“You’re supposed to study,” he reminded me.
“But I can study there.”
I could tell my father was torn. He was always keen to go to Catwood Pond, but my mother had been explicit. I persisted, threading the needle just so, and as usual, my will won out. By December 28, we were on the road to the Adirondacks.
I spent our first two days there diligently studying, only taking occasional breaks to tramp around outside. It was witheringly cold, and the pond was hidden under a smooth expanse of snow, marked only by the tracks of cross-country skis and paw prints. Directly in front of our dock, I noticed the fresh marks of a rabbit, whose long strides had doubled back on themselves before changing direction. Perhaps she was evading something, or maybe she suddenly had a better idea.It’s okay to change your mind, I told myself.It’s okay to admit you were wrong.
Invigorated by the icy air in my lungs and the imminence of seeing Seth again, I felt I was on the verge of something momentous, as if I had found the portal to adulthood. Whatever qualms had burdened me the previous summer now seemed muffled and surmountable. Maybe Chloe had been right about having sex for the first time: I justneeded to get it out of the way. I felt bold and ready to grow up. At least, that’s what I thought I felt.
What I didn’t know then: coming of age isn’t something you can choreograph, and it doesn’t happen all at once. You start the process; you stall; you regress; and then comes another growth spurt. Eventually, your path looks like a series of paw prints in the snow—layered, as if compelled by confusion or curiosity—that double back before veering off in the direction of destiny.
On the day of the party, Chloe and I spent an hour on the phone discussing what we would wear. Summertime in Locust was always a casual, low-stakes affair, but New Year’s Eve felt more consequential. As usual, I hadn’t brought the right clothes.
“When in doubt, wear black,” Chloe asserted.
“I didn’t bring black,” I said.
“Okay, when in doubt, wear navy.”
“Didn’t bring that either.”
“Gray?”
We settled on a green sweater and jeans. Chloe planned to wear a black jumpsuit that was “slutty in a good way.” She reminded me to wear some makeup. “Seth will like it. It will show him that you’ve evolved.”
“Okay. But how much? Just some mascara or…?”
I was clueless, but Chloe was someone who collected beauty products and watched YouTube tutorials for fun. “Keep it simple. Go for like a French coquette look. Like a thick cat-eye and a nude glossy lip. Think Jane Birkin or Françoise Hardy.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I set to work by the dim light in my bedroom. I had found a tube of liquid eyeliner in Nina’s room, and though I had to wipe it off and start over a few times, I eventually managed to trace a steady black line on my upper lids. As it dried, I blinked at myself in the mirror and tried to see myself from Seth’s perspective. For the first time that I could recall, I thought I looked beautiful.
I opened the wooden box on top of my dresser and dug arounduntil I found the fishing-fly ring Seth had made for me. I slipped it onto my finger so he would know where I stood: still his, still hooked.
I had sworn Chloe to secrecy about the fact that I was coming to the party. I wanted to arrive when things were already in full swing so that I could surprise everyone. I took my time getting ready, and when my father finally dropped me off at the Seavey camp, it was just past 10:00P.M. The main house looked different in the wintertime—more inviting, less boastful. I quaked with nervous excitement, anticipating the moment when Seth and I would lock eyes. I had rehearsed it so many times, it felt like it had already happened. I was even looking forward to seeing Greg himself. Maybe he had evolved just like I had. We were on the precipice of a new year, and I was feeling magnanimous.
“Call me if you need anything. If you want to be picked up or…” said my dad as I climbed out of the car.
“Okay, but I’m probably going to spend the night, Dad. It’s New Year’s. Everyone is staying over. So I’ll just get a ride home from Chloe tomorrow.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, I’m just a phone call…”
“I know, Dad. Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
As I watched his car start down the snowy drive, I was hit with a pang of sadness. There was still a part of me that didn’t quite want to grow up, that wanted to live within the familiar cocoon of my nuclear family forever, even if that cocoon was quickly eroding. But when I heard the din of the party inside, I remembered all the good things to come. I had this sense that the whole world was about to crack open for me, finally revealing its true richness. So I turned toward the house, walked up the path, kicked the snow off my boots, and pushed open the front door.
Chloe was the first to notice me.
“Cricket!” She rushed in, bear-hugging me and rocking from side to side. “You guys! Look who’s here!”
The Seaveys’ house had a modern layout, with a huge open kitchen and a soaring great room that overlooked Catwood Pond. Greg washolding forth in front of the fireplace. When he saw me, he looked stunned, but then his face tightened into a grin. He took his time ambling over as others rushed to greet me. When he finally reached the entryway, where I was still taking off my coat and boots, he said, “Cricket Campbell at Catwood Pond after Labor Day? Nowthisis a surprise.” He looked me up and down as usual, then asked, “You didn’t bike here, did you?”
“Nice to see you, Greg,” I said, determined not to let him reel me into a verbal scuffle. My eyes drifted from him and began to scan the room.
“Oh, you’re looking for Seth? He’s not here.” Greg wore an empathetic expression, but he delivered the news like a blow.
I felt my body liquify with disappointment. My face must have fallen, and Greg took a long, satisfied pause before saying, “I mean, he’s here, just nothere. He went out to get more beer. Should be back soon.” I felt myself reconstitute. Shaken but relieved, I remembered why Greg was the absolute worst.
I headed to the kitchen, where Chloe was pouring whisky into shot glasses that were affixed to a cross-country ski. I was not usually a fan of shots, but I needed something to settle my nerves, so I joined the others as we formed a line, lifted the ski, and then tilted it toward our faces. A few onlookers cheered as we gulped the whisky down, and I felt my eyes burn.
