A Midsummer's Nightmare

  And I hated it.

  The thing that stung—the thing that was most obvious to me—was that this room was meant to be a guest room. It wasn’t mine.

  My bedroom at Dad’s condo hadn’t been fancy or anything. The old bed creaked, and the carpet really needed to be redone. A few photos of Dad and me were the only things that had decorated the walls (aside from one of his crazy bright paintings); I’d never taken the time to put up posters. But the room had been mine. No one slept there but me. Even during the school year, I knew Dad hadn’t used my room for visitors. He had a spare room for that. My room had belonged to me and only me.

  This room didn’t. It never would.

  “Did you know?” I demanded, turning to face Nathan. The anger over everything I’d learned in the past hour was finally boiling over. “The other night, did you know we were…?”

  He sighed and calmly shut the bedroom door. “No. I mean—yes, I knew Greg had a daughter, but I never asked what her name was. I had no idea it was you.”

  “Right.” I walked over to the window and stared down into the backyard, noting the fancy-looking patio strewn with lawn chairs and a table with an umbrella in the middle. I could also see the big-ass inground pool. The water was crystal blue, and a diving board stood at the far end. Just the kind of thing you’d see on TV. “This sucks.”

  He didn’t say anything. He was so calm, taking this so well. I kind of wanted to punch him, to make him yell the way I wanted to yell. Couldn’t he see how fucked up this was?

  I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my fingers around the windowsill. My summer wasn’t supposed to start like this.

  “I won’t tell them,” he said, breaking the long silence. “You don’t have to worry about your dad finding out.”

  “I don’t really give a shit what you tell them.” I opened my eyes and turned away from the window, walking over to unzip my duffel bag.

  Okay, that wasn’t true. I did care. I didn’t want Dad to know about the things I’d done. With Nathan or anyone else. No matter how angry I was at him, I still wanted him to see me as his little girl.

  But I admit, I would have loved to see Sylvia’s face when she found out a member of her perfect little family had thrown a wild party and slept with a girl he barely knew. She’d be scandalized.

  “Either way, you don’t have to worry about it. Obviously I’d be in trouble, too. So as far as I’m concerned, that party never happened.”

  “Awesome. Are you done now?” I asked.

  Our eyes met then, and he wasn’t smiling anymore. Not even that fake cover-up smile. He took a slow, deep breath before saying, “Sorry. I’ll let you unpack.”

  “How are you so calm about this?” I cried as he walked toward the door.

  Nathan didn’t look at me. He kept one hand on the knob, but hesitated before turning it. “We have to spend two and a half months living under the same roof. I think we should both just forget what happened the other night and start from scratch. So, like I said, that party never happened.” He opened the door. “Good luck getting settled in. I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.”

  And he walked away.

  I closed and locked the door behind him. Forget it ever happened? He made that sound so easy. I knew I’d told him he’d forget about me in no time, but I hadn’t expected to be living across the hall. I hated him for making it sound so simple.

  With a sigh, I walked back over to my open duffel bag and stared down at my clothes, thrown haphazardly into the bottom. I never folded things. I didn’t see the point; I’d just wear them and they’d get all crumpled again anyway. Folding T-shirts was a ridiculous waste of energy.

  I grabbed an armful of clothes and went to put them away, but I stopped in the middle of the room. I stared at the double doors of the closet, which I knew must be humongous. It was probably full of linens, I realized. There was probably an old ironing board inside, or maybe a collapsible treadmill. It wasn’t my closet. It wasn’t meant for my crap.

  So I put the clothes back in my bag. I wasn’t about to unpack. Not here. This wasn’t home.

  I was thinking of digging out the bottle of Margaritaville Gold at the bottom of my duffel. I’d brought it for the nights when Dad and I mixed drinks together. He preferred to use rum, which I wasn’t a fan of, so I’d packed my own tequila this summer. It looked like I was going to need it sooner than I thought, though.

