And Then There Were Four

  I am overwhelmed. I think of the money my mother will get from completing the grant work and maybe it will be fifteen or twenty thousand dollars which is a lot of money but still it will not go far for us especially because of Tori and also because of me, as Rockland Academy is not cheap.

  “It’s good to be rich,” I blurt, as I realize fully that having two daughters is going to put serious financial stress on my mother and she will need to write a lot of grants assuming she can even get the work which does not always come regularly. Maybe I can get a part-time job?

  “Or at least,” says Kenyon, “it’s good to have enough money for a beach cottage like this one.” She points. “We’re here!”

  Chapter 25. Caleb

  The cottage has weathered shingles and turquoise shutters and is crowded onto a tiny lot. You are dismayed. You’d imagined an isolated house tucked into the dunes. This place has—you count—eight equally cute neighboring cottages in its cluster. They look closed up, at least, but in the summer when they’re fully occupied, people can probably hear each other dream.

  Saralinda has brightened, however. “It looks so cozy!”

  “Wait until you see the inside!” Kenyon runs her fingers under a windowsill and holds up a small box. “Key.”

  The girls crowd behind her into the house, and Saralinda makes a noise: part intake of breath, part hum of pleasure. The sound whispers seductively over your skin. But you’re desperate to run, alone, back to the ferry, back to the mainland. Find some way to handle what happened to Antoine all by yourself. You’ve been alone all your life . . . how can you step into that small house with those girls?

  You linger on the cottage doorstep, where you can see the ocean.

  You have never been to a real beach before. Your family is not the kind to take vacations. True, you went to camp the summer you were eleven, upstate at Lake George, where there was something they called a beach. You left camp after a few days. It was one of those few times when you remember exactly what happened, and why; you were not then and are not now sorry about that kid’s smashed nose, which he deserved.

  Your father had come to get you and take you home. He bought you an ice-cream cone. He’d been cheerful and talkative and said, “Don’t worry about it, son.”

  You always felt uncomfortable when he called you son. That day, it made you realize something new: that you could not give in anymore, not ever, to an impulse to be violent. You had to control it when you could, because of all the times when Mr. Hyde, inside you, could not.

  You don’t belong here with the girls. What if . . . what if . . .

  But you have no choice now. You already made your choice.

  You go inside.

  It’s nice, you guess. There’s a combination kitchen and living room, with cream-colored walls and a wooden floor and turquoise trim around the windows. A motley collection of mason jars, bowls, coffee mugs, and spices crowd a long open shelf above the kitchen counter. Over the sink, a sign says FRESH VEGETABLES. In the living room, there’s a white-brick fireplace with six comfy, mismatched chairs grouped in a circle before it, and a big, low wooden coffee table.

  You hear Saralinda in the hallway beyond, where she is checking out bedrooms. Evangeline stands in the living room, hands on her hips. Kenyon has a kitchen cabinet open and says something about wanting to eat and a nearby convenience store and who can cook what.

  “We are not here to play house!” The words explode from you.

  Saralinda sticks her head back into the main room and stares at you.

  “We’re here to talk,” you add, more moderately. “About Antoine.”

  Three sets of eyes narrow, but it’s Saralinda who responds. “We know that. But I also need to eat. I’m diabetic, for your information. But actually, we all need to eat.”

  Diabetic?

  Saralinda turns to Kenyon. “I’ll go to the store. What do we need?”

  Kenyon says, “We won’t have a lot of choice. It’s a convenience store. They have lightbulbs and toilet paper, and some basics like bread and milk and, you know, cookies and chips. Will that be all right for you, Saralinda?”

  “Sure. I’ll find something.”

  “I’ll go,” you say. “You guys don’t have to.”

  “I need to come,” says Saralinda, without looking at you. “And pick out my stuff.”

  “I’m coming too,” adds Evangeline.

  You look at Kenyon, but she shakes her head and points to an oversized armchair. “I’m staying right here.”

