“Yeah, well, I don’t think like that all the time,” says Yardley. “It’s just now. In the dark. When he didn’t pick me for his Lemon Hunt partner.”
We arrive at the tennis courts. Yardley flicks the lights on. We squint as we do a quick run across the clay. Two lemons, both mine. Then we plunge the courts into darkness again. Then we depart the walkway and head through the woodsy area behind the courts, up to the perimeter path.
A lemon for Yardley.
At Pevensie we circle, looking in the grass, the slats of the fence, the trellis for the climbing vines, under the steps and under the pillows of the porch swing.
A lemon for me.
When I come down from the Pevensie porch, Yardley is not to be seen.
I circle the house again, and when I come back to the front, she and George are kissing. She is pressing him against the house with her hand up his shirt.
I stand there for a moment. George’s hand is cupped under her bottom like he’s done this a thousand times. Yardley is transformed from the funny, practical girl I know into an experienced woman, someone with the courage to push her boyfriend against the house and run her hand up his stomach to his chest, like she knows what makes him feel good.
She turns. “Carrie, go on without me,” she says. “I’m going to hunt for lemons with George. ’Kay?”
“Hunt for lemons, that’s a good thing to call it,” says George, low and laughing.
“This is my house,” says Yardley. “You wanna see my room?”
I turn and run into the dark walkways of the island.
21.
I AM HEADING along the perimeter path that curves around the island, going toward the Big Beach, when I run into Pfeff.
“Ahoy,” I call as he comes into sight.
“Oh, ack. You scared me.”
“How’s your hunt?”
He shows me a basket with two lemons. “Terrible. I lost George and then I lost Major and— I don’t know. There are like no lemons anywhere. It’s possible I need glasses. I should get myself tested. Do you want to give me hints?”
“I didn’t hide them.” In the moonlight, his skin is glowing. I’m suddenly aware of the straps on my dress, the feeling of my hair down my back, the braces on my teeth, the balm on my lips.
“You didn’t?” he says. “You gave that speech and seemed so impressive and official, I thought you would know all the secret places.”
“Nope.”
We are standing at a spot where the path traverses a rocky ledge. Over the edge, far below, waves hit dark rocks. Pfeff leans against the railing and peers down. “This is a dangerous spot.”
I lean over the rail beside him. His bare arm is inches from mine. “When we were little,” I tell him, “we were forbidden to go on this path alone. In case we’d get the idea to climb the barrier.”
He leans out a little farther. “It makes you feel alive, though. Am I right?”
I lean out and feel a spike of adrenaline stab me.
“Should I climb up?” asks Pfeff. “Just to see how it feels to be in mortal danger?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Oh.” He sounds chastened. “Okay.”
“I’m all about water safety,” I say. “The cool kids all care about water safety.”
“Ha.” He grins. “You’re clever. You know that?”
“Sometimes.”
Pfeff looks at me. His thin white T-shirt is loose at the neck and shows his collarbone. His eyes flash.
He leans down, slowly, and when I realize he is going to kiss me, I cannot move, I’m so surprised. He brushes his lips ever so softly across mine. It feels like a feather against my mouth, so light. When he pulls away, I can still feel the spot where we touched.
I have never been kissed before. It’s like diving into cold water, like
eating a raspberry, like
listening to a flute, and it’s like none of those things.
“I adore clever people,” Pfeff says, his voice low. “And with the moonlight, and all the danger, and the lemons, and everyone in white, I feel like I’m in a movie or something. Don’t you?”
“Not really,” I say. “This is my regular life.”
“You’re like a girl from a movie,” whispers Pfeff. “I had to kiss you. Because look at where we are. Right?” He gestures at the sea, the sky, the moon. “It would be a shame to waste it.” He tilts his head and cracks a smile. “I hope that wasn’t gross or anything.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t gross.”
“Oh, good.”
I reach my hand up around his neck and kiss him back then, standing on tiptoe. His neck is warm beneath my fingers, and suddenly, my mouth is no longer defective,
scarred,
infected,
inadequate,
as it has seemed ever since I first learned I needed jaw surgery. Instead, my mouth is all connection and
sensation.
Pfeff leans into me and parts his lips, sliding his hand up my waist to my chest. I am floating and dizzy with this new feeling. He moans, softly, and kisses me a little harder, his breath hot.
And then it is over. He pulls back and smiles. “I should go,” he whispers.
“Okay.” I am stunned and disoriented. I don’t know what people do after suddenly kissing in the moonlight. I don’t want him to go.
“Did you forget there’s a lemon hunt going on?” Pfeff asks.
“Almost, yes.” I laugh.
I want him to kiss me again, or give me a chance so that I can kiss him again, but his mood seems to have changed. “I better get busy with my lemon hunting,” he says. “I like to win things, if you haven’t guessed.”
“You’ll need a lot more than two lemons if you want to win.”
He picks up his basket. “I’m going to hunt the hell out of some lemons, then,” he says. “Good luck, beautiful Carrie.” And with that, Pfeff is gone, running down the walkway and into the night.
22.
I SPEND MUCH of the next hour down on the family dock. I find several lemons on the boats, but my mind is not on the hunt.
I keep replaying what happened. Was that first kiss just a moment of impulse on Pfeff’s part? A boy and a girl in the moonlight, the surf crashing below them?
Or does he like me, because he thinks I am clever and impressive? He used those words.
What else did he say? “You’re like a girl from a movie.” “Good luck, beautiful Carrie.”
But he talked like the kisses were sort of a joke, merely something fun to do so as not to waste the beauty of the evening and the drama of the landscape. And he left in search of lemons.
There was that look in his eyes before he kissed me. The feel of his mouth on mine, the whiff of seawater in his hair.
I am sitting on the edge of the dock when I hear the bell ring. Tipper wants us all to return at the sound of it. The Lemon Hunt is over.
* * *
—
AS EVERYONE CLUSTERS on the Clairmont lawn, Harris announces that it’s time for prizes. Tipper stands by his side like a game show assistant.
Tomkin wins for the lime, of course. The gift is a cube kite: three cubes attached to one another, a bright red bit of geometry to fling into the sky. Then people begin counting up their lemons.
Pfeff arrives last for the reckoning, lemons bulging comically in his front and back pockets and held in his hands. “I lost my basket,” he announces, kneeling dramatically at my mother’s feet. “I suspect it was stolen by one of these weenies.” He gestures at Major and George. “Sorry, one of these buttholes.”
Tipper laughs.
“Anyway, it was stolen with two lemons in it, I might add, but nonetheless, I persevered, and now, my lady, I present you with”—he begins taking the lemons from his pockets, laying them all on the grass—“twenty lemons.”
He wins, beating Bess and Erin, who were tied with fifteen each.
My mother presents Pfeff with a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to the Edgartown bookshop.
Dessert is lemon mousse topped with fluffy blobs of whipped cream, and rich lemon pound cake soaked in lemon syrup.
I hope Pfeff will come over to me.
I want to go to him.