Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

  The second discovery was the fainting girl's wallet lying next to her own wallet in her plastic, see-through bad-employee bag. Oh, shit.

  She found the library card listing the girl's name: Bailey Graffman. Tibby walked outside to the pay phone. The white pages, thank goodness, listed one Graffman with two fs on a street near Wallman's.

  Tibby got right back on her bike and rode the few blocks to the Graffmans'. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Graffman opened the door. “Hi. Uh, my name is Tibby and I, uh . . .”

  “You're the one who found Bailey at Wallman's,” the woman said, looking fairly appreciative.

  “Right. Well, it turns out I took her wallet to find contact information and I, uh, forgot to give it back,” Tibby explained. “There were only four dollars in it,” she added defensively.

  Mrs. Graffman looked at Tibby in confusion. “Um. Right. Of course.” Then she smiled. “Bailey's resting upstairs. Why don't you give it to her? I'm sure she'll want to thank you personally.

  “Upstairs and straight ahead,” the woman instructed as Tibby trudged up the steps.

  “Uh, hi,” Tibby said awkwardly at the girl's door. The room was decorated with ribbon wallpaper and puffy yellow curtains, but there were boy-band posters every few feet. “I'm, uh, Tibby. I—”

  “You're the girl from Wallman's,” Bailey said, sitting up.

  “Yeah.” Tibby walked close to the bed and offered the wallet.

  “You ripped off my wallet?” Bailey demanded with narrowed eyes.

  Tibby scowled. What an obnoxious little kid. “I didn't rip off your wallet. The hospital used it to contact your parents and I held on to it. You're welcome.” She tossed it on the bed.

  Bailey grabbed it and looked inside, counting the bills. “I think I had more than four dollars.”

  “I think you didn't.”

  “‘Cause you took it.”

  Tibby shook her head in disbelief. “Are you joking? Do you seriously think I would steal your money and then come all the way over here to deliver your pathetic little wallet? What's there to return other than the money? Your horoscope? Avert a big emergency in case you forget your moon sign?”

  Bailey looked surprised.

  Tibby felt bad. Maybe she'd overdone it.

  Bailey didn't back down, though. “And what important stuff have you got in your wallet? A license to ride your bike? A Wallman's employee ID?” She said “Wallman's” with more scorn than even Tibby could muster.

  Tibby blinked. “How old are you? Ten? Who taught you to be so vicious?”

  Bailey's eyebrows descended angrily. “I'm twelve.”

  Now Tibby felt worse. She'd always hated people who assumed she was younger than she was just because she was small and skinny and flat-chested.

  “How old are you?” Bailey wanted to know. She had an excited, combative look in her eye. “Thirteen?”

  “Bailey! Time to take your medicine,” Bailey's mom called up the stairs. “Do you want to send your friend down?”

  Tibby looked around. Was she supposed to be the “friend”?

  “Sure,” Bailey called back. She looked amused. “Do you mind?”

  Tibby shook her head. “Of course not. Considering how you accept favors.” Tibby trudged back downstairs wondering what in the world she was doing there.

  Mrs. Graffman handed her a tall glass of orange juice and a little paper cup full of pills. “Everything okay up there?” she asked.

  “Uh, I guess,” Tibby answered.

  Mrs. Graffman searched Tibby's face for a moment. “Bailey likes to test people,” she offered for no particular reason.

  “Tibby likes to test people.” It was creepy. How many times had she heard her own mother say those exact words?

  “I'm sure it's because of her illness.”

  Tibby didn't think before she asked, “What illness?”

  Mrs. Graffman looked surprised that Tibby didn't know. “She has leukemia.” Mrs. Graffman sounded like she was trying to be matter-of-fact. Like she'd said the word a million times and it didn't scare her anymore. But Tibby could see that it did.

  Tibby felt that falling feeling. Mrs. Graffman looked at her with too much intensity, as though Tibby could say something that mattered. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she mumbled stiffly.

  Tibby made herself go back up the stairs. There was something too sad about the searching look of a sick kid's mother.

  She paused at Bailey's door, sloshing the orange juice a little, feeling horrible for the mean things she'd said. Granted, Bailey had started it, but Bailey had leukemia.

