The Unlikelies by Carrie Firestone
For the unlikely friendships,
the ones that inspire us,
the ones that change our lives
A FEW MINUTES before the incident, I noticed a tuft of dune grass stuck to a discarded strawberry crate. A honey jar had fallen from the shelf, but I didn’t feel like picking it up. Daniela, my farm stand coworker, had a crusty cold sore on her mouth. I wondered if it was herpes.
I was twelve hours into downsizing my life and just beginning to be more aware of my surroundings.
The incident happened on a Tuesday, early summer, so the heavy Hamptons weekend traffic hadn’t started yet and we had only a few customers. Old Mr. Upton and his aide, Sissy, were on a quest for unbruised peaches. A couple of women from the city, probably there to get their summer houses ready for the kids and their nannies and the investment banker husbands, were talking near the buckets of wildflowers. A tourist family loaded up two baskets. The mother told me she and the kids were going to have a picnic at the Montauk Lighthouse.
I stood near the register, my hands tucked in the pockets of my unflattering farm stand apron, disappointed that it was only ten fourteen and I still had six hours and forty-six minutes left in the dim shed with the horseflies and Daniela’s cold sore.
Maybe I’ll run home for lunch, I thought.
ONE
I SPENT TWO months assembling care packages for my friends. It was my way of thanking them for being awesome. Nobody had ever seen such a tight senior class, united by over a decade of friendship and compulsive thrill seeking, and a chemistry my own dysfunctional junior class would never have. The inseparable seniors were about to disband, bound for summer camp jobs and sports clinics and European vacations—and then college.
I wanted to do something special before they left.
The boxes, lined up in neat rows on my window seat, were all the same size and shape. I had scoured the shops and flea markets in town, adding online items that reflected the recipients and what they meant to me. The care packages cost me all my birthday money, but as I tucked in the notes, wrapped each small box with brown paper, and tied it with gold-flecked garden twine, it felt right.
I passed out the boxes at the Night of a Thousand Good-byes, held every year after all the graduation parties and drawn-out family dinners.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Sadie,” Ellie said as we sat on the log and she took out the contents of the box: A snowflake-shaped cookie cutter to represent Ellie’s annual cookie exchange. An elephant figurine carved out of a giant nut to represent Ellie’s love of elephants. A miniature bobblehead of our assistant principal to represent her strange crush on Mr. Wilson.
“I will cherish these,” Ellie said, “like forever.” Ellie had only a few more hours of freedom before her family volunteer trip to Mongolia.
Parker was one of the few not leaving right away, but I gave her a care package anyway: A tiny plastic Wonder Woman figurine because Parker was the spitting image of Wonder Woman on Halloween. A box of Thin Mints, her favorite cookie since our Girl Scout days. A temporary tattoo collection to help her finally decide if she wanted a real one.
Parker hugged me so hard I thought I might bleed internally.
The care packages were a big hit. I even made Seth a care package, because he had been a damn good boyfriend while it lasted. I saved his until the end of the night, which was probably a mistake, because he was drunk by then and very handsy.
“Sadie Cakes, come here,” he said, pulling me toward him and leaning down to kiss me. Our original breakup had happened via text during spring break, in the middle of his trip to Cabo. We had mutually decided it was impossible to sustain a relationship when he would be spending the summer at his dad’s in Israel, then going to college in North Carolina. But mutual and amicable didn’t mean fast or easy. It was easier to hook up than not hook up. It was easier to go to a movie with Seth than stay home and watch HGTV with Mom. It was easier to go to senior prom together than to mess up the whole plan.
The first breakup never sticks anyway, so it was good we’d started in March.
“Stop, we’re broken up,” I said unconvincingly. “Here, I made you a care package.”
“Aww. You’re the best ex-girlfriend ever.” He laid his hand on the small of my back. I didn’t move away, but I didn’t move any closer to Seth’s lips either.
I was going to miss Seth and all our history and our chair, the chair we sat in at every Shawn Flynn party, the chair in the middle of it all. And I would miss the bonfires and the football games and the movie nights in Seth’s basement. But I had to stay strong.
Seth tore open his box. He took out each item and studied it. A bobblehead of my deceased cat, Lucy, Seth’s favorite pet. I had gotten a little obsessed with the custom bobblehead site. A bag of hand-cut potato chips, Seth’s favorite snack. And a printout of the first text Seth ever sent me—Do you like sushi?—rolled up in a tiny scroll.
He was quiet.
I hadn’t wanted to get too sentimental. As much as I had loved being Seth’s girlfriend, we both knew there wasn’t enough between us to transcend time and space.
“You suck,” he said, rubbing his eyes. I hadn’t planned to make him cry.
I left him standing there, holding the care package. One last hookup wouldn’t be good for either one of us.
Between the care package distributions and handing out Woody’s Ice Cream hats to everybody—compliments of Dad, who always gave out hats to his graduating customers—I barely talked to Shay. When it was time to go, I pried the fine-tipped Sharpie out of her yearbook-signing hand and waited on the edge of the sob-fest for her drawn-out good-byes.
Shay and I took one last best-friend drive home in Mom’s Prius, which I had basically taken over, forcing Mom to use Grandma Hosseini’s Buick. Shay had to leave for California the next morning to teach at a tennis camp before starting college at Pepperdine. I dug into a bag of tortilla chips and listened to Shay go over her packing checklist one more time.
“Should I just wait until I get there and see what shoes California people are wearing?”
“Yes. It’s humanly impossible to fit another pair of shoes into that suitcase.”
Shay turned to me. “Is this happening?” she said. “Because it feels like a normal night.”
“It is a normal night.” I reached over and squeezed her hand.
Shay was a steaming hotbed of emotion. If she started reminiscing about all the things we’d been through together and how awesome our friendship was, she would blow. I wanted her to remember her graduation night as fun and happy.
We pulled into Shay’s driveway and I turned off the car.
“I have a little something for you,” I said, reaching behind the seat.