One Night at the Lake, page 6
7
Leah
REMEMBER HOW I SAID I wasn’t a morning person? Mornings are the only thing I hate about Seneca Lake. Ollie’s parents’ house faces due east, so as soon as that big old ball of burning hydrogen pops over the tree line across the lake, blammo. So long, sleep.
When the rising light has pried itself all the way under my eyelids, I thrash around with a groan and sit up. The room presents the usual microcosm of June’s and my habits: her side tidy, bed made impeccably, and clothes folded inside her open suitcase; my side strewn with my belongings, my duffel bag barfing out T-shirts and running shorts like the guts of Luke Skywalker’s tauntaun. I rope my hair in a topknot and harness myself into a bra; the last thing I need is to run into Caleb while I’m au naturel.
I draw back the curtains covering the sliding door and step out onto the terrace. Mind you, the only time I like an early morning is when I see it ’cause I’ve been up all night talking. A morning like that, it feels like a victory. But this morning is so gorgeous it’s obnoxious—Look at me, I’m a perfect summer morning; don’t you feel like a scumbag for all the times you’ve slept through this? Everything’s all sparkling lake and trilling crickets and golden light bouncing off dewy grass. June, seated on the love seat next to the door with one knee drawn up under her chin, puts down her creepy-looking paperback and smiles at me.
“This is pretty stinkin’ fantastic,” she sighs happily, releasing a deep breath of Seneca air and stretching her arms out to her sides. “Thank you again for inviting me.”
I pluck her hand out of the way and sit down next to her so I can rest my head on her shoulder. “Yeah, it is. And you don’t have to thank me. I’m so happy you came. Kinda seems weird now that you haven’t been here before, actually.”
“So what’s our agenda for today?” she says, when I yawn and raise my head. People tell me I’m cute, but right now June has the air of an eager squirrel—dark eyes inquisitive, nose sniffing at the air.
“Breakfast on the deck, change into bathing suits, hit the boat,” I say. “Drink on the boat, snack on the boat, pull each other along the water using ropes attached to the boat. Swim, lunch, lie out on the dock, sunset cruise, dinner, bed…and repeat.”
“Oh my god, I’m never leaving,” says June, getting to her feet with a decisiveness I cannot summon. “Should we get started on the breakfast part?”
Hmm, except that I am deeply enjoying this whole sitting on my ass in the sun thing at the moment. I look up at her, contemplate, and quietly burp.
She rolls her eyes and kicks lightly at my outstretched foot. “Come on, lazy-ass. I’ll make you coffee.”
Those are the magic words, and she knows it. I trot obediently behind her into the house and up the stairs.
Ollie’s dad has perfected the art of cooking breakfast for a lot of people: throw a dozen eggs in a pan along with some diced-up ham or sausage and a mountain of peppers, onions, and mushrooms, stir until delicious, and serve. Once June has unearthed her coffee supplies from the colony of Wegmans bags and produce that litters the counter, we are pretty much ready to go; only Ollie is missing. And unfortunately for him, I am starving.
“Wake up wake up wake up!” I yell, leaping onto Ollie’s bed and bouncing on my knees so the mattress jostles wildly. He groans and tries to duck under the covers, but I will grant no mercy. “Don’t scowl at me—your face looks like a butthole when you do that. It’s time for breakfast.”
He stares at me in horror for a second, then tips his head back and stares at the ceiling as if in prayer. “Dear God, thank you for this woman. Her grace, her sweetness. You really outdid yourself.” I try to shove his face, and he traps my hand. “I always hoped that one day my girlfriend would tell me my face looks like an anus.”
By this point, I’m flopped down on top of him, giggling into his chest. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way…”
“My face looks like a butthole in a positive sense?”
“I just meant…kind of pinched and frowning and angry,” I say, voice squeaky with laughter. “You’ve got to admit, that does pretty much sound like a butthole.”
Ollie drills his finger into my ear. “You know what? Maybe you should just stop talking. Get off me, you mini hell spawn.”
