The Lucky Ones Page 12

  “How’re we supposed to know ten seconds?” someone growled.

  “Don’t ask dumb questions,” another boy muttered. There was pushing and shoving, a few laughs.

  “Boundaries,” Whit said in a louder voice. “No leaving the runway or green except to go into the woods behind the cup. You can’t go back to the clubhouse or hide behind the pro shop, either.”

  “Yeah, Michael, no going into the swimming pool like last time,” someone called. Murmured agreement.

  No. Not foxes and hounds—the Lost Boys, banding together for adventure. Whit was Peter Pan and she was Wendy. But a proud, daring Wendy, Cecile thought, not a silly little nagger.

  The breeze off the bay ruffled her hair. The moon slipped out from behind a wispy cloud and shone down on them before another cloud dimmed it; it lit up their faces. The air smelled of gentle sweat and borrowed aftershave lotion, hopefully splashed. The distant sounds of life on the porch were more memory than real.

  “Okay. Let’s get going,” Whit declared. “The way everyone’s bailing out, the chaperones are going to come looking for us in about ten minutes.”

  “Peter and I will be It.” A tall boy with curly hair and his tie dangling around his neck stepped forward with another boy beside him. “No tie pulling and no shirt ripping, either. If I come home from one more dance with a torn shirt, I’m going to catch hell.”

  “Give us ten seconds,” the other boy said.

  The two boys melted into the dark.

  “One one thousand,” a chorus of low voices began. “Two one thousand…”

  Cecile was filled with the same exhilaration she’d seen in the faces of the boys. It felt almost like panic; her breaths were short and quick. She was determined not to look at Whit, not to make him think she needed him in any way.

  “Some of them lie flat on the ground to fool you.” Whit’s quiet voice in her ear made Cecile start. He grabbed her arm to keep her close. “Watch out. It’s easy to trip.”

  “Ten one thousand. Marco!” the group called in a single, exalted voice.

  “Shhh.” This from Whit.

  Silence. And then, over to the right—farther away than it seemed possible for someone to run in the dark in so short a time—“Polo!” came a taunting, hushed voice.

  And a second later, “Polo!” over to their left, near the green.

  There was a split second of indecision as the group glanced at one another, deciding which boy to pursue. Then they broke up and ran, some to the left, others to the right. Cecile ran, too, not in any one direction, but zigzagging over the course, following first one figure and then another, as the darting shapes broke apart and came together again. Shouts of “Marco!” and “Polo!” resounded over the dark course, bouncing off the trees lining the fair-way, growing carelessly louder as the club fell away and they had the world to themselves.

  “Got him! I found Peter!” came a triumphant cry.

  “Hank’s It!”

  “Marco!”

  “Polo!”

  “Marco!”

  There was no way to make sense of it; Cecile felt dizzy with the effort. Panting, she darted over to the line of trees and fell against one. She pushed her hair back off her face and leaned forward with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. It was a good thing she’d taken off that silly bra. Because that’s what she had done: at the last minute, when her mother and father were waiting in the car, she’d cried, “Hold on a second!” and run upstairs over Natalie’s protests to rip her dress off over her head and unfasten her bra.

  The relief had been immediate. Horrible thing’s like a tourniquet, Cecile thought as she moved her shoulders now, luxuriating in the delicious freedom of the fabric against her skin. She felt sleek and safe, hiding in the dark—an animal of speed, a spectator on the sidelines of an invisible game until she felt like joining back in. Someone plunged quietly into the trees behind her and swore. A low grunt sounded very near to where she stood, over to the right. There was the sound of heavy breathing. Then a sudden, breathless, “Polo!”

  Whit was so close, all she had to do was reach out and touch him. Then she’d be the fox. Everyone would hunt for her. What would it feel like, to be the one the boys were hunting in the dark? To be a fox, outnumbered and surrounded?

  Cecile’s chest heaved and caught as a hand clamped on her wrist and a voice whispered, “Do you want to be It?”

  Whit’s breath was warm on her ear. Cecile turned her head. It was too soon, too sudden!

