The Complete History of Why I Hate Her

  I should be used to being an outsider. Having a sister with cancer has turned me into a freak show. Kids know me as “Nolaherlittlesisterhasabraintumor.” I seem to walk with an extra-long shadow—the shadow of what may come. When I’m finally noticed for something at school—a decent poem in the Gazette or for breaking a cross-country record—I swear I can hear the words You know, she’s the one …

  Tumors scare others—even adults. It’s as if they think they can catch Song’s disease from me. Or when they look at me, they don’t know what to say—as if talking to me requires the exact right words—so they don’t say anything. I don’t blame them, not really. I probably wouldn’t say anything to me either.

  I speed up, getting into a hard sprint up not one, but two steep hills. When I reach the second peak, I slow down enough to notice a rocky, rooty footpath on the left. Why not? I think. What I don’t anticipate is the view awaiting me.

  No fog at this time of day. Eggemoggin Reach flickers with flames of light, islands rise from the sea.

  “Wow,” I say aloud.

  “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  God, he scared me! It’s Harrison. He’s sitting on a rock, knees folded up, a backpack at his feet. “Welcome to Lookout Hill. Peanut butter sandwich?” he asks, holding out half.

  Two guys offering me food in the same day!

  “I’m good,” I say, out of breath—from the run, of course. “I was curious about this path—where it would lead.”

  “All the paths lead to some kind of water around here. If not the ocean or a lake, some local watering hole. You discovered the path to Hostess House?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A cabin on the edge of Robin Hood. Lots of us meet there at night.”

  “Hard to believe there’s any place to hang out.” Do I sound citified? Critical? I don’t mean to be. Rocky Cove is beautiful. Remote, but beautiful. I wish I’d said something a little more gracious.

  “Oh, there are some fun places—you’ll see,” Harrison says. “You’re the girl I saw with Stella the other day, right?”

  I nod, stretching my quads in a lunge. My heart gives a quick pop. I’ve been remembered!

  “Babysitter?”

  “Oh, no,” I say, a little emphatically, I guess. “Waitress.” God, I sound ridiculous, as if the title of waitress somehow has more prestige. “But I have no idea what I’m doing,” I quickly add.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  Worse than ridiculous—stupid. “Season opens day after tomorrow.” I start to bend my torso from one side to the other, but catch myself before acting like a total stretching fool. “How about camp? Do you have campers yet?”

  “Same as you. Two days to go.”

  “You a counselor?”

  “Waterfront director.” He gets up and walks over to me. “Here. Do you know the names of the islands?”

  “Well, I know one is Pumpkin and another is Deer Isle.” Song and I had pored over the website map, giving us both something to imagine (until she realized I was serious about going). He’s standing close enough for me to read the tiny words FLICK OFF on his gray T-shirt.

  “Well, that’s Pumpkin,” he says. He smells of peanut butter, sunscreen, and lake. I take a slow, even breath to grab these scents away from the salt air.

  “But you can’t see Deer Isle from here,” he says. “It’s off in that direction.” He points over the tree line.

  “Shows what I know. So what’s the name of that one?” I point to a seemingly floating cluster of trees.

  “Can’t remember. I was hoping you knew.”

  “Nope. But I can teach you how to fold a napkin four different ways.”

  “Cool,” he says, and laughs.

  “Um … did you run here too?”

  “Nah. I’m more of a Taoist. You know, live the effortless life.” His eyes laugh. “I walk, I sail, I sleep.”

  “You eat peanut butter sandwiches.”

  “Easier than a BLT.”

  I smile and try to think of something witty or otherwise interesting to say.

  “Well, have a good run,” he says, turning.

  “You too. I mean … a good walk.”

  Harrison gives a little nod and heads down the same path I came on.

  When I get back to the barn, Bridget is coming out, mustard suitcase in hand. There’s a car idling out front.

  “Hey, you’re leaving?” I ask.

  “As if you didn’t know,” she says.

  “What?”

  There’s someone in the front seat of the car, but he’s staying right where he is. I reach out to help Bridget lift her suitcase.

  “Get away,” she snaps.

  For a moment I imagine she has heard my deepest thoughts about her. “Bridget, talk to me,” I say, trying to get her to look me in the eye.

  She throws her suitcase into the trunk, slams it shut, and climbs into the car.

  I step back, and she rolls away without another word or a wave.

  Chapter 7

  When I walk into the staff dining room for dinner, I’m startled. It’s completely empty. I check my watch, but I’m not early.

  I’m about to turn and leave as Nigel comes in. Standing there by myself, I feel naked. I think I’ll pretend that I’ve just finished, that I’m heading up to the barn, but he asks how my day was as he hands me a plate and so I serve myself from the buffet.

  When we sit down, I expect him to say, Where is everyone? But he doesn’t and I’m relieved. It would be embarrassing to tell him that I have no idea.

  But then, Nigel seems perfectly content alone. In fact, even when we’re all together, Nigel seems … apart. When he’s not writing on scraps of paper (to-do lists? observations? philosophical musings?), he’s got his nose in a book. He appears to be considering something knotty and complex all the time. But the minute you open your mouth, he stops and looks at you with this intensely curious expression—like he just woke up, and there you are—and now there’s nothing more he’d like to do than listen to what you have to say. It’s sweet.