  Bailey was sitting up in bed now, looking eager to get back to the battle.

  Tibby plastered some approximation of a bland, friendly smile on her face. She handed Bailey her pills.

  “So anyway, did you lie about your age at Wallman's to get the job? Isn't the minimum age fifteen?” Bailey asked.

  Tibby cleared her throat, careful to keep her smile from sagging. “Yeah. And actually, I am fifteen.”

  Bailey was clearly annoyed. “You don't look fifteen.”

  The smile was strained. Tibby couldn't remember how a regular smile was supposed to feel. This one had probably degraded into a grimace. “I guess not,” Tibby said quietly. She really wanted to leave.

  Bailey's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Tibby looked away. “She told you, didn't she?” Bailey demanded.

  “Told me what?” Tibby asked the blanket, hating herself for pretending not to know when she knew perfectly well. She hated when people did that.

  “That I'm sick!” Bailey's tough face was holding up about as well as Tibby's friendly smile.

  “No,” Tibby murmured, hating her own cowardice.

  “I didn't think you were a liar,” Bailey shot back.

  Tibby's eyes, searching for any destination other than Bailey's face, landed on a piece of netted cloth stuck through with needle and a piece of red yarn lying on Bailey's bedspread. Neat stitches spelled YOU ARE MY. What? Sunshine? The thing struck Tibby as tragic and sort of pathetic.

  “I'd better go,” Tibby said in a near whisper.

  “Fine. Get out of here,” Bailey said.

  “Okay. See you around,” Tibby said robotically. She shuffled toward the door.

  “Nice smock,” Bailey practically spat at her back.

  “Thanks,” Tibby heard herself saying as she fled.

  Dear Carmen,

  Some summer I want all of us to come here together. That is the happiest thing I can imagine. The first day I walked about a million steps down the cliffs to a tiny fishing village called Ammoudi on the Caldera. Caldera means “cauldron.” It's this body of water that filled in after a monster volcano exploded and sank most of the island. After I painted these pretty Greek boats, it got to be broiling hot, so I stripped down to my bathing suit and dove right into the clear, cold water.

  I made a painting for you. It's the bell tower right here in Oia. My shy grandpa, who doesn't speak English, came around and studied my painting for a long time. He nodded approvingly, which was pretty cute.

  Effie and I rode mopeds to Fira, the biggest village on the island, and drank unbelievably strong coffee at an outdoor café. We were both strung out on caffeine. I got anxious and silent, and Effie flirted outrageously with the waiters and even random passersby (passerbys?).

  There's this guy Kostos. He walks past our house about six times a day. He keeps trying to catch my eye and start a conversation, but I won't play. My grandmother's dearest hope is that we'll fall in love. What could be less romantic than that?

  Other than that, nothing really big has happened. Nothing big enough for the Pants. They're still waiting here patiently.

  I can't wait to get a letter from you. The mail is so slow here. I wish I had a computer. I hope you and Al are having the very best time.

  Love you,

  Lena

  What am I doing here? Carmen gazed around the noisy room. Not a single noise or face distinguished itself in her ears or
eyes. It was just random South Carolina teenagerness.

  Krista was chattering with her friends in the backyard. Paul was being important with his babelike girlfriend and jock buddies. Carmen stood alone by the staircase, forgetting to care that she looked like an unforgivable loser.

  She felt weirdly numb and invisible. It wasn't just that she missed her friends; she was starting to wonder if she needed them around to feel like she existed at all.

  Lydia and her dad had tickets to a chamber-orchestra concert. (For the record, her dad hated classical music.) They thought that Carmen going to a “fun party” with Krista and Paul would make everything good. Even a sullen girl who'd spent the last four days pouting in the guest room couldn't resist a “fun party.” Her father looked so depressingly hopeful at the idea, she'd just gone. What did it matter?

  A short guy sideswiped her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, spilling half his plastic cup of beer on the carpet. He stopped and looked at her. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” Carmen mumbled back.

  “Who are you?” he asked. He looked at her breasts as though he were asking them.

  She crossed her arms. “I'm, uh, Krista and Paul Rodman's, uh . . . Their mom is my . . .”

