The Complete History of Why I Hate Her

  I decide to run in search of Harrison, and I head to Lookout Hill, hoping Providence will have a hand in our meeting like it did the first time.

  No such luck. There’s no sign of life here on this hill. Okay, so the possibility was extremely remote, and I’m just playing with wishful thinking, but I can’t help myself. It’s late afternoon. If Harrison is not down at the waterfront, he’s probably kicking back in his cabin or maybe hanging out at … what did he call it? Hostess House?

  I run down to the lake.

  Fortunately, the others aren’t there and neither are any guests. I walk to the edge of the water, as if I’m here just for a cooldown stretch, and look over to the Robin Hood docks. Boys of all ages are leaping off them. Must be free swim. I don’t see Harrison, but Josh, another waterfront counselor, recognizes me and waves. I wave back, turn, and run up the hill.

  So where is this Hostess House? I wonder. On the edge of camp, Harrison said. Does that mean in the woods or along the road? There’s a path on my left before the main road, and I decide to follow it. This is a foolish hunt, but I don’t care.

  Up ahead there’s a cabin, and I can hear laughter inside. A counselor, someone I recognize from the square dance, starts out the front door, and suddenly, I don’t know what to do. The path dead-ends. Do I pretend I’m lost? Turn around and run back?

  He says over his shoulder, “Harrison, I think there’s someone here for you.”

  Clearly, I haven’t been as subtle as I thought.

  My heart is pounding—and it’s not from the run. Now that I’ve obviously sought him out, what do I say?

  “Where’s your counterpart?” Harrison asks from the door.

  “I was running,” I say, as if that explains everything.

  “How many miles?”

  I laugh. “Not many.”

  Awkward silence. We both dive in with a new question, but I’m happy to yield to his.

  “How much time do you have before dinner?” he asks.

  I look at my watch. “Twenty minutes.” (If I cut out dinner for myself, I can go straight to waitressing.) “No, forty.”

  “Come with me.”

  He takes my hand and leads me through the woods, and I feel simultaneously calm and exhilarated. Calm because he seems to know me in a way that requires no explanation. I came looking for him. End of story. Exhilarated … well, because I am.

  We arrive at a cabin that’s a reasonable distance from the others. The camp laundry. It has that warm smell—a mixture of soap, heat, and dryer lint. There are labeled laundry bags everywhere. In the corner Harrison finds a big pile of bags stuffed presumably with clean clothes and waggles his eyebrows like a villain in a cartoon.

  We’re entirely alone.

  “Help me,” he says.

  Huh? I follow him back outside.

  Not far from the cabin is an old and crumbling stone wall. The type of wall farmers built to keep their cows penned. It’s hard to imagine that these dark woods used to be field. Harrison hoists several small rocks and hands them to me. When both our arms are full we head back and bury the rocks in the bottom of the bags.

  “Jason’s supposed to be delivering laundry,” Harrison explains. “But he’s back at Hostess House partaking in a little illegal activity.”

  I laugh at the image of the unknown Jason trying to drag these laundry bags and having no idea why they’re so heavy.

  After a few more trips for rocks, Harrison sits up on a dryer and, well, waits.

  It’s my move now, but I don’t know what to do. Do I sit beside him? Move in between his legs? Just stand here? “So where are you applying this fall?”

  He looks at me and then laughs.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” I say, but the question came out of nowhere and, I have to admit, sounded absurd. I laugh too.

  So Harrison reaches out his legs and pulls me in. “Where are you applying, Miss Nola?”

  “I can’t remember at the moment,” I say, knowing better than to give him my top ten choices.

  His fingertips move up and down my arm. “Tell me about your sister,” he says.

  And I do. I tell him her dreams of being a rock star. How ever since she was a little kid, she’s been nocturnal. The rest of us would be sound asleep, and Song would be wandering around the house picking things up and putting them down in new places. The next morning we’d find her curled in a ball somewhere, happy to sleep until noon. It was my job to go around the house each day moving things back.

