Twenty Boy Summer (17 page)

twenty-five

The guilt of not telling Frankie about Matt and me is overwhelming, but it's a pale second to the violation I feel that she read my most private, raw thoughts and destroyed them. She broke into my carefully guarded heart, stole the only remaining connection I had to Matt, and turned it into a monstrosity. To make things worse, during all the time she spent educating me on first times and undress rehearsals like the Queen of Love, she was carrying an equally heavy and awkward albatross; she was no more experienced than I.

I can't even look at her.

For Frankie's part, she can't look at me, either. After we spill all of our silent tears on the beach, she heads back into Eddie's house alone.

We told Red and Jayne we'd be back just before lunch. If we show up before breakfast soaking wet and puffy-eyed, they'll know something's wrong. We have to wait it out here.

I climb the stairs up to the backyard, legs and heart pressed with sadness and fatigue. A few people are camped out on the deck chairs that line the pool, passed out cold, unaffected by my and Frankie's earlier battle cries. Through the back entrance, I step over the crumpled, sleeping pile of a guy whose clothes I recognize from the beer pong fan club last night. I take a few more steps into the kitchen before I'm stopped cold by a wall of funk and filth. The smell of someone's puke announces itself proudly, reaching up and trying to choke me. Open pizza boxes and loose crusts litter the entire kitchen, the door-turned-table has been knocked off its barstools, and a layer of sand mixed with a sticky film of spilled beer coats every flat surface in sight.

I've never smelled a decomposing corpse, but I imagine this house comes pretty close.

The place is silent, save for the dissonance of a collective snore and the soft hum of stereo speakers all out of music. A ragtag bunch of last night's Beautiful People are curled up in various states of disarray on the living room floor, stinky and hungover and smudged with makeup and beer.

I find my way back to the hallway, opening three doors before finding the closet where I left my backpack next to Frankie's. Hers is gone, but mine is there. I unzip it slowly, hoping beyond hope that the last few hours were just an illusion induced by a euphoric Sam-haze.

The front pouch is empty. The middle part holds everything I packed in it last night, save for the one thing I actually care about.

With my bag, I lock myself in the bathroom I discovered last night. Fortunately, no one is passed out in the tub, so I take a quick, searing hot shower, helping myself to the luxurious bath and body products lining the shower wall.

After the shower, I pull on the boxers and pink T-shirt I brought to sleep in, shoving my soaked clothes in the middle pocket. As I wipe the steam off the mirror, my face comes into focus and looks, much to my surprise and disappointment, exactly as I remember it. Other than the newly acquired emotional hangover, complete with puffy bloodshot eyes and tired frown, it's the regular old Anna face, same as last night -- nothing new or improved about it.

Back in the main part of the house, I scan the perimeter to determine that Frankie isn't in the vicinity and find a spot of floor space near the den off the main living room. Across the room, Eddie is passed out on a leather couch, wearing a black lace bra stuffed with napkins over his green T-shirt.

I listen to the ocean and the soft rattling snores around me. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, but sleep eludes me. Two hours ago, I imagined this moment very differently -- lying on the floor next to Frankie, giggling softly as I recounted my evening for her, planning our activities for the final days of the A.B.S.E.

Instead, thoughts of Frankie tighten my chest and pierce me with angry black arrows.

My mind drifts between peaceful memories of Sam's lips against mine and the intolerable sadness of being betrayed by someone I've loved and trusted my entire life.

I think I hear someone calling from the front door and wonder briefly where Frankie ended up. Before I can shake it off as my imagination, I hear it a second and third time.

"Housekeeping! Housekeeping!"

The announcement precedes a few swift knocks and the unmistakable jangle of keys in the lock.

"Mr. and Mrs. Donovan? Anyone home?" The door opens, ushering in rays of sunlight that fall harsh on Eddie's face, but he's undisturbed. I scoot farther into the den so I can safely watch someone else's drama unfold without getting sucked into it.

"What the -- good God, boy! Did someone
die
in here?" The housekeeper props open the front door with her industrial-strength vacuum cleaner and moves to the sofa where Eddie finally stirs.