  I was about to reach into my bag and find it when someone knocked on the door.

  “What?”

  “Um… Can I come in?”

  I frowned and walked across the room. After flipping the lock, I pulled the door open a crack and looked out into the hall. Bailey was standing there, running her fingers through her hair. Now that I got a decent look at her, I realized just how small this girl was. She hadn’t even hit five feet yet, and she looked like she might weigh ninety pounds. If Sylvia hadn’t mentioned that she was about to start high school, I would have guessed the kid was ten years old.

  “Is it okay if I, um, come in?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said, pulling the door open and stepping aside.

  “Thanks.” She walked into the room, barely looking around as she moved to plop down on the bed. She glanced at my duffel bag. “You unpacking?”

  “No,” I said. Before she could ask why, I added, “Do you need something?”

  “Oh. No, not really,” she answered, shaking her head. “Sorry. I can leave if I’m bothering you. I just thought I’d help you unpack or something.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “I mean, you seem… like, really surprised by all this.”

  “That’s because I am,” I said, pushing the door closed again.

  “Really? Your dad didn’t tell you about us?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.”

  “Wow… I’m sorry. That kind of sucks.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I hope you’ll still have fun here, though. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We can, like, hang out. I’ve never had a sister before.”

  This will not make us sisters, I thought. I wanted to scream it at her. It took everything I had to hold it back.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she was saying, unaware of my fuming. “Nathan’s okay. We don’t fight that much. Not like my friends do with their brothers. He drives me places and takes me to movies. He’s all right, but I’ve always wanted a sister…. You probably think that’s stupid, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much.” She looked suddenly hurt when I said this, and I felt kind of guilty, so I added, “I mean, I sort of get it. I have a big brother, too, but he moved out years ago, so I haven’t really been much of a sister in a while. I probably suck at it.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “I love your clothes. Those jeans are awesome. We could, like, hang out and go shopping if you want. I need some new clothes for high school, and, well, Mom said she’d take me, but… she has really bad taste. She always puts me in this old-woman-looking stuff. Stuff no one my age wears. I’d rather dress the way you do.”

  I looked down at my green cotton tank top and low-slung Tommy Hilfiger jeans. “Thanks.” The girl deserved some credit. At least she knew good fashion when she saw it. If there was one thing I cared about, it was my wardrobe, and I had certainly mastered the “I don’t give a shit” look. Believe it or not, it took a lot of talent to pull off that style without looking sloppy.

  “We should definitely go shopping,” she said again.

  “Um… maybe.”

  “Awesome,” she said. “My birthday is in August. I’ll have money after that. We could go to the mall in the next county over before you leave for college. That would be fun.”

  “Maybe,” I repeated. I wasn’t committing myself to anything. But it was impossible to flat out reject this girl. I wasn’t a pushover or anything. Far from it. She just had those big puppy eyes that made you feel guilty, you kno
w?

  That’s why, when she asked, “Do you want me to go? So you can unpack and get settled in?” I shook my head and let her stay.

  “So do you, like, have a boyfriend?” she asked, pulling her legs into a crisscross position on the bed. “Is he going to miss you while you’re here?”

  “I don’t have one,” I told her. “And I don’t want one, either.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Boys are a pain in the ass.”

  Bailey laughed, like she thought I was kidding. “I’m allowed to date once I start high school. I’m going to try out for the cheerleading squad this summer. Boys like cheerleaders, right?”

  “I guess,” I said, walking over to stare out the window. “I wouldn’t really know. I didn’t hang out with the cheerleaders much. We weren’t in the same crowd.”

  “So what crowd were you in?”

  I looked over at her, thinking of how to answer.

  I remembered being thirteen and thinking that high school would be some great new adventure. I’d even dreamed of being a cheerleader, too. At the time, though, I’d been in the middle of an awkward growth spurt. I was all knees and elbows, and I could barely walk without tripping, let alone do a decent cartwheel.

