Molly had wanted a lot of things from boys over the years: affection, attention, fast cars, money spent, good times, a companion for hanging out. But for this thin, dark boy with his sharp, thin features, his eyes that drilled into hers and his soft laugh, she felt something different. She wanted his good opinion.
I want him to think I’m terrific, she realized. I want him to think I’m nice. But I’m not either one.
Molly ate less, and swallowed with difficulty.
“That was really nice of you,” said Blaze suddenly, “jumping into the fray there when Con was giving me a hard time about my name.”
Molly had to set down her fork so it wouldn’t tremble. Had anybody ever thanked her for doing something nice? Had she ever done anything nice to get thanked for? “Con is a jerk,” she said briefly.
“But who is he?” Blaze asked. “Who are any of these kids?”
Her opinions were low. Con was a shallow Big Man on Campus, who, like his girlfriend Anne, had achieved everything just by standing there and being pretty. Beth was a non-entity with great hair. Kip was a show-off who tried to run the world. Emily was—
Emily.
Molly touched the ring on her finger.
Crazy, that’s what Emily was.
Molly took a breath to tell Blaze exactly what she thought of every guest on board the Duet, but something stopped her. If I say ugly things, she thought, he won’t think I’m nice. Molly struggled to think of nice things, therefore, but nothing came to mind. Finally she said, “Con’s always gotten his way. From swim team to Anne. Now he’s not getting his way. It’s a kid’s tantrum, that’s all.”
Blaze accepted this. He set his plate down on the bench next to hers. “Finished?”
“Stuffed.”
“Want to dance?”
They danced right where they were, away from the others, cramped by boat equipment. “This party,” said Blaze after a while, “has worn me out.”
“I can imagine. How many parties involve food fights, insults, and swimming to clean off your clothes?”
Blaze laughed. “Listen,” he said uncomfortably, “you’re the second really nice person I’ve met. Beth Rose is the other one. I know this sounds dumb, but I’ll only be in Westerly a few more days. I hate to waste them. You and Beth are such good friends. Do you think maybe both of you would sort of—oh—run around with me and do stuff next week? Just as—you know—friends?”
Surely, thought Beth Rose, the strangest sight I have ever seen is Kip holding hands with Con, leaping over the side, and swimming toward Swallow Island in the night.
Who could imagine Kip and Con doing anything together ever? Who would want to do anything as horrid as swim in the dark anyhow? What if your foot touched something? Ick. It could be anything from a fish that bit, to a dead body.
If the captain of the Duet knew, he would surely refuse permission. It had to be dangerous. Of course, by day they all swam in the Westerly River, and the best swimming was off Swallow Island. Still…
She listened to splashing. Jere put his camera back down. Too dark now to take films. Beth could no longer tell if the water noises were Kip and Con swimming, or somebody far away on a dock kicking his bare feet in the water, or killer sharks. She giggled.
“What?” said Jere.
“I decided I don’t have to worry if killer sharks are going to eat them.”
“Very few killer sharks in Westerly River,” agreed Jere, laughing. “Want something more to eat? We have to keep a vigil here and be keepers of the finish line. Those two strike me as very competitive types who will not want their judges to be off dancing when they get back.”
“You don’t think anything could happen to them, do you?” Beth said.
Jere considered it. Beth Rose liked how he didn’t just laugh off her worry, but gave it real thought. Not like her parents, or Gary, or even Anne, all of whom would sometimes study the ceiling when she worried about something and moan, “Oh, Beth, really.” Jere said, “This is a pretty tame river. I’ve spent my life on it or in it. Hard to imagine what could happen except they could get tired. Both captains of swim teams…I’m not going to call the water police about them, if that’s what you mean.”
Beth filled her plate mostly with salad. This was not for diet reasons, but because she had already had helpings of manicotti and eggplant and half a loaf of Italian bread slathered with butter. “You,” she accused Jere, “had the garlic bread.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I love the stuff. Here. I’ll hide behind my camera.”
