Saint Anything(23)

Irv thought for a second. “Someone you truly dislike eating egg salad with their mouth open while wearing a sweater that smells like wet dog.”

My turn. “Um,” I said. “Someone you truly dislike eating egg salad openmouthed in a wet-dog sweater while telling a boring story with no point.”

“Nice,” Layla said appreciatively. “I hate that. You’re up, Mac.”

Mac, who was continuing his run of various fruits at lunch with a handful of blackberries, said, “Everything you guys said plus golf.”

Layla sighed. “You’re supposed to repeat the whole sentence. God, you never play right.”

“Then exclude me. I’ll be fine, I promise,” he said, turning another page in his chem textbook.

“Party pooper,” Irv said. Mac threw a blackberry at him, this time connecting. “Watch it, fatty.”

“Nice mouth,” Mac replied, but he hardly seemed bothered. Not to mention fat. There was a lot I wasn’t privy to yet, clearly.

Layla sat up straight, holding up her hands. “Okay. This: Kimmie Crandall, eating egg salad with her mouth full, wearing a sweater that smells like wet dog, while telling a boring story with no point about golf.”

“Sold!” Eric said. “You win!”

“Hands down,” Irv agreed. “Still the champion.”

Mac turned to look across the courtyard, adding nothing to this. I said, “Who’s Kimmie Crandall?”

Silence. Then Layla said, “Mac’s ex-girlfriend. And my former best friend.”

“Oh.” That explained the quiet. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re both much better off without her.”

Mac got up then, balling his lunch stuff up and starting over to the trash cans. As he walked away, Irv said, “Still too soon?”

“It’s been three months.” Layla sat back. “There has to be a statute of limitations on pretending someone doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe it’s different when that person was your girlfriend,” Eric said.

“She broke the friendship code. That means I can make fun of her whenever I want.” Turning to me, she said, “She totally started hanging out with me just to get to Mac. I was friendless and desperate and couldn’t see. Then she hooked him in, stomped on his heart, and proceeded to talk smack about us to anyone who would listen.”

“That’s awful,” I said, looking at Mac. He was walking back toward us now, running a hand through his hair. “Does she go here?”

She shook her head. “The Fountain School. She was a mean hippie. Who even knew such a thing existed? Bitch.”

This was the harshest thing I’d ever heard her say, and it stunned me into silence for a second. Obviously, for all the nagging and fruit throwing, there was a loyalty there that ran deep. Once I was aware of it, I saw proof of it again and again. I couldn’t really relate, as by the time Peyton got into dating, he was already slipping away from us. I could, however, take note. So I did.

*

Two nights later, it was my mom who had something waiting by her plate. Instead of a flyer, it was a brochure. All I could see from my seat was a picture of a beach.

“What’s this?” she said as she came in carrying a platter of roasted chicken. She set it down, but did not pick up the paper. Like it was so not for her, she shouldn’t even touch it.

“Hotel St. Clair,” my father told her, reaching for the chicken. My dad was always hungry. He was a constant nibbler, known for standing in front of the fridge for long periods, grazing, and always jumped on food as soon as it arrived. “In the St. Ivy Islands.”

“Why is it by my plate?”

“Because,” my dad said, serving himself a large helping, “I have a conference there next week, and I want you to come with me.”

Immediately, my mom’s face said NO. Or maybe NO! The little crease appeared between her eyes that Peyton had, in her earshot, once not-so-smartly referred to as Anger Canyon. “A trip? Now? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Give me one reason why.”

She sighed, then sat down, pushing the folded paper aside to pick up her napkin. “Next weekend is visitation at Lincoln.”

“Julie, you go often enough to miss one day.”

“He counts on me to be there, Peyton.”

“We’ll make sure Ames visits, then.”

She shook her head. “And Sydney just started a new school. . . . It’s just not a good idea.”

My dad looked at me. His expression made it clear I should say I’m fine. So I did.

“Honey, you can’t just stay here by yourself,” she told me, sounding tired.

“I already talked to Jenn’s parents. They’d love to have her.”

I blinked, surprised. It was true I hadn’t talked to Jenn in a few days, but I was still surprised she hadn’t mentioned anything about this. She might not, I realized, even know. When my dad wanted something, he went for it.

“Julie,” he said now, “you need this. We need this. It’s two days on a beautiful beach, and everything’s taken care of. Just say yes.”

The NO was still on her face. Even so, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

My dad didn’t say anything, his expression measured, as he felt out how hard to push the issue. “Okay,” he said. “Do that.”