The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (9 page)

He looked mellow from sun and running and probably tequila. He had a sexy way of tipping his head to the side when he looked at people.

Men kept bobbing around her, but she stuck with Diana, her preferred partner. A few minutes later, Ollie joined them, a beer in one hand.

Ollie spotted the coaches' table and waved to them. Marci waved back. Eric and another coach, Robbie, gave them looks that said,
We'll just pretend we're not seeing this.

But another round of margaritas later, the coaches were out on the dance floor too. It was heady and good. Bridget felt a dancing high coming on that rivaled her running high. She couldn't resist him anymore.

She turned to Eric and danced close. She touched his hand momentarily. She watched his hips. He was both easy and skilled. She let her eyes linger on his. For once he didn't look away.

She put her hands at the bottom of his back, matching her hips to his. He was so close she could smell his neck. He put his lips to her ear. It sent an avalanche of chills to her feet.

Gently he gathered her hands and gave them back. In her ear he whispered, “We can't do this.”

Lena threw herself onto her bed, nearly exploding with self-concern. Then she heard whispers and then shouting downstairs. Was her silent grandfather shouting? She leaped to her feet and pulled off her wet shirt, replacing it with a dry one. Then she yanked off the Pants and put them on the right way, her fingers shaking. What was going on here?

When Lena arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she saw that Bapi's face was practically purple, and he was striding toward the front door. Grandma hovered around him, reasoning with him in a nervous tangle of Greek. Her words were not appearing to make much difference. Bapi stormed out the door and turned downhill.

Suddenly Lena was getting a bad feeling about this. She skittered behind them. She knew before Bapi reached the Dounas residence that he would be stopping there. He knocked violently on the door.

Kostos's grandfather opened the door. The man looked fully astounded at the expression on Bapi's face. Bapi Kaligaris started yelling. Lena heard him bellow the name Kostos a few times, but otherwise she understood only anger. Grandma fluttered around timidly.

Bapi Dounas's face transformed slowly from confusion to indignation. He started yelling back.

“Oh, God,” Lena whimpered to herself.

Suddenly Bapi was forcing himself into the Dounas house. Grandma was trying to hold him back, and Bapi Dounas was planting himself in the way.
“Pou einai Kostos?”
Bapi thundered.

Lena was pretty sure that meant “Where is Kostos?” Right then, Kostos appeared behind his grandfather, looking bewildered and upset. He obviously wanted to comfort Lena's grandfather, but his own grandfather wouldn't let him by.

Lena watched in acute horror as her
bapi
put his wiry arms out and tried to shove the other old man out of the way. Bapi Dounas's eyes bulged, and he shoved back. Suddenly Bapi Kaligaris cocked his arm and punched Bapi Dounas in the nose.

Lena gasped. Grandma screamed.

The old men each got in another punch before Kostos overpowered them both. He held them apart, his face gray with agitation.
“Stamatiste!”
he bellowed. “Stop!”

Dear Daddy,

Can you send more clothes? My tank tops and the sundresses in my third drawer down? Also, my black bathing suit—the two-piece? Oh, and skirts from the fourth drawer—the short pink one and the turquoise one?

I'm still loving it here. We have our first big scrimmage today, and I'm starting at forward. I'll call you again on Saturday. Say hi to Perry.

Love,
Bee

“A
re you excited about your wedding?” Carmen asked her father as they drove, hoping her voice didn't sound sour.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Can't wait.” He looked at her affectionately. “And I can't tell you what it means to me that you'll be here, bun.”

Carmen felt guilty. Why was she being this way? Why couldn't she stop, and be nice?

“I hope you like miniature soufflés,” she said, for no reason.

Her dad nodded. “Lydia's taking care of all that.”

“I notice she spends a lot of time on it,” Carmen said evenly, both wanting and not wanting her father to understand her implied criticism.

“It means a lot to her. She wants every detail exactly right.”

Fleetingly Carmen considered the nasty question of who was paying for all this.

“She didn't have a real wedding the first time,” her father continued.

Carmen's brain leaped around to various possible scandals. A shotgun affair? An elopement? “Why not?”

“She was planning an elaborate wedding with her mother, but her mother died suddenly six weeks before the wedding. It absolutely broke her heart. Ultimately her wedding involved two witnesses and a justice of the peace.”

Carmen felt sad and deflated. “That's awful,” she murmured.

“Now is her chance, and I really want her to enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” Carmen mumbled. She considered this awhile. “What happened to her old husband?”

“They split up four or five years ago. He has a serious drinking problem. He's been in and out of treatment.”

Carmen sighed again. This was sad. She didn't want to feel sorry for Lydia. That made it hard to dislike her. But she thought of Lydia with her dead mom and her drunk husband, and silent Paul with his messed-up dad. In that context, his silence seemed more like stoicism. And Krista, so obviously in awe of Carmen's solid, kind, functional dad . . . How grateful they must all feel for their new life with Al.