“No. I’ll have garlic bread, too. Then we’ll have matching garlic breath.”
They ate quietly, savoring flavor and texture. Little flakes of bread crust fell on their clothes. Beth wanted to brush them off Jere, but stopped herself. She was not quite ready for the return gesture. Now and then Jere touched his camera the way a girl touches her purse, to reassure himself it was there and safe by his feet. “Don’t film me eating,” Beth said. “Or doing anything else. I don’t want to be immortalized.”
“You’re the only one. Most people love it.” He told her about his jobs—bar mitzvahs and family reunions, church picnics and school graduations. She was fascinated, and asked great questions, each one letting him tell more and more details about himself. Jere loved to talk about himself. With an effort, he remembered that it was only fair to let Beth talk about herself, too. “So what are you going to do now that you’ve graduated?”
“I’ve had to answer that question ten hundred times,” wailed Beth. “Nine hundred of them tonight.”
“Sorry. Forget it. Keep the future to yourself. Have more garlic bread, then nobody else will ask you anything tonight.”
She laughed. Jere was getting a real thing for her hair. It seemed unaffected by gravity. When she shook her head, her crazy red hair flew around and stayed up. He wondered how Beth would react to a very garlicky kiss. He took a light breath, and thought about it in detail.
Beth Rose was contemplating the last two pieces of the garlic loaf. “Other kids are deciding whether to go to Rome or Paris,” he teased her. “You’re trying to decide whether to have another slice of bread.” He kissed her cheek very lightly. It made him so nervous he was completely exhausted by it, but it was so pleasurable he was filled with enough energy to do it all night.
“Beth?” he said, passing her the garlic bread, “what are you doing tomorrow?”
Molly Nelmes didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She and Beth Rose were supposed to escort Blaze for the rest of the summer? She could just imagine walking up to Beth with that request. “Hey, Beth, old friend? I know you hate and despise me, for good reason, of course, and I know I find you about as interesting as mismatched socks in a dark laundry room, but let’s show Blaze the world of Westerly, huh? Sound like fun? Think we can pull it off?”
She said, “I’d love to run around with you for a few days, Blaze. I don’t know what Beth’s plans are, though.”
He teased her about her days-Blaze rhyme.
Molly thought, How can he possibly like me at the same time he likes Beth Rose? And what happens if Beth Rose and I like him at the same time?
“Let’s join the others on the upper deck,” she said. “I should introduce you to more of them.”
“I don’t think I want to meet more of them,” said Blaze. “They’re Con’s friends, right? So who needs them?”
Molly was crazy about him. About his name and his tan, and his thin nose, which she wanted to trace with the tip of her finger. She had never wanted to touch anybody so much.
And how wonderful—what icing on a perfect cake—to have him more interested in her than in any friends of Con Winter!
Molly put forth her hand, to drag him up, but he took the hand and did not budge. In a very strange voice Blaze said, “You’re wearing an engagement ring.”
Chapter 18
MATT O’CONNOR TRIED TO think about his job. Racing cars. The wonderful hot smell of tires leaving patches on asphalt. The fee
l of the tools and the frenzy of speed. And so much would be at stake! He would be on probation and if he didn’t fit in, wasn’t good enough, couldn’t get along with the crew, then he’d be out.
It was a life that made Matt hot with excitement. Or had. Now it sounded like a paragraph he was reading in Popular Science or Sports Illustrated. Something other men did. Something far removed from his real existence.
Matt watched Kip and Con swim away. He was envious. He’d love to swim away from this problem. And he wouldn’t swim back, either.
The important thing, he told himself, is to stay nonviolent.
He was grateful for the noise ordinance that meant they’d have to get off the river shortly. No power boats past ten-thirty. Con had had to get a special permit to have the fireworks. Although no doubt Kip had actually done that for him, too.
Matt glimpsed Emily. She was alone. Holding a plate she had not touched. Probably wasn’t going to touch, since she had picked up no fork. She looked very small.