  “Did you mind?”

  “Mind?”

  “Cleaning up after your sister.”

  Maybe I did mind. Maybe I never let myself know how much I minded. “At the time I didn’t see it that way. I was just doing something I was good at. Like a memory game. I remembered where things belonged.”

  “You’re a good—”

  “My dad used to call her Little Bat,” I say, and for some reason, this revelation makes me tear up. I miss her more than I realized.

  Harrison leans in and kisses my eyelids. Then he barely touches his lips to mine.

  I’ve never been kissed like this, and I want to push myself against him, devour his mouth, but I tell myself to hold, to wait.

  And that’s when Jason, higher than a kite, comes crashing through the cabin door.

  We exchange a delicious look of conspiracy while Jason curses at the weight of the G.D. bags, then Harrison looks at his watch. “You gotta scoot,” he says.

  Chapter 23

  “So how’s it going with the charming Harrison?” Kevin asks as I remove dirty dishes from my tray onto his food-globbered counter.

  I respond in a Southern accent. “Why, what do you mean, sir?” There are no secrets here at Rocky Cove. It doesn’t matter what you try to hold close.

  “Going nowhere, huh?”

  What can I say? We played a prank together on one of the other counselors? We sorta kissed? Of course, I’d been the one to hunt him down, not the other way around. “Who knows,” I say.

  “Give it time.” He smiles.

  It’s a nice thing to say. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t make the island trip,” I tell him.

  His face says it all. Couldn’t?

  “Carly made plans—”

  His face stays frozen.

  I stop the excuses. “You’re right, Kevin. It was definitely my loss.”

  He nods. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll arrange an outing for our next day off. That is—”

  “Okay. But there are a few things I require.”

  “Just give me your list,” I say.

  Out on the porch Carly is reading aloud from a letter she’s received. Mariah is sitting in the next rocker, looking on. Apparently, the pen pal is both funny and artistic—she’s drawn pictures in the margins. It takes me a moment to realize that the writer is Song.

  “You heard from my sister?” I ask, not bothering to disguise my hurt.

  “You didn’t?” asks Carly, looking up. She pushes over in her seat. “Here, I’ll start again from the beginning.”

  Song tells Carly how hard it is to be punk when you look like a bald, starving child. No hair to dye black, not enough white blood cells to risk piercing. It’s funny, I’ve never really thought of Song as punk. She’s my little sister. I consider her attraction to all things skullish a passing phase. (I can hear Kevin saying, Punk is so over, Song.) But I can tell from her letter that she feels taken seriously by Carly. How many letters has Carly written?

  It’s a long letter, causing my emotions to waver from curiosity (so this is how Song sounds when she’s talking to others), to jealousy (why didn’t she tell me that?), to guilt (have I been a real friend to Song, or do I just patronize her with my sympathy?). I think of myself as the one with the external experiences and Song as the one with the internal ones, but she’s telling Carly her reactions to people in our community, celebrities, my family. She hasn’t been living in a bubble after all.

  And then I hear
this, “‘Please keep sending me haiku, Carly. As you know, I collect them. I love that, with haiku, the meaning is between the lines. And you say more between the lines than anyone I know.’”

  Up until now there was no collection. For the longest time it’s been our own code. Other kids talked in pig Latin, we talked in 5-7-5.

  I make some excuse to leave and walk away, feeling numb. Annie is the only one in the barn. She’s typing an e-mail, but I can’t stop myself from interrupting her. I have to talk to someone.

  “I think I’m going out of my mind,” I say.

  Her fingers stop tapping and she turns to look at me.

  “I feel like my life is being taken over … by Carly.”

  “I know what you mean,” Annie says. “The barn shrinks over the summer. You should see how Mariah’s taken over our room.”

  “I don’t mean stuff,” I say, pulling a bench closer. “I mean everything. She has my haircut, she wears my clothes….” (She steals my ideas, she steals my sister.)