  “Not yet,” she whispered back.

  Whit moved immediately off. She heard him go deeper into the woods, leading the dogs away. She was afraid to breathe.

  “Whit! Whit Riley!” A man’s heavy, commanding voice rang out over the course. “All of you! Over here now. Please.”

  If nobody else moved, she wouldn’t either. There was no way for the caller to be sure they were out there. If they all stayed quiet, he’d give up and go back to the party.

  “Aw, no fair, Mr. Riley!” a boy’s voice answered.

  There was an immediate chorus of good-natured voices; loud laughter rang out of the trees and bounded carelessly off the green and the fairway; they filled the night. The jig was up. Better luck next year.

  Cecile stepped onto the fairway as boys loomed out of the dark all around her; she followed them slowly as they streamed toward the voice. Flocking around the tall, broad-shouldered man in a dinner jacket standing at the end of the path, holding a glass, they fell back to leave an aisle for Whit down the middle as he walked toward his father.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said, ducking his head to hide his grin.

  “Wise guy.” Mr. Riley threw his arm around Whit’s shoulders and looked around at the sheepish-looking group in front of him. “No wonder your mother’s on the warpath. You must have the entire male population of the dance out here. Those poor girls will be frantic.”

  Poor girls, indeed! Cecile could feel the boys relaxing around her, basking in the maleness of Whit’s father. “We’re not all poor,” she wanted to say and step courageously forward into the light—there was one girl, at least, who wasn’t frantic. How dare they!

  “Come on, boys, everyone back inside.” Mr. Riley turned with his arm still around Whit’s shoulder and started back. “They might bite you, but they won’t eat you,” he called over his shoulder consolingly, “and it’s almost over.”

  The boys fell in behind them, grousing as they stooped to snatch blazers from the ground, to smooth hair back from hot foreheads and exchange triumphant grins: a herd of male animals, bonded by their shared fate. Cecile was all but forgotten.

  Silly boys, she thought as she trailed behind them. She couldn’t resent them, it had been too much fun. She’d never tell anyone about this, not a soul.

  “Believe it or not,” she heard Whit’s father say, “but one of these days, I won’t be able to pry you boys away from the same girls with a crowbar.”

  “No way!” a few boys yelled, and Mr. Riley laughed. The group broke up when they reached the terrace, each boy going in search of his shoes. Cecile waited until Whit’s father had joined the rest of the parents on the porch before she went over to the pillar where she’d left her shoes. Whit was there, putting on his.

  “Go around to the front door and come in that way,” he said, giving her a dismissive glance. “If my mother sees I brought a girl out here, I’ll really catch it.” He stood up and straightened his tie, looking down at her coolly as she knelt to put on her sandals.

  It was gone, all gone! She was nothing but a burden now. “You’re not the boss of me,” Cecile said, tucking her hair behind her ears as she stood back up. He gave a short, amused laugh as she twirled and walked away.

  So what if she’d sounded more like Lucy than a twelve-year-old? She’d made Whit laugh, hadn’t she? It was a good kind of laugh, too. An amused laugh, not an “I’m only doing this to make you think you’re funny” laugh. He’d liked her enough to invite her to run around barefoot in the dark, too
, and play a game with a bunch of boys.

  Next time, she’d be ready.

  Headlights swept across the path from the steady stream of cars pulling into the driveway in front of the club. Cecile leaned against the lattice, covered with vines, that lined the path to adjust her sandal. Somewhere ahead of her, a boy laughed. It sounded as if it came from the small space that had been cut into the privet hedge for a curved stone bench.

  Cecile knew it well. It was where they used to hide when the family was on their way back to the car. The children would run ahead and duck into the space to hide and then leap out, shouting, when Mr. and Mrs. Thompson drew near. She wondered if some of the boys from the course were hiding there now, hoping to scare her.

  It was Natalie. She darted out of the space as if she were being pursued and was immediately followed by William. He grabbed Natalie’s arm and whipped her around, pulling her against him as he wrapped his arms around her back so she couldn’t get away. Natalie didn’t even try. She stood on tiptoe with her hands against William’s chest and kissed him.

