Summer People, page 2
Meanwhile, Mr. Hansen twisted in his seat, obviously furious, his mouth open, his curses and recriminations unintelligible under the sound of the motor. She knew it was irrational, but Christmas felt guilty, as though she were somehow responsible, as though she had summoned Cash by turning him down earlier.
Cash accelerated until he was right next to Christmas. Their eyes met and she waved him away—the hand that held the bar was quivering—and he smirked and dropped back before appearing again on her other side. She pulled up, tried to ski closer to the boat and away from Cash so she could drop the rope, but there he was, right beside her again, no longer simply an annoyance but a true threat.
“Go away!” Christmas shouted. Her breath was shallow, and she was afraid she might cry.
Her arms and legs shook ever more violently from the strain. Her fingers, clutching the bar, felt frozen and locked. What was he trying to do? What was wrong with him?
The rope began to slacken and Christmas realized that Mr. Hansen was gradually slowing the boat. Although she didn’t sink immediately, it became more and more difficult to stay upright on the ski. Mr. Hansen was counting on Cash losing interest once there was no more wake to jump over. But Cash didn’t go away. He continued to slice closely—too closely—at high speeds, his Jet Ski making a thunderous noise as it leaped over its own waves.
“What is your problem?” Christmas tried to scream over the din as she sank. Her ski slid off and she clutched it to her chest, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable: just a head, bobbing in the water.
“Goddammit!” Mr. Hansen hollered from the boat.
Cash whooped, gunned his engine, and—finally—took off, zooming across the waves.
Christmas flushed with relief. The heat in her body made the water feel warm and though her muscles continued to spasm and shiver, she was suddenly sublimely comfortable. She dunked her head under the water and wiped the tears from her face. Emerging, she took deep breaths before she paddled to the boat, where Lexi and Mr. Hansen continued to rage.
“Could have killed you—”
“Are you okay? You looked really scared—”
“—call his father if I thought it would do any good.”
Christmas climbed up the ladder and Lexi put a towel around her shoulders.
“But you sure looked good out there, girl,” Lexi said, grinning.
“Son of a bitch,” Mr. Hansen said.
3
“He’s obviously a sociopath,” Lexi said as they reclined on deck chairs on the small slate patio, drying off.
The sun, which had just a moment before felt so heavenly on Christmas’s face, disappeared, and the air noticeably cooled. She shivered and squinted up at the obstructing cloud.
“Do you think he’s gonna pull that nonsense every time we ski this summer?” Lexi asked, blinking behind her sunglasses, pushing a black curl out of her face. “I’m afraid my grandfather might murder him. Like, for real. He’s probably gonna arm me with a crossbow and tell me to shoot at Cash while I’m skiing.” Lexi mimed lifting the weapon and gazing through the sight.
Christmas made a face and sat up too. “Cash Ford would probably think it was sexy or something.”
“Eww,” Lexi said. “More like Trash Ford.”
Christmas swallowed an impulse to defend Cash. Though Lexi’s estimation was not completely inaccurate, Christmas also knew that Cash wasn’t always terrible. And he hadn’t had the easiest life either. His family was well-known in Sweet Lake (his grandfather had operated an auto shop that was positioned somewhat ostentatiously on an acre of lakefront) and his dad, who had inherited the shop, was roundly adored. Mr. Ford was handsome—even for an old guy—in a sort of Matt Damon way, with a wide, easy smile and the same tousled blond hair as Cash, though his was graying at the temples. He was rich and showy about it, but he was also friendly and generous. All the local sports teams, PTAs, and fun runs knew he was good for a donation or sponsorship; he’d recently funded a new steeple on the local church. He wasn’t the mayor, but maybe that was because he didn’t need to be.
Cash’s mom had been a beauty queen, also locally famous. She’d died of cancer when Cash was nine, and he had always seemed a bit feral after that. He had his dad to look after him, of course, but Mr. Ford never really seemed all that concerned about what Cash got up to, what trouble he was in, which classes he was failing. When Cash was acting extra obnoxious, Christmas tried to remember that he’d lost his mom, but it was hard because Cash lacked his parents’ charisma.
