Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (24 page)

I walked over to the eight-by-ten photo and stared at it, trying to see what Mona must have seen when she snapped the picture. It was a little girl looking at herself in the reflection
of a building, only it must have been shot from the ground with Mona looking up, because while the real-life girl was small, her reflection seemed ten times her size.

“It's cool, isn't it?” Henry came over and stood next to me. “That's the John Hancock building. It looks like a huge mirror, doesn't it?”

I nodded. “Who's the girl?”

“I don't know. I think just some random little girl Mona found standing there.”

There had to be at least fifteen other photos on the wall and I stood in front of each one, wondering why I'd never known, how I could have no idea that Mona was so good.

“When did she start doing this? They're amazing.”

“In the fall she took a photography class. She hadn't made any friends yet so she'd take her camera around the city and snap pictures.”

Without even saying it, we both knew that if Mona had stayed on the island she never would have done this. Instead, she would have been on the sidelines of my field hockey games, cheering Henry on at the rink. It was almost as if moving away from the island had forced Mona to finally figure out that she could care about something, be good at it, instead of thinking she had to wait for someone to come back so she could begin.

“Come on.” Henry took my hand and led me out of the room and down the hall. “This is my room.”

We stopped in his doorway and I scanned the room for signs that this Henry, the one who lived in a town house the size of a small town, wasn't the same guy I knew on the Vineyard, much in the same way the Mona I just saw was so dramatically different from the girl I thought I knew. I
looked for bottles of expensive cologne on his dresser, a poster of expensive sports cars on his wall, but all I found was a photograph of Henry and Poppy holding a trout and tape measure, which read a very unimpressive thirteen inches.

“I like your room.” I stepped inside and walked over to the bed, a very basic bed with a very basic brown headboard. It looked like any guy's room, like his room on the Vineyard, only the walls were a little paler blue and the bedspread matched the blue and brown plaid curtains.

“I know we didn't talk about this, but if you want, you can stay in the guest room,” Henry offered.

We hadn't discussed our sleeping arrangements, probably because neither of us wanted to bring up what was so totally obvious. Here we were alone in his house for the night, and we could do whatever we wanted. Wherever we wanted, including Henry's bed.

“Why don't you just drop your bag in here and you can decide later where you want to sleep,” Henry suggested, putting his own backpack on the dresser.

“Okay,” I agreed, thinking how different this felt than the times I'd been alone with Robbie, and not just because all of Henry's light fixtures seemed to be in working order.

“So are you considering Princeton?” I asked Henry, touching the orange tiger decal on his mirror.

“I guess, among others.”

I sat down on Henry's bed and lay back, staring at the white ceiling and the thick crown molding running the length of each wall. “You're probably a lock, considering Malcolm makes you a legacy.”

“I doubt anyone is a lock at Princeton, Kendra.” Henry
lay down next to me, but rolled over onto his stomach so he could look at me.

“Where else are you applying?”

“Dartmouth, Williams, maybe Tufts, a few others.”

“Must be nice to have so many choices.”

“What are you talking about, you shouldn't have any problem. I went to school with you, remember? I sat behind you in English, it was like watching those contestants on
Jeopardy!
The only thing missing was the buzzer on your desk.”

I'd almost forgotten that Henry was in my honors English class freshman year.

“Yeah, well, I doubt I'll be applying to that many schools.”

“So where are you applying?”

“Stanford.”

“Safety school?” Henry asked, nudging me.

I didn't laugh.

“So why Stanford?”

“Because it's a great school.”

“So are a bunch of other schools.” Henry reached over and started circling my belly button with his finger.

“It's in California.” I may as well have said that I liked the school colors, it sounded about as discerning.

“Is that the point, to get away?”

“Maybe,” I admitted, trying not to let Henry's touch tickle.

“You know, Princeton is good, too, and it doesn't require crossing two time zones.”