"Hi," he yawns, a lone survivor in the aftermath of the party storm, stranded in the middle of a war zone strewn with bodies, bottles, cigarette butts, random articles of clothing, pizza crusts, plastic cups, shards of the obligatory expensive broken sculpture, and sand.

"Edward, where are your parents?" she asks, folding her puffy arms across her chest.

Eddie sits up slowly and surveys the damage. "Don't worry, Maggie," he tells her in his groggy voice. "You don't have to clean this up. I'll take care of it."

"Mmm-hmm. When do they get back?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"Must have been some kinda party," she says, grabbing her chest with both hands and nodding at Eddie's lingerie.

"What the...?" Eddie reaches up to feel the lace against his body and shakes his head, clearly not remembering how it got there.

"Okay then. You just call us if you need anything,
Edward.
" She kicks a bottle out of the doorway, drags away the vacuum, and lets the door slam shut. The bottle rolls across the floor and comes to rest against a pizza box near Eddie's feet.

"Shit." He leans forward on the couch with his head in his hands, not making any effort to remove the bra.

"Busted?" I ask, crawling out from my nest on the side of the room.

"Nah, just a headache."

"Won't the housekeeper tell your parents?"

"Probably. But it doesn't matter, as long as I clean everything up. Same thing every summer. They don't have time to care."

I turn to tell Frankie.
See? There's a whole world of parents who don't care.
But then I remember that Frankie isn't next to me and, by the way, I hate her.

I offer to help Eddie start the cleanup effort, but he declines.

"Maggie will come back," he says. "It's this little game we play. She pretends to be all surprised and concerned, then she leaves. I wake up and kick everyone out. Then she comes back and helps me put it all back to normal."

"She must like you."

"Not really. She likes the hundred bucks I'll tip her later." Eddie puts on some coffee and starts the task of waking the dead who are laid up around the house, pool deck, and yard. I ask him if he saw Frankie come in earlier.

"Yeah, she's upstairs. You two musta
drank
last night. You both look like shit!"

I force a smile. "I've been called worse."
Just a few hours ago, actually.

I help myself to a cup of black coffee in the kitchen and wait for Princess Perino. I can probably name a good seven
thousand
people I'd rather walk down the beach with this morning, but we can't risk showing up at the house separately. As far as Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne know, we had a super-fun time at Jackie and Samantha's super-great sleepover, staying up so late giggling and pillow-fighting and
Cosmo
-quizzing that we need a few hours in our own beds to catch up on sleep.

An hour later, Frankie stomps down the stairs, full makeup covering up any evidence of turmoil. For my benefit, she makes a big show of hugging Eddie goodbye and thanking him for the "rockin' " party. Then, without turning her head even remotely in my direction, she hefts her backpack over her shoulder and heads out the back door and down to the beach, chin up, stomach in, shoulders back, chest out -- a ferocious auburn-haired phoenix rising from the ashes of her best-friend breakup.

twenty-six

I keep pace a safe distance behind her, my twisted-up feelings wavering between sorry and angry, spending more time in the latter camp. Frankie doesn't look over her shoulder once, confident that I won't let her get too far ahead. She knows as well as I do that if we don't show up together acting natural, we're going to have a lot more explaining to do.

I sprint the last thirty feet to ensure we walk up the stairs to the backyard together, smiling, picture-perfect rays of sunshine coming home from our girls' night. Red and Jayne are in the kitchen chopping up something for lunch, right on cue.

"Hey, girls!" Aunt Jayne says, drying her hands on her shorts. "How was the slumber party?"

"Good." We both answer in dead monotone.

"Doesn't look like you got much sleep," Uncle Red says from behind his newspaper.

"Dad, you don't actually sleep at a sleepover."

"Forgive my ignorance," he says, folding up the paper and dropping it on the table. "What
do
you do?"

"
Tons
of stuff. Right, Anna?" Frankie's voice is high and contemptuous.

"Oh, you know," I say, grabbing an apple from the counter and taking a huge, exaggerated bite. "Booze. Boys. The usual."

Frankie's eyes bulge, but Red and Jayne just laugh. It would never occur to them that I'm telling the truth.