  His eyes were now wandering away from her. She didn't bother to finish her sentence. Who cared?

  “See you later,” she said, and walked away.

  Suddenly she was standing next to Paul. This was pitiful. He nodded at her. He was holding a Coke. He was probably between beers. “Have you met Kelly?” he asked. Kelly had her arm snaked around Paul's waist. She was so attractive as to actually be ugly. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her eyes too far apart, and her skinny collarbones jutted out.

  “Hi, Kelly,” Carmen said wearily.

  “And you are?” Kelly asked.

  “I'm Carmen,” Carmen said. She could tell Kelly was threatened that Paul knew a girl she didn't know. And considering that Paul said a total of about seven words per day, he most likely hadn't explained to Kelly that there was a girl living in his house. “I live with Paul,” she said just to be devious.

  Kelly's narrow eyebrows ascended to her hairline. Carmen then glided away. “I'm going to get a drink,” she murmured, casting flirtatious eyes at Paul.

  Poor Paul. This would take him a year's worth of words to explain.

  “Tibby, will you cut up Nicky's chicken?” Tibby's mom asked.

  Usually Tibby would have complained, but tonight she just leaned over and did it. Nicky seized her knife. “Me wanna cut! Me wanna!”

  Patiently Tibby unwound his fat, sticky fingers from the butter knife. “No knives for babies, Nicky,” Tibby droned, sounding exactly like her mother.

  Nicky expressed his feelings by picking up two big handfuls of his noodles and throwing them on the floor.

  “Grab it!” her mother instructed.

  Tibby did. There was always that moment at dinner when Nicky started throwing his food on the ground. The trick was to pick the moment to grab his plate.

  Tibby gazed forlornly at the noodles lying on the synthetic washable blue carpet. It was so resistant to stains, Tibby suspected it was made of Saran Wrap. There used to be a straw rug that itched her feet. There used to be Mexican candlesticks and salt and pepper shakers Tibby herself had made from clay. Now there were ones from Pottery Barn. Tibby couldn't say exactly the day when her salt and pepper shakers disappeared, but she could date it generally. It happened not too long after her mom stopped being a sculptor and took a test to become a real estate agent.

  “Eegurt! Me want eegurt!” Nicky demanded.

  Tibby's mom sighed. She was feeding a bottle of milk to a very sleepy Katherine. “Tibby, would you mind getting him a yogurt?” she asked wearily.

  “I'm still eating,” Tibby complained. Particularly on the nights her dad worked late, her mom expected Tibby to step in and be her coparent. Like Tibby had decided to have these kids with her. It was irritating.

  “Fine.” Tibby's mom stood up and plunked Katherine in Tibby's lap. Katherine started crying. Tibby stuck the bottle back in her mouth.

  When Tibby was little, her dad had worked as a journalist and a public defender and briefly as an organic farmer, and he was always home for dinner. But after her mom started spending her time in people's big, clean houses and seeing all the nice things they had, her dad started practicing law in a private firm, and now he was only home about half the nights. It seemed poor planning to Tibby to have these extra kids and then never be home anymore.

  Her parents used to talk about simplicity all the time, but nowadays they seemed to spend all their time getting new stuff and not having very much time to play with it.

  Nicky was digging both hands in his yogurt and then licking his fingers. Tibby's mother snatched the yogurt away, and Nicky started howling.

  Tibby had thought about mentioning Bailey and her leukemia to her mom, but as usual, it was hard to see where any conversation would fit in.

  She went up to her room and recharged the batteries for her camera. She gazed at her sleeping computer, the Power button pulsing under its masking tape like a slow heartbeat.

  Usually her computer was flashing and whirring all evening as she IMed her friends. Tonight they were all far away. Somehow the masking tape looked like a gag over the computer's mouth.

  “Hey, Mimi,” she said. Mimi was sleeping. Tibby added some food to Mimi's dish and changed her water. Mimi stayed asleep.

  Later, as Tibby began to doze off with her lights and clothes still on, her thoughts came unstuck in that way they did, and she thought of geriatric diapers and antiperspirant and sterile wipes and bacteria-free soap and extra-absorbent panty shields and Bailey lying in a mess on the floor.