  “But, Nola, Carly is such a good friend to you. And she admires you—anyone can tell. As my mother would say, ‘Imitation is the best form of flattery.’”

  I take a deep breath. How do I explain? I swallow.

  “Talk to her. Tell her how you feel—but do it gently.”

  “I probably should,” I say, even though I know such a conversation would be totally useless.

  “You guys have been so close. What would we all do without the Cannolis? There’s still plenty of summer left. Don’t ruin your friendship for petty reasons.”

  I nod, suddenly hearing so much more than “Don’t ruin your friendship.” Annie’s also saying, Don’t ruin our perfect pairing. We waitresses float two-by-two. When it’s time to pick a partner, none of us has to think. When someone needs consoling, we know whose job it is. If Carly and I fall apart, they’d feel pressured to take sides. I feel trapped.

  The others have started to stroll in. I thank Annie in a voice that assures her no tantrums will be had and head up to my room. But I’m seething inside. I’ll write Song, I think. I’ll tell her my feelings about Carly. Surely, she’ll get it.

  And then I realize, without a doubt, even that avenue is closed now.

  Chapter 24

  Next morning, Carly slips her arm through mine as we walk to the docks. “Mariah promised to drive us into Ellsworth after lunch,” she says.

  “Laundry?” I ask, freeing myself. Unlike the counselors at Robin Hood, Rocky Cove staff has to drive to Scrubbing Bubbles in Ellsworth.

  “That, and I would like to buy some shoes. Running shoes. I’m beginning to feel like a slug, sleeping in while you work out. Look at me,” she says, pinching her waist. “Every bite I eat is going right to my belly.”

  “You’re not getting fat,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “You get plenty of exercise. Think of all the hiking we do around here. And you do more swimming than all of us combined.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” Carly says, stopping short. “I thought you’d like a running buddy.”

  Oh, I can’t think. My head is muddled. Is it me—or is it her? “What type of shoes?” I ask finally.

  “I don’t know. Do you like your New Balances?”

  My first reaction is Ack! But even I know that’s ridiculous. Half my cross-country team has the same trainers. It’s not the copying that’s bothering me this time; it’s the awareness that if Carly runs with me, I’ll lose the only time I have when my thoughts and feelings are mine alone.

  Stop, Nola, I tell myself. Maybe you’re worrying over nothing. I spread my towel out on the dock. Purchasing shoes does not mean Carly will actually start running.

  Mariah invites Annie to Ellsworth too, and after a quick stop at Country View Takeout for their famous blueberry cheesecake ice cream, we look for a place that sells decent trainers.

  “You know, this isn’t going to be cheap,” I say as we pile out of the Volvo outside Willey’s Sport Center. “Good running shoes start at about eighty bucks.”

  “What about poor running shoes?” Carly says. “For the appalling runner?”

  Up ahead I see a girl walking into a card shop. I’m not sure—it might be Bridget. It would be easy to go on without checking. And there’s a good chance Bridget doesn’t want to see me. But I hate the fact that things ended so badly. “Meet you guys in a minute,” I say.

  “Where are you going?” asks Carly. “I can’t pick these out without you.”

  “I won’t be long. See what you like. I’ll be right there.”

  “We can—”

  I don’t wait for Annie to finish. I pretend to be out of earshot.

  It is Bridget. She’s looking at baby albums.

  “Hi …,” I begin.

  She jumps, mumbles hi back, and then turns away from me again.

  The smell of vanilla and something else (new plastic?) suddenly overwhelms me.

  “I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” I say lamely, reaching for an album—giving my hands something to do. “If everything’s okay.”

  “Everything’s peachy,” she snaps.

  Do I walk away or push forward? “Bridget, I know I wasn’t the best roommate, but I don’t think I was the worst, either. Why are you so mad?”

  She turns toward me, clearly contemplating what to say.