Carmen promised herself she would smile at Lydia when they got home and ask at least two friendly questions about the wedding.

“Hey, do you mind if we make a stop before tennis? Paul is playing in this summer soccer league, and today is a big match. I promised I'd look in for a few minutes.”

“Fine,” Carmen grumbled, and she went right back to being mad.

Bridget went swimming by herself at dawn. When she got excited, she couldn't sleep. She swam far, far out in the hopes of seeing a dolphin, but there wasn't one today. On her way back to shore, she swam around the headlands that separated their beach from the main part of Coyote Bay. RVs dotted the sand. Ick.

She swam back to her beach and lay down on the sand. She fell asleep for another hour or so. Then she heard the breakfast rush. She raced back to the cabin to put on her clothes. She was starving as usual.

She carried her three boxes of Froot Loops, two cartons of milk, and her banana across the deck and sat next to Diana.

“Do you sleep?” Diana asked. “Where were you this morning?”

“Swimming,” Bridget answered.

“Alone?”

“Sadly, yes.”

She searched the tables for Eric. He wasn't there. Was he hungover from last night? Or just slaving over his playbook? The memory of dancing with him last night brought color to her cheeks. “We can't do this,” he'd said. He hadn't said, “You can't do this.”

“Let's go warm up,” she said to Diana.

The first scrimmage started at nine. Team one, El Burro, was already beating team two, the Gray Whales, by two goals. Team three, recently dubbed Los Tacos, and team four, Los Cocos, had the other field for practice.

Bridget sat on the sidelines, watching Eric discuss strategy with Marci and a couple of his players.

She laced up her cleats. Some famous old actor, she couldn't think of which one, had said he began his character with his shoes. Bridget was her favorite self with her cleats on, whether she was clicking through locker rooms with her extra three quarters of an inch of height or tearing through soft grass on the field. Her cleats were beat up and muddy, molded perfectly to her feet. They made her walk like a jock, but she liked that too.

She looked at Eric till he glanced back. She smiled; he didn't.
You guys are toast
, she vowed to whomever besides her happened to be listening to her thoughts.

Her team's coach, Molly Brevin, called them all over.

Bridget put on her shin guards and pulled her hair back in an elastic. Ollie and Emily slapped her hands as she joined the group. It was their first time playing as a team.

Molly read out the starting positions, even though they all knew them. Bridget jumped up and down to keep her blood flowing.

“Yo, Tacos. Listen up. All I care about is passing,” Molly proclaimed. “I mean it. I don't care what else you do in this scrimmage. You hog the ball, and you come out.” Why did she look at Bridget when she said that?

The teams assembled on the field. Bridget passed by Diana and gave her a quick squeeze around her waist. Diana jumped in surprise. “You are so de-ad,” Bridget teased like a five-year-old. She got in her position at center field and waited for the long whistle.

Bridget needed a single focus. She had too much energy, she knew, and a fair amount of raw, undisciplined talent. At almost every point in her life, she needed one simple, unified goal to keep her going forward fast. Otherwise there was the possibility of going backward, where she did not want to go.

Today her focus was Eric. It was showing him what she could do. He was the unifying idea that kept every one of her cells in line.

Her energy exploded as soon as the ball got moving. She immediately stole the ball from Dori Raines and took it down the field. She positioned herself for an open shot on goal, gathered two of three defenders, then passed it to the open forward, Alex Cohen. Alex got bottled up and passed it back to Bridget.

When Bridget's focus was good, time slowed for her. She had time to make choices. She had time to size up the position and trajectory of the goalie. She drew back her leg and tucked her foot under the ball to give it a few feet of lift. It sailed right past the goalie's head. Her teammates engulfed her. Through the gaps between bodies and limbs, she saw Eric. He was talking to his subs on the sideline. She wanted him to notice her so much.

She'd keep stomping them till he did. She stole ball after ball. She felt a strange elasticity, the capability to be both infinitely good and infinitely mediocre, depending on her mood. Today she raised the ceiling on good. She crashed through it. She made other legitimately fine, consistent players look like they didn't belong on the field.

“Pass, Vreeland!” Molly bellowed at her. At a higher level of play, Bridget wouldn't be taking crap like this. When your player is in the zone, you let her play. You give her the ball.

Bridget passed. The ball came back quickly. Her teammates acknowledged her power right now, even if her coach wouldn't. She scored again. Was it the third or the fourth?

Molly looked mad. She signaled to the ref, who blew her whistle. “Sub!” Molly shouted. “Come on out, Vreeland.”

Bridget was mad right back. She strode to the sidelines and sat down on the grass, her chin in her hands. She wasn't even winded yet.

Molly came over. “Bridget, this is a
scrimmage
. Everybody needs to play. The point is for me to see what we have here. You're a superhero. I see that, and so does everybody else, all right? Save it for the championship.”

