She knows that. She knows me and sighs.
“Honey, let’s have a good time. I need to get this book written, and you,” she steps closer, smoothing my hair out of my face, “need to rest. Get some sun and sleep. Get ready for next year. You’ll be a freshman at Vanderbilt, with somany opportunities ahead of you. You can put whatever’s been bothering you behind you and start over.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I can do that. But next time we’re related to someone, will you let me know?”
“Of course.” There’s a rap at the door. My mother asks, “Ready to meet the neighbors?”
I shake my head, unsure of what we’ve gotten into. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
1
After our new neighbors load us down with freshly picked tomatoes, a campground newsletter, and a bit of gossip (beware of lot #16 unless you’re not afraid of snakes) we finished unpacking. Neither of us brought much. We manage to stuff everything in the cabinets over and under the bed. The bathroom is tiny, though it’s nicer than I expected. In fact, the whole trailer is nicer than I first expected. When my mother decided on this project and trip, she got the crazy idea to purchase an Airstream to live and work in. Some guy she knows (of course) hooked her up with this monster—beautiful, but a monster all the same. Carl or Earl or whatever his name is, renovates the campers and happily sold one to my mother. I’m afraid she wasn’t lying when she said she spent her entire advance on this tin can. Money isn’t her strong suit.
“You need anything else?” she asks, fumbling with her purse. She’s on her way to the store for some basics.
“Fruit?” I suggest. “Oh, and granola bars.”
My mother leans over the counter and scribbles on a scrap of paper. I peer over her shoulder and see the word “Candy.”
“Please just get some real food too, okay?” I ask.
“I will. Promise.” She blows me a kiss in the air and like that, she drives off.
I’m alone at last, standing in the middle of the trailer. Our entire living area is eight feet in both directions. Bed, tiny bathroom, kitchen, sitting/dining/foldout. She’s giving me the bed, while she’s claiming the couch/kitchen, which she will also use as her office.
With nothing else to do, I decide to try the shower. I pull the window curtains and strip, realizing that next year I’ll be living with roommates in a dorm. Maybe getting used to the cramped space and sharing a bathroom with another person will be good experience. I step into the tiny stall and turn on the water. I try to avoid looking in the mirror directly across from the shower but it’s almost impossible unless I close my eyes. Blind, I bang my elbow into the wall while washing my hair, and drop the soap.
“Crap,” I grumble. I use my foot to shimmy the soap halfway up the wall so I can reach it. With two fingers I attempt to pick it up, but the shower water is in my eyes and my butt is pressed against the wall. I’m in my own personal version of shower Twister. Then the water stops.
Completely.
“Mom?” I yell, hoping this is just some case of you can’t use the sink and the shower at the same time. “Mom!”
I drop the bar to the floor with a thud before pushing the soapy hair out of my face and stick my head out of the shower. Nothing. The camper is quiet. I do hear talking outside. After grabbing a towel, I run over to look out a window. Two people stand over my water hookup. “Hell no,” I mutter, and wrap my hair in a towel and my body in my mother’s soft cotton robe and storm outside.
“What did you do?” I ask, running up to them. They’re an odd pair. An older woman and younger man. She stands over him ina terry cloth dress while he unhooks the pipe I watched Jimmy attach two hours ago. Shampoo suds drip down the back of my neck and I wipe them with my towel.
“You stole my water!” the woman shouted. She’s older, in her seventies at least, and her finger is in my face. Over her shoulder is a newly parked camper. She must have just pulled in.
“No I didn’t! We just hooked up where they told us.”
“Young lady, I’ve had this lot every summer since 1984. I know which hook-up is mine.” She pointed to my now-unattached pipe. “That one is mine. Yours is the other one.”
“Does it even matter?” I glance at the man, who so far has said nothing. I’d like to say he’s following the conversation but he’s staring at my chest. I look down and see my robe has slipped. “Nice,” I say. I cinch the belt.
“Dorothy is right,” he says. “You’re hooked to the wrong spot, but it’s no big deal. Let me reattach.”
“No big deal? You could have knocked first or something.”
He looks at me with a pair of amused, familiar, turquoise blue eyes.
Oh no.
“I knocked. No one answered.”
“I was in the shower.”
His eyes travel up and down my body, landing on the towel in my hair. “I noticed.”
