Perennials, page 1
RANDOM HOUSE
NEW YORK
Perennials is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Mandy Berman
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Berman, Mandy, author.
Title: Perennials: a novel / Mandy Berman.
Description: First edition. | New York : Random House, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016028144 | ISBN 9780399589317 |
ISBN 9780399589324 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Girls—Fiction. | Female friendship—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E75864 P47 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016028144
Ebook ISBN 9780399589324
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook
Title-page and part-title art: © iStockphoto.com
Cover design: Caroline Teagle Johnson
Cover photograph: © Buero Monaco/Getty Images
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
2000
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
2006
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged.
—VIRGINIA WOOLF,
Mrs. Dalloway
1
Denise was supposed to drive Rachel to camp that morning, but she was hungover. Rachel had heard her come in late the night before, her heels clacking in the entryway of their apartment before she exhaled loudly and trod barefoot into the kitchen. Then came the slamming of cupboard doors and rustling through boxes; the crackling of plastic; the cereal tinkling into the bowl; the repetitive crunching. Denise had had a date with a tax lawyer who took her for French food in the Village. Most of her dates didn’t leave the Upper West Side on the weekends, and neither did she.
Rachel imagined the night went something like this: They split a bottle of expensive wine. Denise tried not to drink it too fast, but they were done with it before finishing their entrées, and she was relieved when he suggested another. She went home with him but didn’t sleep there; she sobered up enough to remember she needed to take Rachel to Connecticut early the next morning.
When Rachel went out into the living room at seven, Denise’s mouth was wide open like a cartoon fish’s. Dark purple eye shadow was smeared over her closed eyelids. She hadn’t bothered to pull out the couch. People always said Rachel and Denise looked alike; often it was a pickup line from a guy—that they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. But aside from the same dark, wavy hair, Rachel never saw the resemblance.
“Mom,” she whispered.
Denise swallowed, then sighed, like she was in the middle of a nice dream.
“Mom,” Rachel said again, stroking the top of her mother’s head. Denise groaned and put the pillow over her face.
On the ride there, with her Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee, Denise started to wake up. They sang Pat Benatar; Denise had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other dangled out the window, holding a cigarette. They didn’t need directions. This was Rachel’s fourth summer at camp, and they knew the route by heart now—a straight shot up the Taconic, a winding parkway that could be so unpredictable Rachel sometimes worried her mom wouldn’t make a turn in time and they’d end up smashed against a concrete boulder on the side of the road.
Rachel always got the feeling when they pulled into camp that time hadn’t moved since the previous summer. Everything was exactly the same: the wooden Camp Marigold sign with the fading painted orange flowers; the smells of the horse manure from the barn and cut grass from the athletic fields. In the months leading up to camp opening, she would think maybe the grass wouldn’t be as green. Maybe some building would be painted a different color. Maybe they’d fixed that one broken rail on the fence around the horse arena.
But none of that ever happened. Time didn’t touch Camp Marigold, and that was what was so perfect about it.
They pulled into the circle of platform tents in the girls’ Hemlock section, where the thirteen-year-olds stayed, and lugged Rachel’s trunk from the back of the rental car. Counselors were greeting parents, helping them carry trunks and shopping bags filled with magazines and snacks, and girls Rachel knew well, girls with whom she’d compared nipples in their tents and stolen ice cream from the dining hall in the middle of the night, were hugging each other, holding hands, and gleefully yelling her name.
Denise put her arm around Rachel. “Happy, baby?”
Fiona ran over and embraced Rachel. “I saved you a bunk!” she said. She led Rachel into tent three. Their bunks were always at the top, head-to-head—best for late-night whispers after lights-out.
Fiona Larkin, Rachel’s best friend at camp, was a nosy but brutally loyal girl from a big family in Westchester. It was Fiona’s fifth summer at Marigold. She had already unpacked her own things and was now helping Rachel to unpack hers, taking items out of her trunk and organizing her cubby in a way Rachel would never be able to maintain.
Fiona stood with one hand on her hip, a box of Tampax raised in the other, and a questioning expression on her face.
“What?” Rachel asked. “Isn’t it obvious?” She stood back and let Fiona appraise her. The changes were small, but there: slightly wider hips, and breasts in a real, underwire bra, size 34B.
“You need to tell me these things!” Fiona said.
“Sweetie”—Denise, who was tucking Rachel’s mosquito net into the bunk, was shaking her head at Fiona—“it’s nothing to be jealous about.”
