Bess goes with him, carrying his suitcases.
Penny is already gone from the dock. She captured Erin and the two of them ran toward the house squealing, lugging Erin’s bags. Erin could sleep in Rosemary’s old room, of course, but Penny wants her. There are twin beds in Penny’s room anyhow.
My mother nudges me. “Yardley.”
I am hanging back. I have not seen any of these people since Christmas, before my operation. I did talk to Yardley on the phone a couple times. She sent a card when I first had the procedure. I know her mother must have made her write it, but it was well done. Yardley’s fat, bouncy handwriting filled the whole inside of the card, both sides, and spilled over to the back.
That %&$* sucks about the liquid diet. I only just now thought about how attached I am to chewing. I’m like, obsessed with chewing, actually. Gum! Licorice! Only the red kind. Other chewy stuff like caramel! Or crunchy things like nuts!
Okay, I don’t give a poop about nuts. But I do chew a lot of gum.
Sorry. I don’t mean to make you jealous about all the chewing I do. This card is meant to cheer you up!
Oh, here is something fun. New boyfriend! I got rid of Reed that I was talking about at Christmas because he was NOT supportive about my college application angst. He kept wanting to come over and make out when I was literally applying to Harvard and the form was due the next day.
So I said, no more Reed.
New boyfriend = George.
George wants to make out all the time, too, but my college applications are in now, so it doesn’t matter. He’s a canoe racer, which I didn’t know was even a sport, but apparently it is.
Okay, out of room now, write back soon.
Love,
Yardley
She didn’t get into Harvard. She is going to Connecticut College and wants to be pre-med.
Dean is disappointed. He and Harris are Harvard men. But in general, Yardley is a “credit to the family.” She’s narrow of face and body, efficiently built, with strong, sturdy legs. Her face is freckled, with a snub nose like Tomkin and very thick brown hair, so that she radiates health and American sportiness. Her voice is firm and arresting; her jaw a sharp line from chin to ear.
Yardley has seriousness of purpose and knows how to work hard, but she can be extremely silly. She’s not creative—she herself says that—so she’s sweetly in awe of my mother’s summer parties and extravagances, and even of my occasional sketches and woven friendship bracelets.
“Carrie!” shouts Yardley, climbing off the boat with a tote bag full of Pop-Tarts and tennis ball canisters. “Get over here, cutie. Oh my god, you look amazing.”
I hug her. “Welcome to another summer.”
“This one’s going to be different.”
“Not that much.”
“Oh yes it is. Come meet the boys.”
I squint at her. “What boys?”
“I brought you a present.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. But also not.” Yardley drags me onto the boat and down into the cabin, where two teenage boys are hovering over a third, who has clearly just puked into a green bucket. “Terrible sailors but cute as hell,” she says.
“I’m a good sailor,” says one. He’s broad-shouldered with light skin, thick black hair, and high cheekbones. His nose looks like it’s been broken several times. He wears a Live Aid music festival T-shirt and baggy seersucker shorts.
“It was very choppy,” says the boy who vomited. He is less conventionally handsome, beaky and tall, with close-cropped red hair. He has the look of New York City around him. He’s wearing a leather jacket, despite the heat.
The third boy comes over and leans in to Yardley’s ear. “That vomit was the most heinous moment of my life,” he fake-whispers. He is generally beige—tan skin, tan hair that flops over his forehead, a medium build. He compensates for his beigeness by wearing red plaid shorts and a pink polo shirt with the collar popped.
This must be George. The canoe racer. Unless Yardley has someone else now. She is ordinary to look at—pretty but not gorgeous, nothing special about her clothes—but she has always had boyfriends. I don’t know what makes guys like her so much. Maybe it’s her confidence. Yardley doesn’t think—or at least, doesn’t seem to think—about all that stuff that keeps me unsettled. She is certain of her place in the world, oblivious, happy, better able to just love and be loved. Anyway, I adore her.
“This is my cousin Carrie,” she announces. “She’s seventeen, she can outswing any of you with a baseball bat, she knows where all the bodies are buried on this island, and you’re all very happy to meet her. ’Kay?”