The moms passed us on their way to coach.
“Hey, girls!” they called out.
As soon as they were gone, I turned to Skye. “So why did you break up with Matt?”
“I needed a change.”
“How did he take it? Is he together with anyone else?”
Skye pursed her bee-stung lips. “Why are you so curious?”
“Whatever,” I muttered, my cheeks flushing again.
Skye stuck in her earphones and settled her head on the pillow. Just before she closed her eyes, she said, “He’s not exactly your type, Jena.”
My stomach lurched. What she meant was I’m not his type. Duh. It’s not like I don’t know that.
As we taxied toward the runway, I sank back in my seat. I popped a few pieces of gum and opened Dandelion Wine. Skye looked like she was already asleep. The plane took off. I read a few chapters. I have no idea why my brother insisted I read this book, but it was all I had for the plane ride.
Once we reached cruising altitude, I double-checked that Skye was sleeping and then dug around for the Twix bar. I ripped open the paper and downed the whole thing, sucking the caramel out of my braces. As I stuffed the wrapper into my barf bag, I suddenly felt fat and gross. If I had any hope of landing a guy even close to Matt, I was now one Twix bar further from that happening.
four
There were a few minutes, when we first got to Paradise, that I thought maybe this trip was going to be okay after all. Maybe, deep down, I’m an optimist. Or maybe it was the sunlight and the lazily bending palm trees and the sweet scent of flowers in the air. I have this great Nicholas Sparks quote in my everything book. Something about how each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. I doubted I’d be chatting up furry, four-legged creatures at Paradise, but I could definitely imagine beauty and poetry happening here.
As my mom parked the rental car, Luce checked us into the resort. Skye, who was queasy from the propeller plane we boarded in Puerto Rico and took to this island, disappeared into a bathroom. I sat on a wicker couch for a few minutes, waiting for Skye. When she didn’t come out I decided to wander around.
The reception area had no walls, only a salmon-colored roof and a floor of smooth ceramic tiles. To the right of reception, I could see the tall windows of the gourmet restaurant Luce had been raving about. To the left, there were two white buildings with pink roofs, housing the guest suites. And outside, past the acres of manicured lawns, there was the Caribbean Sea. It was turquoise, sparkling, calm. I’d seen a few coastal areas in my life, Long Island and Myrtle Beach, but nothing compared to this. Not even close.
I was heading toward the water when Skye joined me. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail and she had one arm pressed across her stomach.
“Feeling okay?” I asked.
“I guess.”
We meandered down a path lined with pink and yellow flowering bushes. Butterflies flitted around the lawn. We passed a pool and a gurgling hot tub tucked under a canopy of palm trees. A few middle-aged people were dozing on lounge chairs, fluffy white towels behind their heads.
The path ended at a beach. Skye and I kicked off our shoes and stepped onto the sand. There were more chairs lined up and some raised tent structures surrounded by gauzy curtains.
I’d changed into my shorts in the airport bathroom, but Skye still had her cargo pants on. As she bent over to roll up the cuffs, I stared out at the water. I could see a tiny red boat bobbing on the horizon.
“Jena?” Skye asked.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about the Matt thing, from the airplane.”
Skye was apologizing to me? I nearly doubled over in shock.
“Don’t mind me on this trip, okay?” Skye dipped her toe into the water. “I’m going through some stuff.”
Neither of us said anything. I was curious what Skye meant. What problems could she possibly have? But more than that, I couldn’t get over the fact that Skye had apologized to me. Yes, it was bitchy to imply that Matt was out of my league. If Ellie or Leora said something like that, I’d change their friend status on ReaLife until they begged for forgiveness. But with Skye, I feel like I owe her a blanket apology just for being. For taking up space. I know Eleanor Roosevelt said “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent,” but it’s one thing to copy it into my everything book and it’s another to actually believe it.
five
That night, at the restaurant, my mom and Luce did most of the talking. I was groggy because I ended up sleeping all afternoon. I hadn’t meant to, but I lay down on one of the huge white beds in the huge airy room that Skye and I were sharing in the huge fancy suite that was our home for the next six days. The next thing I knew, Skye was returning from a workout at the health club and the moms were back from the beach and they were all taking showers and dressing for dinner and I was annoyed at myself because while everyone else was tanning or tightening, I was asleep. But that’s how sleep happens for me. When I want it, it never comes. And when I’m not planning to pass out, I’m instantly comatose.
