Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

  His face was right there, beautiful and shadowy in the flickering light. His lips were right there. With a courage possessed somewhere not within her body, she leaned forward ever so slightly and kissed his lips. It was a kiss and a question.

  He answered the question by pulling her into him, pressing her body tightly against his with both arms, and his kiss was long and deep.

  She had one last thought before she left off thinking and gave herself over to feeling. I never imagined heaven would be so hot.

  As they had the past two nights, the nurses kicked Tibby out of Bailey's room when visiting hours ended at eight. She wasn't ready to go home yet. She called her mom and told her she was going to a movie. Her mom sounded relieved. Even she'd noticed that Tibby hadn't been having a lot of fun.

  Tibby saw the lights of the 7-Eleven in the distance, and they beckoned to her. Inside she was glad to see Brian McBrian hunched over Dragon Master.

  When he turned around and saw her watching him, he smiled broadly. “Hi, Tibby,” he said shyly. He took not even the slightest notice of her pajamas or her horrifying appearance.

  “What level?” she asked.

  He didn't try to mask his pride. “Twenty-five.”

  “No way!” she said appreciatively.

  She watched with tingly suspense his long heroic battle through the volcano of level twenty-six, until he got sizzled in lava.

  “Awww,” she said.

  He shrugged happily. “That was a good one. You wouldn't want to win all the time.”

  She nodded. She thought for a while. “Hey, Brian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you teach me how to play Dragon Master?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  With the patience and enthusiasm of a true teacher, Brian coached her all the way up to level seven, the first dragon. Even as her curvaceous heroine perished with a sword through her belly, he beamed with pride. “You're a natural dragon slayer,” he praised her.

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling truly grateful for the compliment.

  “How's Bailey?” he asked her, his face going grave.

  “She's in the hospital,” Tibby told him.

  He nodded. “I know. I've been visiting her at lunchtime.” He suddenly had an idea. “Wait a second; I want to show you something.” He retrieved a dilapidated backpack. “I got this for her.”

  Tibby looked. It was a Sega Dreamcast machine and a copy of Dragon Warrior, the home version of Dragon Master. “It's not as good as the real thing,” he explained. “But it will keep her in practice.”

  Tibby felt tears spring into her eyes. “She'll love it,” she said.

  Later, as Tibby walked down Old Georgetown Road, she carried a leftover high from her game of Dragon Master. She was already thinking about level eight. It was the first time in days she had felt that particular feeling of looking forward to something.

  Maybe, she thought as she walked, Brian McBrian was onto something important. Maybe happiness didn't have to be about the big, sweeping circumstances, about having everything in your life in place. Maybe it was about stringing together a bunch of small pleasures. Wearing slippers and watching the Miss Universe contest. Eating a brownie with vanilla ice cream. Getting to level seven in Dragon Master and knowing there were twenty levels to go.

  Maybe happiness was just a matter of the little upticks—the traffic signal that said “Walk” the second you got there—and downticks—the itchy tag at the back of your collar—that happened to every person in the course of a day. Maybe everybody had the same allotted measure of happiness within each day.

  Maybe it didn't matter if you were a world-famous heartthrob or a painful geek. Maybe it didn't matter if your friend was possibly dying.

  Maybe you just got through it. Maybe that was all you could ask for.

  It was her last breakfast with Bapi, her last morning in Greece. In her frenetic bliss that kept her up till dawn, she'd scripted a whole conversation in Greek for her and Bapi to have as their grand finale of the summer. Now she looked at him contentedly munching on his Rice Krispies, waiting for the right juncture for launch time.

  He looked up at her briefly and smiled, and she realized something important. This was how it was supposed to be. This was how they both liked it. Though most people felt bonded and comforted by conversation, Lena and Bapi were two of the kind who didn't. They bonded by the routine of just eating cereal together.

  She promptly forgot her script and went back to her cereal.

  At one point, when she was down to just milk, Bapi reached over and put his hand on hers. “You're my girl,” he said.

  And Lena knew she was.