Bridget put her head down. She suddenly felt all that intensity crashing in on her. She felt like crying.

She now knew she should have toned it down. Why was it so hard for her to make herself stop?

Dear Tibby,

Grilled shrimp canapés, salmon gravlax (what the hell is that?), crisped spinach, and roast pork loin. The flower arrangements involve tuberose (huh?) and magnolia blossoms (her favorite!). I could go on for another forty-five pages, Tib, but I'll spare you. It is ALL ANYBODY TALKS ABOUT in this place-of those people who actually talk, I mean. I'm going out of my mind. What has my dad gotten into?

Love and bitterness,
Carmen Lucille

“Which one is yours?” Carmen overheard a man ask her dad.

She was standing glumly a few yards away on the sidelines. Paul was the star of the team. In the eight minutes they had been there, he'd already scored two goals. Her dad was cheering like crazy. Down near the goal was Skeletor, made up nicer than a flight attendant. Every few seconds she took breaks from her hysterical enthusiasm to give Carmen a mean look.

“Which one is mine?” her dad repeated in confusion.

“Which is your kid?” the man clarified.

Her dad hesitated, but not for long enough. “Paul Rodman. He's playing forward.” Her dad pointed.

Carmen felt a little chill zap along her spine and up into her scalp.

“He's an unbelievable player,” the man said. He turned to look at her father. “He's built a lot like you,” he said, then moved along the sideline to follow the progress of the ball.

How can he be built like you?
He's not your kid!
Carmen felt like screaming at the top of her lungs.
I'm your kid!

Her dad came over and put his arm around her shoulders. It didn't feel as good as it had five days ago.

Now you've got the son you always wanted,
Carmen thought bitterly. She knew he'd wanted that. How could he not? He had a crabby ex-wife, a sullen daughter, four crazy sisters. Here was a big, silent, uncomplicated boy built just like him.

Carmen felt sick to her stomach. Paul scored another goal. She hated him for it.

She was awful at soccer. When she was six she'd played in a kiddie league. She raced up and down the field and never touched the ball once. Her dad went to those games too.

“It's exciting, isn't it?” her father asked now. “Do you mind if we stay the rest of the half?”

“Who, me? Mind?” Her tartness made no apparent impact.

“Great. They've got plenty of courts at the club. We shouldn't have any problem.”

Suddenly Skeletor appeared. She smiled sweetly at Carmen's dad. “Hi, Mr. Lowell, how are you?” she tweeted.

“Fine, thanks, Kelly. Do you know my daughter, Carmen?” he asked.

Kelly worked to keep the disgust off her face.

“We go way back. Hi, Kelly,” Carmen said.

“Hi,” Skeletor said stiffly. She turned to Al. “Isn't Paul just doing fantastic? You must be
so proud
of him.”

Carmen raised an eyebrow at her. Was Skeletor more intelligent than Carmen had imagined?

“Well, yes, of course,” her father mumbled.

Neither Carmen nor her father picked up the thread of conversation. Skeletor had a low threshold for social awkwardness. “I'll see y'all later,” she said to Al, heading back up the sideline. “Go, Paul!” she shrieked as Paul did something heroic.

Suddenly Carmen recognized the pale figure of Lydia practically running toward them from the parking lot.

As soon as Al saw her, he let go of Carmen's shoulders and hurried over to his wife-to-be. “What is it?”

“The Plantation. They called to say they overbooked. One of the weddings has to bow out. They said we were the second booking,” Lydia explained breathlessly. Carmen could see the tears quivering between her eyelids.

“Darling,” Al said, holding her protectively. “That's terrible. What can we do?” He drew her aside to talk in private. Her dad always had a natural instinct for privacy, even if what stood between him and privacy was just his daughter.

A minute later, her dad came back. “Carmen, I need to go over to the Plantation with Lydia. We'll play tomorrow, okay?”

It wasn't a kind of okay that required an okay back. He had already moved on to the next concern. “I'll leave my car keys with you, and Paul can drive you back home.” He kissed her forehead. “Sorry, bun, we'll have our tennis game. Don't worry.”

Carmen could have acted like a big girl, but instead she lay on the grass, right on the sideline. It was a lucky thing she'd turned invisible in South Carolina, because otherwise this might have been tacky behavior.

If she were real and not invisible, if she could get a look at herself through the eyes of her friends or her mother, she might have been able to examine her feelings. Alone, she felt floaty and transparent.

The sun shone nicely on her face. Eventually she heard the long whistle that signaled the end of the game. A shadow came over her. With her hand she blocked out enough sun to see that it was Paul. He looked at her for a minute. If he found her freakish, he didn't let on.

“Do you want to play tennis?” he asked.

It was their longest communication so far. She said yes.

She went on to cream him 6-0, 6-0.