Christmas opened her mouth, about to confess something she’d been meaning to tell Lexi, when Lexi’s phone vibrated. They both looked at it, Christmas snapping her mouth shut. Lexi, her hair back in her face, unselfconsciously smiled at the phone before texting back. “Sorry,” she said, catching Christmas’s eye. “That’s Martha. You’re gonna love her. I’m trying to convince her to take a few days off work—she works all the time—and come up. She’s just . . .” Lexi trailed off and her eyes rolled up to the sky and she shook her head as she searched for the words. “She’s the best.”
“Cool,” Christmas agreed weakly, though her mind snagged on those words: the best.
It wasn’t that Christmas didn’t want Lexi to have other friends. Or maybe it was. Though Christmas herself didn’t really have other close friends, she was self-aware enough to know that this was not a normal way of being, that most people liked to have several dear friends. So she would never actually give voice to her concern that Lexi was going to replace her, that Lexi, like Christmas, only had enough room in her heart for one best friend.
Maybe if Christmas had lived somewhere else—somewhere bigger—it would have been easier. It wasn’t as though she was bullied or persecuted. She said hi to everyone, had a group that she’d sat with at lunch for the four long years of high school. She had one classmate, Madison, whom she saw outside of school, but that was mostly because Madison insisted on it.
But if she were being honest, Christmas might admit that she hadn’t truly pursued friendships with her classmates. Though she pretended to be offended that after seven years most still considered her summer people, she was also to blame for her isolation. She was shy, of course, but more than that, her parents had not discouraged an attitude of apartness, perhaps even superiority. And Christmas knew that, even though her family had their own small-town scandal, folks in Sweet Lake still regarded her parents, both former teachers, with a little bit of awe, considering them a certain brand of eccentric intellectual.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Christmas had graduated and was starting college in the fall. She would meet new people there.
But mostly it didn’t matter because she had always had Lexi and always would.
Christmas knew what true friendship was. She knew what it was to meet someone and love them right away. Friends at first sight.
The Hansens’ house was about a half mile down the road from the Millers’ and Christmas’s parents had known Lexi’s grandparents well enough to say hello. When Christmas was seven, Mrs. Hansen (who was, sort of embarrassingly, around the same age as Christmas’s mother, Allie), told Allie that her granddaughter, who was also seven, was staying for the summer. Would Christmas like to come over and play?
Christmas, who didn’t go to a lot of people’s houses even back in Queens, was agitated, fretful about the playdate. But when she walked into the Hansens’ house, Lexi had taken her hand and led Christmas upstairs where there was a dollhouse, a box of Hot Wheels, and several ancient Barbies. Lexi was not put off by Christmas’s shyness or her nervous thumb-sucking, and also shared Christmas’s interest in intense imaginative play. The two spent that first afternoon spinning out an elaborate drama involving the Barbies, and Christmas recalled how wonderful it felt for a committed daydreamer to find her collaborator. And, perhaps even more exciting, was that when it was time to leave, they made plans to do it again the next day.
Lexi’s phone buzzed. Christmas watched—flexing her fingers, which were stiff, the skin raw and ready to callous after only one ski—and wondered if Lexi was texting that person Martha yet again.
“Sorry, sorry,” Lexi said again, the smile from the text exchange still playing on her lips. “Hey, do you want to go to that mini-golf place after dinner? I was just telling Martha about it—how it’s, like, authentically vintage but not because it’s trying to be cool but just because they have literally not updated it in a million years. I told her I’d send pictures.”
Christmas grimaced apologetically. “We—I—have that meeting tonight. The meeting about the algae?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Lexi said, nodding. “My grandparents want to go to that meeting too. Do I have to go?”
“It’s at the new town hall complex—you’ll get a preview of where we’ll be working tomorrow if you come,” Christmas said. “The camp is in the lower-level classrooms.”