One of the unique properties of Ollie is that not only does he get away with teasing me about my height, but I actually like it. I slide onto my feet and ogle him while he pulls on jeans and a T-shirt. As soon as he’s ready, I reach for the door.
“Oh hey, Hell Spawn?”
“Whaaaaat?” I spin around on my toes, teeth bared. Holy pumpkins, why won’t he let me eat? He knows what happens when I don’t eat.
A shit-eating grin creeps across his face. “You just answered to the name Hell Spawn.”
I snarl incoherently and snatch the door open.
Caleb looks up from pouring a mug of coffee when we trail into the kitchen. “Morning there, baby brother,” he says to Ollie. “It was well worth waiting an hour for you to grace us with your presence so we could eat.”
“What time zone are you living in, Caleb?” I snap. “June and I only came upstairs twenty minutes ago.”
“Relax, Leeb,” Ollie mutters.
Caleb gives a lazy smile as he runs a hand through his longish dark hair. “That would be Ollie Time, Leah. I’m sure you’re familiar with it. We all live on Ollie Time.”
“Yesterday Ollie Time included a seven-hour drive to bring our guests to us, an hour-and-a-half trip to Wegmans, another half hour at the wine store, and twenty minutes trying to fix the speaker connection on the boat,” says Howard. “What have you done with Caleb Time lately?”
Ollie squints his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just eat, please.”
After the meal, June and I leap to help wash up, then head back to our room to get ready for the boat. Ever careful of her surroundings, June retreats to the bathroom to apply her sunscreen lest some stray droplet land on the carpet.
“What’s the deal with Caleb?” comes her disembodied voice. “Is he always that crabby?”
“No—he can be cool when he forgets to try to impress everybody. But he’s awful around Howard. The two of them can’t stand each other.”
“That’s weird to me. Howard clearly loves Rachel like crazy; you’d think he would love her son, too.”
“I think he used to,” I say, before I remember that I really shouldn’t be spilling Ollie’s private family business—even to June.
She waits for me to go on, then lets the topic stay dropped. “But Caleb’s here for the whole week?”
“I guess a free lake house to stay at is worth it to him. He usually goes off with his own friends a fair bit. I’m sure his girlfriend will be down at some point today, too. Which won’t stop him from staring at my boobs like my nipples are glowing.”
“Seriously?” says June. “Gross. Doesn’t Ollie notice?”
“Of course not. He’s oblivious. And it’s not worth making a big stink over. Besides, to be quite honest, Ollie is often staring at them too.”
“Oh, speak of the devil. Good morning, girls,” June says to my bare chest as she breezes out of the bathroom. “Haven’t seen you in almost twelve whole hours.”
Okay, so I’m a bit of a nudist. Around June, and other women generally. It’s not that I want to be looked at; I just never really got the point of all of the turned-back, folded-arm, pointed-elbow contortions that some girls go through to preserve their modesty from each other. Tits are tits are tits. And right now my goal is to make sure mine are completely submerged in sunscreen before I go outside. Anyone who believes that can be accomplished with a bikini top on is kidding themselves.
While I grease myself, I stare enviously at June’s lean body as she slips a tank and board shorts over her sporty black bikini. This has been our dynamic ever since we stumbled into puberty (well, I’d sprouted boobs by the end of sixth grade, so admittedly I started lurching first): I lovingly envy her clean lines and absence of visible body fat; she lovingly envies my D cups and my soccer booty. We both know it’s ridiculous to be such girls about it, but what are you gonna do?
After much milling about, collecting of sunglasses, filling of water bottles, and loading of beer and snacks and towels, we are finally ready to hit the boat. Last year, Ollie’s dad replaced their old, basic speedboat with this ridiculous double-decker pontoon. The thing is basically a giant floating couch with a motor: a wide, flat base ringed with cushy upholstered seating, a built-in cooler, and an attachment for a grill that hangs over the side of the boat. (Because nothing says safety like open flame at sea.) There’s a smaller platform overhead from which you can access a slide that will shoot you, squealing, into the lake. This boat is really obvious bait to get us to come up here—and boy, is it effective.
