and Gran will think you’re a slut? Because you are one, Eliza,” I added savagely. “And you’re a fucking cunt, too. I can’t believe you said that to him about me not liking girls.”
She glared at me. “What do you care? You don’t even know him. He’s just some townie fisherman. What do you care what he thinks?”
“What do you care what Mum and Gran think?” I shot back. “Why shouldn’t I tell Mum that you’re hanging around the beach picking up guys and agreeing to meet them behind everyone’s back? What if he’s a rapist ?” I hated myself even as I said it.
“He’s not a rapist , he’s a fisherman . His parents own Treleaven’s. He works there part-time. He liked Gran’s car, and we just started to talk. He’s cute. I think I’ve seen him around before, too.”
Cute . I really would kill her, right here, right now. “Then why be ashamed of telling Mum and Gran?”
“Because they won’t understand, that’s why.” Eliza sounded distraught, and if I didn’t hate her so much at that moment, I might have felt sorry for her. “You know what a snob Gran is about townies. Please, Jem. Look, I know I’ve been a bitch to you all day, and I’m sorry. But please, just this once. Keep it between us? Please?”
“Do you really like him, Eliza?” The pain in my voice, if she picked up on it at all, would be interpreted as anger directed at her. Eliza was too narcissistic to hear pain in another person’s voice unless she herself was causing it, on purpose. In any event, since I had the upper hand at that moment regarding keeping her secret or not it barely mattered anyway. I felt as though a nail-studded coffin full of bricks was lying across my chest, suffocating me and impaling me on its dull spikes at the same time. “Do you want him to be your…your boyfriend ?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said lightly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’m bored. And he’s cute. He’ll do for the rest of August at least, I guess.”
I agreed to keep her secret, for my own reasons. Eliza’s proximity to Angus would bring him into my orbit as nothing else could. Adoring him from a distance had been my secret, the image I treasured after lights-out at school when I touched myself under the covers in my dorm room, when I was sure my roommate was asleep, and every night of every summer, especially in August at Flyte.
But that night I cried myself to sleep, suffocating beneath the weight of jealousy and loss over what Eliza had stolen. Because now, every time I tried to summon my cherished image of Angus in the dunes, it was my sister’s grinning face I saw underneath him, and he was fucking this time, not making love .
If Eliza hadn’t been reading her poetry aloud as she paced the upstairs hallway instead of watching where she was going, she would never have tripped on the third-floor stairs and broken her leg two weeks later. If she hadn’t broken her leg, I might never have wound up on Angus’s boat, and what happened would not have happened.
“You need to go meet him for me,” Eliza pleaded. “Tell him what happened. Tell him I can’t meet him, but that I’ll call him in a few days. We were supposed to go out on his boat tonight. He wanted to take me fishing. This is so tragic.”
“All right, Eliza. But you’ll owe me.” After two weeks of enduring conspiratorial smiles, sighs, and winks from Eliza before and after she slipped out to meet Angus, and listening to my oblivious grandmother compliment Eliza on how nice she was looking lately with a little makeup and her hair brushed, Eliza’s accident was an immensely satisfying experience. I could barely contain my euphoria, especially when I found out that the poem she’d been reading was a new, particularly awful one called “The Fisherman’s Friend,” about her and Angus, whom she now referred to in private as her “muse” and “incubus.” I hated her even
She glared at me. “What do you care? You don’t even know him. He’s just some townie fisherman. What do you care what he thinks?”
“What do you care what Mum and Gran think?” I shot back. “Why shouldn’t I tell Mum that you’re hanging around the beach picking up guys and agreeing to meet them behind everyone’s back? What if he’s a rapist ?” I hated myself even as I said it.
“He’s not a rapist , he’s a fisherman . His parents own Treleaven’s. He works there part-time. He liked Gran’s car, and we just started to talk. He’s cute. I think I’ve seen him around before, too.”
Cute . I really would kill her, right here, right now. “Then why be ashamed of telling Mum and Gran?”
“Because they won’t understand, that’s why.” Eliza sounded distraught, and if I didn’t hate her so much at that moment, I might have felt sorry for her. “You know what a snob Gran is about townies. Please, Jem. Look, I know I’ve been a bitch to you all day, and I’m sorry. But please, just this once. Keep it between us? Please?”
“Do you really like him, Eliza?” The pain in my voice, if she picked up on it at all, would be interpreted as anger directed at her. Eliza was too narcissistic to hear pain in another person’s voice unless she herself was causing it, on purpose. In any event, since I had the upper hand at that moment regarding keeping her secret or not it barely mattered anyway. I felt as though a nail-studded coffin full of bricks was lying across my chest, suffocating me and impaling me on its dull spikes at the same time. “Do you want him to be your…your boyfriend ?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said lightly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’m bored. And he’s cute. He’ll do for the rest of August at least, I guess.”
I agreed to keep her secret, for my own reasons. Eliza’s proximity to Angus would bring him into my orbit as nothing else could. Adoring him from a distance had been my secret, the image I treasured after lights-out at school when I touched myself under the covers in my dorm room, when I was sure my roommate was asleep, and every night of every summer, especially in August at Flyte.
But that night I cried myself to sleep, suffocating beneath the weight of jealousy and loss over what Eliza had stolen. Because now, every time I tried to summon my cherished image of Angus in the dunes, it was my sister’s grinning face I saw underneath him, and he was fucking this time, not making love .
If Eliza hadn’t been reading her poetry aloud as she paced the upstairs hallway instead of watching where she was going, she would never have tripped on the third-floor stairs and broken her leg two weeks later. If she hadn’t broken her leg, I might never have wound up on Angus’s boat, and what happened would not have happened.
“You need to go meet him for me,” Eliza pleaded. “Tell him what happened. Tell him I can’t meet him, but that I’ll call him in a few days. We were supposed to go out on his boat tonight. He wanted to take me fishing. This is so tragic.”
“All right, Eliza. But you’ll owe me.” After two weeks of enduring conspiratorial smiles, sighs, and winks from Eliza before and after she slipped out to meet Angus, and listening to my oblivious grandmother compliment Eliza on how nice she was looking lately with a little makeup and her hair brushed, Eliza’s accident was an immensely satisfying experience. I could barely contain my euphoria, especially when I found out that the poem she’d been reading was a new, particularly awful one called “The Fisherman’s Friend,” about her and Angus, whom she now referred to in private as her “muse” and “incubus.” I hated her even
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