like Momma, already sad at the inevitable separation. And those feelings are getting channeled into some increasing expressions of affection and romance, not only through his eyes and words but also at times like in the dancing, through his touch. And though it seems to my head like exactly the wrong path to be on, I cannot help but share in some of these feelings. I like his touch. I look forward to our slow dancing rehearsals. Sometimes at night I wake up and feel his purring in my ears, the only thing I feel until I open my eyes and realize I am alone in the bed. What’s wrong with me, Brooke? I cannot start a physical relationship with my best male friend (my only male friend) just as we are getting ready to head off to college. That would be confusing for both of us, and it could mean losing his friendship just when I needed it most.
I am sorry, Sis. I really did not intend to talk about my troubles when I started out about the prom. Things seem kind of inverted at just the time I should be happy and enjoying everything I have worked for. I am glad you are having such a good time with Aunty Greta, and I am so happy for you that Shawnituck Island has turned out to be all you had hoped. But I guess I am a little selfish that I wish you were here to help me work through all this. You are so much better at figuring out these emotional dilemmas.
And at the same time, I am glad you are right where you are, living your dream and discovering a new world. Can you clone yourself and send her here?
If not, stay put. I will find my way through this maze. All I need to say is “What would Brooke do?” and hope I get it right.
Your loving sister,
Leah
May 24
No, no, no, no, Leah!
Guess even if you didn’t recognize the handwriting or the Shawnituck postmark, you’d know who was writing this by those words. I’m sorry if I scolded you too much over the years. But what are big sisters for? It’s a tough job, and somebody has to keep the little tyke in line.
Or not so little tyke. More like an all grown up tyke that’s taller and more beautiful than her big sister. But I still get to scold you now and again.
And this time I’m telling you whatever you do, DON’T DO WHAT BROOKE WOULD DO! You’ve seen all the trouble that’s gotten me into over the years. And the world’s used to my being impulsive and screwing up. I don’t know what the world would do if you throw caution to the wind and start acting like me. So don’t even think about it!
Of course, I might be too late. Dare I ask how the prom went? You and Paul didn’t sneak away to some cuddle cubby did you? You know, while I definitely DON’T recommend you start acting like me, loosening up with the guy you’ve been smoozing with for about forever would be good for both of you. You’re not going to go too far too fast. It’s not in either of you. And you won’t ruin your friendship with a little hanky-panky. If anything it will make you a little more normal. There, Advice from Brooke, free of charge.
While you and Paul were dancing the night away or playing “first to the bra clip wins” (sorry, my last prom joke, I swear!), I was running my feet ragged at my second night waitressing at the Lighthouse Restaurant, which was really my first night because my first night, Friday, was mainly just following Lil, one of Mrs. Polly’s granddaughters, around while she showed me the ropes and introduced me to like half the town (and I’m supposed to remember their names when they wave or give me a wink). So Friday wasn’t too bad though my feet were still sore from Greta’s leather shoes that I think shrunk a size or two over the years.
But if Friday was easy, Saturday was a nightmare! First of all, Mary who was supposed to be the third waitress got stuck on the mainland while visiting her dad. And the reason she got stuck on the mainland is that there was some kind of backup of cars and people to get out to Shawnituck. Nobody seems to know why the sudden rush of visitors the week before the holiday. Maybe it was the beautiful weather or word the blues were running in the north channel or the secret rumor that a beautiful young woman named Brooke was starting her job as a waitress at Lighthouse Restaurant. Whatever the reason, not only did the ferry fill up but so did the island—and the Lighthouse is still the only sit-down restaurant open! The other three open next weekend! And we’re short a waitress and a busboy (Anthony nicknamed Alleycat, fishhook in his eye) and have a newbie waitress hoping to learn the ropes on a quiet off-season night.