“Come on.” I laughed, grabbing his finger. “That tickles.”

Henry sat up and moved over me, straddling my stomach and then reaching down to hold my hands over my head.

“So you're ticklish? Where, here?” He kept my hands over my head with one hand while he took the other and ran it lightly around my waist. “Or here?” His fingers moved around to my back.

“Come on, that's not funny.” I giggled, struggling to get loose.

“Tell me you're not going to California.”

“No!” I tried to yell, but Henry already had his hands just above my hips.

“Say it,” he ordered, but at this point I was laughing so hard I couldn't get a word out even if I wanted.

“Say it, Kendra, and I'll stop.”

“No California,” I gasped between fits of giggles.

“Much better.” Henry rolled off me.

“That was mean,” I told him, trying to tuck my shirt in and get myself back together.

“I'm mean? You're the one who wants to go to California for four years. Are you trying to punish me?”

“I'd never punish you,” I told him, and he bent down to kiss me.

“Come on.” Henry held out his hand for me to take it. “Let's go out and I'll show you the city.”

Beacon Hill was a collection of small, narrow streets surrounding the statehouse. I couldn't imagine how Henry knew his way around, but he did, and after a few twists and turns we were back on Charles Street, which I recognized from when we drove by on the way to Malcolm's.

“What smells so good?” I asked Henry as we walked down the street holding hands.

“Probably the school.”

“The what?”

Henry pointed to a graystone about ten yards ahead of us. A navy blue flag with the initials BCI fluttered in the breeze. “The Boston Culinary Institute. It's a cooking school. You can even eat there one night a month, my mom and Malcolm have been a few times. They say it's great.”

We continued walking, and when we reached the front door to the school I stopped, and not just because it smelled so good. “Can you wait here a minute, I just want to run in.”

I left Henry on the sidewalk and took the steps two at a time.

Inside the lobby I found a desk with literature on it and grabbed a brochure. “Are you interested in dining one night?” the security guard behind the desk asked.

I folded the brochure and stuffed it in my pocket. “No thanks, just grabbing something for a friend.”

On my way out I opened the pages, curious about what exactly they'd teach at a culinary school. The school had an entire program for baking and pastry arts, including classes completely devoted to cookies, tarts, and mignardises, whatever those are. I continued reading. Topics included methods of mixing, shaping, piping, baking, filling, finishing, and so much more. I had no idea there was anything more to baking than tossing some sugar and eggs in a bowl and mushing it all together with a wooden spoon. It was perfect for Shelby.

“All set?” Henry asked when I returned. I nodded.

We were meeting Henry's friend Tom at five, so we had some time to kill. After taking me to the Boston Common to show me the swan boats and the famous
Make Way for Ducklings
statues, Henry led me out of the park and toward Newbury Street.

“All the girls in school love this street,” Henry told me as we walked past small boutiques with names I didn't recognize and larger stores with names I did.

When we came to a tiny storefront with sand piled in the front window and a mannequin wearing a beach pail on her head, Henry stopped walking.

“You'd look good in that,” he told me, pointing to the sundress on the mannequin. “Do you like it?”

With thin spaghetti straps that tied in bows, a tight elastic bodice, and a sort of Indian-inspired print in browns and burgundies and golds, it wasn't something I'd normally choose for myself, but it was pretty. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then let's go in.” Henry took my hand and led me inside.

The boutique was empty and the sales clerk looked relieved to see us, which was probably why she fawned all over me when Henry pointed to the dress in the window and asked for it in my size.

“Go try it on,” Henry urged, and before I could stop her the saleswoman had me in a dressing room and half naked behind a heavy velvet curtain.

After tying the straps and making sure the elastic across my boobs was straight, I pushed aside the velvet curtain and stepped out.

Henry smiled. “Wow.”

“You like it?”

“Like it? I love it. We'll take it.”

I reached under my armpit, where the price tag dangled off the side seam: $275.