  I notice she’s beginning to show.

  “In a very weak moment I told one person I was pregnant,” she says. “One person! One person I trusted. That was you.”

  “And I was okay with it, wasn’t I?”

  “Yeah. So okay that you felt you could share it with Pete.”

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s accusing me. “I—I didn’t—”

  “That’s why I was fired, Nola.”

  She doesn’t break eye contact, letting this information sink in. “Pete said it was impossible to keep me in light of the fact that I’m in ‘a family way.’”

  “But I didn’t tell him!” I say, ignoring the sounds of other customers around us. Right now it’s just me and Bridget.

  “How else could he find out?” She’s practically yelling too.

  I feel sucker punched. “You didn’t tell anyone else? Any of the other waitresses?” I ask.

  “Did you?” she accuses.

  I shake my head, “No. I—”

  And then it hits me. I realize I did. My God. My hand, still holding the stupid album, begins to shake. Could Carly have told Pete? If she did, she would have done it by phone. And if so, she was responsible for Bridget getting fired. My head is hot. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “I’m so sorry, Bridget. I didn’t tell Pete, but I might know who did,” I whisper. “I am so, so sorry.”

  She puts her hands on her belly and gives a little rub. “Carly Whitehouse?” she asks.

  “How do you know Carly?” This conversation is getting weird.

  “She goes to my high school,” Bridget says with a touch of resignation. “Someone told me she was working at Rocky Cove.”

  “She doesn’t go to Winsor? In Boston? Where her mother lives?”

  Bridget laughs. “Nope. Deer Isle High. Her mother’s the secretary there; father’s the basketball coach. Someone said she took off to live with her sister in Boston—she goes to school at—”

  “Wendy?”

  “Yeah. But I think Wendy wouldn’t have any part of it. Sent her home.”

  “What’s her sister like?”

  “Really smart … and beautiful. Everyone calls her ‘the normal one.’”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Carly’s crazy, Nola,” says Bridget.

  “A chameleon?” I ask.

  “A pathological liar.”

  Part of me is shocked. Part of me even wants to defend her. But most of me is singing, I know, I know, I know.

  “She was supposedly so wild as a toddler, her parents gave her away for a time. To a grandmother or something. But I don’t know if that’s true.” r />
  I tell Bridget one more time how sorry I am and that I hope she’ll let me know when the baby comes.

  “Nola,” she says as I’m walking out the door.

  I turn and look back.

  “Be careful.”

  I decide, as I walk from the card shop to Willey’s, not to confront Carly right away. After all, she could have told lots of people on Deer Isle about Bridget and maybe word just got around. So I try to act normal and hope, for once, that Carly can’t detect any withdrawal on my part.

  “Where did you go?” she whines.

  “I thought I might buy a card for Song,” I say as cheerfully as I can. “But none seemed right. Which shoes look like you?”

  And who are you?

  Chapter 25

  Truth is, I’m way too afraid to confront Carly. How crazy is crazy?

  But I have to tell someone. So I beg Kevin (I don’t want to tell any of the others just yet) to meet me down at the docks after he’s finished washing pots that night.

  I ask him: “Do you think she’d actually call to have Bridget fired?” We’re sitting at the edge of the dock swatting mosquitoes.

  “Well, yeah. Don’t you think?” he says.

  I laugh. It is such a relief to hear that someone else sees Carly the way I’m beginning—duh!—to see Carly.

  “What should I do?”

  He slaps a bug on his leg. “Confront her, of course.”

  “Oh, God, Kevin. I’m too chicken. She could make the rest of my season hell!”

  “And how would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like if I challenge her on this, she could—I don’t know—take away my friends. My job. She did it to Bridget!”

  “Bridget got pregnant.”

  “I suppose …”

  “Harrison?”

  “Well, yeah. She’s already taken so much that’s mine,” I say. “Not that Harrison is mine,” I quickly add. “It feels like Carly could …”