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By the time the moon peaked and had begun to fall, her anger had fully retreated into its normal place, and her brain had started working again.
Now that she was thinking, she thought that she had to go back home to Washington. But her thinking also informed her that she had left everything—her money, her debit card, her everything useful—in the house. Why was it that her temper and her thinking never happened at the same time? Her temper behaved like a glutton sitting in an expensive restaurant ordering a hundred dishes, only to disappear when the bill came due. It left her lucid mind to do dishes.
“You will not be invited back,” she muttered to her temper, her evil twin, the bad Carmen.
Maybe she should just cede her body to her temper all the time. Let it deal with the consequences, instead of her rational, conscientious self, which ruled her body most of the time. Okay, some of the time.
The rational Carmen, poor sucker that she was, had to creep back into the sleeping house at three in the morning (The back door was open. Had somebody left it that way on purpose?) and collect her stuff in complete silence. Though the bad Carmen wished someone would hear her and confront her, the rational Carmen prevented her from making that wish come true.
Rational Carmen walked to the bus stop and slept on a bench until five o'clock, when the local buses started running again. She took a bus all the way downtown to the Greyhound station, where she used cash to buy a ticket for a bus to D.C. making no more than fifteen stops.
The rational Carmen had arrived in South Carolina, and the rational Carmen was leaving it. But she had made very few appearances in between.
She stared out the window as the bus ground through downtown Charleston, the sleeping apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants, hoping the alternate-universe Carmen with her fun, single dad was having a better time.
Bumble Bee,
I'm a mess. I can't even write about it yet. I just want to get this package off to you by the fastest, most expensive mail possible. But let me just say that the Pants have not caused me to behave like a decent and lovable person. I hope you do better with them. What do I hope ? Hmmm . . . I hope these Pants bring you . . .
Courage? No, you have too much of that.
Energy? No, you have way too much of that.
Not love. You get and give loads as it is.
Okay, how 'bout this? I hope they bring you good sense.
That's boring, you're screaming at me, and I know it is. But let me tell you from recent experience, a little common sense is a good thing. And besides, you have every other charm in the universe, Bee.
Wear them well. XXXOOO
Carma
At breakfast, Bridget was thinking about sex. She was a virgin, as were her best friends. She'd gone out with a lot of different guys, usually within a larger pack of kids. She'd gone further than kissing with a couple of them but not very much further. She'd been driven more by curiosity than by physical yearning.
But for Eric, her body felt something else. Something bigger and craggier and stormier than she had glimpsed before. Her body wanted his in a painful, distinct, demanding way, but she wasn't even exactly sure what or how much it was asking for.
“What are you thinking about?” Diana asked, clinking her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.
“Sex,” Bridget answered honestly.
“I could sort of guess that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Does it have anything to do with where you were last night?” Diana asked, curious but not pushy.
“Well, kind of,” Bridget answered. “I did see Eric. But we didn't hook up or anything.”
“Did you want to?” Diana asked.
Bridget nodded. “I think tonight might be the night.” She tried to convey confidence without swagger.
“Tonight is going to be what night?” Ollie asked, sitting down with her tray.
“My night to hook up, Oh-livia,” Bridget responded.
“You think so?” Olivia asked.
“I do.” Bridget didn't want to go into what had happened last night. It seemed too intimate to give details.
“I can't wait to hear about it,” Ollie said in a doubtful, challenging way.
Bridget couldn't resist a little bravado. “I can't wait to tell you.”
Sherrie stopped by their table on her way out. “Bridget, you've got a package.”
Bridget got up. A suspicion about the package sent a thrill up to her scalp. She was fairly sure the clothes she'd asked her dad for hadn't arrived yet. Her father was the notoriously cheap Dutchman. No way he would have sent her stuff by fast mail. That meant it was . . .
She ran barefoot to the main building and stood fidgeting at the telephone desk. “Hello!” she yelled to get attention. Patience might be a virtue, but it wasn't her virtue.
Eve Pollan, Connie's assistant, came out from the office. “Yeah?”
Bridget couldn't keep her feet still. “Package for me? Bridget Vreeland. V-R-E-E—”
“Here.” Eve rolled her eyes. There was only one package on the shelf. She handed it over.
Bridget tore it apart right there. It was! It was the Pants. They were beautiful. She had missed them. They were already a little dirty, especially on the seat—somebody had been sitting on the ground in them. The thought made her laugh and ache for her friends at the same time. It really was like having a bit of Lena and Carmen and Tibby here. Although Carmen wouldn't be caught dead with mud stains on her butt. That had to have been Lena or Tibby. Bridget pulled the Pants on right over her white nylon shorts.
There was a letter too. She stuffed it in her pocket for later.
“Are these gorgeous pants or what?” she asked Eve, because sour Eve was the only one around.
Eve just looked at her.
Bridget ran back to the cabin for her cleats and her green jersey. Today was the first round of the Coyote Cup championship. The Tacos were playing team five, the Sand Fleas. “Diana! Check these out!” Bridget commanded, wagging her butt in Diana's face.
“Are those the Traveling Pants?” Diana asked.
“Yeah! What do you think?”
Diana looked her over. “Well, they're jeans, pretty much. They fit you great, though.”
Bridget beamed. She put on her cleats in a hurry and ran out to the field.
“Bridget, what are you thinking?” Molly demanded the minute she saw her.
“What do you mean?” Bridget asked, blinking innocently.
“You're wearing blue jeans. It's a hundred degrees out here. We're about to play our first real game.”
“They're special pants,” Bridget explained patiently. “They're kind of . . . magical. They'll make me play better.”
Molly shook her head. “Bridget, you play plenty well without them. Take them off.”
“Come on.” Bridget tapped her cleat. “Please. Please?”
Molly dug in. “No.” She couldn't help laughing. “You are a piece of work, girl.”
“Rrrrr.” Begrudgingly Bridget stripped off the jeans. She folded them carefully on the sidelines.
Molly put her arm around Bridget's shoulders before she sent them out into formation on the field. “Play your game, Bee,” she said. “But don't run away with it. Hear me?”
Bridget felt that Molly would make a good grandmother someday. It was too bad she was only twenty-three.
Bridget took off like a shot at the whistle, but she didn't run away with the game. She gave it to her teammates. She fed beautiful assists to them all game long. It was an act of sacrifice. She felt like Joan of Arc.
The Tacos were seeded first and the Fleas sixth, so it made sense they were beating them. But when they got up 12-zip, Molly called them over. “Okay, call off the cavalry, kids. Let's not be cruel.” She glanced at Bridget. “Vreeland, take over for Rodman.”
