Nantucket Blue

Forty-six





MOM AND I MET PAUL MORGAN at a French restaurant on Broad Street. The hostess led us inside and I spotted him right away. He was seated at a table by the window. He looked clean and handsome in searsucker pants and a crisp white shirt. He stood up to kiss Mom on both cheeks, European style. I felt proud I’d found him for Mom. “You look just the same,” he said, and pulled out a chair for her. He turned to me. “Your mom was kind of like a badass Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“That was a long time ago.” Mom blushed and ordered a white wine spritzer. As she and Paul reminisced about their beach club days, I sipped an Arnold Palmer, watched the passersby on Broad Street, and thought about my conversation with Jules. Losing her had me hunched with sadness, weighed down by a sense that the world had unraveled.

Jay thought I’d led him on. Parker thought I was desperate for going out with a sophomore. Jules thought I was a bad friend. And worst of all, Zack thought I betrayed him. I could already hear the names: Tease. Bitch. Slut. All the words designed to make girls feel bad and small. All the words I’d worked so hard to avoid could now be stuck to me like a name tag. And I would have to bear them with quiet dignity. I’d have to put the Jenna Garbetti method back into effect: lie low, look good, and learn. In order to restore my reputation at this point I’d have to lie so low I’d be subterranean. I’d have to learn so much I could operate a NASA spacecraft. I’d have to look as good as a supermodel. I ran my hand through my half-brushed hair, which Mom had encouraged me to put into a ponytail so it was off my face. And I noticed a coffee stain on my T-shirt. I placed my napkin high on my lap to cover it as I tuned back to Paul and Mom’s conversation.

“Nantucket sure has changed,” she was saying. “Was it always this upscale?”

“No,” Paul said. “It happened in the past fifteen years when the mega-rich discovered our little paradise.”

“I was in a shop today,” Mom continued as she stirred her spritzer with the little plastic straw, “and I saw a pair of sandals for seven hundred dollars. I thought, What is this?”

“Some of these shops are ridiculous, but there are also some gems.” His eyes widened and his voice rose. “I should take you shopping.”

“I would love that,” Mom said.

“We’ll get some lattes and make an afternoon of it.”

“That sounds like just what I need.” Mom and I exchanged a smile. How had I missed it? Paul Morgan was gay. I thought I’d found her the perfect new husband, but maybe what she needed right now was a new friend.

I looked up and saw Zack through the window, from behind, walking up Broad Street. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I knew those shorts and that red T-shirt. I sat up. My heart slammed, pushing blood faster through my veins. Here was my chance to talk to him, in person and alone.

“I have to go,” I said, sitting up straight.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked. Paul looked confused.

“I see Zack,” I said. “And he’s alone. And I really want to talk to him before he gets to that party.”

“Okay,” Mom said, her brow wrinkled with concern. “Be careful.”

“What’s happening?” Paul asked, a hand to his chest.

“I’ll explain,” Mom said as I stood from the table, letting my napkin drop to the floor.

The entrance to the restaurant was crowded. There were people trying to get in and people trying to get out, and the line by the hostess podium was thick and busy with people who smelled like perfume and cologne; laughers and chatters who were slow to move out of the way. It took me a while to get clear of them. When I did, I spotted Zack at the top of the street, about to turn up Centre Street. He was on his way to Fitzy’s. It was a busy August night, and the sidewalk was crowded with amblers; couples holding hands; families walking in loose, lolling groups; and kids licking dripping, precarious ice-cream cones. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I said as I wove though them to get to Zack.

“Hey!” I called when I’d almost caught up to him. “Hey, it’s me!” He turned around. But it wasn’t Zack. It was some guy with a baby strapped to his chest.

“Sorry,” I said, a little breathless. “I thought you were someone else.”

“No worries,” said the man, and kept walking.

The man didn’t look anything like Zack. He was at least thirty or forty. My wish to see Zack was so strong I’d erased an entire baby. But now the desire to touch Zack, to hold him and kiss him and tell him that I loved him was out of its cage. It was alive and wild, set free by a man with a baby. A strong breeze pushed against my back. I caught my reflection in a store window and stared at the girl looking back at me, breathing deeply, with her hands on her hips. Her ponytail was half undone and I could see she wanted something, and wanted it bad. Why, exactly, was I going to stop her?

I was afraid to go to Fitzy’s. I was afraid of what other people thought. I was afraid of what other people would say and do. I wanted to preserve some idea of me. I was practically taking a page from the book of Boaty Carmichael, caring more about my public self than my private one. Was that who I was?

The only opinion that should matter to me was that of the girl in the mirror. Edwina MacIntosh had been saying this for years in the Rosewood School for Girls annual anti-clique speeches. For the first time, it felt true. It didn’t matter what other people thought of me; it mattered what I thought of me. I’m not sure why it was at that moment that it finally sank in, except that maybe this is how wisdom works sometimes. You hear it, and some extra-smart part of your brain that you don’t even realize you have grabs it. It stays there, hidden away, until it’s needed. I looked at my self in the window again. I bet this was what I looked like when I played lacrosse. Strong. Determined. Self-assured. I felt glad I’d gone to an all-girls’ school my whole life.

I turned up Centre Street and walked toward Fitzy’s house. I wasn’t going to lie low. Jenna Garbetti’s method wouldn’t work for me. I wasn’t Jenna Garbetti. I was Cricket Thompson.