Kathleen has this annoying way of turning plain statements into questions. She is by far the flightiest of the bunch, and also the most fragile, a quality that both ingratiated her to Charleigh—because Charleigh could manipulate her blindfolded—andshredded her nerves.
Kathleen choked on her drink, her voice sputtering out of her as her face burned red. “Like I said, I didn’t want to tell anyone. But she has this little stand out there, like a…what do you callit, an apothecary or something?” Kathleen looked genuinely confused. “With all these homemade essential oil blends. One of them is called Love Potion, and it’s supposed to make your husband want to sleep with you again. Ever since I started wearing it, I can’t keep Kyle off me.”
A few “hmms,” “mmms,” and nods rippled across the room. A mix of both intrigue and of knowing, as if the others were in on it already.
Why hadn’t anyone told Charleigh about this? Why was she the last one to know?
“Well, Alexander and I don’t need any help in that department.” A scoff barked out of her.
“Ofcourseyou guys don’t,” Monica said, giving her fake-lashed eyes a roll. “I mean, Chip and I don’t need anything like that either, but Ihavebeen wanting to go out and sample her other offerings, like the one for weight loss. Have another peek at that sexy hubby.”
Her other offerings? Again, why was she the last to know?
And weight loss? As if. Monica obsesses constantly about her size, even though she’s thin as a bird. Always talking about the latest diet craze inCosmo, punishing herself at the gym at the Boat House multiple times a week. Charleigh possesses too much manic energy to keep weight on her; she’s never not in motion, but she drags herself to the weekly classes—Jazzercise and aerobics, Richard Simmons style—just to stay in with the group. After class, the women all gather in the upstairs lounge, bodies sheathed in leotards, skin lacquered with sweat, and gossipwhile they nurse strawberry daiquiris.
“Weight loss, huh?” Charleigh shot back at Monica.
Another roll of Monica’s eyes, a brittle smile that said to Charleigh,Got ya, made you bite.And also:Is that all you got?
Charleigh’s fingernails were digging into her skin, she realized, rage making her ball her fists into tight boxing gloves. Sometimes, she fantasized about clutching her hands around Monica’s neck, squeezing hard until her eyes bulged and the breath left her. This fantasy went back all the way to junior high when Monica, at a slumber party, had chosen Charleigh’s bra to be the one placed in the freezer. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to any other girl at the party, but Charleigh, of course, had the most cheaply made bra, and Monica led the rest of the gang in a long taunt about it.
Charleigh’s bra is from Kmart! Can you imagine?
Charleigh’s eyes had glossed with tears as she stormed from the room, then locked herself in the bathroom until Monica finally relented.
Now she forced her hands to go soft, unclench. “Who wants another grasshopper?” she asked the women, eager to change subjects.
Later that evening, as everyone began to trickle out, Charleigh tugged Kathleen by the elbow, pulling her into the empty parlor. “Where is the Swifts’ place, exactly?”
“Oh, you heard Monica. It’s out by your mama and daddy’s place—” Kathleen belted out, her voice as loud as a dinner bell.
“Shhhh!”
“Oops, sorry, I know I get loud when I drink.” Kathleen’s shoulders shrank into themselves. She was always apologizing for everything. “But their place is out on Seven Pines Road. Near the highway. You can’t miss it. Little house on the hill with a red mailbox.”
8
Jane
Summer for us isn’t like summer for other teens. Ours are filled with chores, with work.
Right now it’s not even nine in the morning, and already my hands are stained purple, my arms slashed with scratches from the wild blackberry vines. It’s picking season for both the blackberries and blueberries, just one of the things I’m in charge of.
I’ll rinse my harvest later, piling the berries high on a cotton towel to let them dry before Mom turns them into preserves. If there’s extra, Pa aims to make batches of homemade wine from the fruit. He’s been sneaking me his homemade wine since I was thirteen. Just little nips in the evening when he thinks Mom’s not looking.
I drag my wooden bucket to the next aisle, kneel on the soggy ground. This work, I don’t mind so much. I’m at the edge of our land, high on a ridge behind the pond, far from the house.
Far from Mom, far from Julia.
Ugh. Why is my sister so harsh?
Just yesterday she ripped my head off out of nowhere. It was dusk, and I’d just gotten back from the swimming hole; she and I were watering the gardens. Our vegetable and herb garden, plus the adjoining one, Mom’s poison garden. It’s fenced off with chicken wire to keep baby Molly out, as well as the livestock, because the plants there can both heal and kill you. Mom is highly skilled at dosing, knowing the right combos to use in her potions.
Anyway, during summer, we water at night so that the sun can’t burn off the moisture, robbing the plants of what they need. We watered in silence, except for the fact that I started whistling, happy and sunbaked from the river. Which seemed to irritate Julia. She didn’t say anything, just got huffy, so, as usual, I tried to placate her.
My bikini was hanging next to us, drip-drying, when the thought came to me. “Hey, you should totally come with me sometime to Miller’s. The swimming hole. Lotsa cute boys. And you can borrow my suit!” I eyed it, adding, “It’d look so cute on you!”
I looked up at her and grinned, trying to break through her moody silent treatment.
