I took this in. “So . . . you’re smart, huh?”
“I guess.” And then he stood, a stack of arms and legs and pointy joints, and hauled me up by my arms. He was surprisingly strong for someone so weedy. “And I’m an awesome swimmer. C’mon, I’ll show you how to do that somersault.”
Countless belly flops, a few dives, and one semi-successful somersault later, Sam and I lay outstretched on the raft, faces to the sky, the already-hot morning sun drying our bathing suits.
“You’re always doing that,” Sam said, looking over at me.
“Doing what?”
“Touching your hair.”
I shrugged. I should have listened to Mom when she told me bangs wouldn’t work for my hair type. Instead, one spring evening while my parents were marking papers, I took matters—and Mom’s good sewing shears—into my own hands. Except that I couldn’t get the bangs to lie evenly, and every snip just made things worse. In less than five minutes, I had totally butchered my hair.
I crept downstairs to the living room, tears running down my face. Hearing my sniffles, my parents turned to see me standing with scissors in hand.
“Persephone! What on earth?” My mother gasped and flung herself at me, checking my wrists and arms for signs of damage, before hugging me tightly, while Dad sat agape.
“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get this fixed,” Mom said, stepping away to make an appointment at her salon. “If you’re going to have bangs, they need to look intentional.”
Dad gave me a weak smile. “What were you thinking, kiddo?”
My parents had already put in an offer on a lakeside property in Barry’s Bay, but seeing me clutching those scissors must have sent them over the edge, because the next day Dad called the Realtor and told her to up the offer. They wanted me out of the city as soon as the school year ended.
But even today I think my parents were probably overreacting. Diane and Arthur Fraser, both professors at the University of Toronto, doted on me in a way particular to older, upper-middle-class parents with just one child. My mom, a sociology scholar, was in her late thirties when they had me; my father, who taught Greek mythology, was in his early forties. My every request for a new toy, a trip to the bookstore, or supplies for a new hobby was met with enthusiasm and a credit card. Being a child who preferred earning gold stars to causing trouble, I didn’t give them much need for discipline. In turn, they gave me a very long leash.
So when the three girls who formed my closest circle of friends turned their backs on me, I was unaccustomed to dealing with any sort of adversity and I had no idea how to cope except to try my hardest to win them back.
Delilah was our group’s uncontested ruler, a position we bestowed upon her because she possessed the two most important requirements for teenage leadership: an exceptionally pretty face and total awareness of the power it gave her. Since it was Delilah whom I angered, and Delilah whom I needed to win back, my attempts to gain readmittance to the group were targeted at her. I thought cutting my bangs like hers would demonstrate my loyalty. Instead, when she saw me at school, she raised her voice in an exaggerated whisper, and said, “God, does everyone have bangs these days? I think it’s time to grow mine out.”
Every morning I dreaded the school day—sitting alone at recess, watching my old friends laugh together, wondering if it was me they were laughing about. A summer away from everything, where I could read my books without worrying about being called a freak and swim whenever I wanted to, felt like heaven.
I looked over at Sam.
“Where’s your brother today?” I asked, thinking of how they’d goofed around in the water the day before. Sam turned onto his stomach and propped himself up on his forearms.
“Why do you want to know about my brother?” he asked, his brows knitted together.
“No reason. I just wondered. Is he having friends over tonight?” Sam looked at me from the corner of his eye. What I really wanted to know was if Sam wanted to hang out again.
“His friends were over really late,” he said finally. “He was still asleep when I came down to the lake. I don’t know what’s going on tonight.”
“Oh,” I said limply, then decided to take a risk. “Well, if you want to come over again, that’d be cool. Our TV’s kind of small, but we have a big DVD collection.”
“I might just do that,” said Sam, his forehead relaxing. “Or you could come over to our place. Our TV is pretty decent. Mom’s never home, but she wouldn’t mind you being there.”