All You Need Is Love (20 page)

How is Mable? I’ve gone though imaginary conversations like this, where I have to pick a way to inform my conversant that Mable is gone, but here’s my first time saying it in reality.

“Mable died, actually. Really recently.” I nod a couple times and sigh. It’s the best way to say it — the most direct and honest so I don’t have to deal with overly sympathetic people or go into the whole story of her demise.

For a second, Charlie looks like he’s going to step forward and hug me, which fills me with that pre-touch anticipation, but he doesn’t. “She was really special.” Charlie says and it’s the first time someone hasn’t started with “Sorry” and it feels better somehow.

“She was,” I say, the past tense feeling — sadly — a little more normal each time I use it. “I do have to go, though.”

“Me, too,” Charlie says as the next boat sounds. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“That’s what you said before — and it proved true,” I say.

“Maybe I’ll look you up next time I come up to the big city,” he says, putting on a Southern accent for the
big city
part, letting me know he’s aware of his small town persona.

“You could do that,” I say. And I’m just about to tell him that he doesn’t have to wait until then, that I’m coming down to the Vineyard to live full-time for three months, when I remember waiting for him in that little diner. Waiting for a guy who never shows means that he’s likely to pull that crap again — at least that’s what Mable said — and for now I’ve got to trust her.

I stick out my hand so he’ll shake it — both because I want to feel his skin on mine again, but also to protect myself from a potential hug. I’m a little fragile now and I fear that if I were hugged by him, I’d melt or cry or grab him and make out with him without thinking. And I need to think — it’s what I do.

Charlie sits next to his cousin on the bench. I picture them both going over to the island for their family dinner. I imagine a close scene around a small table with fish his dad probably caught this morning.

So I close my door, put in a mix I made of songs that have places as their titles and head back to Hadley Hall — which, for the moment, I still call home.

I think about what Arabella said about an SF. I thought I had TL (true love) but it turned out he was just an LIL (leson in love — or loss or lameness, depending on how you look at it). Like conjugating a verb I go through all the sf’s I can think of while I drive.

Summer Fling. Summer Fun. Summer Friendship. Serious Fling. Slight Freakout. Somewhat Frenzied. Silly Fool. A Summer Fling doesn’t sound like a bad idea, but what if one person’s SF is another TL — then you’re SF’d.

“Check out how much she’s in love with herself right now,” Chris uses his celery stalk to gesture to a proud Lindsay Parrish who is walking with her shoulders back, displaying her tan-topped breasts for all to ogle.

“She’s going crazy in the dorms,” Harriet Walters adds, “And I’m not one to get easily ruffled. I’m going to petition to switch houses. I can’t live in Fruckner with her.”

“Yeah, you’re usually Miss Reserved and undeflatable,” I say and look at Harriet’s face. Her eyes are wide and her mouth turned down into a full frown.

“Well, call me punctured. Linday’s decided to take it upon herself to — and excuse my air quotes here but I have to “govern the social situations for next year”.”

“Meaning, what, exactly?” Chris asks chewing his crudités. “You have to try this dip. It’s made of one hundred percent fat, I think.”

I dip a carrot stick in and nod, “That’s revolting.”

Harriet continues, “She wants to personally check each sign-out card and give her approval.”

I shake my head, “That’s ridiculous — she has no authority. It’s not like she’s a dorm parent or anything.”

Chili Pomroy pipes up from her burrito, “No — that’s the thing. Lindsay has already sweet-talked her way into it — she’s basically convinced all of Fruckner House that if she takes on the burden of this…”

“That she’ll pretty much control who goes where and with whom?” I ask.

Harriet nods, “Under the guise of helping out, yes.”

“That sucks,” Chris says. “Can you imagine? If she lived in my dorm I’d never get out to do anything — she’d neg me just so she could watch me beg.”

“That’s a pretty image, thanks,” Chili says.

“On that note, I have to go. I’m supposed to be home having a talk with my dad.” I stress the word talk so it’s obvious I’m dreading it.