I was also quiet at dinner because I was feeling like an unstylish loser. My mom had said to pack casual so all I had were T-shirts and shorts. Wrong. We were seated at an elegant table with cloth napkins and an artillery of spoons and forks and knives. There was a sweeping view of the sunset and it was one of those places where the waiters hustled around asking if everything was all right every time you buttered your bread.
And there I was, in my Old Navy shorts and orange flip-flops. Skye looked drop-dead elegant in a simple black sundress, silver jewelry, and low heels. Luce was wearing linen slacks and sandals. Even my mom had on a new skirt from the gift shop.
And to top it off, they were all drinking champagne. Even Skye.
I couldn’t believe it when the waiter asked if I wanted some. He asked me first, so I thought he was joking. I actually chortled and said, “Ha! No! I’ll have iced tea.”
When he asked Skye, she nodded serenely and he filled her flute. But by that point, I couldn’t take it back and say, Oh, hey, I’m a big fat follower and I want some too.
I guzzled my first glass of iced tea and they brought me another. Skye slowly sipped her drink. Luce talked about plans and how she thought we could hang out at Paradise tomorrow and explore the island the next day. Luce must be almost fifty, but she looks thirty. She’s beautiful and petite and her blond hair is silky smooth. Skye’s dad died before she was born, and my mom has told me that Luce has no interest in finding a husband. Not like she needs someone to support her. She owns an apartment in New York City and a house in the Hamptons, and they obviously have extra cash to fly first class to vacations like this.
The waiter came back to our table. My mom and Luce ordered the snapper and fried plantains. Skye got chicken salad with ginger-carrot dressing on the side. I was eyeing the creamy seafood risotto, but now that Skye ordered salad I couldn’t exactly get a trough of fatty carbs. So when it was my turn I pretended to study the menu really hard in an attempt to look like I wasn’t copying and then I ordered the chicken salad. Dressing on the side.
As we were eating, Luce asked my mom about my brother. Then my mom asked Skye about her acting and Skye and Luce began talking about Janet, Skye’s manager. They all sipped their champagne. I downed a third class of iced tea.
Toward the end of dinner, I went to the bathroom. When I got back to the table, Skye was gone. Our dishes were cleared and my mom and Luce were glancing at the dessert menu.
“Where’s Skye?” I asked, settling into my chair.
“She went back to the room,” Luce said. “She’s been working so hard recently. She’s just exhausted.”
“Is she getting over Matt?” my mom asked.
“You knew about Matt?” I asked.
My mom nodded.
“I think she is,” Luce said. “He still calls her, but Skye says she doesn’t want to get back together.”
?
??How’s homeschooling going?” my mom asked.
What? I wondered.
“Oh, fine,” Luce said. “She’s planning to take the GED exam this summer.”
“Skye’s not at Bentley anymore?” I asked. I was shocked. For our whole lives, Skye has gone to an elite private school called Bentley Prep. It’s the kind of school you see in shows about girls who wear teensy pleated skirts, toddle around in thousand-dollar heels, and have legs that, miraculously, never need shaving. Not that I’ve ever visited Bentley, but I’ve looked at the pictures online.
“She wanted to have more flexibility,” Luce said to me. “More time to concentrate on her career.”
As my mom and Luce drained their champagne flutes, I wondered what it must be like to be seventeen and have a career. The only work I have is my Saturday night babysitting gig where I watch princess movies with the four-year-old girl and, no matter how carefully I fasten the baby’s diaper, he always ends up peeing on my leg.
