Sloan watched Fritz cannonball off the diving board, raising a tsunami of splashes that had the girls shrieking and ducking to protect their hair. A boom box blasted the Beatles album Help! Patti Gibson and Steve Ringer, better known as Stringer, were dancing barefoot on the concrete apron at the deep end of the pool. Sloan recognized two sophomores, Blake Edelston and Roland Berg, neither of whom she knew well. Bayard was smoking a joint. He smiled at Sloan and then chugged down his drink from the same cup he always carried, his perpetual bourbon and Coke.
On the far side of the pool, Austin sat on a green metal glider in his bathing suit, already a gorgeous red-brown under his suntan oil. His old girlfriend Michelle, in a hot pink T-shirt and a snug pair of navy blue OP shorts, sat on a stray cushion at his feet, looking every bit the acolyte. She had an enormous tangle of dark curly hair that fell across her shoulders. She put a proprietary hand on Austin’s thigh, giving Sloan a wide-eyed look. Apparently, the two were back together, which might have been what had put him in a charitable mood. As he rolled a joint, he glanced up at Sloan with a smile that seemed friendly enough to make her think he was sincere about the truce. Maybe she’d bury her suspicion regarding his authorship of the anonymous note. Better to let their antagonism dissipate without adding further fuel.
The beer keg sat in the shade against the back of the cabin. An oversize plastic punch bowl sat on a nearby harvest table, the virulent pink contents surrounding an island of solid ice. There was also a bucket full of ice cubes and a stack of clear plastic cups. Iris was manning the punch bowl in a black bikini, her skin already darkly tanned. Sloan was guessing she lay out in her backyard most weekends, soaking up the sun. Fritz tossed back punch with the same abandon as everyone else; anything to feel like one of the gang.
Iris ladled a cup of punch for Sloan and offered a second to Troy. “Joy juice,” she said, “unless you’d rather have beer.”
“This is fine,” Sloan replied.
“I’m a beer kinda guy myself,” Troy said and grabbed an empty plastic cup.
Iris polished off the punch she’d poured for Troy and then paused to light a cigarette, probably thinking she looked sophisticated for a fourteen-year-old. All Sloan could think about was Iris splayed out on the pool table while a wobbly handheld video recorder made a pitiless visual record of her disgrace.
Sloan took a sip of her punch. The alcohol content was almost overpowering, with a faint suggestion of fruit. She made a face. “What’s in this? Yuck.”
“All natural ingredients except for the red food coloring. Vodka, pink lemonade, and sloe gin, whatever that is. The strawberries are organic. Very wholesome.”
“I don’t see strawberries.”
Iris peered into the bowl. “Oops. Guess I forgot. Oh well. I leave it to your imagination.”
“Not my business, but are you going to be okay up here? Poppy told me you were supposed to be spending the night with her.”
Iris made a dismissive gesture. “My parents are at a day-long retreat. Tantra yoga. Unfolding their spiritual natures by screwing their brains out. They won’t be home until after dinner.”
“Just be careful.”
“Totally.”
Sloan crossed the patio to a spot near Austin and stood watching him roll another joint, which he stacked with its mates in a vintage cigarette case.
“I see you got here all right,” he remarked.
“This place is great. When you said ‘cabin,’ I was picturing Abraham Lincoln.”
“Nothing so crude. Have a look around if you want.”
“Thanks.”
She took her punch and went into the kitchen. She was unaccustomed to drinking, but she didn’t want to appear uptight. She was also ever so slightly tense in Austin’s company and the punch was helping her relax. Groceries had been unloaded and the counters were covered with packaged hamburger buns, potato chips, onions, condiments, paper plates, and plastic ware. The sink was packed with ice, soft drinks and bottled water nestled in the depths. The six-burner propane stove looked like it had never been used. In the background, she could hear the Beatles singing “Yesterday.”
The living room had been furnished with two big upholstered couches and assorted comfy-looking side chairs. The coffee table was plank, in keeping with the fantasy of frontier life. Sloan took in the high-gloss cherry paneling, the rag rugs, and louvered shutters painted a soft blue. A wood-burning fireplace was central to the side wall, with ample firewood stacked up on the stone hearth. The interior of the house smelled of wood smoke and the inevitable touch of mold.
Off the wide hallway, she saw bunk beds in one guest room and a full-sized bed in each of the other two. The second wood-burning fireplace was located in the master suite, which was more luxurious than many she’d seen in Horton Ravine. As she passed the master bedroom, Poppy emerged from the bathroom in a red halter-top bathing suit, shoes in hand, her street clothes folded neatly over one arm. Her skin had the creamy texture of silk with a tracery of blue veins showing through. In strong sunlight, she’d burn in half an hour and be left peeling for a week.
“Hello again,” Poppy said.
“Hey, when I asked for a ride, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Iris rode up with you. How’s she getting home?”
“Bayard’s taking her, last I heard.”
“Great.” Sloan cast about for something more to say, but she and Poppy had lost the capacity for small talk. “Anyway, I’ll see you out by the pool.”
She closed herself in the bathroom, where she changed into her bikini, already wishing she were somewhere else. One curious side effect of the shunning was that it had left her feeling detached. She understood now how easily loyalty could be dispatched and how little most relationships meant. She left her clothes on a chair in the master bedroom and tugged at the bottom of her bathing suit. The bikini, while flattering, left more of her exposed than she was comfortable with. She crossed the hall and moved through the living room and kitchen to the patio.
Fritz stood in the shallow end of the pool, water up to his waist. “Hey, Troy! Catch this!”
He used his clenched hands to squirt a stream of water at Troy, who stood on the diving board poised to go in.
The water caught Troy in the face. Fritz’s hyper braying cut through the cheers as Troy dove in, his body slicing the water with scarcely a splash. Austin watched Fritz with a barely concealed contempt. Fritz was a sophomore, one year behind them at Climp, and his showing off was typical of his immaturity. Bayard had once suggested Fritz had a crush on Austin. At the time, she hadn’t given much credence to the claim, but she was aware of how often Fritz stole quick looks at Austin, like a kid hoping for his mother’s approval.
Sloan watched Austin fire up a joint, sucking in the smoke, which he held for a count of ten. When Austin got stoned, he turned nasty and she hoped she wasn’t going to be the target of his caustic remarks. As sweet as Austin had been during their brief romance, withering judgments came more naturally to him.
She put her drink down on the edge of the pool near the deep end and sat down, dangling her feet in the water as she watched Patti and Stringer making out.
From behind her, Poppy appeared. “Can I have some of that?” she asked, pointing at her punch.
“Sure, have it all. It’s too strong for me.”