The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (6 page)

“See you all,” Bridget called over her shoulder.

In the cabin, she yanked on a pair of shorts over her bikini bottoms and traded her top for a sports bra. She pulled on socks and her running shoes. It was too hot to worry about whether running in just the bra was acceptable.

The group had already started off. Bridget had to chase them down a dirt path. She should have taken a minute to stretch.

There were about fifteen of them. Bridget hung back for the first mile or so until she found her stride. Her legs were long, and she carried no extra weight. It made her a naturally good runner, even when she was out of practice.

She pulled up with the middle of the pack. Eric noticed her. She pulled up closer to him. “Hi. I'm Bridget,” she said.

“Bridget?” He let her catch up with him.

“Most people call me Bee, though.”

“Bee? As in bumble?”

She nodded and smiled.

“I'm Eric,” he offered.

“I know,” she said.

He turned to face the group. “We're doing seven-minute miles today. I'm assuming we have serious runners in this group. If you get tired, just fall back to your own pace. I don't expect everybody to finish with me.”

Jesus. Seven-minute miles. The path led uphill. She kicked up dust from the dry ground. Over the hills the land flattened out again. They ran along a riverbed, which carried just a trickle in the dry season.

She was sweating, but her breathing was in check. She stayed up with Eric. “I hear you're from L.A.,” she said. Some people liked to talk when they ran. Some people hated it. She was interested to test out which type he was.

“Yeah,” he said.

She had just cast him as a type two when he opened his mouth again. “I've spent a lot of time here, though.”

“Here in Baja?” she asked.

“Yeah. My mom is Mexican. She's from Mulegé.”

“Really?” Bridget asked, genuinely interested. That explained his looks. “Just a few miles south of here, right?”

“Right,” he agreed. “What about you?”

“I'm from Washington, D.C. My dad is from Amsterdam.”

“Wow. So you know the whole foreign-parent syndrome.”

She laughed, pleased at how this was going. “I do.”

“What about your mom?” And here, without warning, she'd come directly to a second test. This was one she usually saved for much further down the road if she could.

“My mom . . .” Is? Was? She was still indecisive about tense when it came to this. “My mom . . . was from Alabama. She died.” Bridget had spent four years saying her mother “passed away,” but then the term started to really annoy her. It didn't fit with what had happened.

He turned his head and looked at her straight on. “I'm so sad for you.”

She felt the sweat dry up on her skin. It was a disarmingly honest thing to say. She looked away. At least he hadn't said, “I'm sorry.” She suddenly felt exposed in her running bra.

With most guys she managed to forestall this issue indefinitely. She'd gone out with guys for months at a time and not had this conversation. It was strange that with Eric it had come up in the first two minutes. Carmen would take that as a sign of something, but then Carmen was always looking for signs. Bridget never did.

“You go to Columbia now?” she asked, leaving her discomfort on the path behind them.

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“It's a strange school for an athlete,” he said. “Sports aren't exactly a big emphasis there.”

“Right.”

“But it's got a great soccer program, and the academics are obviously good. That was a big deal to my mom.”

“Makes sense,” she said. His profile was awfully nice.

He was picking up the pace now. She took that as a challenge. She always enjoyed a challenge.

She glanced back to see that the group had thinned a lot. She kept with him stride for stride. She loved the feeling of strain in her muscles, the exhilaration that came with mounting exhaustion.

“How old are you?” he asked her point-blank.

She was hoping to finesse this issue. She knew she was among the youngest girls here. “Sixteen,” she answered. She would be soon. It wasn't a crime to round up, was it? “What about you?”

“Nineteen,” he answered.

That wasn't such a big difference. Particularly if she were sixteen.

“Are you thinking about colleges yet?” he asked.

“Maybe University of Virginia,” she said. She actually had no idea. The truth was, the coach at UVA had already commented on Bridget to her high school coach. Bridget knew she didn't have to worry much about college, even if her grades weren't that spectacular.

“Great school,” he said.

Now she was pushing the pace. She was feeling good, and the excitement of being this close to Eric was energizing her muscles. They circled back around to finish the run up the beach.

“You must be pretty serious about running,” he said to her.

