“Let’s try to make the best of it.” Mom was obviously embarrassed, too.
Dad came in and ordered us all club sodas, except Grandma Sullivan, who wanted a highball. We stood awkwardly among throngs of red, white, and blue balloons and mini flags as bald guys with red faces patted me on the back. “Thank you for all the great stuff the Rotary Club does,” I said, trying to deflect.
“Are you going to have to face that evil man in court?” an elderly lady asked me. She talked with a side whisper, and I imagined she had been a lifelong gadfly.
“I have no idea,” I said. I didn’t want to think about facing him again.
“Sadie?” I turned to see a familiar face standing behind me. I glanced at her gold-starred name tag.
“Oh my God! Alice! I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Alice had been in my Girl Scout troop all the way through seventh grade, when our whole troop decided Girl Scouts would not be happening anymore.
“Troop one eighty-six,” she said with a wink and a thumbs-up.
“You look awesome. I love the lip ring,” I said. She was tall and thin with long white-blond braids tied back with beaded elastics. Her skin was vampire pale, as if her face had never seen a drop of Hamptons sunshine. “You’re still hanging out with the puppies, huh?” I pointed to the dog rescue T-shirt she wore over a long floral-print skirt. Alice had been obsessed with rescuing dogs since Brownies.
“I still love my puppy friends. Now I do photography for the shelters.”
“That’s so cool. I’m here by default.”
“Hell no. You’re the Hamptons Hero.” She smiled.
A guy with bushy white eyebrows, also wearing a dog shelter T-shirt, tapped Alice on the shoulder and asked her something about the number of hours she spent at the shelter every week.
I texted Shay, Alice from Girl Scouts is a homegrown hero and she has multiple piercings. She looks good, though, before Alice turned and led me to the table with the giant gold-star balloon centerpiece.
A girl with straight shoulder-length black hair pulled back with a headband sat reading the program. Her name tag said VAL RAMOS.
“Hey, honoree table, I’m guessing?” Alice said.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling a little awkward sitting alone.”
I sat next to Val and took a sip of ice water. “I’m Sadie, fill-in for somebody named Alexis Ahern.”
“You’re the baby saver. Well done,” she said.
“Thanks. Some prefer to call me the damn fool.” I took a quick bite of the dinner roll on the plate in front of me. “Sorry, I’m starving.”
I immediately liked Val, who told us her entire family had come to Long Island from El Salvador. She talked quickly, smiled a lot, and was very animated with her hands. And she seemed passionate about collecting school supplies for migrant workers’ children, which made me feel even less deserving of the award. Alice and I told her we knew each other from Girl Scout days, and she said the Haitian guy in the middle of a crowd by the bar was also an honoree from her school named Jean. She described him as the kind of guy who talked to everyone but didn’t really hang out with anyone except the art teacher. She said he was an amazing artist.
“How does a kid our age have a full beard?”
“Who knows? He’s had that for a while.”
Alice buttered a roll. “So are you guys nervous?” she said.
“For what?” I asked.
“The speeches.”
My stomach dropped. “I thought we were just going up to get the award and shake some hands.”
“I wish I hadn’t known. I’ve been freaking out for days. I hate talking in public,” Val said. She unfolded a piece of yellow lined paper.
“Don’t worry about it, Sadie. People will understand you didn’t have time to prepare,” Alice said. “Do you know who you’re filling in for, by the way?”
“No?”
“The Hamptons Hoodlum. You know, the one who stole the money from old people and used it to buy shoes.”
Somehow the fact that I was a substitute for the troll mill’s current favorite subject made me feel even worse about being there. I searched the room for anyone else I knew. I was getting more self-conscious by the minute and desperate to go home and eat franks and beans and watch Mr. Ng screw up the street fireworks.
A guy in a seersucker suit cleared his throat into the mic and tapped a glass with a knife. “Can you take your seats, please, folks? We’re about to begin.”
Jean made his way over to the honoree table. “There she is. The Hamptons Hero. You’re totally famous.” He held his hand up for a high five. “That took some balls.”
I high-fived him and laughed. “Yeah, that’s me. Big Balls Sullivan,” I joked.
He sat next to Alice and guzzled water.
“Jean, this is Sadie and Alice. Sadie and Alice, Jean,” Val said.
“Pleasure,” he said, nodding. “Dude, this place smells like golf bag. Can you guys smell that? Like, leathery or something.”
“It’s so friggin’ noisy in here I can’t hear anything,” Alice said loudly.
“My mom brought everyone she knows. And they’re all loud,” Jean said, motioning toward the table of women behind us. “I tried to get out of it, but they’re pumped to be eating lunch at the country club.”
“I actually wanted to come. It’s good exposure for my cause,” Val said. “Your mom is really dressed up for this, huh, Jean?” We all looked at the table of women wearing fancy suits and oversize hats.
“She’s Haitian. She dresses up for bed.”
Just as the guy was tapping the glass with the knife again, Gordie Harris rushed in and sank into the seat on the other side of Val.
“Gordie? You’re a homegrown hero?” I said, surprised.
“Yes, I appear to be.” He fumbled with his gold-starred name tag and pinned it to his navy polo shirt. Gordie was rich, preppy, and the smartest kid in my class. He sailed. And he played the saxophone. Those were all things I learned during my massive middle-school Gordie Harris crush phase (which ended when the ruffians, of all people, saw him hooking up with a guy and I realized I probably didn’t have a chance).
Gordie nodded at Jean. “Man, that is some impressive facial hair.”
Just then, a Rotary guy took the mic and spoke about community service and civic responsibility. Through the clinking and scraping of people inhaling their dry chicken and soggy asparagus lunches, the guy called up Rotary members to talk about their nominated honorees.
A school principal walked to the podium, held up a red-white-and-blue ribbon, and called Val to the stage. Val’s hand trembled as she slid past me and walked slowly in her knee-length khaki skirt, tucked-in pink button-down, and ballet flats.
“Thank you so much for this esteemed award,” Val read from her yellow paper. “Migrant children move often and—”
“Can’t hear you,” some lady yelled from the back.
She leaned closer to the mic. “Migrant children face many struggles. I encourage you all to donate school supplies to my drive this summer. With your help, we can prepare more children for school. And school means so much to these families. Thank you.” Val hurried off the stage.