Summer People, page 3
“It’s Dr. Gold,” Naomi called back, archly.
“You’re a medical doctor?” Mr. Ford asked, clearly ready to continue teasing. “It’s always good to have a doctor in the house.”
“I’m an EdD,” Naomi Gold responded.
Mr. Ford tilted his head and asked, “Now wasn’t that what afflicted Bob Dole?”
Several people laughed loudly.
Christmas didn’t get it and turned to Lexi. “Erectile dysfunction joke,” Lexi grumbled, barely looking up from her phone. “Eww.”
She still didn’t understand the joke completely, but that didn’t matter; the whole exchange struck Christmas as wildly unfair. Mr. Ford, well-known, beloved, respected, already had everyone on his side. She wished this Dr. Gold would just sit back down and let it go.
Christmas turned to look and was relieved to see Dr. Gold smiling, as though to prove she was a good sport. “I believe Bob Dole had several problems, but a doctorate in education was not one of them.” She cleared her throat as though she wanted to say some more, but then shook her head, her curls bouncing. “But to my point. I thought the lack of diversity was worth mentioning. And while I’m not running—I don’t think I’d get many votes anyway—I hope that any women, people of color, or others from underrepresented groups who might be interested would consider it. You’d have my support.”
When Christmas glanced at Lexi, her friend shrugged, as though to suggest the woman wasn’t wrong, before returning to her phone. Christmas thought that the handful of non-white people in town (including Curly, who was Chinese American, Dan and Gina Lopez, and Lexi herself, who was half Dominican) probably did not appreciate Naomi Gold’s call for people of color to step forward. If they volunteered now, it would seem like they were doing it just because some summer person said they should.
Mr. Ford paused and nodded. “All right then, Dr. Gold. Thank you for your contribution.” He turned his face toward the general crowd. “Are there any females or,” he cleared his voice, “better yet females who are people of color here to answer Dr. Gold’s call? I see Lemy has a hand raised. Now, Lemy, we all appreciate Curly’s ethnicity as well as your personal proclivities, but I’m pretty sure you still won’t qualify.”
“Ha, ha,” Lemy said, not laughing. Lemy—tall, red-haired, and handsome—looked severe—and more serious than Christmas had ever seen him. “I’ll be on your board. And I want to nominate Chrissy. Christmas Miller.”
Lemy and Curly shifted in their seats and gazed expectantly at Christmas. It seemed as though the whole room, with the creaking noise of a slowly turning ship, was adjusting itself in order to locate her.
Taken by surprise, Christmas shook her head, no. Sure, she and Lemy and Curly had talked about the algae, but she didn’t want to be in a leadership position. She certainly didn’t want to have to speak in public.
She could feel the blood rushing to her face, and she looked at the floor. “I don’t,” she stuttered, feeling countless eyes burning into her. “I can’t. I’m not . . .”
“She can,” Curly called out, half to Christmas and half to Mr. Ford, as Madison squirmed with delight and then poked her encouragingly in the ribs. “She knows more about this stuff than most people,” he added.
“Chrissy,” Mr. Ford said, a human lighthouse, beaming at her as though this was his own brilliant idea. “You’ll accept the nomination and bring a feminine touch to our board?”
Christmas rolled her neck. She was aware that she was blinking too much, but she couldn’t stop it. “I don’t think I . . .” she began.
“Just do it, Christmas,” Madison whispered. “You’ll be great. Plus, this meeting’s gone on too long already.”
“We’re counting on you, Christmas,” Curly called.
Christmas turned to Lexi, who dragged her eyes away from her phone and offered a small nod, as though to say, “Why not?”
“All right,” Christmas said at last, looking up and meeting Curly’s smiling eyes. “Thanks?”
Lemy wasn’t finished though, and he stood, gesturing for Christmas to do the same. “Tell them about Cornell,” he urged.
“Oh,” Christmas said, her mind suddenly blank. “Yeah. Well. They do . . . there’s a lab, I guess.”
“They’ll test the lake for free,” Lemy interjected, trying to help her out. “Christmas has already been in touch with them. We can find out exactly what’s in the water. And who,” he said angrily, casting his eyes over the audience, “exactly, is responsible.”