  Oh, ugh. And on the mouth, too. Was that what all the hair tossing and fake laughter had been about, so she could kiss a boy with fat lips?

  Natalie and William broke apart and started walking toward the waiting cars. By the time Cecile came around the corner of the club, William was nowhere to be seen and Natalie was standing beside their mother in a group of parents near the front door. Groups of girls ran down the steps past them and climbed into the backseats of cars. A few boys whose faces Cecile thought she recognized stood in a clump off to one side.

  Natalie caught Cecile’s eye as she walked up to them and asked, “How long were you back there?”

  “Long enough.”

  Natalie’s eyes flashed, quick and telegraphic, like their mother’s smile.

  “Your father’s gone to get the car,” Mrs. Thompson said as she bent to smooth Cecile’s dress where it had caught up on one side. “Did you have fun? How’d the dancing go?”

  “Okay.”

  “Come and say thank you to Mrs. Riley,” Mrs. Thompson said as she led them over to Whit’s harried-looking mother, who was standing in the foyer, saying her good-byes. “My daughters want to tell you what a wonderful time they had, Nina,” their mother said.

  “Thank you,” Cecile said. “I had a wonderful time.”

  “Thanks. It was spectacular.” Natalie flashed her smile.

  “What charming daughters you have, Anne.” Mrs. Riley looked at them with vague eyes, as if unsure who they were. They could have been any of the girls she’d been in charge of that night. “And what charming Peonys. I do hope Whit had a chance to dance with you both.”

  The girls entered their bedroom quietly so as not to wake Lucy. Cecile stepped out of her dress and dropped it on the bottom of her bed, then crawled under her sheets. They smelled of sunshine and fresh air. Sheba must have changed them during the day.

  She listened to the sounds of Natalie in the bathroom: the heavy thunk of the cabinet door, water gushing into the sink, the flush of the toilet. After what felt like ages, Natalie opened the door and switched off the light. The bedroom was thrown into darkness.

  “How could you?” Cecile said when she heard Natalie’s bed creak as she got into it.

  “How could I what?” Natalie said, yawning.

  “Kiss William.”

  “I knew you were spying on us.”

  “I was not.” Indignation made Cecile sit up. “If you really want to know, I was on the golf course, running around with a bunch of boys.”

  “What boys?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Yeah, right, Cecile.”

  Cecile lay back down. Neither one of them said anything for a minute. Then, “He has slobbery lips,” Cecile said. “I don’t see how you can stand it.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Natalie said. “It’s only practice.”

  “Practice for what?”

  “You don’t think you wait until you meet the boy of your dreams and then immediately start mashing with him, do you? The last thing you want is for a boy you like to think you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Why not? Cecile wanted to ask. How can you kiss a boy you don’t even like? “I think it’s disgusting,” she said stubbornly.

  “Fine. Do what you want.” She could tell that Natalie had rolled over and was facing the window. “I don’t think you have to worry about it anytime soon, anyway.”

  That’s all you know, Cecile thought. She’d rather be chased in the dark, any day, than kiss a boy with slobbery lips on the mouth. Cecile couldn’t even remember what Whit’s mouth looked like. All she could remember was the strange way the hairs on her arm had stood up when she felt his warm breath in her ear.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Don’t tell me you turned into a teenager after one dance.” Sheba looked up from the sink where she was holding the huge bowl she’d mixed muffins in when Cecile came into the kitchen the next morning and smiled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s eight thirty. You missed Jack by a long shot this morning. Did you have a good time?”

  “It was okay. Can I have a muffin?” Cecile put her face close to the muffin tin Sheba had just taken out of the oven and breathed deep. “Mmm, blueberry.”

  “Take one for Jack, too,” Sheba said as Cecile carefully checked them all and selected the one with the most blueberries oozing their dark juice. “Unless you’re not going down to the dock straightaway this morning.”

  “Of course I am. Ouch!” Cecile held the muffin she’d bitten into away from her mouth as a swirl of trapped heat curled up.