  By the time tryouts rolled around the next year, though, my ambitions had changed. I’d started partying and drinking and getting a reputation for being easy, which was funny, I guess, since I wasn’t even having sex when the rumors first started. The prissy little cheerleaders thought I was a wild-child slut, and I thought they were stupid bitches. So it just hadn’t worked out.

  It was weird to think I’d been so much like Bailey once.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly aware that she was still waiting on my answer. “Well, I was in the… the…”

  “Bailey!” Sylvia’s voice called from downstairs. “Honey, come help me set the table for supper.”

  “Coming!” Bailey yelled. She hopped off the bed and walked over to the door, looking back at me with that same happy smile. “We’ll hang out again later, okay?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled.

  “We eat dinner at six,” she added. “I’ll see you downstairs in a little while, Whitley.”

  Then she was gone.

  And I was finally alone.

  5

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Getting married?”

  “Yeah. This fall.”

  “Wow.” Mom was quiet for a moment before asking, “So… what’s she like?”

  I scowled at the phone in my hand, wishing she could see the annoyance on my face. “I don’t know, Mom. She’s a lawyer, has two kids, lives like freaking Martha Stewart. Does it matter?”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Yes. Gorgeous. Is that what you’re hoping to hear?”

  I wanted to throw my phone across the room, to scream. Even this was about her. About Dad moving on without her. About how she compared to Sylvia. She didn’t even seem to think about me.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Mom said with a sniffle. Was she crying? A weight pressed into my chest, and I wished I hadn’t snapped at her.

  I still remembered the days when she’d make me call in and lie to her boss, tell him that she was sick and couldn’t come in. The days when I ate only cereal because she wouldn’t even get up to cook. She hadn’t done that in years, not to that extent, at least, but this could be the thing to send her over the edge again.

  “Mom, I’m just… I’m really upset right now. This is all piling up on me at once, you know?”

  “Oh, I understand. God, this is so your father. I can’t believe he didn’t warn you. He is so selfish.”

  I gritted my teeth. Now she was going too far in the other direction. Did she really think this was helping me? I didn’t even know why I called her. I guess… I just wanted to talk to someone. I wanted someone to listen to me complain and to sympathize with me for a few minutes. I wanted someone to understand how lost I felt.

  I had tried to call Trace first, but all I got was his voice mail. And this wasn’t exactly something you left on the machine: Hey, did you know Dad is engaged to Carol Brady? No? Well he is and I’m pissed. Please make me feel better.

  Mom was my only other option. I didn’t have friends I could turn to. I didn’t have anyone. But calling her had clearly been a mistake.

  “I’m going to call him,” Mom declared, her sniffles gone, voice turned furious. “I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of this whole monstrosity. I’m—”

  “No, Mom,” I said. “Just… just leave it alone. It’s my fault…. Neither of us is a phone person—I should have made the effort to call him or something.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him, Whitley. He’s so—”

  “Munchkin! Nate! Come on down, kids. Dinner’s ready!”

  “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  I snapped the phone shut before she had time to respond.

  With a groan, I rolled off the bed and put my cell on the nightstand. As glad as I was to end that conversation, I still kind of wanted to come up with some sort of excuse—Daddy, I have a headache; I feel sick to my stomach—to get out of eating dinner with June Cleaver and her perfect children.

  Unfortunately for me, I was starving.

  Nathan walked out of his room just as I stepped out of mine. We both just kind of looked at each other for a weird second, then turned and headed toward the stairs. “So… munchkin, huh?” he said. “Aren’t you a little tall to be a munchkin?”

  “I had a growth spurt when I was thirteen,” I replied without thinking. “Dad just hasn’t found a more fitting nickname yet.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Well, my granddad still calls Mom his Sylvie Bear, so I guess it’s a universal thing.”

