He gave a wry smile. “I mean, yeah, it’s easier to be preppy on Nantucket.”
“Easier? How?”
“You know. More comfortable.”
I considered him, tilting my head. We were in our own little bubble, with the moon shining down on us, the lake water leaving me feeling silky and new. “Like you actively dress preppy so you’ll fit in?”
He, too, looked over at his friends, then back at me. “Yeah, a little. Not in a bad way—it doesn’t stress me out or anything. But—sure, in the past few years, I’ve noticed it’s different here than at home, and it’s easier to not stand out. Which sounds dumb out loud.”
“I mean, it sounds real.” I paused. “Stand out how?”
“Oh, you know,” he said with a slight smile. “In New York, I don’t have to think about being Jewish at all. No one blinks if you mention Solomon Schechter or Simchat Torah or the JCC. I don’t have to represent Judaism, or even particularlybeJewish if I don’t want to be, because other people are, and I can be nonreligious and have critical debates. Here—sometimes I feel like I have to think about it more, make sure I’m not doing anything that’ll add to a negative stereotype.” He looked at me. “Do you know what I mean?”
In my town, the Jewish community was so small I didn’t feel like I had a match for either of Noah’s experiences—I’d never felt surrounded by Jewish communities or references, but I’d also never really felt like I had to represent Judaism. Being Jewish was something my family did in private. But maybe that also made it easy, since I never felt like I had to represent anything? “A little. It sounds stifling.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I never used to think about this as a kid—I was just so happy to be here, to escape the city and go swimming and sailing. But now—” He shrugged. “My family also cares so much about appearances. I don’t want to do anything to stress them out.”
Ah. “Which is why you care so much about if our grandparents had an affair?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but we were interrupted when a girl bounced up. “Noah!” She settled the full force of her smile on him. “What’s up?”
Noah and I turned to her in surprise. “Uh,” he said. “Just talking.”
“About what?”
We exchanged glances, and I felt a familiar closing of the ranks, a keep-it-in-the-family emotion. “Nothing,” Noah said, and we both smiled at the girl. “This is Abigail.”
“Hey.” She barely acknowledged me before returning her attention to Noah. “We need you to settle something.”
“Oh.” He glanced at me. “Sure.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist, oddly bereft. “I’ll see you later, then.”
After Noah had followed the girl away, my friends came up to me. “What happened there?” Jane asked.
“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea.” I watched as Noah’s group enfolded him. “Just a little chat about preppiness and identity.”
“That’s super weird,” Stella said, then waggled her brows. “Are you going to keep his shirt?”
I pushed her shoulder lightly. “You’reweird.”
I kept the shirt.
Nine
June 20, 1955
Sometimes I miss you like the sun must miss the moon, locked in orbit but unable to move closer. It’s a physical ache. There’s a tension in my shoulder blades and my back, a stiffness in my neck. Being near you, touching you, relaxes me. But away from you I carry the entire world locked in my muscles and I never breathe as deeply as I do near you, as easily as on the island. Sometimes I wrap my arms around my body and pretend it’s you holding me, your hands on my back.
It never really works, though.
A few days later, I woke early. The island was hazy with heat, and the sun weighed heavily when I stepped outside. I splurged on a ride share, the only way to arrive at the Barbanel mansion without being a sweat-soaked mess. Birds warbled cheerfully when I climbed out of the car, and the ocean’s tide wove in and out of their song. Before me, at the end of the circular drive of crushed shells, loomed Golden Doors, gray and elegant and calm. This house revealed no weaknesses, gave up no secrets. Golden Doors would go proudly into the sea itself should the shore give up in its eternal battle against the encroaching ocean, with nary a word of complaint. It made me feel like riffraff, small and unwanted.
I climbed the shallow steps to the veranda and rang the doorbell. I should probably stop assigning emotions to inanimate objects, especially active dislike. (At least Sad Elephant loved me, despite his own internal struggles.)
“Hey.” Noah appeared in the doorway, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, both branded with a high school crew team. Ah. Crew explained his perfectly sculpted arms.
Not that I paid attention to said arms. “Hi.”