From the back of the room, someone bellowed: “The goddammed lake is poisoned and the sooner you people face that, the better.”
A number of people shouted out protests. Christmas turned to see Mr. Cunningham, a big man with blotchy cheeks and an ugly scowl, leaning against the back wall. Mr. Cunningham continued. “It’s poisoned. Get over it. There isn’t anything we can do about it.”
Lemy cut in. “Well, that’s what we’re here to work on, Carl. Finding some solutions to the algae.”
Mr. Cunningham made a dismissive gesture, throwing his hands out as if to say Lemy could shove it.
“Now, Carl raises an interesting issue,” Mr. Ford said. “Instead of wasting our energy on finding out what the problem is, maybe we should just figure out how to live with it. Or maybe prohibit lake use altogether.” Someone booed. “Maybe we could fill it in?” Ford continued shrugging.
“I’ve seen you and your son out there fishing and swimming,” Curly called out.
“I have never swum in that swamp, and I never will,” Mr. Ford retorted, laughing. As usual, the room laughed with him. “I barely know how to swim! And if my sweet son wants to eat the fish, well. Can’t possibly give him more brain damage than he already has.” Though, again, the tone was supposedly one of good-natured ribbing, Christmas’s stomach sank as she realized what a terrible thing it was for a father to say about his son, what a terrible thing to have the whole town laugh at you. She scanned the room quickly. She’d noticed Cash lurking in the back of the room when they’d come in but didn’t see him now. She hoped he’d slipped out to smoke and hadn’t heard what his father had said, even as a joke.
“You don’t really care about cleaning up the lake because it’s your shop that’s polluting it,” Lemy shouted at Mr. Ford. Christmas noticed that Lemy’s face was flushed and that he was furious, his anger, it seemed to her, almost out of control. His eyes darted from Mr. Ford to Curly and then back to Mr. Ford. “You’re dumping. Everyone knows you’re dumping.”
“Aww, now, that’s not true at all,” Mr. Ford said, grimacing dramatically.
“It’s your shop and Cunningham’s cows,” Lemy added. “You’re using our lake as your own runoff lagoons. There should be no businesses on the waterfront. Our Lake Board should demand that the town rezone—”
Lemy was cut off by Mr. Cunningham bellowing for him to shut his mouth.
“You shut your mouth!” Lemy shouted back.
“Listen, you tree-hugging fag—” Mr. Cunningham said, pointing his finger at Lemy and stepping forward.
There were audible gasps, and the rest of Mr. Cunningham’s tirade was drowned out by shouts of protest and the sound of chairs scraping as people began to rise, moving toward the ensuing fight or hustling toward the exit.
“What the?” Lexi said, standing and looking at Christmas, open-mouthed.
Christmas shook her head. Her pulse beat in her forehead; the already-overwhelming situation had suddenly turned dangerous.
There was more shouting as some of the men—including Owen—pressed toward where Mr. Cunningham stood, still hollering and cursing, ostensibly to quell whatever fight was about to break out. “Owen!” Madison called, following after him.
Lexi grabbed Christmas’s arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
They made their way with the rest of those who wanted nothing to do with the melee, Lexi’s hand clasped tightly around Christmas’s wrist, releasing her only when they stumbled out to the parking lot where stunned groups stood under the lights, hugging themselves against the chilly mountain air and trying to make sense of what had just happened. Christmas and Lexi found Lexi’s grandparents, and the four of them shook their heads with disbelief and disapproval.
“Really! What was that all about?” Mrs. Hansen said, holding a hand out to Lexi, who allowed herself to be pulled in under her grandmother’s arm.
“I’ll tell you what it was about, Grammie,” Lexi said, her eyes wide and angry. “Homophobia. I can’t believe that people up here talk like that.”
“Well,” Christmas began, making a face and shuffling her feet. Her heart continued to beat in her temples; she hoped Lemy and Curly were all right, and she let out a small, weird, nervous giggle.
“Are you laughing?” Lexi asked, looking at Christmas incredulously.
