Family of Liars(22)

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AS EVERYONE CLUSTERS on the Clairmont lawn, Harris announces that it’s time for prizes. Tipper stands by his side like a game show assistant.

Tomkin wins for the lime, of course. The gift is a cube kite: three cubes attached to one another, a bright red bit of geometry to fling into the sky. Then people begin counting up their lemons.

Pfeff arrives last for the reckoning, lemons bulging comically in his front and back pockets and held in his hands. “I lost my basket,” he announces, kneeling dramatically at my mother’s feet. “I suspect it was stolen by one of these weenies.” He gestures at Major and George. “Sorry, one of these buttholes.”

Tipper laughs.

“Anyway, it was stolen with two lemons in it, I might add, but nonetheless, I persevered, and now, my lady, I present you with”—he begins taking the lemons from his pockets, laying them all on the grass—“twenty lemons.”

He wins, beating Bess and Erin, who were tied with fifteen each.

My mother presents Pfeff with a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to the Edgartown bookshop.

Dessert is lemon mousse topped with fluffy blobs of whipped cream, and rich lemon pound cake soaked in lemon syrup.

I hope Pfeff will come over to me.

I want to go to him.

I can sense him everywhere he goes—talking with my father, horsing around with George and Major, pouring himself lemonade. People bring their dessert plates to the picnic blankets. Bess puts Madonna on the stereo. “Where’s the Party,” “True Blue,” “La Isla Bonita.”

I want to talk to Penny, to tell her about the kissing with Pfeff, but she and Erin have claimed the tire swing and don’t seem easy to interrupt. Yardley is helping her brother put together his kite. So I am alone with my new experience, the secret of what happened on the walkway in the moonlight.

Pfeff, Major, and George settle themselves on a blanket, plates full of cake. I choose a blanket near them, stretching myself out and staring at the stars.

“You have to play tennis,” Pfeff is saying to Major. “Because George will just beat me constantly, and that’s no fun. I need someone at my level.”

“I’m not that vigorous,” says Major. “I didn’t come to this island to exert myself.”

“Tennis is not exertion. It’s a game,” argues Pfeff.

“I exert myself when I play tennis,” George tells Pfeff. “That’s why I’m so much better than you.”

“Look at all this peer pressure,” says Major. “Play Yardley or one of her cousins, Pfeff. I’m sure they all play.”

“Yah, but I have dreams of manly comradeship and competition and stuff,” says Pfeff.

“Oh god, save me,” says Major.

“Well, I just remembered I didn’t bring my racquet,” says Pfeff.

“They’ll have spares,” says George.

“Also, no socks,” says Pfeff. “I’m realizing. And I think no underwear.”

“Uck,” says George.

“I packed in a rush.”

“But you’ve been at my house for nearly a week,” says George.

“That’s where my socks and underwear are. In that bottom shelf thingy in your guest room.”

“You left all your underthings for my mom to find?”

“Not on purpose!” Pfeff laughs. “Oh god. I need to get underwear somehow.”

“You can wash it,” says Major. “There’s a machine in the cottage.”

“But what if I forget one night?” says Pfeff. “What if I forget and then I have only used underwear to wear? Tipper will know.”

“She will,” says Major.

“She’ll smell me,” says Pfeff, still laughing. “Or even if she doesn’t smell me, she’ll have like a second sense that I’m a filthy creep who doesn’t belong on her island.”

I see my chance and take it. “I can bring you to Edgartown,” I call over. “Solve all your problems.”

“Oh no.” Pfeff clutches George comically. “Carrie was eavesdropping.”

“You were talking loudly about your underwear in my immediate vicinity,” I say.

“Is Edgartown where the bookstore is?” asks Pfeff. “Where I have my gift card I got for being a lemon god?”

“Mm-hm. There are lots of shops.”

“Yeah, okay. Can we go tomorrow?”

I sit up. “Sure.”

“What time is good?”

“Eleven,” I tell him. “Meet me on the dock.”

Pfeff stands. “I’ll be there.” He picks up a croquet mallet from the lawn. “Now I’m going to make Major play croquet, since he won’t play tennis.”

“I’ll play croquet,” says Major. “Croquet doesn’t make you sweat, so it’s in line with my leisure agenda.”

I lie back and look at the stars again.

What a magical boy. A boy with lemons in his pockets. A boy in flip-flops, who needs a haircut. Who says “butthole” to my mother, to correct for the rudeness of saying “weenies.” A college boy, or a nearly college boy, who kissed me tonight, and might kiss me again.

We are going for a boat ride.