  So I immediately ask about Bridget—does he know what’s happened? But he doesn’t. He tells me that every year one or two of the new waitresses don’t work out and that it’s not unheard of for local help to bail even before the season begins. There’s an invisible line between the locals and those “from away,” and not everyone is comfortable crossing it. But that doesn’t explain her rudeness to me. I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a drama queen, so I don’t.

  “So what made you apply here?” he asks.

  There’s a part of me that would like to tell him the truth. That I couldn’t spend any more time talking about white blood cell counts. That I had a wild and determined fantasy of experiencing a scrapbook teen experience in just one summer—a sort of makeup course. But I don’t know him yet. “Thought I should start earning for college,” I say. “And coming to Maine seemed like fun. How about you?”

  He looks down. “Family tradition,” he says, and I’m not sure what that means. Would he have been more honest—more revealing—if I had been?

  He tells me stories about past summers: the pain of learning to water-ski, having to coordinate and lead ridiculously competitive bocce tournaments, performing talent shows for the guests. And then, as if his stories were boring me, he quietly informs me of other staff events: diving off the forbidden ledges, playing pranks on the chef, breaking curfew to sleep out under the stars. It sounds as if he knows of these activities but isn’t a part of them. I hope it won’t be the same for me.

  Finally, it’s time to head back to the barn. It’s starting to get dark, and the night is eerily quiet. Nigel’s cabin is in the opposite direction, but he offers to walk me up.

  I start to accept but stop myself. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod. A question had occurred to me while I was listening to Nigel. If I did have the chance to jump off some ledge into the sea, w
ould I?

  Maybe I’ll start by being brave enough to walk back through the Maine woods at night by myself. I jog off down the dirt road and then slow. Walking outside suddenly seems much easier than entering the empty barn, going through the storage shed, and up the dark narrow stairs.

  I feel my way into my dim room, and before I can register the face, I register a body. I’m all alone in this doorway, and there’s someone here waiting for me. I turn to run back downstairs.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice yells.

  “Oh my God!” I scream. “What are you doing here?”

  “Say hi to the new Rocky Cove waitress,” Carly says.

  Apparently, Pete called her as soon as he found out Bridget was leaving. I jump up and down and hug her. I can’t believe my luck. What are the chances of meeting someone on a bus and having her turn out to be your roommate? Maybe events aren’t random.

  Mariah walks into the room with a grocery bag in hand. “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Carly here is taking Bridget’s place.”

  “You know each other?” asks Lucy, popping in as well. Brita and Annie follow her.

  I open my mouth to explain, but Carly just says, “We are the best of friends.”

  I look at her, wanting so much for it to be true.

  “Looks like you’ve been party shopping,” she says to Mariah. “When’s the event?”

  “How did you know?” Annie asks.

  “At what other time do we socialites carry full bags of groceries?”

  “Where are you from, Carly?” Lucy asks.

  “Boston.”

  I expected Carly to say Bangor. But then, she has two homes, doesn’t she? And I suppose Boston is more impressive than a small city in Maine.

  “What part?” Brita asks.

  “Beacon Hill.”

  “My aunt used to live on Beacon Hill,” Annie says. “I bet we know someone in common.”

  “Michael Walden?” Carly asks.

  “Yes!” Annie shouts. “I can’t believe that. You know Michael? He’s so hot.”

  “And so—”

  “Wealthy,” says Annie.

  “As rich as Yacht Guy?” I interject. Carly had mentioned this guy on the bus, and I’m suddenly afraid that she has more in common with the others than with me.

  “Not sure,” says Carly. “It’s hard to know the depth of a trust fund.”

  The others laugh.

  “We better get going,” Mariah says.

  “Join us,” says Lucy. “You and Nola. We’re having a party down at Flatlanders Beach.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Carly says. “Would we, Nola?”

  “We wouldn’t,” I say, knowing that everything from now on will be different here.

  Chapter 8

  On the way to Flatlanders, I think about how Dad always talks of life changing gradually, but that hasn’t been my experience at all. If you ask me, life takes wild, unexpected turns. Like Carly.

  “What’s up?” she says from behind me. Under one arm she’s carrying sticks she’s gathered. She drapes the other arm around my shoulder.

  “Life at Rocky Cove,” I say.

  We have just come into view of the reach, and even though the sun’s set on the lake side of the property, the ocean has taken on an amazing glow.

  “Okay. Let me see if I’ve got it.” A gentle pressure on my arm gives me the message to slow down and listen as the others walk quietly ahead down the dirt road past the cabins and eventually off Rocky Cove property to a beach that is apparently owned by Nigel’s grandmother. Oh, family tradition.

  “I’ve got the waitresses,” Carly goes on, pointing to them and whispering their names. “And I know who Nigel is—he’s the future owner of this place.”

  “How do you know about Nigel?” I ask.

  Carly shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about Nigel. He just behaves in ways that tell me he has lots of influence.”

  “Like deciding when to have a bingo tournament. Big decisions like that?”