  “You know those things are hot,” Sheba said. “How many times have you been burned?”

  “A million.” Cecile took the muffin Sheba had wrapped in a napkin for Jack and headed for the back door.

  “Is that all you’re going to tell me about last night?” Sheba said.

  “Umm…” Cecile held open the screen door while she thought. “Boys have sweaty hands, chaperones are like wolves…and dances are dumb.” She let the door slam behind her. “Bye!”

  She cut across the lawn, onto the drive. The muffin was still warm in her hand when she reached the dock. Jack and Leo were sitting side by side on the float in their matching orange life vests.

  “Are those your feet I see in the water?” she called as she walked down the dock.

  “King’s here.”

  “Where? I don’t see him.”

  “In the boathouse, fixing an engine.” Jack said something quiet to Leo. They quickly lifted their feet out of the water and stood up as Cecile came down the ramp. “I saw you coming,” Jack said. “And I can swim as well as you and Natalie.”

  “That’s not the point. What about Leo? Here.” Cecile handed Jack the muffin. “I didn’t know Leo was here, so I only have one.”

  “We’ll split it,” Jack said.

  “For the last time.” Leo said, turning his mournful, pale face to Cecile. Other than a sprinkling of bright freckles over his nose and cheeks, it showed no signs of his having spent the past week in the sun.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Cecile.

  “He has to go home tomorrow,” said Jack.

  “Right. I forgot. Oh, well,” Cecile said carelessly, only halfway through her vacation. “Maybe you’ll come back next year.”

  That meant Jenny was leaving tomorrow, too. Even that thought didn’t dampen her spirits. She liked the idea of being alone again. She might go to the club with her mother, or she might not. She could do anything she wanted.

  “Hello! Anybody out there?”

  “King?” Cecile said. She slowly approached the boathouse doors and peered into its murky depths, strangely shy. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light.

  “Cecile, wonderful! I need your help. I’m trying to fix this blasted thing.”

  King was kneeling in a far corner in front of a small engine he’d apparently taken apar
t and which was now scattered in pieces around him on the cement floor.

  “Stefan couldn’t get the dinghy started yesterday,” King told her as she came up to him. “I’m trying to see what the problem is.”

  “Who’s Stefan?” Cecile said.

  “The cabin boy,” King said, glancing up at her. “Actually,” he added as if he’d just recognized it, “at seventeen, I suppose we should call him the cabin young man, shouldn’t we? And a very competent cabin young man he is, at that.”

  Stefan. So that was his name.

  “You’re young and agile. Crawl under there and see if you can find the screwdriver, would you?” King said, gesturing toward the low bench against the wall. “I can’t see a damned thing with my eyes.”

  Cecile crouched down and felt around underneath the bench. “You mean this?” she asked, holding up a tool.

  “Perfect. Thank you.” King started unscrewing a screw from the engine. “How was your dance, Cinderella? Did you make it home before midnight?”

  “It wasn’t my dance.”

  “I trust you weren’t part of the bunch that made a mess on the golf course,” King said, rifling through the toolbox beside him. “I hear the pro was fit to be tied this morning.”

  “What kind of mess?” Her father would kill her.

  “They tore up the sixth green a bit. Apparently someone pulled out the flag and tossed it into the woods. That kind of thing.”

  So that was what the boys had been throwing between them when she and Whit arrived. “You think I’d run on a green, with my father?” Cecile said.

  “Right. You’re a seasoned little golf orphan, aren’t you?” King sat back on his haunches and looked at her. “I’m sure it was the boys. Boys have been ducking out of those dances since I was forced to go to them. Are they still as torturous as they used to be, or are you one of those girls who likes dances?”

  “I think they’re silly,” Cecile said. “How’d you know it wasn’t girls running around on the course?”

  “That’s the spirit, Heathen. When you start liking dances, I’ll know it’s time to throw in the towel.”

  She stood watching King in silence for a minute. “How come you know so much about engines?” she said at last. “You’re a lawyer.”