A few months earlier, Rachel had been home alone, lying on the couch watching a movie and eating Chips Ahoy! cookies. At a commercial she had gone to the bathroom and been shocked to see brown in her underwear. For a minute, she thought it had something to do with the cookies, like she had somehow gotten the chocolate on herself. But then she realized. No one ever mentioned it could be brown.
The next morning, Denise kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad we got you those pads.”
“I used one of your tampons.”
“Really?” She cocked her head to the side.
Rachel shrugged. “It wasn’t that hard.”
“You shouldn’t be going into my things, Rachel.”
“The pad was so bulky.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” her mom asked.
“You were on a date.”
“You can interrupt for something like this.”
Denise turned around to put on some coffee. As she was reaching for the ground coffee in the cabinet above her head, she paused with her hand there and turned to Rachel again.
“Are you having sex?”
“Mom. God.”
“It’s not impossible,” she said.
“There’s not even anyone I want to have sex with.”
“Want to? I don’t care if you want to or not. You’re thirteen fucking years old.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I don’t know how you figured out the tampon so easy.”
“There’s an instruction manual, Mom. I can read.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“I’m not.”
“You know you have to be careful about these things now.”
“I know what getting your period means.”
“Don’t be such a smartass, Rachel. I’m being serious.” She poured water into the coffeemaker. “And you might want to start watching what you eat. No more full boxes of Chips Ahoy! in one sitting.”
—
Fiona and Rachel thought it was weird that some girls were new to sleepaway camp at this age, as if they had been afraid to be away from home before now. One of the new girls cried quietly at night as if no one could hear her. Another was a tomboy who just played sports all day. Their counselor was from Poland, and Rachel and Fiona made fun of her accent when she left for the staff lodge after lights-out.
Fiona was the one who had convinced Rachel to take horseback riding, and then Rachel had convinced her dad to pay the extra money for it. Her dad wasn’t around much anymore, but she knew she could still ask him for things. She knew at that age, though she didn’t have the words for it, that she was using him and that she was allowed to. That, because he was the one who wasn’t always there, she could ask for the things she wanted, and he would give them to her.
Riding was the first activity of the day, and Fiona and Rachel went down to the stables together after breakfast, walking arm in arm. Rachel got to ride only a few times throughout the year, when she was able to get her d
Most everyone else hated riding Micah. “His stubbornness is inconceivably annoying,” their riding teacher used to say, making it obvious that she wanted to trade him in for a younger, more obedient horse. It was all the better for Rachel. He and Rachel had a sort of understanding that she’d never thought she could have with an animal, and when she got back each summer, she swore he had missed her.
He was a dark brown dun with a gleaming coat. When she saw him again, she hugged his neck and trailed her fingers down his mane. He let out a neigh by blowing out his lips, and Rachel laughed.
She and Fiona saddled and mounted their horses. Rachel and Micah remembered each other’s rhythm as they cantered. She lifted off the saddle for one beat, stayed down for two. The air smelled like dry dirt and dandelions. She looked over at Fiona, whose face was clenched. She seemed nervous about what would happen next, her hands in tiny fists on the reins as if she would lose control of her horse if she let them slack even slightly.
Fiona rode a lot throughout the year; she lived just a short drive from a fancy stable. Rachel’s mom had taken Rachel on Metro-North the previous fall to sleep over at Fiona’s house in Larchmont, even though Rachel had insisted she could go alone. Fiona had a younger sister and an older brother, and they each had their own bedroom in their big house that looked the same as all the other big houses on the street. Inside there were freshly vacuumed carpets and a yellow Lab and parents who kissed each other on the cheek. There were brownies sitting warm and fresh on the counter like on those shows on Nick at Nite, and Fiona’s mom was wearing an apron and cutting up vegetables and boiling water in the open kitchen. She asked Denise if she wanted to stay for a cup of tea, but Denise said no, she really had to be going. With her eyeliner and her cigarette breath, she didn’t belong in that kitchen.
Then, when Fiona came to Rachel’s apartment around Christmastime, Fiona’s mom had stood in the doorway and looked inside with her mouth puckered like she’d just tasted something sour.
“You’ll be here the whole time?” she’d asked Denise. Denise lied and said she would be. Later, after drinking a glass of white wine in the bathroom while she got ready for a date, she winked at Fiona, saying, “This is our little secret.” And Rachel could tell how much Fiona loved being able to have a secret from her mother. When the girls were alone, Rachel showed Fiona her room; then they ordered Chinese food with the twenty dollars her mom had left for them and watched The Real World. At the commercial, Fiona asked where Rachel’s mom slept.
“Here,” Rachel said, patting the couch they were sitting on.