On the other side of the cabin, Matt could hear girls talking. “There’s enough food down there to sink the Duet,” said one.
“One duet aboard this ship already sank,” giggled another girl. “Matt and Emily are over. Done. Split. She isn’t wearing her ring anymore.”
“Yeah?” said the first, with intense interest. “What happened? You know any details?”
“No. Let’s corner Emily and get them.”
The gossiping girls laughed almost wildly.
Matt felt ill. Em would hate having to tell people she wasn’t friends with what had happened. He moved quickly to get to Em first. “Stick with me,” he said to her without preliminaries, “there are some Class A gossips en route to talk to you.” He took her plate, shoveled more food on it, grabbed forks and napkins, and retreated with Emily to the stuffy little cabin.
“We can’t talk here,” murmured Emily, waving at a group of friends who had most of the seats already.
“You don’t want to talk anyhow, do you?” Matt said.
She shrugged infinitesimally. Which probably meant Yes, she did want to talk. Matt balanced the plate and moved on with her, trying to find privacy. Finally they sat on a bench—but not close. There was room for another couple between them. In fact, conversation was so awkward, it felt like there had to be another two or three people there—invisible but interfering.
Matt heard faint splashing. Was it Kip or Con coming in first? It would matter so much to each of them, and it would not matter to anybody else at all. What matters to me? thought Matthew O’Connor. Do I even know? He said, “Emily, okay. I won’t go.” The words wrenched him, like the bolt on a wheel. Metal scraped metal. I want to go, I want to go, his heart said. “I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too,” he said, quoting his mother and Marie Antoinette. “I guess that was pretty adolescent.” But I’m adolescent! he thought. And I want to go.
Matt tried to crush down the vision of the race cars. He felt as if he were crushing himself as well.
Emily just sat there. She kept a watch on the food on Matt’s plate, as if it had some special significance never previously noted; as if she could read fortunes in the leftover tomato sauce, the way old ladies of yore had read fortunes in tea leaves.
She felt like a glass Christmas ornament, trod underfoot, nothing left but tiny, dangerous glass splinters. If she told Matt that announcement made her happy, it would be a lie. She did not want to be his sacrifice. She wanted to be his first choice. But if she told Matt to take the job, she would still be unhappy. Still be left behind.
Emily could think of nothing to say.
She took Matt’s hand and held it tightly. When she had to wipe tears off her cheeks, she used his hand as well as hers, and finally she moved next to him, and they put their arms around each other. But it was only comfort, and not love.
Now how are you supposed to answer a question like that? thought Beth Rose. I hate that kind of question. It is unfair and bad manners.
If I say I’m not doing anything, and smile at him, I make it clear I’m expecting him to ask me out. And maybe all he was doing was asking what interesting things I might be up to on the last Sunday in August. And maybe he’ll tell me what interesting things he’s up to on the last Sunday in August.
If I say I’m busy, though, he might think it’s a brush off, and he won’t ask me out even though he was planning to. If I lie, and say I’m not busy, when I really am busy, and after that lie, he—
Her mind spilled over the possibilities for answers and misunderstandings, flirtations and irritations. She fell in love with him and out of love with him. She saw a handsome young man with a mischievous grin who had just given her a garlic-laden kiss, and she saw a dumb kid a year younger who kept fondling the camera by his sneakers.
“My big plan for the day involves my radio, the beach, and a hot dog with chili and onions from the concession,” said Beth. “Want to come? Or do you have something else in mind?” There. That was making it pretty darn clear.
“Oh. Well, would you rather go to a wedding? I’m filming one over in Raulston. They let you eat all you want at the reception, and we could dance, too, if we dress right. I get bored at those things. I’m the only outsider. I have to circle around and be sure I’ve filmed everybody with everybody else. But it would be fun if I had company.”
An invitation to a wedding. That was a novel date. Although he had not used the word “date.” If I had company, was his phrase. Beth Rose wondered for the millionth time if boys analyzed little scraps of words at the same rate that girls did.