Chris leads me away from the Dinner on the Lawn, another of Hadley’s pre-graduation traditions. They figure half the school is outside playing Frisbee, lusting in the open air, or generally blowing off the last week of the year, so they give in a little by moving the sit down dinners outside on nice evenings. It’s a nice idea, and if the food weren’t so heavy on the starch (um, could there be any more potato salad and pasta salad on offer?) the whole thing would be great.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“About what? The talk…no — I’ve pretty much dealt with it internally — or, dealt with it as much as I can. I got back from dropping Arabella and went right home to get it out of the way but he wasn’t there.”

“Did you ever think it might be hard for him, too?”

I consider this for a second. “Not really. I mean, I guess I can see how he’d feel a little…a little loss or something — but mainly I think he’s worried about announcing something happy, like he wants to marry Louisa, when everything’s been so hard. So sad.”

Chris nods and sends me on my way, up the hill past Whitcomb — his dorm, and back toward my house. “Hey,” he shouts. “I’m thinking either Harvard or Stanford!”

“You switch every day!” I shout back. “And don’t pick a college because of a boy!” I know Chris too well to underestimate the power that his new relationship status with Alistair might have on his college choice. Note to self: I fi am ever in that situation, I must remember my own advice.

“Stanford is a respected school! It might be perfect for me,” he calls.

“And it just happens to be near Alistair’s home town…” I say and walk away, waving to him while shaking my head.

When I walk around to the side of the house, I find not my father sitting outside, but Henry Randall. He’s sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, looking out at the empty playing fields like they hold a view of the ocean.

When he sees me, he stands up and smiles. “Hi, Love!”

“Hey, Henry, how are you?” It dawns on me with slight apprehension that Henry might know by now that I am not in actuality a college student. I do not attend Brown University like he assumed last fall, and though I have kept up the rouse for quite a while, he’s probably about to call my bluff.

“I know from Lila Lawrence that your classes are done. Did she mention that I stopped by your dorm room?” he says and yet again I am drawn into the web of deceit. Leave it to Lila to keep it going — she probably thought she was covering for me since she does really go to Brown.

“Yeah — I was just hanging out with some friends here,” I say.

“Isn’t it fun to go back to your high school as an alum? I’ve gone back to Exeter a lot.”

Um, yeah, not that I know about being a high school grad, but I nod and smile. “How’d you know where to find me?”

Henry immediately blushes and stammers, “I’m not a stalker — I asked my aunt and she and Mable, you know, got to be friends…”

“Yeah, Maragaret came to the funeral.”

Henry looks at his feet and then at me. “That’s kind of why I came by. I wanted to just explain why I wasn’t there. It wasn’t that I…I wanted to be there.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I didn’t expect you to be or anything — it was an overwhelming day.”

“I’m sure it was but I felt badly that I didn’t go — just to show my support. And I mean, I know we’re not like best friends or anything, but if I were in that position I know I’d want as many comforting faces around me as possible.”

He stops talking there, maybe caught up, as I am, that he just qualified himself as “comforting” to me. It was a bold statement on his part, and one I can’t really dispute.

“Thanks,” I say and mean it. “That’s really…I can’t believe you came all the way over here to tell me. I really appreciate it.”

Henry puts his hands on both my shoulders. He’s tall and broad and — at the risk of sounding redundant — has a comforting presence. He gives me a solid hug and I hug him back. “I have to run…”

“Big plans?”

“Yeah — I have an eight o’clock ferry reservation.” He says and watches my surprised face. “What — you thought you’d have the Vineyard all to yourself this summer?”

“Maybe,” I say and unlock the door to my house. “No — actually, I kind of assumed you be there. Among others.”

“Which others would that be?” he asks, grinning with his lips closed.

“No one in particular,” I say and deflect images of Charlie.

“Just remember,” he says and goes down the porch steps. “Some of us are better than others.”

It’s this last comment I’m thinking of even after I scramble after him to give him Arabella’s cell number so he can check up on her and make sure she’s enjoying the minimalist comforts of our new apartment. Does Henry mean that some of the guys are better than others, specifically he is better than anyone else. Or does he mean his comment to reflect a Preppy Power statement — like the monied class is better than the…I don’t know. I feel like I’m just about to figure it out when I flip the kitchen lights on and find a note:

Love

Hope you had an okay trip to Wood’s Hole. Wish you’d put Arabella on the bus like we discussed. Please find me on the lawn — or, if we don’t connect there, meet me @ my office.