  I rolled my eyes and moved ahead of him, hurrying down the last few steps. I didn’t need his forced conversation. If he wanted to forget what happened the other night, we could forget in silence.

  “Hey, Whitley,” Sylvia said when I walked into the dining room. “I hope you’re making yourself comfortable.”

  “Sure,” I muttered. Of course I’m not comfortable, you Stepford Wife. This is, like, my worst nightmare.

  “Good,” she said. “I really want you to enjoy this summer with us.”

  “Whatever.” I glanced around the large oak-paneled room.

  Talk about fancy. Expensive-looking paintings hung from nails or rested against the wall, waiting to be put in their proper place. Every piece of furniture—all made of sleek, polished wood—looked brand-new. Of course, it probably was new. Clearly, Sylvia was one of the rich kinds of lawyers.

  “Don’t worry, babe,” Dad said, grinning at Sylvia from his seat. “She’ll have a great time.”

  I started to pull out a chair, but Sylvia stopped me. “Oh, honey, Bailey wants you to sit next to her.”

  “Mom!” Bailey shrieked from the other end of the dining table.

  “Well, you do want her sitting by you. You just said so a minute ago,” Sylvia said, sounding a little defensive. “Can I say anything that won’t embarrass you today?”

  “Only if you want to,” Bailey insisted, turning to look at me and ignoring her mother’s question. “It’s cool if you don’t. No big. I just thought—”

  Without saying anything, I walked around the table and pulled out the chair between my dad and Bailey. Sitting by her would be better than being next to Nathan, who’d just plopped down in the chair beside his mother.

  I glanced over at Sylvia and Nathan, expecting to overhear some Leave It to Beaver–esque dinner conversation. But their end of the table was quiet. Nathan was smiling, but Sylvia examined Nathan closely, intently. Maybe her supermom sense was tingling. I wondered just how much she’d freak if she knew about Nathan and me and the party.

  “Hey, Nate, do you mind passing the mashed potatoes this way?”

  Nathan spooned out an overlarge helping of mashed potatoes before passing the bowl to Dad. “Here you go, Greg. They’re awesome.”
br />   “Anything your mother cooks is awesome,” Dad replied.

  Gag me.

  “Oh, stop.” Sylvia laughed, and the tension I thought I’d seen in her face moments before vanished. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just wanted to see a problem with this arrangement. A gap. An imperfection. “You two are too sweet.”

  “Nate’s the sweet one,” Dad said. “I just agree with him and reap the benefits. It’s a wonderful job.”

  Nate, I thought. They were buddies. Dad already fit in here, with this family. He was one of them.

  And I wasn’t.

  Looking around the table, I realized just how out of place I was. The Caulfields and Dad were smiling. They were all dressed in bright, happy, summery colors. And me? I’d been fixed with a permanent scowl. I liked cold colors—dark greens and blues. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d really been happy in a long time.

  “So, munchkin,” Dad said, suddenly noticing me. This wasn’t really Dad, though. He sounded more mature and fatherly than the real Greg Johnson ever did. It was like his newscaster alter ego was speaking to me. A show just for the Caulfields.

  My real dad was laid back. Outside of work, he was casual and uncensored and funny. He swore and sang classic rock songs he barely knew the lyrics to—especially after he’d knocked back a few shots on the beach. I wanted to know where that man was. I wanted to know what Sylvia had done to change him.

  She’d taken him away from me.

  “What do you think of the house?” he asked in the TV-Dad voice. “Is your room okay?”

  “Fine,” I lied, taking the bowl of green beans from Bailey.

  That was something else I didn’t get. This family-dinner thing. Dad ate his microwavable meals in front of the TV, usually watching ESPN Classic. At the condo, on the nights when he grilled, we’d eat outside while the radio blasted Jimmy Buffett and he and his girlfriend of the moment drank margaritas. Dinner meant scratching itchy summer mosquito bites and hiding the scraps of burned hamburger in my napkin to avoid hurting Dad’s feelings.