  The three of you retrace your steps to the village near the ferry dock and into the store. You’re the only customers, and there’s a bored-looking cashier.

  You check out the aisles. The contents of the store are less limited than Kenyon led you to believe. There is a small counter with produce and a refrigerator case with milk and cheese and yogurt. Saralinda gets lettuce, cheddar cheese, and a package of Slim Jims. Hands stuffed in your pockets, you trail behind her into the next aisle, where Evangeline holds a shopping basket with M&M’s and cookies in it. She’s holding a family-sized bag of Cheetos.

  She looks up. “So this is what I want. Orange chemical goodness. Saralinda, I know you can’t, but is it okay if—”

  “Actually,” Saralinda interrupts, “I can, a little. How about these too?”

  She picks up York Peppermint Patties and tosses them into her basket.

  You pick up microwave popcorn.

  “That’s practically real food,” says Evangeline disapprovingly.

  “I beg to differ.” You peer at the label. “It’s got something called Flavacol.”

  Your reward is a halfhearted smile and the extension of the basket.

  The girls pick out more junk food. At the register, before you realize what she’s doing, Evangeline pulls out a debit card and gives it to the cashier.

  Then she blinks. “Wait! Not that card!”

  For the first time, the cashier really looks at Evangeline. “Overdrawn?” He smiles and gives it back.

  Evangeline turns to you. “Your turn to pay,” she says airily. “I paid last time.”

  The thing is, you only have thirty dollars. You hand it all over, and it’s not quite enough. Luckily, Saralinda can cover the rest. She counts out quarters.

  All of this catches the cashier’s interest. Then he’s checking you out. Slowly.

  Well. It’s good to know you attract somebody.

  “Do you need bags, darling?” he says.

  “Yeah,” you say.

  “I always forget to bring mine too,” he says chattily. “Where are y’all staying?”

  “At a friend’s place,” you evade. You pick up the groceries and turn to follow the girls out.

  The cashier calls after you. “There’s a movie tonight. Eight o’clock at the firehouse. It’s Alien. Sigourney Weaver! Gotta love her! Y’all come!”

  You sort of nod, without meeting his eyes, but Saralinda smiles and waves good-bye.

  Outside, Evangeline is several paces ahead, walking fast. The three of you return in silence to the cottage, but then as you approach the door, Evangeline says tightly, “Sorry about the debit card.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Saralinda says.

  “It does matter. My stepmother is really nosy and if I’d used that card, she’d know exactly where we are. Plus, I don’t make mistakes, and I was the one who told you guys it was better for us to use cash for anything we had to buy.” Evangeline grabs the bag of Cheetos. She rips it open, crams a handful into her mouth, and orange powder explodes down her chin and onto her chest. She stomps inside with the smell of her Cheetos trailing behind.

  You hold the door open for Saralinda. “After you.”

  Saralinda says, “Evangeline’s hard on herself.”

  “Yeah.”

  She tilts her head back to look up at you and s
miles, a quirk at the edge of her mouth. “Caleb, that guy liked you, you know.”

  Shock poleaxes you.

  Saralinda knows you’re straight, right? You fumble for something, anything to say.

  When you finally look up, she has gone inside.

  Chapter 26. Saralinda

  I slip into the cottage bathroom, my face hot and no wonder. I sit on the closed toilet seat with Georgia gripped in one hand for comfort. I attempted to flirt with Caleb, stupid impulse also shameful because inappropriate, Antoine died exactly one day ago. Anyway Caleb looked away probably embarrassed on my behalf, also not interested, hello humiliation.

  I set Georgia aside and test my blood sugar. I am 112 which is excellent, that helps me feel better emotionally, also relieved—it is scary being a diabetic all on my own, this is not exactly the way I thought it would happen. I know what to do however, careful calculation of how much insulin to take because eating can bring you up or down depending on what you consume and also depending on your own particular body and how it reacts to various foods and exercise. In short figuring insulin dosage is an art and frankly I am not as good at it (yet) as my mother, about whom I also do not want to think.