“You mean there’s only the one bedroom?”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
“Wow,” Fiona said. “She must really love you.”
Rachel’s dad paid for the apartment; her mom was a secretary. Fiona clearly had no idea how expensive a two bedroom in Manhattan was.
When The Real World was at commercial, Rachel asked Fiona, “Want to watch something crazy?”
She clicked through the channel guide and found Showtime, which she sometimes put on late at night when she was by herself. She clicked on the title of the movie that was playing, Animal Instinct. Immediately an image popped up of two people leaning against the bars of a cage in a zoo. The guy had no shirt on and was wearing army green shorts. The girl had on much shorter shorts and a matching army green, button-down shirt, which was open, showing a black lacy bra, and her legs were wrapped around his waist. He was holding her up around him with his strong arms.
“Ew!” Fiona said. “What is this, Rachel?”
Rachel giggled. “Look at her huge boobs,” she said, and at that moment, the guy opened the front of the girl’s bra with his finger and thumb, and out they popped, these two giant things with two giant brown disks for nipples. Rachel’s nipples were small and pink, like little bull’s-eyes.
Fiona put a hand over her eyes.
“What are you so afraid of?” Rachel asked.
“This is so weird, Rachel,” she said, her eyes still covered. “Please, just change the channel.”
“Whatever,” Rachel said. She turned back to The Real World, and they watched the rest of the episode in silence.
—
On the first Friday night of camp, they had a coed dance. Rachel wore a sequined, royal blue halter dress and silver heels with skinny straps. Fiona was in something flowered and paisley and flat, bone white sandals, because her mom wouldn’t let her wear heels yet.
The dance was on the tennis courts in the boys’ section of camp, with the girls standing on one side and the boys on the other until one of the boys made the first move. The previous summer, Rachel had been the first girl to be asked to dance. She knew that that sort of thing polarized people: There were girls who clung closer to her because of it and others who recoiled from her. She did wonder, in her limited, thirteen-year-old way, if Fiona only stayed friends with her because of what was, to Fiona, social capital.
That night it was Matthew Dawson, the tallest Hemlock boy, who breached the divide and tapped Rachel on the shoulder.
He was almost a foot taller than her, so anytime he tried to talk as they danced—Who was in her tent this summer? Did she like this song?—he had to bend his head down, and she had to tilt hers up in a way that quickly became too tiresome to maintain. Soon they were dancing in relieved silence. Rachel could see Fiona and the other girls standing over in their circle looking at them. Matthew was in all the plays, and he was always the lead. That summer he was going to be Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He had all these big features: big eyes, big nose, big lips, big ears. During afternoon open, the free period on the flag lawn after lunch, he’d pretend to be a monster with the little Maple kids, picking them up and running around with them above his head.
A slow song came on, and Rachel was happy to see Geoff Mendelson ask Fiona to dance. Matthew moved in closer and put his arms around Rachel’s waist. She clasped her arms tighter around his neck, and he crouched down, swaying with his knees in a sort of half bend. The positioning was awkward but made Rachel feel like she was being taken care of.
He cleared his throat. “Are you having a good time?” he asked, his eyes going wide with the question.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s always a fun night.”
She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and then put her arm back on his shoulder.
“You look really pretty,” he said, swallowing.
Now everyone was dancing in a clump, coupled up and swaying to the song. Matthew moved his arms tighter around her waist and crouched more.
“Funny how so many of us are camp regulars now,” he said. “When did we get so old?”
“Thirteen is not very old.”
“Summer of 2000,” he said. “The world was supposed to blow up by now.”
“The real millennium isn’t until 2001.”
“Well, good,” he said. “We have another six months.”
—
By mid-July, the days were very hot, and the flies were worse than ever, but this didn’t deter Rachel from riding. She took good care of Micah, and she was often the more thirsty and tired of the two. She made sure they stopped a lot to give him water on trail rides and took it easy, just trotting and cantering, no galloping. They were stuck together, so they had to move together. She was controlling him to move forward, but he was equally controlling her. There was a strength there that was almost scary but comforting at the same time. Some days the riding counselor let Rachel stay through lunch, when she would help straighten up the barn and feed the horses, and she would linger too long at Micah’s stall, feeding him extra hay and carrots when the counselor wasn’t watching.
Matthew started hanging around Rachel more: in the morning when the campers walked from the flag to breakfast, on the lawn during free period, in front of the dining hall after lunch. “How’s your day going?” he’d ask, and Rachel would tell him about riding and tennis and swimming or whatever else had happened that day. He talked about the play a lot.
