Brody’s previous plan and your previousplan to go to the beach are actually the date in question, or is there another fake or real date after that?”
Exasperated, I gave her a warning look.
“Sorry,” Tia said. “I know. I shouldn’t be criticizing your romantic life. Before Will, my dating scene pretty much began and ended with giving Sawyer hand jobs behind the Crab Lab.” Several elderly men walking past turned to stare at her as she said this. She winked at them.
“I’m too polite to bring that up,” I said.
“Do you want me to get Will to ask Brody, then report back . . . to . . . you?” Her words slowed as my expression grew darker.
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said. “This is already embarrassing enough. No reason to take us back to the fifth grade.”
Her mouth twisted sideways in a grimace as she handed the camera bag back to me. Tia clearly wanted to help but didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say, because my situation was so hopeless.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I have a boyfriend. This is just a yearbook picture. I’ll see you at the beach.”
“Later,” she said, but she looked uncertain as she wound her way up the street toward the antiques store where she and her sister worked.
Tia was tall. It took a few minutes for me to lose the backof her shining auburn hair on the sidewalk now crowded with shoppers. I should have turned for home, e-mailed Noah and Will for permission to send my shot of them to the newspaper, and started uploading my race photos.
But now that Tia was gone and Brody was gone and I stood alone in the middle of the street, I was aware of the happiness all around me for the first time that day. The rock band had launched into another song. Families stood in line outside the ice cream parlor, even though it was nine a.m., because regular meal times meant nothing and calories didn’t count on holidays. Kids giggled as they tumbled out the door of an inflatable bouncy castle. I pulled my camera out of my bag again, attached the telephoto lens, and snapped a few shots of the kids’ flip-flops and sandals lined up on the street.
I glanced down at my own kitten heels with their shiny, black-patent pointed toes.
In the midst of all this carefree joy, I looked like a mutant. A mutant on a job interview.
I thought ahead to my meeting with Brody at the beach. He would be shirtless, again, and irresistible, again. I would be wearing my 1950s-style, high-necked, one-piece maillot. If an item of clothing had a French name, it probably wouldn’t leave much of an impression on a Florida jock. At least, not the impression I wanted.
Last spring I’d been ecstatic to find a bathing suit made specifically for my retro style. Kaye and Tia had told me it was adorable. But next to Grace, I would look like I was wearing a hazmat suit.
Ten minutes later, I found myself in the dressing room at a surf shop, staring at myself in the mirror, guessing what Brody would think when he saw me in a red bikini.
5
I MUTTERED TO MYSELF, “I have an illness.”
“What’d you say, sugar pie?” the lady who owned the store called through the curtain. “Do you need a different size?”
I raked back the curtain to show her the bikini.
“You do not need a different size,” she declared. “Maybe an extra bottle of sunscreen to protect all that lovely skin you’re showing, but not a different size.”
I paid for the bathing suit. The shop lady put it in a pretty bag with color-coordinated tissue paper fluffing out the top. But on my walk home, I felt like I’d stolen it. It was as if everyone at the street festival watched my escape. I was so self-conscious about the bikini in my bag that I stowed it in my room, at the back of my closet, where Mom wouldn’t see it. If she asked me about it, I’d never wear it. I would chicken out.
I went to find Mom. She was upstairs in one of the B & B’s guest bathrooms, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the grout on the
Exasperated, I gave her a warning look.
“Sorry,” Tia said. “I know. I shouldn’t be criticizing your romantic life. Before Will, my dating scene pretty much began and ended with giving Sawyer hand jobs behind the Crab Lab.” Several elderly men walking past turned to stare at her as she said this. She winked at them.
“I’m too polite to bring that up,” I said.
“Do you want me to get Will to ask Brody, then report back . . . to . . . you?” Her words slowed as my expression grew darker.
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said. “This is already embarrassing enough. No reason to take us back to the fifth grade.”
Her mouth twisted sideways in a grimace as she handed the camera bag back to me. Tia clearly wanted to help but didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say, because my situation was so hopeless.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I have a boyfriend. This is just a yearbook picture. I’ll see you at the beach.”
“Later,” she said, but she looked uncertain as she wound her way up the street toward the antiques store where she and her sister worked.
Tia was tall. It took a few minutes for me to lose the backof her shining auburn hair on the sidewalk now crowded with shoppers. I should have turned for home, e-mailed Noah and Will for permission to send my shot of them to the newspaper, and started uploading my race photos.
But now that Tia was gone and Brody was gone and I stood alone in the middle of the street, I was aware of the happiness all around me for the first time that day. The rock band had launched into another song. Families stood in line outside the ice cream parlor, even though it was nine a.m., because regular meal times meant nothing and calories didn’t count on holidays. Kids giggled as they tumbled out the door of an inflatable bouncy castle. I pulled my camera out of my bag again, attached the telephoto lens, and snapped a few shots of the kids’ flip-flops and sandals lined up on the street.
I glanced down at my own kitten heels with their shiny, black-patent pointed toes.
In the midst of all this carefree joy, I looked like a mutant. A mutant on a job interview.
I thought ahead to my meeting with Brody at the beach. He would be shirtless, again, and irresistible, again. I would be wearing my 1950s-style, high-necked, one-piece maillot. If an item of clothing had a French name, it probably wouldn’t leave much of an impression on a Florida jock. At least, not the impression I wanted.
Last spring I’d been ecstatic to find a bathing suit made specifically for my retro style. Kaye and Tia had told me it was adorable. But next to Grace, I would look like I was wearing a hazmat suit.
Ten minutes later, I found myself in the dressing room at a surf shop, staring at myself in the mirror, guessing what Brody would think when he saw me in a red bikini.
5
I MUTTERED TO MYSELF, “I have an illness.”
“What’d you say, sugar pie?” the lady who owned the store called through the curtain. “Do you need a different size?”
I raked back the curtain to show her the bikini.
“You do not need a different size,” she declared. “Maybe an extra bottle of sunscreen to protect all that lovely skin you’re showing, but not a different size.”
I paid for the bathing suit. The shop lady put it in a pretty bag with color-coordinated tissue paper fluffing out the top. But on my walk home, I felt like I’d stolen it. It was as if everyone at the street festival watched my escape. I was so self-conscious about the bikini in my bag that I stowed it in my room, at the back of my closet, where Mom wouldn’t see it. If she asked me about it, I’d never wear it. I would chicken out.
I went to find Mom. She was upstairs in one of the B & B’s guest bathrooms, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the grout on the
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