  “Go ahead and laugh, but you’ll see what I mean before the summer is over.”

  Mariah drops back. “Be careful with that bag,” she says to me. “You have very important supplies.”

  “What?” Carly asks.

  “Bottle of wine,” I sing softly.

  “Fruit of the vine,” Carly joins in. “When you gonna let me get sober?”

  “I can’t believe it! You know that song!” I cry, hoping we’re far enough from the inn not to be heard.

  “So you guys grew up together, eh? In a bar?” says Annie.

  “Maybe we did,” Carly says. “No doubt our moms downed a few before we were born.”

  I’m about to say that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in a bar but stop myself. Let them think my life is anything but boring.

  Carly whoops. We’ve arrived at a cliff above Flatlanders Beach. A small cottage seems to grow out of the ledge.

  “Amazing, huh?” Carly runs down the hill, drops her pile of wood near an open fire pit, peels down to her tank top and boy shorts, and dives into the water.

  “How can she do that?” shrieks Annie.

  “I don’t know, but it looks like fun!” Kevin strips down to his boxers and plunges in after her.

  “Well, damn,” says Will, taking the challenge.

  “Come on, Nola Granola,” Carly shouts. “Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”

  I lower the bag I’ve been carrying, taking a quick mental check of what I put on after my shower. Sports bra, that’s good. Am I the type to run across the beach in my underwear? Why not?

  The water’s freezing—so much more so than the icy lake—but exhilarating.

  Kevin, Will, and Brita don’t last a minute.

  “Come on!” Carly dares me out to a buoy and back. We swim with swift strokes, matching each other in strength and speed. Reaching the buoy together is like crossing the finish line simultaneously with your cross-country running mates.

  “So, shall we keep going to Pumpkin Island out there?” Carly asks.

  She’d better be kidding. “I will if you will,” I say.

  Carly looks out at sea, then turns back with a “You know, that wine would taste pretty good now too.”

  I nod. I don’t drink, or at least I haven’t up till now, but I’m definitely grateful we’re not swimming farther out to sea.

  Annie waits on shore with a pile of beach towels she grabbed from the cabana hut as we passed the guests’ beach. Shivering, I take the top one. Carly digs down until she finds a towel with Minnie Mouse posing for a camera and wraps it around her shoulders. Then she walks toward a newly crackling fire to see who else has arrived.

  “Want me to get your clothes?” Kevin asks me.

  I glance around. My stuff is scattered among the feet of guys who seem to have appeared from nowhere.

  “Robin Hood counselors?” I ask.

  “Yup.” He seems slightly amused, the kind of kid who would combine all his pet lizards—male and female—just to see what they would do.

  I retreat behind him and scan the scene. God, there he is! Harrison is at this party. I feel heat rise up into my ears.

  “I’ll take this hiding behind me as a yes … about your clothes,” says Kevin.

  “What?”

  “Wait here.” A minute later he’s back with my jeans and sweatshirt.

  “Nola,” says Carly as I approach the fire, running my fingers through my hair, hoping I don’t look like some half-drowned mutt. “This is Dominic,” she says, pointing. “He’s from Columbia.”

  “The school, not the country,” adds one of the other guys.

  Dominic says, “I’m the trip counselor.”

  “And this is Harrison, right?” says Carly, placing her hand on his arm.

  Harrison waves a bottle at me as a sort of hello again, but in no other way indicates that we’ve already met. He turns to Carly. “And who are you?”

  “Carly Whitehouse,” says Dominic. “Righ
t?”

  “Wow! Good memory,” says Carly. “I’ll quiz you later,” she says to Harrison, giving his arm a squeeze.

  “Are these get-togethers regular events?” I ask Kevin as I button my jeans.

  “Not really. Last summer the girls didn’t get up the nerve till mid-August. I guess this year they’re not wasting any time.”

  Despite Carly’s energetic round of introductions, the beach party is still in this awkward, “what now?” stage. Brita and Mariah simultaneously look to Lucy as if to say, You’re better at this than we are—do something. But Lucy couldn’t care less whether the Rocky-Cove-meets-Robin-Hood affair is a success. She’s already sitting on a piece of driftwood, bare legs stretched in front of her, chatting with Will. He doesn’t seem to give two hoots about the others either.

  “We have a ton of food here,” Mariah says. “Anyone want a pork rind?” She holds out the package, but only Kevin is a taker.

  “These are disgusting!” he says after one taste. “If you’d given me some advance warning, I could have cooked up something spectacular.”

  The night grows cooler, we huddle closer to the fire, and the talk ceases again.

  Carly pulls me away. “Let’s do something to liven things up.”

  “Like what?” I say.

  “We’ll put on a skit.”

  “Playacting?” I think of Song and all the skits we’ve put on for my parents. But those performances never said “beach party” to me.

  “Oh, come on. We want people to loosen up. Help me find a stick. A long one. Trust me.”

  We climb back up the hill and into the woods to find the stick that Carly has in mind. During that time, she tells me my lines.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “We pretend the stick is a candy store counter and I ask you if you have these certain types of candy. And that’s funny how?”

  “I told you to trust me,” says Carly. “It’ll be funny.”