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Carmen sat up in bed and eyed the wall calendar. Even though she hadn't marked the day of her father's wedding, it seemed to jump out at her. Only three more weeks. Did her dad even care that she wouldn't be there?
Her dad had called her mother briefly the day Carmen left South Carolina to confirm that she was safely home. He'd called again a week ago to talk to Christina about some money thing having to do with Carmen's dental insurance. She couldn't believe how many things the two of them found to say about “deductibles.” He hadn't asked to talk to Carmen.
Carmen could have called him, of course. She could have apologized or at least offered some explanation. She hadn't.
Guilt, like the cat she'd never had, wove around her legs and hopped up onto the bed to insinuate itself at close range. “Go away,” she said to the guilt. She imagined it brushing alongside her, swiping its tail against her cheek. Guilt wanted her most when she least wanted it. Cats always loved people who were allergic to them.
She wouldn't hold it. No way. She'd put it outside and let it screech all it wanted.
Unbidden, the picture of her father's face through the broken window barged into her mind. He was more than surprised. He simply couldn't process what he saw. He thought Carmen was better than that.
“All right, come on up.” The guilt made muffins on her stomach and curled in for a long stay.
“So guess what?” Effie's cheeks were deeply flushed, and her feet were working a miniature Riverdance on the tile floor.
“What?” Lena asked, looking up from her book.
“I kissed him.”
“Who?”
“The waiter!” Effie practically screamed.
“The waiter?”
“The waiter! Oh my God! Greek boys make out better than American boys!” Effie declared.
Lena could not believe her sister. She could not believe she and Effie came from the same parents. Obviously they hadn't. One of them was adopted. Seeing that Effie looked identical to their parents, that left Lena. Maybe she was Bapi's illegitimate love child. Maybe she really had been born on Santorini.
“Effie, you made out with him? What about Gavin? You know, your boyfriend?”
Effie shrugged blithely. Her happiness made her impervious to guilt. “You're the one who said Gavin smelled like pork rinds.”
It was true. “But Effie, you don't even know this guy's name! Did you call him ‘the waiter' to his face? Isn't that kind of tacky?”
“I know his name,” Effie said, undisturbed. “It's Andreas. He's seventeen.”
“Seventeen! Effie, you're fourteen,” Lena pointed out. She sounded, even to herself, like the principal of a very strict school.
“So? Kostos is eighteen.”
Now Lena's cheeks were just as red. “Well, I didn't make out with Kostos,” she sputtered.
“That was your fault,” Effie said, and she walked out the door.
Lena threw her book on the floor. She wasn't actually reading it anyway. She was too miserable, too preoccupied.
Effie was fourteen, and she'd kissed many more boys than Lena had. Lena was supposed to be the pretty one, but Effie was always the one with the boyfriend. Effie would grow up to be the happy old woman with the big family, surrounded by people who loved her, and Lena would be the weird, scrawny maiden aunt who was invited over only because they felt sorry for her.
She took out her drawing stuff and set it up, looking at the view out her window. But when she put her nubby piece of charcoal to her paper, her fingers didn't make a horizon line. Instead they drew the contour of a cheek. Then a neck. Then an eyebrow. Then a jaw. Then a hint of shadow on that jaw.
Her hand was flying. She was drawing much more loosely than usual. A hairline like . . . that. A nostril like . . . that. An earlobe like . . . She closed her eyes, remembering the exact shape of his earlobe. She seemed to stop breathing. Her heart stopped beating. Rough lines of his shoulders fell off at the bottom of the paper. Now his mouth. The mouth was always the hardest. She closed her eyes. His mouth . . .
When she opened them she imagined she saw the real Kostos standing beneath her window. Then she realized it was the real Kostos standing beneath her window. He looked up. She looked down. Could he see her? Could he see her drawing? Oh no.
Her heart started up again with a jolt. It took off in a flat-out sprint. She vaguely wondered whether hibernating frogs' hearts beat twice as fast in the summertime.
Girls who were friends last night were vultures this morning.
“So what happened?” Ollie wanted to know, landing on Bridget's bed before her eyes were fully open.
Diana was getting dressed. She came over when she saw Bridget was at least partly awake.
Even Emily and Rosie migrated over. Girls who wouldn't take risks both loved and hated girls who did.
Bridget sat up. Last night was slow coming back. In sleep she'd gone back to being the yesterday Bridget.
She looked at them, their eyes curious—even hungry.
Bridget had seen too many movies. She hadn't imagined her encounter with Eric would be . . . personal. She thought it would be a jaunt. An adventure to brag to her friends about. She expected to feel powerful. In the end she didn't. She felt like she'd scrubbed her heart with SOS pads.
“Come on,” Ollie pressed. “Tell us.”
“Bridget?” It was Diana.
Bridget's voice was buried deep this morning rather than sharp on her tongue. “N-Nothing,” she managed. “Nothing happened.”
Bridget could see Ollie reappraising the ghosty look in her eyes. So it wasn't sex; it was disappointment.
Diana's eyes said she was unsure. Her intuition was telling her something else. But she wasn't distrustful. She waited until the others were drifting away. She touched Bridget's shoulder. “You okay, Bee?”
Her kindness made Bridget want to cry. She couldn't talk about this. Nor could she look at Diana if she wanted to keep it to herself. “I'm tired today,” she told her sleeping bag.
“Do you want me to bring you something from breakfast?”
“No, I'll come in a few minutes,” she answered.
She was glad when they were all gone. She curled back up and fell asleep.
Later, Sherrie, one of the camp staffers, came to check on her. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked Bridget.
Bridget nodded, but she didn't emerge from her sleeping bag.
“The Cocos and the Boneheads are playing in the semis in a couple of minutes. Do you want to watch?”
“I'd rather sleep,” Bridget said. “I'm tired today.”
“Okay.” Sherrie turned to go. “I wondered when tha
t energy was going to run out.”
Diana, who returned a couple of hours later, told Bridget that the Cocos had crushed the Boneheads. It would be a Taco/Coco final.
“Are you coming to lunch?” Diana asked. She kept her tone light, but her eyes showed her concern.
“Maybe in a little while,” Bridget answered.
Diana cocked her head. “Come on, Bee, get out of bed. What's with you?”
Bridget couldn't begin to explain what was with her. She needed somebody to explain it to her. “I'm tired,” she said. “Sometimes I just need to catch up on sleep. Sometimes I crash for a whole day.”
Diana nodded, as though reassured that this was just another part of the peculiar Bridget canon.
“Can I bring you something? You must be starving.”
Bridget had earned her reputation as a rapacious eater. But she wasn't hungry. She shook her head.
Diana considered all this. “It's weird. In almost seven weeks I've never seen you under a roof for more than three minutes. I've never seen you stay still except when you were asleep. I've never seen you miss a meal.”
Bridget shrugged. “I contain multitudes,” she said. She thought it was from a poem, but she wasn't sure. Her father loved poetry. He used to read it to her when she was little. She could sit still better back then.
Dad,
Please accept this money to fix the broken window. I'm sure it's already fixed, considering Lydia's house pride and her phobia about un-air-conditioned air, but
Dear Al,
I can't begin to explain my actions at Lydia's-I mean yours and Lydia's house. When I got to Charleston, I never imagined that you would have
Dear Dad and Lydia,
I apologize to both of you for my irrational behavior. I know it's all my fault, but if you would have listened to ONE THING I had to say, I might not have
Dear Dad's new family,