"In that case, I'm coming with you next time." Aunt Jayne winks and sets out sandwiches and tortilla chips on the table, looking at me a second too long. After that first night on the porch, we didn't talk about Matt and Frankie again. I wonder if she can see the distance between her daughter and me now, blowing in like dizzy seagulls after another all-night bender -- another failed attempt at forgetting.

We drop our bags in the living room and take our places around the table, striking the most natural poses we can manage. I'm so tired that I may start hallucinating. My heart feels like it's pumping molasses in my veins, and my neck is hot as I wait for Frankie's next biting comment.

It doesn't come, though. She shoots me a few nasty looks when Red and Jayne aren't paying attention, which I wholeheartedly return, but her mouth is shut. I force myself to eat most of my sandwich and a few chips before excusing myself to our bedroom for a much-needed nap.

"All right," Uncle Red says. "We'll wake you up later for dinner. You two decide where we're going -- anywhere you want."

"Thanks, Uncle Red." I put my dishes in the sink and head upstairs. Coming down with a sudden deadly illness to avoid faking my way through an evening with Frankie is probably out of the question, so I resign myself to it, force it out of my mind, and crawl between the cool white sheets of my bed, temporarily erasing the last few hours from existence.
Poof!

A few hours later, Frankie wakes me up by kicking the side of my bed.

"What?" I snap.

"Get up. We're going to dinner in fifteen minutes."

"Oh, thanks for the advance notice."

"Whatever."

After the lovefest, Frankie and I get ready for dinner in silence, working around each other as though the next person to speak or make direct eye contact will turn to stone. Every few minutes she looks in my direction, and I in hers, waiting for an opening, a smile, a sympathetic tilt of the head -- any indication that we will ever speak again.

But none come.

Not from Frankie, who would probably forgive the events of the universe for taking Matt before she'd consider forgiving me for not telling her about what happened between us.

And certainly not from me. As much fun as I've had with Frankie, as much as I loved her and wanted to spend all the summers of tomorrow with her, as much as I wanted to take care of her for Matt -- I know it will never be that way again.

After several uncomfortable minutes, Frankie finally breaks the silence, tears welling up with scratchy whispers.

"I just don't see how you could
not
tell me about that!"

"Oh, really?" I shout-whisper back, yanking a comb through my hair. "I should have told you about Matt, but it's okay for you to lie about Johan
and
Jake?"

"That's totally different and you know it!"

"Quit trying to justify your bullshit, Frankie! I'm sick of it!"

"Girls, let's go!" Red calls from downstairs. "We're going to dinner, not to the prom!"

"Five minutes, Dad!" Frankie yells, turning back to me. "Oh, so I suppose I'm just a
horrible
monster of a friend, huh? I
made
you come on this trip and I
made
you lose your stupid virginity and I
made
you lie about Matt?"

I grab her wrist and meet her eyes, almost nose to nose. "You know something, Frankie? I'm
done.
" I throw her arm away and quickly check my face in the mirror.

"Don't bother," she says to my reflection. "No one will notice."

All night, Frankie is a picture of good times and sunshine, telling Red and Jayne about girls who don't exist, games we never played, and movies we didn't watch, occasionally looking to me to add a supporting detail or an "Oh, I remember that! That was so funny!" Red and Jayne look on amused, a perfect snapshot of a normal summer vacation with their normal daughter and her normal best friend. What could be better?

"I'm so glad we took this trip together," Aunt Jayne says, reaching for Frankie's hand across the table at Shelly's Seaside Bistro. "We might just have to come back again next year."

"Maybe we can even get Helen and Carl to come," Uncle Red says.

"That sounds great, Mom!" Frankie shoots me another nasty stare. "Too bad we can't stay another few weeks, huh, Anna?"

I think about Sam and smile. "Yeah, it
is
too bad."

After dinner, the Perinos take us down to the pier. It must be everyone's last weekend on the beach -- the place is packed.

"Crowded tonight." Red sidesteps to avoid colliding with a baby stroller. "Why don't we cross over to the other side of the beach. We haven't been down that way yet."