She laughed. “I haven't run in months.” And with that, she accelerated to a near sprint. The rest of the group had fallen far behind. She was curious to see whether Eric would stick to his preset pace or abandon it to keep up with her.

She felt his elbow brush hers. She smiled. “Race ya.”

They sprinted the half mile up the beach. There was so much adrenaline filling Bridget's veins, she could have flown the distance.

She collapsed on the sand. He collapsed too. “I think we set a record,” he said.

She spread out her arms, happy. “I've always been goal oriented.” Bridget rolled around in the sand until she was covered like a sugar doughnut. He watched her, laughing.

The rest of the group would catch up in a couple of minutes. She stood and kicked off her shoes and socks. She looked right at him when she pulled off her shorts, revealing her bikini bottoms; then she yanked the elastic out of her hair. Yellow clumps stuck to her sweaty shoulders and back.

He looked away.

“Let's swim,” she said.

His face was serious now. He didn't move.

She didn't wait for him. She waded in several yards and then dove under. When she came up, she saw that he had stripped off his soaked T-shirt. She didn't pretend not to stare.

Eric dove in after her, just as she prayed he would. He swam past where she was and surfaced a few yards away.

Bridget raised her arms in the air for no reason. She jumped up and down in the water, unable to contain her energy. “This is the best place in the world.”

He laughed again, his serious face gone.

She dove under the surface and plummeted to the sandy bottom. Slowly she passed his feet. Without thinking, she reached out her hand and touched his ankle with her finger, light as a triggerfish.

W
hen Lena arrived in the kitchen the next morning for breakfast, only her grandfather was awake. “Kalemera,” she said.

He nodded and blinked in acknowledgment. She sat down across from him at the small kitchen table. He pointed the box of Rice Krispies at her. She happened to love Rice Krispies.
“Efcharisto,”
she thanked him, about reaching the limits of her Greek. Grandma had left out bowls and spoons. Bapi handed her the milk.

They chewed. She looked at him, and he looked into his bowl. Was he annoyed because she was there? Did he like to eat breakfast alone? Was he very disappointed that she couldn't speak Greek?

He poured himself another bowl of cereal. Bapi was kind of wiry, but he clearly had a good appetite. It was funny. As she looked at Bapi, she recognized some of her own features. The nose, for instance. Almost everybody else in the family had the famous Kaligaris nose—her father, her aunt, Effie. The big, prominent nose gave character to all who wore it. Of course, her mother had a different nose—a Patmos nose—but even that was sufficiently distinctive.

Lena's nose was small, delicate, characterless. She'd always wondered where she'd gotten it, but now she saw it right in the middle of Bapi's face. Did that mean that
she
had the true Kaligaris nose? Since she was small she'd secretly wished she had the big family nose. Now that she saw where she got hers, she liked it a little better.

She made herself stop looking at Bapi. She was no doubt making him uncomfortable. She should definitely say something. It was probably very awkward for her to sit here and not be saying anything.

“I'm going to make a painting this morning,” she said. She gestured like she was painting.

He seemed to snap out of his cereal reverie. She knew that feeling so well. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. Whether he understood a word, she couldn't tell.

“I was thinking I'd walk down to Ammoudi. Are there stairs all the way down?”

Bapi considered and nodded. She could tell he wanted to get back to his contemplation of the cereal box. Was he tired of her? Was she annoying him?

“Okay, well, I'll see you later. Have a good day, Bapi.
Andio
.”

She walked upstairs and packed up her painting things with the oddest feeling that she was Effie and she'd just eaten breakfast with herself.

She put on the Pants with a wrinkly white linen shirt. She slung her backpack, containing her palette, her foldable easel, and her panels, over her shoulder.

Just as she reached the stairs, Kostos arrived at the front door, delivering a platter of freshly baked pastries from his grandmother. Grandma hugged him and kissed him and thanked him in such fast Greek that Lena couldn't make out a single word.

Grandma spotted Lena and got that look in her eye. Quickly she invited Kostos inside.

Lena wished Effie were awake. She made for the door.

“Lena, sit down. Have a pastry,” Grandma ordered.

“I'm going painting. I need to get started before the sun gets too high and the shadows disappear,” Lena claimed. It wasn't technically true, because she was starting a new painting today, which meant the shadows could be any which way.