  Tibby sat in her usual spot on Bailey's bed two days later, and she knew Bailey was getting worse. Bailey didn't look scared or solemn, but the nurses and nurses' aides did. They dropped their eyes every time Tibby looked directly at one of them.

  Bailey was playing Dragon Warrior as her dad snoozed in a chair by the window. She tipped her head back on the pillow, clearly needing a rest. “Will you play for me?” she asked Tibby.

  Tibby nodded and took over the controls.

  “When are your friends getting back?” Bailey asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Carmen is home again. Lena and Bridget will be back next week.”

  “That's nice,” Bailey said. Her eyes were closing for longer and longer periods of time.

  Tibby noticed there were two more beeping monitors in the room today.

  “How's Brian?” Bailey asked.

  “He's great. He got me to level ten,” Tibby said.

  Bailey smiled. She left her eyes closed. “He's a worthwhile guy,” she murmured.

  Tibby laughed, remembering the phrase. “He is. You were right and I was wrong. Like always.”

  “Not true,” Bailey said. Her face was as white as an angel's.

  “It is too true. I judge people without knowing them,” Tibby said.

  “But you change your mind,” Bailey said, her voice slow and drifting.

  Tibby paused at the controls of Dragon Warrior, thinking Bailey was asleep.

  “Keep playing,” Bailey ordered in a whisper.

  Tibby kept playing until eight o'clock, when the nurses kicked her out.

  Lena,

  Something happened. It isn't how I imagined. I need to talk to you, but I can't say it here. I'm just . . . strange. I'm strange to myself.

  Bee

  Lena,

  I can't sleep. I'm scared. I wish I could talk to you.

  Lena read Bridget's letters on the flight from Athens. Both the ones she'd been getting throughout the summer, and the ones she'd picked up at the post office on the way to the airport. The plane cruised through time zones, and Lena's heart made the painful journey from the forge in Oia, where she wanted it to be, to a girls' soccer camp in Baja, where she felt it was needed.

  Lena had known Bee well enough and long enough to be worried. She knew Bee's life had been remade at one time. There were fault lines from then. Bee sprinted along in a torrent of activity, but once in a while something unexpected slammed her hard. It left Bee slow and uncertain. She fretted. She wasn't good at putting herself back together. Bridget was like a toddler sometimes. She grasped for power. She demanded it. But when she got her way, she was left only with herself, and that terrified her. Her mom was gone, and her dad was timid and out of touch. She needed to know someone was looking out for her. She needed someone to promise her that the world wasn't empty.

  Effie snored next to her. Lena turned and pushed her sister's shoulder. “Hey, Eff? Eff?”

  Effie smiled in her sleep. Lena suspected she was thinking about the waiter. She pushed her shoulder harder. “Effie. Wake up a minute.”

  Grudgingly, Effie opened her eyes. “I'm sleeping,” she complained, like it was a sacrament or something.

  “You're good at sleeping, Effie, I'm sure you'll do more.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Listen, I think I need to change my t
ravel plan, okay? I'm going to leave you in New York, and try to get a flight to Los Angeles.”

  Effie wasn't a happy flier. Lena knew it was only fair to give her warning. “New York to D.C. is a really short flight, Ef. You'll be fine.”

  Effie looked stunned. “Why, though?”

  “Because I'm worried about Bee.” Effie knew Bridget well enough to know that there came low times when worrying about her wasn't frivolous.

  “What did she do?” Effie asked, worried herself.

  “I don't know yet.”

  “Do you have money?” Effie asked.

  “I still have what Mom and Dad gave us,” Lena said. Their parents had given them each $500 for spending money for the summer, and Lena had spent hardly any of it.

  “I have two hundred dollars left. You can have it,” Effie said.

  Lena hugged her. “I'll bring her back home tomorrow. I'll call Mom and Dad from the airport, but will you explain it to them too?”

  Effie nodded. “You go be her mother.”

  “If she needs one,” Lena said.

  She was glad she'd thought to pack the Traveling Pants in her carry-on bag.

