, hi,” Tibby said awkwardly at the girl’s door. The room was decorated with ribbon wallpaper and puffy yellow curtains, but there were boy-band posters every few feet. “I’m, uh, Tibby. I—”

“You’re the girl from Wallman’s,” Bailey said, sitting up.

“Yeah.” Tibby walked close to the bed and offered the wallet.

“You ripped off my wallet?” Bailey demanded with narrowed eyes.

Tibby scowled. What an obnoxious little kid. “I didn’t
rip off
your wallet. The hospital used it to contact your parents and I held on to it. You’re welcome.” She tossed it on the bed.

Bailey grabbed it and looked inside, counting the bills. “I think I had more than four dollars.”

“I think you didn’t.”

“’Cause you took it.”

Tibby shook her head in disbelief. “Are you joking? Do you seriously think I would steal your money and then come all the way over here to deliver your pathetic little wallet? What’s there to return other than the money? Your horoscope? Avert a big emergency in case you forget your moon sign?”

Bailey looked surprised.

Tibby felt bad. Maybe she’d overdone it.

Bailey didn’t back down, though. “And what important stuff have you got in
your
wallet? A license to ride your bike? A
Wallman’s
employee ID?” She said “Wallman’s” with more scorn than even Tibby could muster.

Tibby blinked. “How old are you? Ten? Who taught you to be so vicious?”

Bailey’s eyebrows descended angrily. “I’m twelve.”

Now Tibby felt worse. She’d always hated people who assumed she was younger than she was just because she was small and skinny and flat-chested.

“How old are
you
?” Bailey wanted to know. She had an excited, combative look in her eye. “Thirteen?”

“Bailey! Time to take your medicine,” Bailey’s mom called up the stairs. “Do you want to send your friend down?”

Tibby looked around. Was she supposed to be the “friend”?

“Sure,” Bailey called back. She looked amused. “Do you mind?”

Tibby shook her head. “Of course not. Considering how you accept favors.” Tibby trudged back downstairs wondering what in the world she was doing there.

Mrs. Graffman handed her a tall glass of orange juice and a little paper cup full of pills. “Everything okay up there?” she asked.

“Uh, I guess,” Tibby answered.

Mrs. Graffman searched Tibby’s face for a moment. “Bailey likes to test people,” she offered for no particular reason.

“Tibby likes to test people.” It was creepy. How many times had she heard her own mother say those exact words?

“I’m sure it’s because of her illness.”

Tibby didn’t think before she asked, “What illness?”

Mrs. Graffman looked surprised that Tibby didn’t know. “She has leukemia.” Mrs. Graffman sounded like she was trying to be matter-of-fact. Like she’d said the word a million times and it didn’t scare her anymore. But Tibby could see that it did.

Tibby felt that falling feeling. Mrs. Graffman looked at her with too much intensity, as though Tibby could say something that mattered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she mumbled stiffly.

Tibby made herself go back up the stairs. There was something too sad about the searching look of a sick kid’s mother.

She paused at Bailey’s door, sloshing the orange juice a little, feeling horrible for the mean things she’d said. Granted, Bailey had started it, but Bailey had leukemia.

Bailey was sitting up in bed now, looking eager to get back to the battle.

Tibby plastered some approximation of a bland, friendly smile on her face. She handed Bailey her pills.

“So anyway, did you lie about your age at Wallman’s to get the job? Isn’t the minimum age fifteen?” Bailey asked.

Tibby cleared her throat, careful to keep her smile from sagging. “Yeah. And actually, I am fifteen.”

Bailey was clearly annoyed. “You don’t look fifteen.”

The smile was strained. Tibby couldn’t remember how a regular smile was supposed to feel. This one had probably degraded into a grimace. “I guess not,” Tibby said quietly. She really wanted to leave.

Bailey’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Tibby looked away. “She told you, didn’t she?” Bailey demanded.

“Told me what?” Tibby asked the blanket, hating herself for pretending not to know when she knew perfectly well. She hated when people did that.

“That I’m sick!” Bailey’s tough face was holding up about as well as Tibby’s friendly smile.

“No,” Tibby murmured, hating her own cowardice.