Kostos migrated toward the front door himself. “I have to get to work, Valia. I'm late already.”

Grandma happily settled for the idea that at least the two would have to walk together outside. Grandma winked at Lena as she followed Kostos out the door. “He's a
nice
boy,” she stage-whispered to Lena. It was Grandma's constant refrain.

“You love to paint,” Kostos observed once out in the sunshine.

“I do,” Lena said. “Especially here.” She wasn't sure why she offered that last gratuitous bit.

“I know it's beautiful here,” Kostos said thoughtfully, looking out over the glittering water. “But I can hardly see it. These are the only views I know.”

Lena felt the desire for a real conversation coming on. She was interested in what he said. Then she thought of her grandmother, probably watching them through the window.

“Which way are you walking?” Lena asked. It was a slightly mean trick she was setting up.

Kostos looked at her sideways, clearly trying to gauge what the best answer would be. Honesty prevailed. “Downhill. To the forge.”

Easy enough. “I'm heading uphill. I'm going to paint the interior today.” She began drifting away from him, up the hill.

He was obviously unhappy. Did he discern that she'd set him up? Most boys weren't that sensitive to rejection.

“Okay,” he said. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” she said breezily.

It was kind of a shame in a way, walking uphill, because she'd woken today with a real lust to paint the boathouse down in Ammoudi.

Tibba-dee,

You would hate this place. Wholesome, all-American people doing sports all day. High fives are common. I even witnessed a group hug. Sports clichés all day long.

Almost makes you happy to be at Wallman's, don't it?

Just kidding, Tib.

Of course, I love it. But every day I'm here, I'm glad my real life is not like this, full of people like me, ‘cause then I wouldn't have you, would I?

Oh, I'm in love. Did I tell you that yet? His name is Eric. He's a coach and 100% off-limits. But you know how I get.

Love your BFF,
Bee

When Tibby got back to Wallman's, she discovered two things: first, that she had “performed a firable offense” by skipping out on so much of her shift (as Duncan had wasted no time in informing her). She could have a last chance, but she wouldn't be paid for the part of the day she did work. Tibby was beginning to think she would owe money to Wallman's at the end of this job.

The second discovery was the fainting girl's wallet lying next to her own wallet in her plastic, see-through bad-employee bag. Oh, shit.

She found the library card listing the girl's name: Bailey Graffman. Tibby walked outside to the pay phone. The white pages, thank goodness, listed one Graffman with two
f
s on a street near Wallman's.

Tibby got right back on her bike and rode the few blocks to the Graffmans'. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Graffman opened the door. “Hi. Uh, my name is Tibby and I, uh . . .”

“You're the one who found Bailey at Wallman's,” the woman said, looking fairly appreciative.

“Right. Well, it turns out I took her wallet to find contact information and I, uh, forgot to give it back,” Tibby explained. “There were only four dollars in it,” she added defensively.

Mrs. Graffman looked at Tibby in confusion. “Um. Right. Of course.” Then she smiled. “Bailey's resting upstairs. Why don't you give it to her? I'm sure she'll want to thank you personally.

“Upstairs and straight ahead,” the woman instructed as Tibby trudged up the steps.

“Uh, hi,” Tibby said awkwardly at the girl's door. The room was decorated with ribbon wallpaper and puffy yellow curtains, but there were boy-band posters every few feet. “I'm, uh, Tibby. I—”

“You're the girl from Wallman's,” Bailey said, sitting up.

“Yeah.” Tibby walked close to the bed and offered the wallet.

“You ripped off my wallet?” Bailey demanded with narrowed eyes.

Tibby scowled. What an obnoxious little kid. “I didn't
rip off
your wallet. The hospital used it to contact your parents and I held on to it. You're welcome.” She tossed it on the bed.

Bailey grabbed it and looked inside, counting the bills. “I think I had more than four dollars.”

“I think you didn't.”

“‘Cause you took it.”

Tibby shook her head in disbelief. “Are you joking? Do you seriously think I would steal your money and then come all the way over here to deliver your pathetic little wallet? What's there to return other than the money? Your horoscope? Avert a big emergency in case you forget your moon sign?”

Bailey looked surprised.

Tibby felt bad. Maybe she'd overdone it.

