Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (16 page)

“Uh, I guess we could do that.” Margaret’s expression made a slow shift from doubt to interest. “There’s that rill cute one jis startin’ up in theater four.”

Margaret followed Bailey and Tibby uncertainly down the dark aisle and into a middle row of seats. “I usually jis stand in the back,” she explained in a whisper. “But these seats are rill nice, aren’t they?”

As the fluffy plot progressed, Margaret looked over at them so many times, checking excitedly for their reactions, that Tibby wondered, with a swelling sadness in her throat, how many of the ten thousand movies Margaret had watched with another person.

Bridget couldn’t fall asleep. Even her spot at the edge of the beach under the stars felt stuffy and confining to her tonight. She felt a dangerous restlessness building up in her joints and muscles.

She got out of her sleeping bag and walked down to the water. It was gentle as ever. She wanted Eric to come to her. She wanted to be near him so badly.

She had an idea. She knew immediately it was a bad idea, but once it was there it was like a challenge. She couldn’t not do it.

She walked quietly along the beach, hearing the hiss of sand between her feet. The far northern end of their little cove was even more desolate, and it was the place, she knew, where Eric shared a cabin with other coaches.

A memory popped into her head. It was something a psychiatrist had written about her in the months after her mother died. It was supposed to be confidential, but she found the report in her dad’s desk drawer. “Bridget is single-minded in achieving her goals,” Dr. Lambert had written. “Single-minded to the point of recklessness.”

I’ll just peek in,
she promised herself. She couldn’t very well stop now. She was right here. She found the door easily. The whole front of the cabin was open to the air. Inside were four beds. One was empty. Two others had sleeping trainers—college guys like Eric. In the fourth bed was unmistakably Eric. He was sleeping in a pair of boxers, his long frame sprawled out on the small bed. She took a step forward.

He must have sensed her there, because he jerked his head up suddenly. He put it back down on his pillow, then jerked it up again, realizing the significance of what he was seeing. He was alarmed that she was there.

She didn’t say a word. She hadn’t precisely meant to capture him this way. But obviously he was afraid she would say something. He got out of his bed and stumbled out of the cabin. He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him to a remote spot under a huddle of date palms.

“Bridget, what are you thinking?” He was groggy, disoriented. “You can’t come here,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He blinked, trying to focus his eyes properly. “What
did
you mean?”

The wind blew her hair forward. The ends grazed his chest. She wished there were nerve endings in hair. She was wearing only a white T-shirt skimming the bottom of her underwear. It was awfully hard not to touch him. “I was thinking about you. I just wanted to see if you were asleep.”

He didn’t say anything and he didn’t move. She put her two hands on his chest. In slow fascination she watched as he lifted his hand and put it to her hair, pushing it back from her face.

He was still sleepy. It was like this was the continuation of a dream. He wanted to fall back into this dream; she knew he did. She reached her arms around him and pressed her torso against his. “Mmmm,” he rumbled.

She wanted to know the contours of his body. Hungrily she reached up to his shoulders, down over the heavy muscles of his upper arms. She reached up again to his neck, into his hair, down his chest, his hard stomach. That was when he seemed to wake up. He seemed to shake himself, seizing her upper arms and wrenching himself apart from her. “Jesus, Bridget.” He groaned in loud, angry frustration. She took a step back. “What am I
doing
? You’ve got to get out of here.”

He still held her arms, but more gently now. He wasn’t letting her have him, but he wasn’t letting her go either. “Please don’t do this. Please tell me you won’t come back here.” He searched her face. His eyes were begging her for different things at the same time.

“I think about you,” she told him solemnly. “I think about being with you.”

He closed his eyes and freed her arms. When he opened his eyes they were more resolute. “Bridget, go away now and promise me you won’t do this again. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

She did go away, but she didn’t promise anything.

Maybe he hadn’t meant his words as an invitation. But that’s how she took them.

“
I
want to sit here,” Bailey declared, pulling a chair close to Mimi’s box.

Seeing Mimi reminded her. “Oh, shit,” Tibby mumbled.

“What?”

“I completely forgot to feed her yesterday,” Tibby said, grabbing the canister of assorted seeds. She hadn’t forgotten in months and months.

“Can I do it?” Bailey asked.

“Sure,” Tibby said, not actually feeling sure. Nobody ever fed Mimi except for her. She had to walk herself across the room so she wouldn’t micromanage.

Bailey finished feeding Mimi and sat down again.

“Ready?” Tibby asked, arranging the mike.

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

“Wait,” Bailey said, standing up.

“Now what?” Tibby asked irritably. Bailey wanted to be interviewed for their movie. But now she was being weirdly uncertain about how she wanted it to go.

She was fidgety. Obviously she had an idea. “Can I wear the Pants?”

“The pants . . .
the
Pants?”

“Yeah. Can I borrow them?”

Tibby was doubtful. “First of all, I really don’t think they’ll fit you.”

“I don’t care,” Bailey responded. “Can I try them? You don’t have them for too much longer, do you?”

“Rrrrr.” Impatiently Tibby retrieved them from her hiding place in her closet. She was terrified Loretta would throw them in the wash with a few cups of bleach, like she’d done with Tibby’s wool sweaters. “Here.” She handed them to Bailey.

Bailey slipped off her olive-green cargos. Tibby was struck by the whiteness of her skinny legs and the big, dark bruise that spread from her hip to her thigh.

“Ow, whadja do?” Tibby asked.

Bailey flashed her the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” look and pulled on the Pants. Magic though they were, they were too big for Bailey. She was tiny. Nonetheless she looked happy, and she hitched the wrinkly legs up over her feet.