The glare of sunlight and glittering water almost blinds me when we step outside, but when my poor pupils recover, I can see that Ollie’s friend and next-door neighbor Terrance is already down at the dock, futzing with something on the boat’s console panel. I grin to myself, because I love me some Terrance. He’s one of those people who always make you feel at ease, no matter who you are. Further, he is an eyeful. The fitted T-shirt he’s wearing clings to his ever-so-manly frame and dark brown skin, and he’s wearing his hair in short, spiky twists that look stylish and playful at the same time. While I watch him, a Taylor Swift song blasts unexpectedly from the speakers, and he recoils as if he’d been attacked by a rat. Great—I’m outnumbered among music nerds.
“Ahoy!” I shout.
Terrance waves and boosts himself back onto the dock. “Yo, Ol!”
“Hey!” Ollie calls back. “Nice T-shirt. Do they sell it in adult sizes?”
“Nice haircut,” says Terrance as Ollie walks up. “Did your hairdresser give you back your Ellen DeGeneres inspo pic?”
They do a back-slapping bro hug, then Terrance grabs me around the waist and spins me. Another casualty of being a short girl: bodily dignity. Men cannot resist (do not attempt to resist) the urge to lift me up and toss me around. I guess it makes them feel strong. Never mind that June, eight inches taller than I am, weighs only six pounds more. Nobody tosses June.
Terrance keeps it quick, though, and sets me down after one revolution. “How are ya, Leah? Been a while.”
“Last summer, I think. How’s school?”
He rolls his eyes and blows air through his teeth. Terrance is in the second year of a master’s of music degree for violin performance, after which he’s going to work in a classical symphony orchestra—which is about the coolest job I’ve ever heard of.
“Eh, I’m just happy to have a break for now,” he says, and then his eyes track behind me. “Well, well, look at this. After all these years, a fellow Mayflower descendant arrives at Seneca Lake.”
I turn just in time to watch a slow grin spread across June’s face. I know that grin.
“You sure you don’t need to see my DAR card?” she says.
“Shoot, girl, I know you’re in,” he says. “You must be June.”
“Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she says, practically purring. For a Korean girl from Westchester, June does an uncanny Southern belle. But the slightly unhinged Vivien Leigh version, where she’s a predator underneath the sweet-tea charm.
“I’m Terrance,” he says, meeting her for a handshake that lasts a couple of seconds longer than necessary. “My parents live next door.” He angles his head toward the small gray-blue house a hundred feet away, perched close to the water with a couple of kayaks tugged onto the gravel beach in front. “I’m psyched to finally meet you; I’ve been hearing stories for years.”
June holds up a graceful forefinger. “I want you to know that there were extenuating circumstances regarding the chinchilla incident.”
Terrance laughs. “Is that a fact?”
I raise my eyebrows at Ollie, because this is an intriguing development. He gives me a slight frown of confusion. Damn, guys can be dense sometimes. I feel faintly slighted that June and Terrance managed to notice each other before the idea occurred to me, but it’s just as well; she hates it when I throw guys at her. I’ll just have to be vigilant for opportunities to unobtrusively nudge it along.
While Ollie checks around the boat and lowers the hoist, the rest of us claim seats on the wraparound banquette, then Ollie jumps in and starts the motor. The chug, chug, chug of the propellers slowly churning as the boat reverses away from the dock is such a happy summer sound that I break into a grin.
As we pick up speed, bumping gently over the waves, and move further out into the lake, June and I turn our faces to the wind. The sky is the kind of blue you almost don’t believe is real, empty except for a few stray cotton puffs drifting slowly along. The lake is thickly lined with trees on both sides, with houses along the water’s edge. Most of them are small and modest, many with decks and additions clearly assembled after the fact, like the Biermans’ house. Ollie has told me that unlike the other Finger Lakes, like Canandaigua and Keuka, whose smaller, shallower dimensions keep them warmer and therefore tend to be more socially oriented, people who live on Seneca come for peace and quiet and fishing. In ten minutes of cruising, we pass only two other boats and a Jet Ski.
Once we get beyond the spit of land that pushes out into the lake on the middle of the western shore, the wind drops off and the water smooths out. Ollie slows the boat and cuts the motor.