“I didn’t think you were a liar,” Bailey shot back.

Tibby’s eyes, searching for any destination other than Bailey’s face, landed on a piece of netted cloth stuck through with needle and a piece of red yarn lying on Bailey’s bedspread. Neat stitches spelled
YOU ARE MY
. What? Sunshine? The thing struck Tibby as tragic and sort of pathetic.

“I’d better go,” Tibby said in a near whisper.

“Fine. Get out of here,” Bailey said.

“Okay. See you around,” Tibby said robotically. She shuffled toward the door.

“Nice smock,” Bailey practically spat at her back.

“Thanks,” Tibby heard herself saying as she fled.

Dear Carmen,

Some summer I want all of us to come here together. That is the happiest thing I can imagine. The first day I walked about a million steps down the cliffs to a tiny fishing village called Ammoudi on the Caldera. Caldera means “cauldron.” It’s this body of water that filled in after a monster volcano exploded and sank most of the island. After I painted these pretty Greek boats, it got to be broiling hot, so I stripped down to my bathing suit and dove right into the clear, cold water.

I made a painting for you. It’s the bell tower right here in Oia. My shy grandpa, who doesn’t speak English, came around and studied my painting for a long time. He nodded approvingly, which was pretty cute.

Effie and I rode mopeds to Fira, the biggest village on the island, and drank unbelievably strong coffee at an outdoor café. We were both strung out on caffeine. I got anxious and silent, and Effie flirted outrageously with the waiters and even random passersby (passerbys?).

There’s this guy Kostos. He walks past our house about six times a day. He keeps trying to catch my eye and start a conversation, but I won’t play. My grandmother’s dearest hope is that we’ll fall in love. What could be less romantic than that?

Other than that, nothing really big has happened. Nothing big enough for the Pants. They’re still waiting here patiently.

I can’t wait to get a letter from you. The mail is so slow here. I wish I had a computer. I hope you and Al are having the very best time.

Love you,
Lena

What am I doing here?
Carmen gazed around the noisy room. Not a single noise or face distinguished itself in her ears or eyes. It was just random South Carolina teenagerness.

Krista was chattering with her friends in the backyard. Paul was being important with his babelike girlfriend and jock buddies. Carmen stood alone by the staircase, forgetting to care that she looked like an unforgivable loser.

She felt weirdly numb and invisible. It wasn’t just that she missed her friends; she was starting to wonder if she needed them around to feel like she existed at all.

Lydia and her dad had tickets to a chamber-orchestra concert. (For the record, her dad hated classical music.) They thought that Carmen going to a “fun party” with Krista and Paul would make everything good. Even a sullen girl who’d spent the last four days pouting in the guest room couldn’t resist a “fun party.” Her father looked so depressingly hopeful at the idea, she’d just gone. What did it matter?

A short guy sideswiped her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, spilling half his plastic cup of beer on the carpet. He stopped and looked at her. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Carmen mumbled back.

“Who are you?” he asked. He looked at her breasts as though he were asking them.

She crossed her arms. “I’m, uh, Krista and Paul Rodman’s, uh . . . Their mom is my . . .”

His eyes were now wandering away from her. She didn’t bother to finish her sentence. Who cared?

“See you later,” she said, and walked away.

Suddenly she was standing next to Paul. This was pitiful. He nodded at her. He was holding a Coke. He was probably between beers. “Have you met Kelly?” he asked. Kelly had her arm snaked around Paul’s waist. She was so attractive as to actually be ugly. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her eyes too far apart, and her skinny collarbones jutted out.

“Hi, Kelly,” Carmen said wearily.

“And you are?” Kelly asked.

“I’m Carmen,” Carmen said. She could tell Kelly was threatened that Paul knew a girl she didn’t know. And considering that Paul said a total of about seven words per day, he most likely hadn’t explained to Kelly that there was a girl living in his house. “I live with Paul,” she said just to be devious.

Kelly’s narrow eyebrows ascended to her hairline. Carmen then glided away. “I’m going to get a drink,” she murmured, casting flirtatious eyes at Paul.

Poor Paul. This would take him a year’s worth of words to explain.