Well, forget that. From six all the way till ten there was a line out the entry porch and down the steps and across the parking lot. A couple times Mrs. Polly went to the top step and offered anyone who left five dollars to buy dinner somewhere else but she only got two takers and they were her brother and a nephew. So instead she told Onion—that’s another one of her grandchildren, a really cute guy my age named Roger but everyone calls him Onion because he started as a kid breading onion rings and has now graduated to running the kitchen’s fryer, a central job at this restaurant—to break out the last bucket of last year’s clams from the freezer and fry them up in batches and she spent the rest of the night sauntering up and down the waiting line passing out the fried clams and flirting like a schoolgirl! I’m told they all loved it, though I could hardly know because I was running my butt off trying to get the seated crowds fed so the standing crowds could get seated and fed. In the process I dropped four plates of food (never on anyone, thank God!), messed up at least a dozen orders, and somehow managed to put coffee in someone’s iced tea glass (though he said it tasted pretty good). But despite all that, Mrs. Polly called me a lifesaver and gave me a raise even before I got my first check.
Whew!
And now it’s Monday and my day off. Yesterday was a piece of cake. All the weekenders were gone, Mary was back looking for hours and tips even though it wasn’t her night to work, and Lil was there too but she let me handle the tables and she spent most of her time covering the register for Mrs. Polly who always takes “the Lord’s Day” off and giving me little pointers she didn’t have time to give on Saturday. I’ll be back at it again tomorrow night, with just two waitresses on weeknights and three on weekends, though after what we saw last weekend Mrs. Polly is talking about trying four though Lil says that will be too many and we’ll spend more time running into each other than serving customers. Mrs. Polly is boss of the restaurant, but Lil is boss of the dining room and I think she’ll probably win that argument. She already asked me if I’m ready to hustle on weekends if it means extra tips and I told her bring it on!
Speaking of cake, the restaurant has a fig cake to die for! Maybe I’ll see about sending you a piece!
Now for the guys (I know you’ve been waiting for that!). There are only a few resident guys out here who are more or less my age and more or less available. I’ve been told and already seen (and felt) for myself that there are plenty of mainlanders happy to come out here and give you a wink or a pinch on the butt and whatever else might follow only to board the ferry on Sunday afternoon never to be heard from again. And though some of those weekenders are pretty hot (O.K., smoking HOT!) I’m not that kind of girl (at least not when sober) and will try to confine my attentions to residents who are not likely to disappear in the night.
I told you about Mitchell, the ferry attendant apprenticing for his Coast Guard certification. He’s all about the beach and the outdoors. Everybody out here is, of course, but he takes it to extremes. He sleeps on the beach in all weather, has a waterproof sleeping bag he pulls over his head in the rain, no tent. And when he’s not sleeping or working, he’s surfing. Most days there’s enough surf to get up on the board; but when there isn’t, he’ll paddle through the marshes collecting crabs and crayfish and scallops he tosses in a floating trap he drags behind the board then sells the catch to Mrs. Polly who will fry up most anything for a price and what she can’t fry she’ll toss into the fish chowder. I’ve gone surfing with Mitchell a few times. He got me a wetsuit for the freezing water though he doesn’t use one. He says I’m pretty good for someone who’s only surfed a few times and all those times at Bogue Beach which he calls “wimp water.” Mitchell is a lot of fun, in a
rugged water-cowboy kind of way. But there’s a side of him that’s always out of reach, kind of like the radio sign-off at midnight—the airwaves just go blank. And romantic as sleeping on the beach might sound in the abstract, I guess I’m a little put off by the idea of hermit crabs and sand fleas in my private locales, if you catch my drift. Give me a mattress under my body and a roof over my head, thank you very much!
Then there’s Cal, short for Calhoun (and don’t even suggest any allusion to that west-coast state, home to “pretty-boy perverts”). He’s twenty-four and works on his father’s fishing trawler. During the off-season they rig it for shrimping, which he says gives the best return on their time but most nights barely covers the cost of fuel. But now they’re refitting the boat for whole or half-day fishing excursions. Cal doesn’t have much regard for mainlanders, especially the occasional “Yankee assholes” that find their way out here. But the money is good and except for dealing with the drunk customers the work is easy. And he revels in the fact that few of them ever want the fish they catch, leaving them for his family to sell (yes, to Mrs. Polly) or eat, fresh fish