Your name here,

Dad.

The fact that he wrote
your name here
gives me hope that he’s not worried about our talk, just wanting to get it over with.

He’s sitting behind the behemoth desk behind which every Principal Headmaster has positioned themselves for the past two hundred plus years that Hadley has been around.

“Hey Dad,” I say and knock once just for show and come into the office. It’s shaped oddly due to its position in a semi-tower. The far wall behind Dad’s desk is curved and the rest of the walls are straight, so the whole room feels like a church window.

“You made it back, I see,” he says, finishes signing something and turns the paper over. He often stacks things or flips memos over so I won’t inadvertently see what I’m not supposed to see — not so much because he doesn’t trust me, he’s said in the past, but because he feels it’s a burden to know too much information. It occurs to me standing here that maybe that’s part of his reasoning about withholding information about my mother. “Take a seat.” He uses his Hadley Hall fountain pen to gesture to a chair and sit in it, facing him like we’re having an interview or a formal meeting.

“I feel like I’m under scrutiny,” I say and then, “or maybe that’s the wrong word.”

“How so?” Dad puts the pen down and looks at me, really sees me, his daughter. “Would you rather walk instead?”

“No, this is fine — I just…are you mad at me?”

“Am I mad at you,” Dad says it not like a question but a sing-songy kind of musing. “No. I’m not angry. I’m used to this…”

“This being my suddenly deciding to take Arabella to the ferry?”

“Not so much that — I mean, it was a considerate act, if a little much.” Dad comes out from behind his desk and stands near me. He half-leans on the edge of the desk, looking at me in my knees-up for protection stance in my chair. “You’re growing up, obviously, and London was another step towards your independence.”

“I know — we kind of went over this before, and I know you were disappointed but it’s all…”

“I’m going to talk right now,” Dad says and rubs the stubble on his face. “In light of everything that’s been going on I made an error in not addressing your London actions sooner.”

“So we’re talking about this now?” I must looked surprised because Dad throws his hands up in frustration.

“What did you think we were talking about? I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you my decision for weeks, now.”

I stand up so we’re more face-to-face. “I thought this was about you and Louisa.”

“What about us?” Dad says. “I thought you liked her.”

“I do like her,” I say and am amazed how much miscommunication there’s been so far. “I figured you were announcing your engagement or something.”

Dad smiles and sighs at the same time. “I’m not. You can rest easy.”

I defend myself by quickly saying, “No — it wasn’t a problem. It was more I wanted to say it’s okay — not that you need my permission or blessing…just that it’s fine.”

Dad pauses and reaches for his pen so he can fiddle with it as he speaks. “Love, have you ever felt a distance between yourself and the other Hadley students?”

“What do you mean?” I ask and wonder where this is headed. I have my arms crossed in front of me as if I’m already defiant.

“It was brought to my attention recently that you have a unique perspective here, being neither a day-student nor a boarder.”

I relax — I guess we are just chatting. I nod, “Yeah, it’s kind of odd being in the middle of it all.” Then, just in case he feels badly I add, “But I’m used to it. I guess every once in a while I think it’d be nice to have that comraderie that the girls have in the dorms.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that…”

Cue, massive tension and sweaty palms for Love. “Why?”

“I’ve made a decision. I don’t want you to react right away, just think about it.”

“Dad, this sounds bad —”

“As of two days after Labor Day of this year, you will be an official resident of the dorms. You will spend your senior year as a boarding student.”

Time seems momentarily suspended. No wedding bells for Dad and Louisa, no white dress and new woman living in our house. Just me, not living in our house. Me living with ten or twenty or thirty girls in Deals or Lawrence House or — no way — Fruckner. With Lindsay.

Dad goes on, “It seems to me that you would benefit from being in a group. You have a solitary tendency and while I’m not trying to change that, you might find yourself opening up…”