“No,” Christmas said, shaking her head. “I wasn’t laughing. It’s just . . . that was just . . .” She wanted to say more—of course she wasn’t laughing; she was in a state of shock. She was so shocked, in fact, that words failed her.
“Nice, Christmas,” Lexi said curtly. Her mouth turned down in a disgusted frown. “I mean, really.” In that moment, Lexi sounded just like her grammie, but Christmas knew better than to share this out loud.
Before Christmas could object or explain, Mr. Hansen stuck an arm out, as though to corral them toward the truck. “All right. Let’s not stand around in the parking lot all night.” To Christmas, he said, “Are you coming home with us?”
“If that’s okay,” Christmas said haltingly. She always stayed at the Hansens’ house when Lexi was in town, but she suddenly felt unsure.
“Of course,” Lexi said, blinking impatiently and then walking away toward the truck, leaving Christmas to follow.
Sitting in the collapsible jump seats in the back of the old Nissan King Cab, Lexi stared at her phone, and Christmas looked into the darkness. Their knees glanced together with each bump in the road until Christmas pulled her legs in closer, trying to make herself as small as possible.
5
The meeting had thrown everything off.
Christmas wished she’d gone alone, that she hadn’t forced Lexi to come with her. And she wanted to explain that she hadn’t been laughing at what Mr. Cunningham had said. Of course she thought it was disgusting. And Lemy was one of her few actual friends in Sweet Lake! Christmas didn’t understand why Lexi was so angry with her; she should know that Christmas sometimes had inappropriate nervous reactions.
But Christmas couldn’t find a way to reprise the conversation and, if she were being honest, perhaps didn’t really want to, as she was acutely afraid of what Lexi might say. A few different ideas skittered around the corners of Christmas’s mind, ideas that seemed to slip away into darkness as soon as she turned her attention to them.
One thing was clear: Lexi was unhappy. And for the rest of the evening, Christmas’s attempts at small talk or jokes based on their shared past fell flat. She floundered, unable to find that familiar, joyful connection she usually had with Lexi, her best friend, the person Christmas waited for all year long.
Down in the first-floor den, the girls grabbed fleece blankets and settled onto the couch to watch Okja, a movie Lemy and Curly had recommended to Christmas. She had already seen it—and wept throughout—and wanted to share this with Lexi. Lexi, however, almost immediately fell asleep.
And, for her part, instead of watching, Christmas ruminated and stewed. Although Christmas knew she would sound like a boomer, she couldn’t help but feel offended that Lexi never put her phone down long enough to finish a conversation. Christmas would be in the middle of a story, or about to tell a joke, and she’d glance over to see Lexi totally focused on another text, giving Christmas only a distracted “uh-huh,” or a forced laugh.
All these intrusions had to be from Martha—that girl with the old-fashioned name. Christmas couldn’t help but be hurt that Lexi seemed to prefer the company of this other, absent person to her own supposed best friend, who was right beside her.
As if on cue, Lexi’s phone lit up and vibrated, waking her.
“Oh,” Lexi said, opening one eye and then the other. She looked at her phone.
“Your girlfriend?” Christmas tried to tease.
In the dim light of the television, Lexi peered at Christmas from her end of the sofa, her mouth in a snarl. “What?”
“Is that Margaret or Marsha or whatever?” Christmas said, weakly, surprised by Lexi’s response. “She just texts you a lot.”
“Martha,” Lexi said, her tone clipped. She sat up and texted furiously with her thumbs before laying the phone facedown again. Christmas pretended to be watching the movie.
Lexi sat up abruptly and said, “I have some pot. Want to go out on the dock?”
“Okay,” Christmas said. She paused the movie.
Christmas wasn’t really into weed. She had learned the hard way that if she had too much, she’d get super anxious. But she’d vape to put Lexi at ease because if she didn’t, Lexi would complain that Christmas was making her feel like a drug addict. And Christmas already felt as though she’d screwed up too much.
Christmas located her flip-flops while Lexi went upstairs to grab her vape pen. Then, without speaking, they each wrapped blankets around their shoulders and went out the sliding glass door to the lake.