  When the phone rang at ten o'clock the next morning, Tibby knew what it was. She picked up the phone and heard sobbing.

  “Mrs. Graffman, I know what happened. You don't have to say.” Tibby put her hand to her eyes.

  The funeral was two days later, on a Monday. There was a graveside service and burial. Tibby stood with Angela and Brian and Duncan and Margaret. Carmen was home from South Carolina. She stood at the back. They all cried quietly.

  That night, Tibby couldn't sleep. She watched Steel Magnolias on the Movie Channel from one to three A.M.

  She was actually happy to hear Katherine yelping at three fifteen. Quietly, before either of her exhausted parents woke up, she went into the nursery and plucked the baby out of her crib and walked her down to the kitchen. She clamped Katherine around her small middle and rested the baby against her shoulder. With the other arm she warmed her bottle. Katherine made singing noises that tickled her ear.

  She tucked Katherine into bed with her and watched her fall asleep halfway through her milk. She snuggled around her sister and cried. The tears soaked into Katherine's fuzzy, soft hair.

  When Katherine reached the stage of deep baby sleep that could withstand even loud explosions, Tibby put her back into her crib.

  Now it was four A.M. Tibby went down to the kitchen. She opened the freezer door and found the brown paper bag that held Mimi. Feeling like she belonged to another world, she walked out to the garage in her pajamas and slippers. She wrapped the top of the bag around the handlebar of her bike, held on tightly, and rode the several miles to the cemetery, frozen Mimi swinging under her wrist.

  The ground over Bailey's coffin was still soft. Tibby pushed aside the carpet of grass and dug into the soil with both hands. She kissed the paper bag and planted Mimi in the hole. Then she covered her over and put the grass back in place. She sat down on the grass over the two of them. She saw how pretty the moon looked, falling low on the horizon. A big part of her wanted to just stay here with them. She wanted to curl up into the smallest, simplest possible existence and let the world rush along without her.

  She lay down. She curled up. And then she changed her mind.

  She was alive, and they were dead. She had to try to make her life big. As big as she could. She promised Bailey she would keep playing.

  Lena's sense of time and space was hopelessly scrambled by the time she arrived in Mulege. She had to hire a second cab to take her to the camp. The sun had set, but the air was still hot and thick. She was thousands of miles from Oia, but she breathed the same air.

  Lena knew Bridget was scheduled to leave tomorrow, and she needed to be there in time to help get her home—whatever that would entail. She found her way to the administrative office, and from there got directions to Bridget's cabin.

  Entering the dimly lit cabin, her eyes immediately found Bridget. Just a yellow head and a dark sleeping bag.

  Bridget sat up. Lena took in her tragic face. Her fairy-tale hair. “Hey, Bee,” she said, rushing to hug her.

  Bridget was having trouble understanding what was going on. She blinked at Lena. She squinted. She hugged her back like she wasn't sure whom she was hugging.

  “How did you get here?” Bridget asked in astonishment.

  “On a plane.”

  “I thought you were in Greece.”

  “I was. Yesterday. I got your letters,” she explained.

  Bridget nodded. “You really did.”

  Suddenly Lena took note of the fact that dozens of eyes gazed at them curiously. “Do you want to take a walk?”

  Bridget got out of her sleeping bag. She led the way out of the cabin in her oversized T-shirt and her bare feet. Bee never did care much about how she looked.

  “This is beautiful,” Lena said. “I've watched the same moon all summer.”

  “I can't believe you came all the way here,” Bridget said. “Why did you come?”

  Lena dug her toes into the sand. “I wanted you to know that you weren't alone.”

  Bridget's eyes were huge and shiny in her face.

  “Hey, look what I brought for you,” Lena said, pulling the Pants out of her bag.

  Bridget clutched them in both arms for a moment before she put them on.

  “Tell me what happened, okay?” Lena said, sitting down on the sand, pulling Bridget down next to her. “Tell me everything that happened, and we'll figure out how to fix it.”

