By the time I get to the parking lot, her Jeep is long gone. I end up tracking down Ashlin for a ride to Alex’s.
* * *
Ash drops me off outside Alex’s house. I let out a big sigh of relief because Mrs. Lind’s car isn’t in the driveway. I was hoping she wouldn’t be home, because what if she’s mad at me too?
Unbuckling my seat belt, I say, “Thanks for the ride, Ash.”
“No prob, Lils. I’m just sorry I can’t help you clean up.” She makes a sad face and says, “I promised my mom I would go with her to get her hair cut. Last time they totally made her look like an old lady.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I haven’t told her about Rennie’s and my fight. That’s between the two of us.
I hop out of the car, and wave as Ashlin drives off. Instead of going to the front door, I head straight for the backyard. Alex is skimming the top of the pool with a net, trying to fish a red Solo cup out of the water.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up, startled. “Where’s Rennie?”
Ordinarily I would offer up an excuse for her, but today I just shrug.
I start gathering up the tiki torches and the beach ball paper lantern lights we strung around the yard. There’s no way I can carry everything back to my house. If Alex wants this stuff out of here, he’s going to have to drive me home. He still seems pretty mad at me, though. “Did you get to try one of my cupcakes?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Alex is sitting on a lounge chair, messing with his phone.
“Was it good?”
“It was all right,” he says.
“Did you get one with a Swedish Fish inside? I did that in a few of them.”
He finally makes eye contact. “I ate three, and I think one had a fish.”
He’s warming up to me again, thank God. I offer him a small smile. “Cool. Um, I’m a little thirsty. Can I have a soda?”
He jerks his head toward the pool house. “You know where they are.”
Ouch. Okay. So maybe I will have to walk all this stuff home.
The pool house is basically Alex’s apartment, complete with a living room, a kitchen, and a huge master bedroom. He has it set up like a bachelor pad, James Bond style. Black leather sectional sofa, big-screen TV mounted on the wall, an actual Coke machine by the bar. And he has a snack pantry that his mom keeps stocked with cookies and chips and anything you could ever want.
His bedroom door is open, and I see one of our plastic palm trees deflated and handing over the back of his desk chair. His room is usually clean, but today it’s messy, for Alex. The bed’s not made and there are clothes on the floor.
I go to pick up the palm tree, and I stop. There is a small heap of clothes by his bed. A green tank top is on top of the pile. I bend down and pick it up.
My sister’s. The one she wore the night of the party, part of her minnow costume. I know because I have the same one, same brand, only one size bigger. There’s a crusty pink stain over the front, strawberry daiquiri. I smell it. Rum.
I walk back outside holding the tank. Alex’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Why do you have Nadia’s tank top?” I ask him.
“Oh . . . someone spilled something on her. I gave her one of my shirts to wear home,” he says.
Suddenly I find it hard to breathe. “Was Nadia drinking?” I told her not to. I forbid her. “She didn’t do anything stupid, did she?”
“Like what? Like go off with a random guy?” He shakes his head. “No, she didn’t do anything like that.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face. Is he talking about Nadia . . . or me?
Alex walks away and starts loading the decorations into the back of his SUV. I pick up as many of the tiki torches as I can carry and follow him. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARY
I’M SITTING ON MY BED, STARING DOWN AT AN OLD PHOTO album that I found in the basement. I age as the pages turn. Posing in front of a blanket fort with a flashlight lit under my chin. At the apex of a swing from the tire hung on the backyard tree, my hair almost white from the sun. Me and my dad with big clumps of seaweed on top of our heads. Practicing clarinet for my parents and Aunt Bette in the dining room.
The book ends with me posing next to the lilac bush for my first day of seventh grade. I’m on my tiptoes, smelling the flowers.
It’s no wonder Reeve didn’t recognize me this morning. There’s only one way to put it—I was fat.
* * *
Everyone was talking about the new scholarship student. The Belle Harbor Montessori on the mainland was teeny tiny. There were just twenty kids in our seventh-grade class, and I was the only one from Jar Island. During lunch a few of the boys were debating how smart you needed to be to get a scholarship, when Reeve walked in.
Everyone watched as he moved through the food line. My friend Anne leaned over and said, “He’s pretty cute, don’t you think?”
“He’s not bad,” I whispered back.
Reeve was easily taller than every other boy in our class. But he wasn’t lanky; he had a bit of muscle to him. . . you could tell he probably played sports at his old school. We didn’t have sports at Montessori. We didn’t even have recess, unless you counted the foliage hikes we took through the woods.
Our teacher waved him over and showed him where our class was sitting.
“Hey,” he said, kind of bored-sounding. He plopped into an empty chair. “I’m Reeve.”
A couple of the boys mumbled “Hey” back, but mostly no one said anything. I think we all picked up on his apathetic attitude. He didn’t really want to be at our school. He probably had lots of friends back wherever he’d come from.
I felt bad for him. Reeve only picked at his sandwich, not saying anything. It must have been hard coming to a new school. This was the only school I’d ever known. I’d gone to Belle Harbor Montessori since I was in kindergarten.
When lunch was over, and everyone stood up, I saw Reeve looking around, unsure where to put his tray. I leaned over to grab it for him. I don’t know why. Just to be nice, I guess. But he snatched it away before I could get my hands on it and said really loudly, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to eat?”
The boys who’d heard him busted up laughing. I think I might have even laughed too, just because I’d been so caught off guard. Anne made a face. Not one of sympathy either. Just a plain old frown. And not at Reeve. At me.