Paula DeBoard - The Drowning Girls

I pulled back, feigning disgust. “You smell like nature.”

“I actually showered this year, not that it made much difference,” she said, tossing her backpack into the backseat. Her shoulders were sunburned, her cheeks dotted with new freckles. Red welts of mosquito bites pockmarked her legs.

“So? Tell me everything.”

We eased into traffic, and she did: the wasp nest in her cabin, the nature hikes, the bonfires, the visiting botanist from UC Davis. It was her last year as a camper; next summer, when she was fifteen, she could apply as a counselor.

“The rest of the summer is going to suck in comparison,” she announced, digging into her pocket until she came up, triumphant, with a pack of trail mix. She split the plastic and a stray peanut went flying into the console.

“You could always babysit, earn some spending money. I met a family with twins in The Palms—”

“Are you kidding? It was a disaster that time I babysat for the Lees, and that was only one kid. Remember how I had to call you fifteen times?” She held up the remainder of the bag of trail mix, letting the last sunflower seeds and raisins trickle directly into her mouth.

“Let’s not lead with that line on your résumé.”

She laughed through her mouthful.

“Phil and I went to that party last night, that wine-and-cheese thing—”

“That’s right. Was it fun?”

I hesitated. This morning, fighting a hangover headache, I’d dashed off a message to Allie, telling her about Janet, who could barely stretch her mouth into a smile and Deanna, with her too-large and too-perky breasts. I’d told her about the drama of Myriam’s remodeled closet, about Daisy Asbill’s reference to her nanny. But to Danielle I said only, “Sure. It was fun.”

Keeping my tone casual, I told her about Sonia’s invitation, the pool party planned for seven tomorrow night.

Danielle had been bending over, freeing her feet from her hiking shoes and a dirt-rimmed pair of socks, but when my words sank in, she looked up at me wild-eyed. “Tomorrow night? Are you kidding?”

“I didn’t realize you have plans.”

“I don’t have plans, per se,” she fumed. “I had plans to not be at a party with people I don’t know. I had plans to read a book or watch a movie. Those were my plans.”

“So now you’ll be swimming and playing games and eating junk food and making new friends. I suppose there are worse things.”

“Who are we talking about? Not that blonde girl.”

“Kelsey,” I said. “You’ve met her?”

“No, but I’ve seen her hanging around the clubhouse. Mom, she’s like...”

“Like what?”

But Danielle only glared out the window, arms folded across her chest. We’d exited 580, thick with traffic even on a Saturday, and were winding our way through twelve miles of twists and turns on the sole access road to The Palms. The road mimicked the switchbacks of the encroaching Diablo Range. In the distance, the mountains rose brown and bare, dotted with the occasional thirsty-looking clumps of cows beneath a thatch of trees. Up close the ranch land was so dry, its fissures were deep as fault lines.

“Hey,” I said, giving Danielle a nudge with my elbow. “It would be good for you to know some people in the area. And she might be nice.”

She grunted.

“What?”

“You said swimming. It’s a pool party, Mom. How am I supposed to wear my swimsuit in front of people I don’t even know?”

“Didn’t you do that all week at camp?”

“But those were just kids. These are...”

“They’re kids, too,” I said, forcing a note of conviction into my voice. I knew what Danielle was thinking. Somehow, they weren’t just kids—they were miniature reflections of their parents, with designer clothes and disposable income. They’d inherited all the best that life could offer without the struggle, without even the stories that came with triumph and success.

“What if they hate me?” Her voice was small. “What if they make fun of me?”

I swallowed hard. It was one of those parent-fail moments, listening to my daughter rehash my own fears, the same lines from the mental argument I’d had on the Mesbahs’ front porch. That never stops, honey, I wanted to tell her. There will always be those people. The difference is that at some point—a point I hadn’t quite reached myself—their opinions stopped mattering.

We were approaching the final bend on the access road, where the pavement suddenly smoothed out and the scrubby ranch land was replaced with towering, evenly spaced palm trees. Ahead of us the road forked before the wrought-iron ingress and egress gates, flanking the sign that announced our arrival: THE PALMS AT ALTAMONT RIDGE. It still struck me as pompous, and I’d lived in apartment complexes that had a genuine need to inflate themselves: Willow Glen and Stony Brook, where there had been no glens or brooks in sight. This sign announced wealth and privilege, something worth protecting, something with a high cost of admission.

Recognizing my car’s tracking device, the entrance gate rolled slowly open, then closed behind us. Janet Neimeyer’s Italianate villa loomed ahead, its terra-cotta roof flaming under the sun. As we coasted forward, I turned to Danielle. “Listen to me. You look fantastic in that swimsuit. Just be yourself—smart, outgoing, funny. How could anyone not love you?”

She shook her head, but one corner of her mouth twitched in a smile. “Okay. But what if I hate them?”

“If you want to leave, you can. It’s right around the corner. Just say, adios, goodbye, I’m heading home to watch C-SPAN with my mom.”

Behind us there was a sharp beep, and a little green Mini swerved around my Camry and zoomed past.

Danielle rolled her eyes. “That’ll firmly cement my coolness.”

* * *

Saturday night, she left in cutoff jeans and a shapeless T-shirt that read It’s elementary, dear Watson next to a fading graphic of the periodic table. The blue halter straps of her swimsuit flopped at her neck. It was the first time in years I’d been able to cajole her into a two-piece, and she did look great in it, taller than last summer, limbs longer, her body lean with the merest suggestion of curves. I watched from the front porch as she rounded the turn at the end of our street. Until she disappeared from sight, I wasn’t sure she was going to go through with it.

All night, I watched the clock while Phil watched the Giants game. I snuggled close to his T-shirt–clad chest, inhaling the smell of aftershave and laundry detergent. Outside the sliding door, the pool glimmered darkly, a reminder of my failed romantic overture last night. Eventually I nodded off, my face warm against his torso, only waking when the game was over, the players being interviewed. Phil had muted the sound. He didn’t like this part, the explanations and excuses.

My gaze drifted back to the clock. “It’s ten fifteen. Maybe I’ll just walk down there and check.”

“You’ll ruin any hope she has of being cool if you do,” Phil warned. “And believe me, there’s a kid who needs all the help she can get.”

I mock-swatted him. He wasn’t kidding, but he wasn’t being malicious, either. It was amazing how well he and Danielle understood each other, how well they’d adapted to each other’s presence. “You can call me Phil,” he’d said when they’d first met, and she’d told him solemnly, “You can call me Danielle.” In the beginning, they had bonded over shows on Animal Planet, made visits to the Bass Pro Shops on weekends, regaled each other with trivia about geology and astronomy and anatomy. She’d outgrown some of this, but what was left between them was an easy sort of comfort, a mutual respect.

The room flashed between blue and black as Phil flipped through silent channels, not lingering long on any particular image.