version.â
âIâm from Connecticut, the Farmington River Valley, which isnât the same, but at least itâs a valley. Are we getting points for consistency? Iâm all about scoring points. I grew up in Avon, a small town outside of Hartford. And I applied to two schools. ULA was my top choice,â Karen says. âOops, I forgot to take a swig.â She dutifully takes a small swallow of her rum and Coke, and then she grimaces.
Diane laughs. âNext time you get vodka. Laurie, would you like to go next? I am the hostess, and therefore itâs my sworn duty to go last and take the smallest portion of everything served. Except for booze, of course.â
âNo, you go ahead,â I say, rubbing my finger around the rim of the glass. Iâve never had rum before; Iâm positive Iâm not going to care for it.
âOkay. Iâm a navy brat, so Iâm from everywhere, Camarillo right now. Thatâs north of LA for you out-of-towners. I applied to three schools. Top pick: ULA, naturally.â
âNot naming names, huh?â Ellen asks. âI guess it doesnât matter since weâre all here now. Laurie, youâre up.â
âIâm from San Francisco and I applied to ULA and Stanford,â I say.
âTake a swallow,â Ellen says. âThatâs part of it.â And so I do, just a small swallow, and it proves me right; I donât like the taste of rum at all.
Fifty-five minutes later, Joan and Cindy are asleep on Dianeâs bed, Cindyâs face scrubbed clean of makeup and looking all of fourteen years old, and the taste of rum is starting to make its appeal known. It does have a lovely flavor, sweet and strong and slightly tropical.
âBeach, definitely,â Ellen says. âI love the beach. My parents have a place at Malibu, and if I could live there, I would. Ocean, sand, sun, surf, itâs all I need to be happy. That, and a great bikini. Oh, and the body to go in a great bikini.â
âLakes,â I say, leaning my head back against the crushed couch cushions, my eyes half-closed against the overhead kitchen light. âLakes with pine trees and forests and cool nights. My family spends a few weeks every summer on Mackinac Island.â
âWhereâs that?â Karen asks.
âIn Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula,â I say. âI met Pete there last summer.â
âThe sailing guy,â Diane says, topping off our drinks with more rum. She empties the bottle into Ellenâs glass. âTime to switch to vodka.â
âWhoâs the sailing guy?â Ellen asks.
I shift my weight and check the buttons on my blouse. I didnât mean to talk about Pete. I shouldnât talk about Pete. Pete isnât mine and he canât be mine. Heâs Barbieâs now. He was Barbieâs then.
I have such a sick feeling in my stomach. I donât think rum agrees with me. I take another swallow to test the theory.
Diane looks at me, waiting for my answer. I suppose I should answer. I need to manage this somehow, control what is said and what is known. Of course, that would be far easier to do if I understood anything.
âLaurie, do you know a sailing guy?â Karen asks. Karen is lying on the sofa, her head on my lap. Ellen is lying on the floor, her head on one of Dianeâs bed pillows. Diane is in the kitchen, making orange juice and staring at me with compassion in her dark eyes. I never would have predicted that Diane could be compassionate. Itâs quite clear to me that I canât read people at all.
âHe was on Mackinac with his family; his fatherâs a doctor, a pathologist. I was sitting on a rock near the lake and he just walkedââ
into my life
, is how I want to finish the sentence, but he didnât walk into my life; he walked through itââby and we started talking.â
âThatâs how it always starts. With talking,â Ellen
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