“Henry, it's almost three hundred dollars.” And that's when I remembered what Henry had said. All the girls at his school
loved this street. He was used to seeing girls in three-hundred-dollar sundresses. And he was used to girls who were spending their daddy's money, not their own tips.

The saleswoman must have seen the conversation coming, because she suddenly found something she needed to tend to at the front of the store.

“Henry, I can't spend three hundred dollars on a dress.”

“So don't. I will.”

For the first time the full impact of Henry's situation hit me. It wasn't just a new town house on Beacon Hill, a new summer estate on the Vineyard. It was the ability to do whatever he wanted. To have whatever he wanted. Including me.

“I can't let you do that, Henry.”

“You could, if you wanted to.” He stepped forward and spun me around to face the full-length mirror on the wall behind me. “You look great.”

Okay, he wasn't lying. The browns and golds of the dress made my hair seem even blonder and brighter, and even though I didn't exactly have a tan, the thin straps made my shoulders seem creamy and smooth.

“Really, Henry, I can't.” I know he didn't intend to make me feel bad, but I didn't want Henry spending three hundred dollars on me. I almost wished I hadn't tried on the dress in the first place, then I wouldn't know how hard it would be to take it off.

Henry reached over and pulled the bow over my right shoulder tighter. “Consider it a present. You can wear it tonight.”

“No, Henry. Really.”

“Then I have an idea. How about you pay half and I pay half. That way we're both happy and you don't have to feel like you're a kept woman.”

I smiled at this. Henry always seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Okay,” I agreed, even though I shouldn't have been spending even half of three hundred on a freaking dress. But I couldn't say no, because, honestly, I didn't want to take the dress off. I loved it. And I loved the way Henry looked at me when I was wearing it.

“Excuse me,” I called out to the saleswoman, and she came back to the dressing area. “We'll take it.”

We were meeting Tom at some burger place in Back Bay, and it wasn't until we were on our way there that I started getting nervous. I'd never met any of Henry's Boston friends. Sure, I knew the guys Henry hung out with on the island, but I also knew who Mona hung out with, mainly me, and I was nothing like her new friends.

“You look really pretty, don't be so nervous,” Henry told me as he pulled the restaurant door open and held it for me.

I pulled the elastic top up one more time and went in.

Tom was waiting for us at the table. He stood up as we approached.

“You must be Kendra,” he said, giving me an appreciative glance that was obviously meant to signal his approval to Henry. “Nice dress.”

“See,” Henry said to me, and then turned to Tom. “We just bought it today.”

In jeans and a T-shirt, Tom looked like a totally normal guy, but it wasn't like he'd be primped and polished like Mona's friends. I mean, he was a guy. And he was even nice, asking me about where I was applying to school and what it was like having Henry back for the summer. It was more what
he didn't say that left me a little uneasy. Like when the waitress came to take our order and he didn't even flinch before ordering a twelve-dollar cheeseburger. Or how he didn't even look up at the waitress when he ordered, instead staring at the menu, trying to figure out if he wanted steak fries or onion rings.

I had more in common with the waitress taking our dinner order than I did with Tom and his summers spent splitting time between Europe and Santa Barbara. All I wanted to do was go back to the house and be alone with Henry, for it to be just the two of us like it was on the island, where we didn't have to try to straddle our two vastly different lives over overpriced burgers and pictures of his friends in front of the Eiffel tower.

To anyone in the restaurant looking at us, the table of two guys and a girl, we probably would've seemed like we belonged, like we were the same. But even if I had the right dress on, and I was with the right guy, there was a part of me that felt like a poser sitting there with Tom and Henry in that restaurant. Like I was trying to be someone I wasn't. And when the bill came and Henry reached into his wallet to pay for us, I realized that it didn't matter if I paid for half my dress or if Henry thought I had all the college choices in the world, he'd still leave on the ferry come Labor Day weekend, and I'd still be left behind.