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It was amazing how quickly the memories came flooding back. I was suddenly transported to my lonely private room at my new boarding school in Massachusetts. I could still remember writing the very first word of the very first entry. I was scared one of the other kids would find the journal and tell the other eighth graders I still used the word “Mommy,” so I erased the last “m” and “y” and left it as “Mom.” And then I felt guilty about feeling embarrassed, and then I wished my mom was there to tell me not to be embarrassed for missing her or scared of what other people might think.
That first year of boarding school was hell. I was lonely and sad, and ashamed of being lonely and sad. So I wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote. By the last day of eighth grade, I had aged about five years. I could still remember the very last words I’d written. They were the last words Mom had ever spoken to me, and they were a promise. Maybe if I saw the words scribbled out in my childish handwriting, I’d feel the way I used to feel when I read Mom’s promise to me. Safe. Hopeful. Loved.
But I couldn’t bring myself to flip to the last page. Not here, not now. Not when Clara would be returning from her woodland pee any minute.
I heard the sound of leaves crunching under feet outside. Tiptoeing across the shed, I found an oversized Tupperware full of loose nails and screws. As quietly as possible, I emptied the contents into an empty burlap sack. Then I put the notebook inside the Tupperware and sealed the lid. As soon as this ordeal was over, I intended to lock myself in my room like a teenager and read my memory book cover to cover.
After putting the Tupperware on a low shelf, I found the bucket and grabbed my spare car key. Then I headed back outside.
Clara was standing at the spot where the surf met the sand, looking out over the quiet waters of the Long Island Sound.
“Do you get a lot of sandpipers?” she asked me when I reached her side.
“You mean those weird little birds that run away from the water?”
“Those are the ones.” She turned to me, as if expecting me to offer some additional details on the local bird population. But the minute she saw me, her brows dipped in concern. “Holy crap, what the hell happened to you?”
“Oh,” I said, figuring the falling shelf had drawn some blood. “I tripped in the shed. I must have gotten a scratch. Am I bleeding?”
“No,” she said. “But your hands are shaking. You’re pale as death. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Shit. I was breaking one of the Dunning family cardinal rules:Don’t let them see you sweat. When you had the kind of money my family had, displays of emotion sent predators into a feeding frenzy. Loneliness was to gold diggers what blood was to sharks. Vulnerability. Weakness. An opportunity to pounce and eat you alive. The fact was, Ihadjust seen a ghost. But I couldn’t let Clara know that.
“A little anemia,” I quickly improvised. “I didn’t take my iron supplement this morning. I’ll be fine.”
I could tell she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t argue, presumably because she didn’t actually care one way or other. “If you say so,” she said, shrugging. “Any luck with the security code?”
“No,” I said. “But I did find my spare car key. So at least I can get back into my car.”
“Well, I guess that’s good news,” she said. But then a puzzled look crossed her face. Followed by a terrified look.
“What?” I said.
“How exactly are you planning to get back to the city?”
Did I mention I’m book smart, life stupid? You’d think it would have occurred to me that some mode of transportation would be necessary to get back to my car. But it hadn’t. Not once.
I faked a smile. “Sooo,” I said, playing nice, “how’d you like to earn another three hundred dollars?”
This poor woman. Every time she thought she’d finally gotten rid of me, I came back from the dead.
“I mean, you have to drive back to the city anyway, right?” I said.
She started scurrying toward her car.
I chased behind her. “I can’t give you the money I already owe you without my wallet!” I called. “Three hundred easy dollars just to let me sit in your passenger seat for a few more hours!”
“No!” she yelled, breaking into a sprint.
“Five hundred!” I called.
“I’d rather eat fried frog’s ass!”
“Six hundred! You can’t just leave me here, Clara! You have the only roll of toilet paper!”
She jumped into the driver’s seat and began backing out. But I was quick, too, and jumped into the passenger seat while the car was moving. I couldn’t let her leave without me.
Her tense hands gripped the steering wheel. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ll drive you. But I’m going to need a promissory note.”