That first night, as everyone else was sleeping, I lay awake in my bed. Of course I was awake. I slept all afternoon and drank four glasses of caffeinated iced tea. Brilliant move, Jena.
Skye was asleep, so I turned on my light and opened Dandelion Wine. I was at this part where a guy, Leo, decides to build a Happiness Machine that’ll make people delighted to be alive. I slipped my everything book off the bedside table and jotted down Happiness Machine. I tried to picture what I’d have in my Happiness Machine. A boyfriend? Definitely. But not like Leora’s boyfriend, who laughs when he burps and acts like his farts are a gift from God. I want someone mature and kind, someone who loves me for who I am.
Of course, by chapter thirteen, Leo’s Happiness Machine goes bust and anyone who sits in it weeps uncontrollably. Perfect. I set Dandelion Wine back on my bedside table, tiptoed into the bathroom, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Was there any speck of hope I’d meet a guy on this vacation? I tried to assess the likelihood that I’d be swept into an embrace on one of these soft, sandy Caribbean beaches. From far away, I’m shortish and curvy with shoulder-length brown hair and okay-sized boobs. But step closer and I’ve got dimpled thighs, braces, and this recent crop of zits on my chin. Definitely nothing luscious going on here.
I wriggled a bra under my shirt, slid my feet into my flip-flops, and crept past my mom and Luce, sleeping quietly in their queen beds. I closed the door behind me, and headed down the corridor and onto the hushed lawn.
The grounds were dark except for the light from the moon, which hung, suspended, over the sea. I walked past the surf shop, past the wooden dock, and across the beach. The only sounds I could hear were the waves slapping against the shore.
I know I was at Paradise and it was supposed to be, well, paradise, but in reality I felt lonely. I longed to be home, nestled on the couch, laughing my butt off with Ellie and Leora, or noshing the cupboards bare with Grandma Belle in Binghamton. As it was, I didn’t even get phone reception on this island, so I couldn’t call my friends, couldn’t send one measly text.
I brushed the sand off my feet and wandered past the pool and the hot tub, toward the business center. The bellhop who carried our luggage mentioned they have wireless in there. It’s open twenty-four hours, so I decided to pop in and say hi to my girls. It was after midnight, but they’d probably be online, at least Ellie, who shares my predisposition toward insomnia.
There was one other person in the business center—a guy around my age, tall and thin with reddish-blondish hair. He was wearing earphones and staring at a laptop that was plastered with bumper stickers. I settled at a computer, logged on, and began chatting with Ellie. At first she was sympathetic to my plight, but then she reminded me that it’s forty-one degrees, driving rain, and utterly boring back in Topeka. As we chatted, I kept glancing over at the guy, his fingers moving furiously across the keyboard. I wondered who he was talking with. Probably his girlfriend, a funky chick who dyes her hair pink and plays in a garage band on weekends. I bet he was telling her he couldn’t wait to see her again. I wondered if a guy would ever write those kinds of things to me.
After a few minutes, Ellie said she had to attempt sleep. I wished her luck. Once we logged off, I went onto my favorite quote-of-the-day site, but they’d posted an overused Pablo Neruda line. Boring.
I stood up. The guy next to me was still pounding at his computer. Since I’m a total snoop, I walked by very slowly, trying to glimpse what he was writing. He had his music on and his eyes were intent on the screen, so I paused stealthily behind him. There were a lot of photos and wordy paragraphs. I stepped closer and realized it was a blog. I could even see the name: Loser with a Laptop.
Loser with a Laptop?
No way. Sure this guy was skinny, but he had a cute face and supercool hair. Plus, a bumper sticker on his laptop proclaimed: A DAY WITHOUT SUNSHINE IS, LIKE, NIGHT, which I’ve always thought is one of the funniest ever.
I remained there for another second, staring at the back of his head. What would happen if I tapped his shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m Jena. Sometimes I feel like a loser too. How would you like to close your computer and have a conversation with me because maybe, if you put two losers together, we’d actually have a shot.”