  Only I should, I am doing her wrong.

  I notice orange Cheetos dust on my shirt from Evangeline (is this why Caleb was put off?) and I pick it up with a fingertip that I then put to my lips (civilization crumbles fast when teenagers are alone), but I can’t get a real taste. Speaking of civilization crumbling it was an education to watch Evangeline shop the chips and cookies aisle.

  I wonder what kind of treats Antoine liked and if anything Evangeline bought reminds her of him, and if so we should all eat it to honor him. Okay no matter what I am going to eat something junky. Because. Because I need a treat. My options from the things we bought are:

  Oreos.

  Pepperidge Farm Pirouettes.

  Pringles. (There is something fascinating about the physical perfection of the Pringle.)

  Lindt chocolate truffles. (Evangeline bought two packages: caramel and dark chocolate.)

  York Peppermint Patties. (Love.)

  Gummy worms. (Not a contender.)

  M&M’s.

  Ritz Crackers. (This was nice of Evangeline to get because she said they were to go with my cheese. It is best to eat cheese straight no crackers if you are a diabetic because of the extra carbs, but it felt rejecting to say so to her.)

  Microwave popcorn. (My mother makes unbuttered popcorn sometimes from actual kernels popped on the stove in canola oil, I am allowed three level cups which do nothing for me.)

  I know why my mother does not butter our popcorn, it is because she always wants to lose weight—which she does succeed in doing periodically and then she struts around in skinny jeans so happy, though I like how she looks ordinarily, more soft and round. I say nothing and she never stays skinny long anyway because of the stress of life which is to say the stress of me, and yes I would rather think about Cheetos, which is my final option for my treat. I have never been near them before. Orange chemical goodness! I like the sound of that plus Evangeline likes them and she is no fool.

  Next I text my mother and tell her I am fine, I am with friends can’t give details but don’t worry, and I send her a picture of the test and the insulin too. It shows that I am okay on my own, not that I am on my own, I am with my friends.

  Last night’s not-much-sleep is catching up with me. I sit on the closed toilet for another minute with my head down, then I go out and join the others.

  “There you are, good,” says Evangeline. She empties the grocery bag in the middle of the living room’s wooden coffee table and everything we bought tumbles out to make an altar to the gods of Salt and Sugar. Soon the Pringles canisters are on their sides with stacks of potato chips fanning out, and the cookies and crackers and chocolate and candy packages are ripped open.

  I move the York Peppermint Patties aside to make room for the popcorn that Caleb has popped. I sink into an empty chair and pour Cheetos out onto a paper towel which will serve as my plate.

  To these—slowly—I add caramel chocolate squares, my York Peppermint Patties, Pringles, M&M’s, and Oreos. (My lettuce, cheese, and Slim Jims are off to the side.)

  Then Caleb says to me, “I thought you said you were diabetic?”

  He is sitting next to me.

  I blink up at him and he looks back questioningly and shame fills me—again—and the Cheetos turn to chalk in my mouth whereas a second ago they were the most delicious thing I ever ate.

  Then I am enraged! I was enjoying myself for a second. Also I had to have a treat because my absence might be worrying my mother plus Antoine’s death twists my heart chokes my throat. I deserve Cheetos and also anything else I might want to eat, I deserve it so just try to stop me. Not that he did just try, there was a look just a look, only there is nothing “just” about a look, believe me.

  “I can eat whatever I want!” I say sharply. He is visibly taken aback at my tone and the next second I have tumbled completely into the pit of self-torture remorse regret hate.

  I reach for Georgia and hold her. Okay so the truth is that I have not yet made peace with my body and its problems, I have tried I will keep trying, I hate myself I wish I loved myself. Well, sometimes I love myself, okay today I am a wreck. Today is not a good day period although falling apart is not allowed, deep breath, Saralinda, good girl.

  To repeat, I didn’t sleep much last night.