“Imagine passing up such an enticing opportunity,” Lexi said. “But yeah, if it’s important to my Chrissy, I’ll come. We can do mini-golf tomorrow night. Are your parents going to this meeting?”
“Civic engagement isn’t really their vibe.” Christmas wrinkled her nose.
“I mean, can you blame them?”
“That’s a loaded question,” Christmas returned.
“Will we be the only non-gray-hairs there?”
“Probably.”
“Girls,” Mrs. Hansen called from an upstairs window. “Come in and eat.”
“Coming,” Lexi called back. She looked at Christmas. “She made lasagna.”
“Yum. I love your grandma’s lasagna.”
“How dare you,” Lexi joked. “Talking about my grammie like that.”
“I mean, everyone around here loves Kathy’s lasagna. It’s famous.”
“I had no idea my grandmother was so promiscuous. Culinarily speaking, that is.”
“Let’s just say she knows her way around a meat layer.”
“Too far,” Lexi laughed, rising.
Dinner was happy with the Hansens. Not generally effusive people, Lexi’s grandparents beamed at their granddaughter as she sat down to eat, and their warmth extended to and included Christmas. The lasagna was, as predicted, delicious.
Cleaning up, Christmas reminded everyone that they’d have to leave soon if they wanted to make it to the meeting on time. Lexi jumped in the shower and Christmas, eager to get moving, waited in the kitchen with Mr. Hansen.
The Hansens’ place was basically identical to the Millers’: a squat wood-frame house that appeared, from the front, to be only one story, but which was perched on an incline and had a low-ceilinged third story with two bedrooms and a bath, and a lower-level family room with sliding glass doors leading to the lake. The houses had been built as vacation homes in the 1950s, back when “upstate” was still a destination, and though in recent years more and more Brooklynites were gravitating to the area, Sweet Lake had obviously seen better days. One snarky blogger, observing the close-set, peeling-paint homes, with sinking porches and unattractive satellite dishes positioned prominently on front roofs, dismissed the whole area as Catskill Crappy.
But Christmas liked their houses. They were comfortable and always infused with the smells from outdoors: cut grass in the summer, snow in the winter, wet leaves and mud in the spring and fall, and the dank, deep, lovely smell of the lake all year-round.
Christmas and Mr. Hansen stood in near silence, Mr. Hansen intermittently jiggling his keys and Christmas checking her phone. Her friend Lemy had texted to see if she needed a ride to the meeting that night; her friend Madison had texted, too, to ask if she wanted to hang out afterward. Christmas politely declined both offers.
Perhaps noticing Christmas’s neck rolling and nervous habit of shifting from foot to foot, Mr. Hansen assured her, “We’ll get out the door eventually.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Though I don’t generally put much stock in having meetings about things.”
“My parents think it’s a waste of time too,” Christmas told him. “But I’m happy that people are talking about doing something.”
“‘Talking about doing something,’” Mr. Hansen repeated skeptically. He shrugged. “With Bill Ford running the show, who knows. I have heard that most everyone will be there. Worried about their property value. That’s one thing people care about: money.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Lexi called, rushing into the kitchen, her grandmother right behind her. “Who’s ready to go solve some problems?”
4
When they finally arrived at town hall, the main meeting room, which smelled of fresh paint and practically squeaked with newness, was already packed. Dan and Gina Lopez immediately rose, offering their seats to Lexi’s grandparents, but there didn’t seem to be any other vacant spots. Lemy caught Christmas’s eye and mouthed, “Sorry,” gesturing to the occupied space beside him.
Christmas’s friend Madison, however, began waving and pointing to a chair that she’d saved with her enormous purse. When Madison noticed Lexi beside Christmas, she immediately popped up and sat on the lap of the guy beside her—her fiancé, Owen—and waved even more vigorously. Christmas pulled Lexi’s hand and the two of them moved awkwardly down the row to the empty seats.
“Thanks,” Christmas whispered to Madison.