“All good?” Tibby asked.

“All good,” Bailey said, settling back into her chair.

Tibby held up the camera and pushed the On button. Through the lens, she could see Bailey a little differently. Her thin, almost transparent skin looked bruised and blue around her eyes. “So tell me things,” Tibby said, not sure what Bailey wanted to cover, instinctively afraid of asking her direct questions.

Bailey pulled her bare feet up onto the chair, resting her arms on her bony knees and her chin on her forearm. Light slanted through the window and set her hair aglow.

“Ask me anything,” Bailey challenged.

“What are you scared of?” The question got out of Tibby’s mouth before she meant to ask it.

Bailey thought. “I’m afraid of time,” she answered. She was brave, unflinching in the big Cyclops eye of the camera. There was nothing prissy or self-conscious about Bailey. “I mean, I’m afraid of not having enough time,” she clarified. “Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I’m afraid of the quick judgments and mistakes that everybody makes. You can’t fix them without time. I’m afraid of seeing snapshots instead of movies.”

Tibby looked at her in disbelief. She was struck by this new side of Bailey, this philosophical-beyond-her-years Bailey. Did cancer make you wise? Did those chemicals and X rays supercharge her twelve-year-old brain?

Tibby was shaking her head.

“What?” Bailey asked.

“Nothing. Just that you surprise me every day,” Tibby said.

Bailey smiled at her. “I like that you let yourself be surprised.”

Carma,

I’m writing from the post office, and this express mail costs more than what I make in two hours at Wallman’s, so it better get to you tomorrow.

I can’t figure out what the Pants meant to me yet. It was either profound or not. I’ll tell you when I know.

You’ll do better because you are the one and only Carma Carmeena.

I better sign off, ’cause the lady in the window is about to go postal (heh heh).

Love,
Tibby

Grandma looked stricken over lunch. She didn’t want to talk about anything, she told them. Which turned out to mean that she didn’t want to talk about anything Lena or Effie had to say. She was happy to listen to herself.

“I passed Rena this morning, and she didn’t speak to me. Can you imagine? Who does that voman tink she is?”

Lena moved the
tzadziki
around on her plate. One thing about Grandma: She was never too distressed to cook.

Bapi was attending to some business in Fira, and Effie was sending a million assorted looks to Lena across the table.

“Kostos has alvays been such a good boy, such a nice boy, but how do you ever know?” she mused.

Lena felt heartsick. Grandma loved Kostos. He was a bit of a creep, but he was obviously a huge source of pleasure in Grandma’s life.

“Grandma,” Lena broke in. “Maybe Kostos, maybe he—”

“Vhen you tink about the tings he’s been trough, you vould tink he’d have troubles,” Grandma went on, undeterred. “But I never saw them before.”

“What kind of troubles?” Effie wanted to know.

“Grandma, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like you thought it did,” Lena tried out timidly, talking at the same time as Effie.

Grandma looked at the two of them wearily. “I don’t vant to talk about it,” she said.

As soon as an acceptable amount of food had been consumed, Effie and Lena quickly scrubbed their plates and then fled.

“What happened?” Effie demanded, less than a foot out of the house.

“Uhhhhh,” Lena groaned.

“God, what is up with everybody?” Effie pressed.

Lena felt weary herself. “Listen, Ef, don’t shout or scream or criticize until the end. Promise?”

Effie agreed. She mostly kept the promise until Lena got to the part about the fistfight, and then she couldn’t contain herself anymore.

“No way! You are
not serious
! Bapi? Oh, my God.”

Lena nodded.

“You better tell them all the truth before Kostos does, or you’re going to feel like an idiot,” Effie advised with her typical subtlety.

“I know,” Lena said unhappily.

“Why didn’t he just tell them all the truth at the time?” Effie wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. There was so much confusion. I don’t know if he even understood what the fight was about.”

Effie shook her head. “Poor Kostos. He was so in love with you.”

“Not anymore,” Lena pointed out.

“Guess not.”

B
RIDGET:
Hi, uh, Loretta?

L
ORETTA:
Hello?

B
RIDGET:
Loretta, it’s Bridget, Tibby’s friend.

L
ORETTA:
Hello?

B
RIDGET
(practically shouting): Bridget! It’s Bridget. I’m calling for Tibby. Is she there?

L
ORETTA:
Oh . . . Bridget?

B
RIDGET:
Yeah.

L
ORETTA:
Tibby no home.

B
RIDGET:
Could you tell her I called? I don’t have a number, so I’ll have to call her back.

L
ORETTA:
Hello?

When Carmen went downstairs shortly before dinner that night, she was ready for a fight. She was wearing the Pants, which gave her a feeling of remembering herself again. Remembering how she felt when people loved her. Remembering her skill for confrontation. She needed to bring the real Carmen downstairs and talk to her father and Lydia before she forgot herself and turned invisible again.

Lydia had certainly told him about the disastrous dress fitting and complained about her behavior. Carmen was ready to have it out. She’d love to shout at Lydia. She’d love to hear Lydia shout back. She needed that.

“Hi,” Krista said from her homework station at the kitchen table. Carmen studied her for shades of meaning.

“Carmen, would you like a soda?” Lydia asked brightly, measuring rice and pouring it into a pot.

Her dad appeared in the doorway, not yet changed out of his work clothes. “Hi, bun; how was your day?”

Carmen looked from her dad to Lydia in amazement.
My day was horrible!
she felt like shouting.
A dressmaker with fake teeth insulted and humiliated me. I acted like a brat.