Bailey didn't back down, though. “And what important stuff have you got in
your
wallet? A license to ride your bike? A
Wallman's
employee ID?” She said “Wallman's” with more scorn than even Tibby could muster.

Tibby blinked. “How old are you? Ten? Who taught you to be so vicious?”

Bailey's eyebrows descended angrily. “I'm twelve.”

Now Tibby felt worse. She'd always hated people who assumed she was younger than she was just because she was small and skinny and flat-chested.

“How old are
you
?” Bailey wanted to know. She had an excited, combative look in her eye. “Thirteen?”

“Bailey! Time to take your medicine,” Bailey's mom called up the stairs. “Do you want to send your friend down?”

Tibby looked around. Was she supposed to be the “friend”?

“Sure,” Bailey called back. She looked amused. “Do you mind?”

Tibby shook her head. “Of course not. Considering how you accept favors.” Tibby trudged back downstairs wondering what in the world she was doing there.

Mrs. Graffman handed her a tall glass of orange juice and a little paper cup full of pills. “Everything okay up there?” she asked.

“Uh, I guess,” Tibby answered.

Mrs. Graffman searched Tibby's face for a moment. “Bailey likes to test people,” she offered for no particular reason.

“Tibby likes to test people.” It was creepy. How many times had she heard her own mother say those exact words?

“I'm sure it's because of her illness.”

Tibby didn't think before she asked, “What illness?”

Mrs. Graffman looked surprised that Tibby didn't know. “She has leukemia.” Mrs. Graffman sounded like she was trying to be matter-of-fact. Like she'd said the word a million times and it didn't scare her anymore. But Tibby could see that it did.

Tibby felt that falling feeling. Mrs. Graffman looked at her with too much intensity, as though Tibby could say something that mattered. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she mumbled stiffly.

Tibby made herself go back up the stairs. There was something too sad about the searching look of a sick kid's mother.

She paused at Bailey's door, sloshing the orange juice a little, feeling horrible for the mean things she'd said. Granted, Bailey had started it, but Bailey had leukemia.

Bailey was sitting up in bed now, looking eager to get back to the battle.

Tibby plastered some approximation of a bland, friendly smile on her face. She handed Bailey her pills.

“So anyway, did you lie about your age at Wallman's to get the job? Isn't the minimum age fifteen?” Bailey asked.

Tibby cleared her throat, careful to keep her smile from sagging. “Yeah. And actually, I am fifteen.”

Bailey was clearly annoyed. “You don't look fifteen.”

The smile was strained. Tibby couldn't remember how a regular smile was supposed to feel. This one had probably degraded into a grimace. “I guess not,” Tibby said quietly. She really wanted to leave.

Bailey's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Tibby looked away. “She told you, didn't she?” Bailey demanded.

“Told me what?” Tibby asked the blanket, hating herself for pretending not to know when she knew perfectly well. She hated when people did that.

“That I'm sick!” Bailey's tough face was holding up about as well as Tibby's friendly smile.

“No,” Tibby murmured, hating her own cowardice.

“I didn't think you were a liar,” Bailey shot back.

Tibby's eyes, searching for any destination other than Bailey's face, landed on a piece of netted cloth stuck through with needle and a piece of red yarn lying on Bailey's bedspread. Neat stitches spelled
YOU ARE MY
. What? Sunshine? The thing struck Tibby as tragic and sort of pathetic.

“I'd better go,” Tibby said in a near whisper.

“Fine. Get out of here,” Bailey said.

“Okay. See you around,” Tibby said robotically. She shuffled toward the door.

“Nice smock,” Bailey practically spat at her back.

“Thanks,” Tibby heard herself saying as she fled.

Dear Carmen,

Some summer I want all of us to come here together. That is the happiest thing I can imagine. The first day I walked about a million steps down the cliffs to a tiny fishing village called Ammoudi on the Caldera. Caldera means “cauldron.” It's this body of water that filled in after a monster volcano exploded and sank most of the island. After I painted these pretty Greek boats, it got to be broiling hot, so I stripped down to my bathing suit and dove right into the clear, cold water.

I made a painting for you. It's the bell tower right here in Oia. My shy grandpa, who doesn't speak English, came around and studied my painting for a long time. He nodded approvingly, which was pretty cute.