But that’s not how life works. So I pushed through the door, padded across the dark lawn, and crawled into bed.
six
Paradise was sucking.
Have I mentioned that a deranged flock of roosters began cock-a-doodle-doing at six every morning? Also, Skye was barely talking to me. She just slept and watched shows on her iPhone and worked out at the health club and slathered her body in sunblock only to take a dip in the pool and then dodge into the shade again. That was a major topic of conversation between Skye and Luce: lamenting Skye’s tendency to tan quickly because of her half-Brazilian heritage, making sure Skye’s skin was the right shade for her auditions next week, calling Skye’s manager in New York to double-check the appropriate skin color for those auditions.
It wasn’t that Skye was being bitchy. Mostly, she was distant, like I didn’t exist. I wondered if she was mad we’d crashed her vacation. Or maybe she just thought I was a lost cause, not worth wasting her breath on. That’s how it felt one afternoon when I was playing solitaire on the balcony and she came out to hang a towel on the railing.
“Want to play?” I asked.
“Cards?” she asked in this voice that implied I was suggesting Go Fish.
I held up an ace of hearts. They were typical cards with a red lattice design, not plastered with kittens or anything. “Yeah…maybe Spit or rummy?”
Skye shook her head and went back inside.
So that was the gist of Paradise. Solitaire all the way. The moms were always playing tennis or walking on the beach or visiting the spa. Luce suggested I get a massage and charge it to the room, but she was treating us to everything so I felt weird having her pay for that, too. Instead I visited the book exchange, where I swapped Dandelion Wine for a water-stained copy of The Bridges of Madison County, which I vaguely remember Grandma Belle sobbing into a few years ago.
Oh, and speaking of the trip sucking, I can’t forget to mention Skye’s bikini. But first, there was mine. I’d ordered a tankini from Lands’ End, hoping it would be slimming. But instead of the “rich brown” they’d promised, the color ended up more on the fecal spectrum. Also, I assumed the style would be flattering, but the bottoms stretched wide over my hips and the top had this annoying habit of sliding up, revealing my untoned tummy.
Which brings me back to Skye.
That first morning at Paradise, Luce made reservations for us to take a ferry out to another island a few minutes away. It leaves from the resort every hour, and people at breakfast kept saying how amazing the island is, an uninhabited sandbar out in the ocean.
The ride across the bay was quick, maybe five or ten minutes. Once we got to the island, we trekked down a path that ended at a secluded beach enveloped by palm trees. My mom and Luce spread out their towels a
nd stripped down to their swimsuits. Skye wriggled her cotton dress over her head and hung it on a branch. She and Luce had a brief consultation about sunblock and how much time Skye should spend in the sun. As everyone started toward the water, I slunk under a tree.
“Jena?” my mom called. “Aren’t you coming in?”
I burrowed my toes in the sand. “I’m not that hot.”
“The water’s great!” Luce shouted.
“Maybe after I warm up,” I muttered.
I was plenty warm. In fact, sweat was festering in my cleavage. But there was no way I could expose my body. Not now. Not in front of Skye.
She was perfect. Even more perfect than with her clothes on. She had those big boobs and a flat stomach and narrow hips and long legs and everything was amazingly toned. Also, her snow-white bikini was the kind you see celebrities wearing, with the tiny triangle tops and teensy string bottoms.
I watched Skye splash in the water and I thought about how unfair it is that one person is endowed with so many gifts. I bet she’s even had sex. She was with Matt for almost two years. And there’s no way someone could have that body and wear that bikini and not be a sex goddess.
The only bright spot at Paradise was that there was a hot guy on the premises.
I first saw him on Sunday afternoon, our second day here. Skye and her flat stomach were safely confined in the health club, so I decided to take a dip in the pool. But on my way I stopped in my tracks. There, perched on the diving board, was a hot, muscular, shirtless (did I mention hot?) guy. He had sinewy arms and a six-pack stomach. He looked like he was eighteen or nineteen, with curly brown hair, a tanned chest, and one of those surfer-style seashell necklaces.