“Ignore them,” Gabe advises, swapping my fries for some of his onion rings, his tan arm brushing mine as he reaches across the table for the squeeze bottle of ketchup. Then, changing the subject altogether: “I don’t know what you’re doing this week, but a buddy of mine’s having a party if you wanna come hang out,” he tells me, voice so casual that for a moment I can’t tell if it’s put on or not. “Meet some new people.”
“I don’t know.” I flinch at the spray of laughter coming from the table by the window—it’s one of the girls from the Lodge, Michaela, plus two girls I only recognize by face. You don’t have to know me to hate me in this town. I don’t want to do this again, how it was before I left for Bristol, conversations stopping abruptly whenever I walked into a classroom, and Molly Barlow can’t keep her legs closed written in sparkly lip gloss on the bathroom mirror at school. “Are there new people to meet in Star Lake?”
Gabe nods, like fair point. “Probably not,” he admits. He’s still got his hat on plus a green Donnelly’s Pizza T-shirt, the tawny hair on his arms catching the sunlight pouring in. “But there are some cool ones.”
“Oh yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “That so?”
“That’s so.” Gabe smiles. “His place is right on the lake; you can bring a suit if you want. It’ll be fun.”
I’m opening my mouth to tell him thanks but no thanks when somebody kicks the back of my chair leg, hard enough to jostle my arm into the plastic French Roast cup I brought inside. It’s empty but the leftover ice spills all over the table; my gaze snaps up just in time to see Michaela heading for the doorway, tossing a casual wave over her shoulder in my direction. “Oops,” she coos, sweet as crumble-topped pie laced with DDT.
Watch out, I want to snap, but Michaela’s already through the doorway; Gabe swears and reaches for a napkin to mop up the ice. I can taste the iron muscle of my heart, like I bit my tongue without realizing it.
I’m humiliated.
But I’m also totally pissed.
I shut my eyes and when I open them I find Gabe watching closely, like he’s ready to take any cue I want to give him. Like he’s ready to let me lead. I take a deep breath, let it out again. “So, hey, when’s that party?” I ask.
Day 11
The TVs in the Lodge rooms are all huge monstrosities from the 1980s with bunny ears and dials on the sides, so I spend the morning calling around to price out new ones—never mind the fact that the budget Penn gave me to work with is barely even enough to have somebody come haul our old ones away. I’m trying to figure out the best approach for me to sell her on abandoning the idea altogether (Back to nature! Commune with your family away from the harsh glare of consumerism! Hipsters don’t own TVs, and neither do we!) when I look up and find Desi hovering in the doorway of the office like a specter, her small skinny body pressed against the dark wooden frame. I’ve got no idea how long she’s been waiting. More than a week here, and I’ve never heard her speak.
“Hey, Des,” I venture quietly, voice cautious like I’m trying not to scare a baby deer. Her hair is done in a million tiny, careful braids all over her head. She’s a beautiful kid, Desi. Her eyes are dark and huge. “You looking for your mom?”
Desi shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything. Her T-shirt’s got a picture of Dora the Explorer. She’s got her hands knotted in its hem, tugging like she’s bored or unhappy, but I have no earthly idea what she’s after.
“You wanna come color?” I try next—there’s a sixty-four-count box of Crayola crayons on the bookshelf for just this purpose, along with a stack of activity books and a couple of board games—but that earns me another silent no. We look at each other. I think. Finally, I reach into my purse and pull out a package of Red Vines, hold them out in her direction like an offering.
Desi grins.
Day 12
Gabe’s buddy Ryan is a friend of a friend he knows from college, an early-twenties trust-fund burnout type who lives in a possibly illegal camper on the far side of Star Lake. Gabe’s got to work the dinner rush at the shop, so he texts me to meet him at the party, and I go late on purpose so I don’t show up before he does. It’s close to nine-thirty by the time I park the Passat and the air has that night-water smell about it, murky and mysterious. There’s a bonfire blazing on a sandy patch of shore.
“Hey,” Gabe calls, weaving through the crowd once he sees me. He’s holding two red Solo cups, and he hands one over when he’s hugged me hello, wavy hair curling down over his ears and a look on his face that might or might not be worried; it’s hard for me to tell. I can hear some clang-y, fratty music coming from somebody’s tinny iPod speakers, Vampire Weekend maybe. “You made it.”
“I did.” I smile at the half-surprised look on his face. “Thought I’d bail?”
Gabe shrugs and taps his plastic cup against mine, grinning. “Maybe.”
“Well,” I tell him, trying to sound more confident than I feel, “here I am.” I swig a big, sour gulp of my beer. It’s noisy, way more people than I was expecting—girls in shorts and bikini tops, guys in flip-flops. There’s a group of dudes playing beer pong on an old door laid horizontally across two sawhorses.
I’m about to ask where all these people came from when a shirtless guy in a cowboy hat I’m assuming is ironic slings his arm around Gabe’s shoulders. “Angel Gabriel,” he intones in a voice like the Bedtime Magic DJ on a lite FM radio station. “Who’s your friend?”
“Angel Gabriel, seriously?” I snort, putting my hand out to shake his. “That . . . is really something.”
“What’s more embarrassing is that he answers to it,” the guy says good-naturedly. “I’m Ryan, this is my hobo palace. Come on, kids, there’s food.”