I’M SITTING ON MY BED, STARING DOWN AT AN OLD PHOTO album that I found in the basement. I age as the pages turn. Posing in front of a blanket fort with a flashlight lit under my chin. At the apex of a swing from the tire hung on the backyard tree, my hair almost white from the sun. Me and my dad with big clumps of seaweed on top of our heads. Practicing clarinet for my parents and Aunt Bette in the dining room.
The book ends with me posing next to the lilac bush for my first day of seventh grade. I’m on my tiptoes, smelling the flowers.
It’s no wonder Reeve didn’t recognize me this morning. There’s only one way to put it—I was fat.
Everyone was talking about the new scholarship student. The Belle Harbor Montessori on the mainland was teeny tiny. There were just twenty kids in our seventh-grade class, and I was the only one from Jar Island. During lunch a few of the boys were debating how smart you needed to be to get a scholarship, when Reeve walked in.
Everyone watched as he moved through the food line. My friend Anne leaned over and said, “He’s pretty cute, don’t you think?”
“He’s not bad,” I whispered back.
Reeve was easily taller than every other boy in our class. But he wasn’t lanky; he had a bit of muscle to him. . . you could tell he probably played sports at his old school. We didn’t have sports at Montessori. We didn’t even have recess, unless you counted the foliage hikes we took through the woods.
Our teacher waved him over and showed him where our class was sitting.
“Hey,” he said, kind of bored-sounding. He plopped into an empty chair. “I’m Reeve.”
A couple of the boys mumbled “Hey” back, but mostly no one said anything. I think we all picked up on his apathetic attitude. He didn’t really want to be at our school. He probably had lots of friends back wherever he’d come from.
I felt bad for him. Reeve only picked at his sandwich, not saying anything. It must have been hard coming to a new school. This was the only school I’d ever known. I’d gone to Belle Harbor Montessori since I was in kindergarten.
When lunch was over, and everyone stood up, I saw Reeve looking around, unsure where to put his tray. I leaned over to grab it for him. I don’t know why. Just to be nice, I guess. But he snatched it away before I could get my hands on it and said really loudly, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to eat?”
The boys who’d heard him busted up laughing. I think I might have even laughed too, just because I’d been so caught off guard. Anne made a face. Not one of sympathy either. Just a plain old frown. And not at Reeve. At me.
Reeve, he laughed the hardest of all. He was the first to leave the table, and everyone just followed him, even though he couldn’t have known where our classroom was. He left his tray on the table.
I ended up throwing away his lunch with my own.
Before Reeve, I was one of the smart girls, especially in math. I was the shy but friendly one. I was a little socially awkward, sure. The girl with the long blond hair from the island. But after Reeve, I was the fat girl.
I close the album. I’m not that girl anymore. I hadn’t been her for a long time. But being back on Jar Island, with Reeve, with my old pictures and stuffed animals and things—it makes it feel so fresh.
I hear Aunt Bette downstairs, quietly doing the dishes.
Our dinner tonight was awkward, to say the least. This morning I imagined telling Aunt Bette every detail about my epic first day—the look on Reeve’s face when he saw me again, him trying to talk to me, him trying to find out where I’ve been for the last four years. She’d let me have a glass of wine, and we’d toast to the start of a great new year.
Since none of that happened, there was nothing to tell Aunt Bette. Needless to say, I didn’t feel hungry. It would have been rude to get up from the table, though, so I just sat there quietly while she twirled spaghetti on her fork and read some art journal.
I feel empty inside. Hollow. I just really need to talk to my mom and dad, hear their voices. They’ll probably try to convince me to come back home, and I might let them.
The next five minutes I spend pacing around my room with my cell phone over my head, trying to get enough bars to call them. I can’t get a signal. When we lived here before, cell service was practically nonexistent on Jar Island. There were a few random spots where you could get reception, like near the lighthouses, or sometimes in the Lutheran church parking lot, but for the most part Jar Island was a cell-phone-free zone. I guess that hasn’t changed.
There’s a telephone downstairs in the kitchen, but I’d rather not talk to my parents in front of Aunt Bette. I might start crying.
I hear Aunt Bette climb the stairs. I peek out my door and watch her walk to her room.
I guess I could try talking to her. I used to confide in her about all kinds of things. Whenever she’d visit in the summer, we’d walk down the hill and buy hot chocolates on Main Street. Even in August. She’d tell me about things I know my parents would freak over. The month she spent living in Paris with a married man, the series of paintings she did of herself nude. Aunt Bette has lived about a million and one lifetimes. She could have good advice for me.
Aunt Bette is already in bed. Her eyes are closed. But I guess she hears me, because they suddenly open. “Mary?”
I step into the room and crouch by her bed. “Are you asleep?”
She shakes her head and blinks. “I don’t think so. Am I?”
Even though I’m on the verge of tears, I laugh. “Am I bothering you?”
“No! Please!” She sits up. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath and try to get a hold of myself. “It’s strange to be back.”
“Yes. Of . . . of course.”
“I don’t know if I belong, after everything that’s happened.”
In a low voice Aunt Bette says, “This is your home. Where else would you belong?”
“Nowhere, I guess.”
“I’ve missed you, Mary.” A faint smile spreads across her face. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I lie. Then I go back to my room and crawl into bed.
It takes me forever to fall asleep.