  Bridget looked down at the Pants, grateful to have them. They meant support and they meant love, just as they'd all vowed at the beginning of the summer. But with Lena right here, right next to her, she almost didn't need them.

  Bridget looked up at the sky. She looked at Lena. “I think maybe you already did.”

  Epilogue

  Tradition called for our annual late-night celebration at Gilda's to fall on the middle day between birthdays—nine days after Lena's and nine days before mine, two days after Bridget's and two days before Tibby's. I always find comfort in numbers. I always interpret coincidences as little clues to our destiny. So today it felt like God Himself practically wrote it into my Day Runner. The celebration this year happened to fall the night before school started again, which was significant too, if not in a happy way.

  Like salmon swimming back to the tiny tributary where they were spawned, we returned to Gilda's as the honorary birthplace of the Septembers and now of the Sisterhood.

  As usual, Tibby and Bee collaborated on the birthday cake, and Lena and I created the mood with decorations and music. Bee always got to do the breaking and entering.

  Usually by this time in the summer, we were as worn in to one another as pebbles in a riverbed. For three months we'd had complete togetherness and not much outside stimuli. What few stories we had, we'd considered, analyzed, celebrated, cursed, and joked into sand.

  Tonight was different. I felt like we were each separate and full to our edges with our own stories, mostly unshared. In a way it scared me, having a summer of experiences and feelings that belonged to me alone. What happened in front of my friends felt real. What happened to me by myself felt partly dreamed, partly imagined, definitely shifted and warped by my own fears and wants. But who knows? Maybe there is more truth in how you feel than in what actually happens.

  The Pants were the only witness to all of our lives. They were the witness and the document too. In the last few days we'd made our inscriptions, telling a little of the story with pictures and words that stood out bright against humble denim.

  Tonight I looked around at my friends, sitting on a red blanket, surrounded by candles in the middle of a crummy aerobics studio. Usually the centerpiece was the cake, but tonight it was pushed off to the side in deference to the Pants. Two tan faces and Tibby's pale one looked back at me. Their eyes were all the same color in this light. Tibby gamely wore the sombrero from Mexico and the T-
shirt Lena had painted for her showing the harbor at Ammoudi. Lena wore shoes she'd borrowed from Bridget, and Bridget stuck her bare feet toward the center, displaying toenails bright with my favorite turquoise polish. Tibby's and Lena's knees touched. We were settling into one another again, sharing our lives.

  But we were quieter tonight. There was more care and less ordinary teasing. In a way, we were still strange to one another, I realized, but there was comfort in the Pants. The Pants had absorbed the summer. Maybe it was better that they couldn't talk. They would let us remember more how we had felt, and less what had actually happened. They would let us keep it all and share it.

  It wasn't that we hadn't shared the big outlines of our stories. Of course we had. I told them all about how Al's wedding was. We knew that Bee had messed herself up over Eric. We all saw Lena talk about Kostos in a way she'd never talked about a boy before. We knew about Bailey, and we knew intuitively to be careful when we asked Tibby questions. But there were a million little lines of shading that we couldn't convey so easily. They were the subtle things, and understanding them, even knowing when you missed them, was what separated other friends from real friends, like we were.

  Still, the Pants promised us there was time. Nothing would be lost. There was all year if we needed it. We had all the way until next summer, when we would take out the Traveling Pants and, together or apart, begin again.

  The Second Summer

  of the Sisterhood

  With a bit of last summer's sand in their pockets, the Traveling Pants and the sisterhood that wears them embark on their sixteenth summer.

  Available everywhere April 2003.

  Here's an early preview . . .

  The Pants find Bridget in the Deep South. . . .

  Bridget took a lot of extra steps up the front walk of the two-story brick house. There were little anthills along one side. Grass pushed up triumphantly through the concrete in many places. The doormat said “Home Is Where the Heart Is” in large letters decorated with pink and yellow flowers. Bridget remembered that doormat, and she also remembered the brass doorknocker in the shape of a dove. Or a pigeon. Maybe it was a pigeon.