The cold air was sharp and felt good in Christmas’s lungs. They walked down the short lawn and then out to the end of Lexi’s grandparents’ dock, where the pier widened, and sat in the lake-facing Adirondack chairs.
Christmas longed for something casual to say—an observation about the beauty of the lake at night, or the swampy-sweet smell of the air, or sounds of the lapping waves and noisy bullfrogs—but she was afraid she’d come off as trying too hard. Instead, she waited to be passed the pen and murmured, “Thanks,” before taking a shallow drag.
“Look at all the stars,” Lexi said, and Christmas was momentarily, and perhaps pathetically, heartened.
“Remember that meteor shower a few years ago?” Christmas asked. “The shooting stars were practically nonstop.” Christmas and Lexi kept their voices low; Lexi’s grandparents were already asleep, and the girls knew, all too well, how voices carried across the lake.
“I do love it up here, despite all the terrible people,” Lexi said softly, still looking at the sky.
“They’re not all terrible,” Christmas protested. She handed the pen to Lexi. “I’m not terrible.”
“No,” Lexi said. “You’re not. Which is why I don’t understand how you survived. Or why you didn’t hit the road the minute you got your diploma. Like my mom.” She sighed. “At least your parents finally got Wi-Fi. Are you amazed that you lived without it for so long?”
“I am,” Christmas conceded, relieved to be able to pretend to ignore Lexi’s astounding and vaguely offensive suggestion that Christmas should leave Sweet Lake. “It was pretty ridiculous.”
Although they’d had cable and cell phones, Christmas’s parents had resisted getting high-speed Internet long past the time when this position was in any way defensible. And though Christmas experienced an almost physical relief when she was able to get online easily from home (no longer having to go to school or the library), she did also suspect that her parents had been right, that something ineffable had been lost. Back then, she’d believed that the three of them were still on the same team, and that team didn’t mind being different, or old-fashioned, or a little isolated. She wondered when she had stopped feeling that way.
“I would have run away if I were you,” Lexi said. “Honestly. To be stuck here, with these people, and not even been able to escape into Netflix for a few hours.”
“What are you talking about, ‘these people’?” Christmas said. She remained distantly incredulous, as though she knew that Lexi didn’t really mean what she said. Plus, she might think she was too good for Sweet Lake, but Lexi was technically more Sweet Lake than anyone:
like the Fords and the Cunninghams and the LaSalles, the Hansens had lived in the area for several generations, and that meant something to the people of Sweet Lake. And though her mother had fled at eighteen, she’d actually grown up in the very house behind them.
“You know,” Lexi said. “People here look at me as though I’m exotic, or they’re afraid I’m part of the advance crew of brown people that’s going to descend on them. It’s, like, totally toxic to spend more than a few days here.”
Christmas stifled a gasp. Was Lexi saying she regretted planning to stay for the whole summer? Would she return to Pennsylvania early? Was she already unhappy?
“Oh, please,” Christmas managed. “It’s not that bad.”
“Uh, yeah, it is,” Lexi said snappishly. “That display at the meeting? Even you can’t pretend that one away.”
“I don’t pretend things away.”
“You’re so . . . willfully naïve.”
Christmas had the sense that this was something Lexi had already thought about, had already articulated for herself. Was this how Lexi talked about her when she told Martha about Sweet Lake? That Christmas was naïve?
Lexi continued, “You must know how much it sucks here. But you refuse to admit it to me or even to yourself.”
Christmas realized she was on the cusp of true anger; it was like seeing a lightning flash in the distance. It was still possible that the storm might shift suddenly, might never hit, but not if Lexi kept going in this direction.
Lexi continued. “You’re unwilling to push back. Your parents only got the Internet because the school made them do it. You don’t ever stand up to them. Or anyone. I really worry about you staying here. Stagnating here.”
“Oh my God,” Christmas said, trying to smile as though she was shocked, to conceal the anger she felt bubbling up inside her. “Where is this coming from?”
“You make too many excuses for people. When they do things you don’t like, you avert your eyes. You’re in denial. I don’t know why you tolerate—”