  “There's your boyfriend,” Diana said, watching Eric as he strode onto the deck.

  Bridget fixed her eyes on him. Look up, you.

  He did. Then he looked away so fast it was almost gratifying. He noticed her, all right.

  He took a seat on the other side of the deck. Bridget dug into her lasagna. She was starving. She loved institutional food served in big quantities. She was weird that way.

  “He probably has a girlfriend in New York,” a girl named Rosie said.

  “We'll see about that,” Bridget said provocatively.

  Diana shoved her elbow. “Bridget, you're insane.”

  Emily was shaking her head. “Give it up. You'll get in huge trouble.”

  “Who's gonna tell?” Bridget asked.

  Diana put on her Sigmund Freud expression. “Anyway, getting in trouble is kind of the point, isn't it?”

  “Of course it's not the point,” Bridget said snappishly. “Have you taken one look at the guy?”

  She stood up and walked to the buffet table to get another helping of lasagna. She took a circuitous route in order to pass Eric. She knew her friends would be watching.

  She stopped right behind him. She waited for a pause in the conversation he was having with Marci, his assistant coach. She leaned over. The place was noisy, so it was perfectly understandable that she should lean close to his ear. A curtain of her hair fell forward as she leaned, brushing his shoulder. “What time is the scrimmage?” she asked.

  He hardly dared turn his head. “Ten.”

  She was making him nervous. “Okay. Thanks.” She stood back up straight. “We'll kill y'all.”

  Now he turned to look at her, surprised and almost angry. Immediately he saw from her face that she was teasing him. “We'll see about that.” At least he was smiling.

  She drifted to the serving table, allowing herself one quick glance at her friends' impressed faces. “Ha,” she mouthed.

  Dear Carmen,

  The cabin girls have upped my odds with Eric to 40/60. I'm being very flirtatious and very bad. You would laugh. What's a girl to do, stuck a thousand miles out here in the ocean?

  We went sight-seeing in the closest town, Mulegé. That's where Eric's mom is from. We saw this big mission church and a prison
called carcel sin cerraduras—prison without locks. They let the prisoners work on farms in the daytime and come back to their cells to sleep at night.

  Hope you're having fun hanging with Al.

  All love,

  Bee

  Lena had one more day with the Pants, and she had to make them count. So far, she'd been her usual lame self: solitary and routine-loving, carefully avoiding any path that might lead to spontaneous human interaction. She was, overall, a terrible first escort for the Traveling Pants.

  Today, though, she'd have an adventure. She'd do something. She wouldn't let her friends down. Or the Pants. Or herself, come to think of it.

  She walked up, up, over the crest of the cliff and onto the flat land at the top. It was much emptier up here. In the distance hills rose, probably signaling yet a higher cliff plunging into the sea. But here the land was gentle. Though it was arid, rocky cliff smoothed into wide green vineyards and meadows. The air felt hotter and the sun even stronger.

  These are lucky pants, she thought a half mile or so later when she came upon an exquisite little arbor. It was a perfect grove of olive trees with glinting silver-green leaves. The olives were small and hard—still babies. At one end she discovered a small spring-fed pond. It was so private, so quiet, so lovely, it felt like her place—like she was the first person ever to set eyes on it. Like maybe it had never even existed before she got here with her magic pants. Immediately she set up her easel and began to paint.

  By the time the sun had risen to the top of the sky, Lena was bathed head to toe in salty sweat. The sun beat down so hard it made her dizzy. Sweat dripped down from her thick, dark hair onto her neck and temples. She wished she'd brought a hat. She cast a longing glance at the pond. More than that, she wished she'd remembered to bring her bathing suit.

  She looked around. There was no one as far as she could see. She couldn't make out a single house or farm. She felt a little creek of sweat flowing down her spine. She had to get into that pond.

  Shy even with herself, Lena took off her clothes slowly. I can't believe I'm doing this. She stripped down to her bra and underwear, casting her clothing into a pile. She considered wearing her underclothes into the water, but that seemed embarrassingly prudish. She looked at the Pants. They challenged her to get naked fast.