“Of course!” Madison chirped, leaning forward. “Hi, Lexi! Did you just get to town?”
“Yeah,” Lexi said, smiling and pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Hey.”
Owen nodded a greeting over Madison’s shoulder.
Christmas didn’t know Owen well. He was older than them, in his twenties, and Christmas had the sense that he only tolerated her because of Madison. And why Madison—sweet, adorable, cheerleader Madison—tolerated Christmas was itself a bit of a mystery.
Assigned to be lab partners in nineth grade bio, Madison assumed an immediate intimacy with Christmas, acting as if they’d always been—and always would be—friends, and then attentively maintaining their relationship, inviting Christmas to parties and clubs, tryouts and events. Christmas said yes around every third invitation. She enjoyed Madison and appreciated that Madison seemed to accept that she wasn’t the kind of friend who needed to hang out every day.
Madison and Owen’s Fourth of July party was coming up that weekend, and Christmas had tried to beg off, but Madison wouldn’t hear of it, even going so far as to insist that Owen would pick Christmas up and bring her to the party if she needed a ride. “I know your summer person will be here,” Madison had said, rolling her eyes. “She can be your plus-one.”
Though Christmas turned her attention to the meeting, which had already moved past the preliminary greeting and introductions, Madison began to feverishly whisper about the party. “Owen got some serious fireworks,” she said, her breath hot on Christmas’s ear. “There’s no furniture in the house—he sleeps on a mattress on the floor—but help me, Jesus, has he got the fixings for this party. Lanterns, lots of meat, two kegs. I’m going to decorate.” Madison continued talking, but Christmas tuned her out and tried to hear what Mr. Ford, who stood behind a podium in the front of the room, was saying.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of her eye, Christmas could see that Lexi was, as usual, texting. “What, are you live-tweeting the meeting?” Christmas whispered.
Lexi blew out her lips. “Yeah. It’s a real nail-biter.”
Christmas tried to listen. Mr. Ford called for nominations for the board of the association. The board, which Mr. Ford would presumably lead, would collect dues, hire a firm to do research, and then recommend a course of action for addressing the algae.
Two local guys Christmas didn’t know well volunteered and then, to her surprise, Owen nominated himself. Christmas leaned forward to give him an approving nod. Then, Mr. Ford gestured to the far side of the room. “Yes? Did you want to nominate yourself?”
As Christmas craned her neck to see who he was talking to, a curly-haired woman stood up. Christmas didn’t recognize her. A dark-haired and handsome guy was sitting with the woman, watching her, his face set and serious.
No one else had seemed to feel the need to stand up to speak.
“I don’t want to nominate myself, but I do have a comment,” the woman said.
Christmas looked harder, trying to place the woman. Probably just summer people.
“All nominees for the board are male,” the woman continued. “White male, it appears to me. Does anyone else find that problematic?” Some people tittered with nervous laughter.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” a man sitting near Christmas groaned. “Go back to Brooklyn,” he muttered.
Christmas, fizzing with anxiety at the prospect of public conflict, kept her eyes locked on Mr. Ford, whose smile was indulgent but suggested his patience was wearing thin.
“I’m not sure we’ve met, ma’am,” Mr. Ford said. “Do you own land in Sweet Lake? You know you have to be a property owner in the community to—”
“I’m Naomi Gold,” the woman interrupted. “And I am a property owner. I have to admit we have not been here as much as we would have liked in recent summers—honestly, I was in the middle of a divorce last year—but I own the blue house across from the church.” Christmas knew the house. Once or twice a summer, someone mowed the tall grass; otherwise, the place mostly sat, looking overgrown and abandoned.
“Divorced. You don’t say,” Mr. Ford said, still smiling. There was scattered laughter.
“Excuse me,” Naomi countered, looking out from under sculpted eyebrows, one hand on her hip.
Mr. Ford raised his palm in apology. “Aww, just teasing,” he said. “But, now, are you volunteering to run for that board position or not, Miss Gold?”