  Now Caleb is not looking at me but at Evangeline. Fine I don’t care. I am letting him have power over me by valuing his opinion over mine so I will simply stop doing that. Simply.

  We are all in a circle eating, soon we will talk, for now I will breathe and maybe eat some cheese.

  Evangeline has picked up a photo from a side table. She asks Kenyon, “Are these your friends?”

  I crane my neck to see, glad of the distraction. In the photo there are two women and they are wearing white with their arms around each other’s waists and their cheeks pressed together and big smiles.

  “Yes,” says Kenyon. “That’s Cordelia in the suit and Erin with the flowers in her hair.”

  “It’s their wedding?”

  “I guess so,” says Kenyon. “I only met them last summer so I wasn’t there.”

  “How did you meet them?” Evangeline asks.

  I am listening. Also I want to eat cheese. It has nothing to do with Caleb. I cut off a slice and then I eat a Pringle, balance.

  Everything I eat decomposes into sugar in my stomach pushing into my blood but I know what I’m doing and I have insulin and I planned for this, he doesn’t understand. I feel okay, I think I do. Still maybe I’ve had enough of the bad food for now. Although I will have more if I want, it’s my choice.

  Kenyon says, “They’re friends of my teacher Mr. Mayer. He had Erin contact me. We had a lot in common, though Erin is older. Then she invited me here for a weekend in the summer to meet Cordelia and hang out and meet some of their other friends.”

  “Just like that, she invited you?” Evangeline puts the photo down. It now has her orange thumbprint on its frame. “You came here to spend the weekend with people you didn’t know? Weren’t you scared?”

  “I was socially scared.” Kenyon picks up the photograph to polish it clean. “But Erin and Cordelia and their friends are awesome, and they were nice to me.” Kenyon looks directly at me. She adds, “And that weekend, I got, like, this transformative vision for my future. For the first time, I believed that I would, you know, survive. That it would get better.”

  I smile back, we are both remembering our talk in the carriage house under the debris, isn’t it strange what a good memory it has become? Kenyon puts down the photograph but keeps a hand on it as if it’s a good luck charm.

  She says, “That was when I began to understand that I could do things to help myself
, and start to solve my problems.” She laughs. “My many problems.”

  “Gay teens are not the only ones with problems,” says Evangeline.

  “I’m not saying they are! Give me some credit.” Kenyon pauses. “I was being honest about myself. Is that not okay? Listen, Evangeline, you were the one who asked in the first place about Erin and Cordelia. You with your fairy-tale problem.”

  “Fairy-tale problem?” Evangeline’s forehead wrinkles.

  “Oh, beautiful you, beautiful stepmother. I figure any minute we’ll find out she has a magic mirror telling her you’re the one who’s more fair so she’s jealous.”

  Evangeline’s jaw drops. “What are you imagining? That’s not my story.”

  “Okay. Then what is?”

  Evangeline hunches a shoulder and doesn’t answer.

  I clear my throat. “I’m glad you met Erin and Cordelia, Kenyon.”

  She seems relieved to look at me instead of Evangeline. “Yeah. Now, when things are bad, I think how someday I will meet someone, like Erin met Cordelia. It will happen, if I don’t give up.”

  “Everybody wants that,” I say. “To meet someone.” I do not look at Caleb.

  Caleb says, “But not everybody can have it.”

  We are all silent then.

  “Gummy worms?” Evangeline says brightly. “Everyone? Antoine liked them.” She puts three in her mouth and then spits them back into her fist and coughs.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough?” says Caleb.

  “Don’t tell her what to eat!” I snap. “She can eat whatever she wants. Whatever. She. Wants!”

  Three heads turn to me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Oh, God.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Caleb says.

  I look at him for a second, ashamed. “Sorry,” I mutter again and he says it too, at the same time.

  “Yeah, you’re both sorry,” says Evangeline. “Anyway.” She raps on the table with one hand. “Time to discuss Antoine’s mother. Time to discuss Gabrielle Dubois.”