“All right, who wants first turn on the skis? Leeb, you ready?”
“I was born ready!” I say, springing to my feet. And this is true. Waterskiing isn’t easy: The combination of balance, strength, and intuition for the water that it requires is definitely a challenge. A challenge for most people, that is. But not for me. Because I am an effing waterskiing goddess. Ollie proclaims that my remarkable prowess at skiing is because of my low center of gravity; I prefer to credit my natural athleticism.
When the towrope is in place and everything is ready, I take a deep breath and plunge off the back of the boat into the lake. Despite knowing exactly what I was in for, I still do a closed-mouth shriek as the water swallows me. Seneca Lake in early July is cold. You can call it refreshing, you can call it bracing; and you can also call it straight-up cold. Aided by my life vest, I pop back to the surface and shake my head like a wet puppy to clear the water off my face. Ollie hands me the skis, and I quickly attach them and get into position. “Punch it!” I yell, and Ollie retreats, grinning, to the driver’s seat and starts the engine. And then we’re off.
As the skis catch the water and pull me up to my feet, I scream with sheer joy. Ollie has cranked up my favorite summer anthem, “Party in the USA,” and I’m ripping across the lake at twenty-five miles an hour, my strong legs absorbing the undulations of the water, guiding me effortlessly back and forth over the curling wave of wake on either side of the boat.
“Yeah, Leah!” shouts Terrance, while June waves and cups her hands to her mouth to yell “Woo!” I wave back at them and they cheer. As we rocket down the lake, I begin to play, cutting my edges against the wake to try to get a spray, and lifting one foot a little bit to test my balance. I’ve been wanting to try the single slalom ski—Caleb bought it a couple of years back in a fit of ambition, but it hasn’t gone well for him—and I think I’m definitely ready.
After a nice, long run, I signal that it’s somebody else’s turn, and Ollie slows the boat so we can trade out skiers. As I swim up, I see Caleb waiting at the back, and he leans down, smiling, to offer me a hand up into the boat. “Great run, Leah!”
“I’m good,” I say, ignoring his outstretched hand, but that doesn’t stop him from staring at me as I climb up the ladder. His gaze slides over my bare skin like oil. I snatch the towel June is holding out and wrap it around me even though I don’t really want it. June throws Caleb a nasty scowl, which regrettably is wasted on him.
“Hey, Caleb, when is Tamra coming down?” I say, stuffing the end of the towel under my armpit.
“ ‘Coming down’? To the lake? She’s not. Going down, on whoever she’s sleeping with these days?” He does an ostentatious check of his watch as he stands up to take his turn on the skis. “That I cannot tell you.”
“Wait, you didn’t tell me you guys broke up,” says Ollie.
I stare at Caleb and tip my head to one side. “Geez, the way you talk about her, it’s hard to imagine why she’d ever look elsewhere.”
“Leebee,” says Ollie in a warning voice. He hates it when I give Caleb a hard time for his crap. But I’m sorry, I’m not going to not say something just because it makes Ollie uncomfortable. Ollie telling me to slow my roll is a tale as old as time. “What happened, Cal?”
Caleb shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. But it happened right after I got laid off and lost my paycheck. You can draw your own conclusions.”
“That sucks, man, I’m sorry,” says Ollie.
I catch eyes with June, who flares her nostrils eloquently. One of my favorite things about June is her sneakiness. The first thing I noticed about her when she started as a new kid at our middle school was how observant she was—those dark eyes didn’t miss anything, especially because she was usually the one listening while somebody else (like me) was busy getting high off the sound of their own yap. But the second thing was the sneakiness. She doesn’t have quite the poker face she thinks she does, and watching for her subtle tells delights me. A faintly arched brow, a half smile, a perfectly timed side-eye: Those are her tools. If you speak June, you can learn exactly what she’s thinking just by watching her face.
“Great job on the skis, babe,” says Ollie, walking over and hugging my wrapped-burrito form against him. “You’re the queen of the lake.”
“I want to try the slalom next,” I tell him.