“Your company,” added Jere, when she didn’t answer.
Which was a phrase that, even to Beth, did not require heavy analysis.
The thing Kip Elliott loved about sports was that the goal was so definite. You knew where you were going. There was a finish line, or a basket, or a post. And you didn’t labor on forever. You had a timer, or a quarter, or a ten-second limit.
All her life she had swum off Swallow Island. Now she swam with all her strength, to get away from the fears this party had aroused. She did not want to think of what could go wrong in her life. Only of what must surely go right.
She wanted to beat Con. She wanted to beat everybody.
Was it wrong to want to be a winner all the time? But who would want to be a loser? Who would wake up in the morning, crying, “Hey, great day, sun is shining, think I’ll go out and be mediocre!” Of course not. Normal people wake up and cry, “Hey, think I’ll take on the world!”
So why, thought Kip in grief, why do they just accuse me of being bossy? Can a person take on the world and not be bossy? Are presidents ever not bossy? Would you hire a captain of industry if he didn’t like to be the boss? Would you elect a senator if he said he didn’t like taking charge?
I am what I am, thought Katharine Elliott. Con may insult me all he likes, and call me bossy, but that’s not what I am. I am organized to win, is what I am.
She swam with powerful strokes that pulled her swiftly through the water. The currents in Westerly River were gentle. She knew in a moment it would be shallow, and she’d flounder a little, staggering out on the sand, yelling to Con that she had made it. Kip kicked deeper, but felt nothing. It was strange, swimming in the dark. She could hardly tell where Swallow Island was, and she could no longer hear Con.
Because I’m ahead of him, thought Kip.
No other reason was acceptable.
Anne Stephens was beginning to be painfully aware that Con had not been by her side in a long time. She detached herself from the group that had gathered around her and wandered around the Duet, trying to be casual. Con was not with Gary and Mike, his buddies. Not flirting with Molly. Not near Beth Rose, who herself was extremely near to that camera boy.
How amazing, Anne thought. Beth came aboard with that new boy Blaze and now she’s kissing that new boy Jere. Imagine Beth Rose, on a social whirl!
Anne checked the cabin, below decks, the dance deck. No Con.
; Great, she thought. He’s so mad at me he jumped overboard. (Which was actually a rather flattering thought.)
The boat reached Lincoln Bridge. It swung gently in a long slow circle for the return journey to its dock. All the shadows slid in dark slithery shafts to face the other way. The boat’s lights were bright but every rail, step, stair, and cabin cast pools of dark that changed and deepened.
Light washed over Beth Rose’s face, and then Beth drowned in the dark, and Anne could see only a fraction of Beth’s face.
A ship of ghosts, Anne thought.
“Anne, come over here!” Beth called. “Have you met Jeremiah Dunstan?”
“No. It’s so nice of you to be taking films for us, Jere,” she told him, as if she thought this was a friendly good-bye gesture on his part, and not a paid job.
Jere said he hoped she’d have a great time abroad, and asked about her itinerary.
It was less than twelve hours till her New York flight, but it seemed less real than ever. Anne said instead, “I was looking for Con.”
“You won’t believe this,” Beth Rose told her, “but he and Kip are having a race to see who can swim quickest out to Swallow Island and back.”
“I can’t hear them,” Jere said. “Probably got to the island and are out on the sand arguing about who touched land first.”
Anne disliked swimming. If she had to swim, she used only pools where you could see the bottom, the sides, and everything else in the water with you. Nothing would make her swim in Westerly River—and at night!
“They’re crazy,” she said.
Nobody argued.
Chapter 19
SOMEHOW, IN THE DARK, they had swum apart. Perhaps it was early on, when they hit the wake of the Duet. Small waves, but Kip had headed slightly to the right, and Con to the left. Con was sure she was going to miss the whole island if she kept at that angle and he called to her, “Hey, where you going?”