“It finally sold to a big family,” Claire said. “Or two families. I’m not sure how it works, but I guess there are two fathers, and they’re brothers. They both have kids—so the kids are cousins?” Claire wrinkled her brow. “Whatever. The point is that whoever moved in has a bunch of kids. And they’re all about the same age. There are, like, two boys that are going to be in our grade.”
“And let me guess,” Helen said, deadpan. “You did a tarot reading and saw that both of the boys are going to fall madly in love with you and then they’ll tragically fight to the death.”
Claire kicked Helen in the shin. “No, dummy. There’s one for each of us.”
Helen rubbed her leg, pretending it hurt. Even if Claire had kicked Helen with all of her might, she still wouldn’t be strong enough to leave a bruise.
“One for each of us? That’s uncharacteristically low drama of you,” Helen teased. “It’s too straightforward. I don’t buy it. But how about this? We’ll each fall in love with the same boy, or the wrong boy—whichever one doesn’t love us back—and then you and I will fight each other to the death.”
“Whatever are you babbling on about?” Claire asked sweetly as she inspected her nails, feigning incomprehension.
“God, Claire, you’re so predictable,” Helen said, laughing. “Every year you dust off those cards you bought in Salem that time on the field trip and you always predict that something amazing is going to happen. But every year the only thing that amazes me is that you haven’t slipped into a boredom coma by winter break.”
“Why do you fight it?” Claire protested. “You know eventually something spectacular is going to happen to us. You and I are way too fabulous to be ordinary.”
Helen shrugged. “I am perfectly happy with ordinary. In fact, I think I’d be devastated if you actually predicted right for a change.”
Claire tilted her head to one side and stared at her. Helen untucked her hair from behind her ears to curtain off her face. She hated to be watched.
“I know you would. I just don’t think ordinary’s ever going to work out for you,” Claire said thoughtfully.
Helen changed the subject. They chatted about their class schedules, running track, and whether or not they should cut bangs. Helen wanted something new, but Claire was dead set against Helen touching her long blonde hair with scissors. Then they realized that they had wandered too close to what they called the “pervert zone” of the ferry, and had to hastily backtrack.
They both hated that part of the ferry, but Helen was particularly sensitive about it; it reminded her of this creepy guy that had followed her around one summer, until the day he just disappeared off the ferry. Instead of feeling relieved when she realized he wasn’t coming back, Helen felt like she had done something wrong. She had never brought it up to Claire, but there had been a bright flash and a horrible smell of burnt hair. Then the guy was just gone. It still made her queasy to think about it, but Helen played along, like it was all a big joke. She forced a laugh and let Claire drag her along to another part of the ferry.
Jerry joined them as they pulled into the dock and disembarked. Claire waved good-bye and promised to try to visit Helen at work the next day, though since it was the last day of summer, the outlook was doubtful.
Helen worked a few days a week for her father, who co-owned the island’s general store. Apart from a morning paper and fresh cup of coffee, the News Store also sold saltwater taffy, penny candy, caramels and toffee in real crystal jars, and ropes of licorice whips sold by the yard. There were always fresh-cut flowers and handmade greeting cards, gag gifts and magic tricks, seasonal knickknacks for the tourists, and refrigerator essentials like milk and eggs for the locals.
About six years ago the News Store had expanded its horizons and added Kate’s Cakes onto the back, and since then business had exploded. Kate Rogers was, quite simply, a genius with baked goods. She could take anything and make it into a pie, cake, popover, cookie, or muffin. Even universally loathed vegetables like brussels sprouts and broccoli succumbed to Kate’s wiles and became big hits as croissant fillers.
Still in her early thirties, Kate was creative and intelligent. When she’d partnered up with Jerry she revamped the back of the News Store and turned it into a haven for the island’s artists and writers, somehow managing to do it without turning up the snob factor. Kate was careful to make sure that anyone who loved baked goods and real coffee—from suits to poets, working-class townies to corporate raiders—would feel comfortable sitting down at her counter and reading a newspaper. She had a way of making everyone feel welcome. Helen adored her.
When Helen got to work the next day, Kate was trying to stock a delivery of flour and sugar. It was pathetic.
“Lennie! Thank god you’re early. Do you think you could help me . . . ?” Kate gestured toward the forty-pound sacks.
“I got it. No, don’t tug the corner like that, you’ll hurt your back,” Helen warned, rushing to stop Kate’s ineffectual pulling. “Why didn’t Luis do this for you? Wasn’t he working this morning?” Helen asked, referring to one of the other workers on the schedule.
“The delivery came after Luis left. I tried to stall until you got here, but a customer nearly tripped and I had to at least pretend I was going to move the blasted thing,” Kate said.
“I’ll take care of the flour if you fix me a snack,” Helen said cajolingly as she stooped to pick up the sack.
“Deal,” Kate replied gratefully, and bustled off with a smile. Helen waited until Kate’s back was turned, lifted the sack of flour easily on her shoulder, and sauntered toward the workstation, where she opened the sack and poured some flour into the smaller plastic container Kate used in the kitchen. While Helen neatly stacked the rest of the delivery in the storeroom, Kate poured her a bubbly pink lemonade, the kind that Helen loved, from France, one of the many foreign places she was dying to visit.
“It’s not that you’re so freakishly strong for someone so thin that bothers me. What really pisses me off,” Kate said as she sliced some cherries and cheese for Helen to snack on, “is that you never get winded. Not even in this heat.”
“I get winded,” Helen lied.
“You sigh. Big difference.”
“I’ve just got bigger lungs than you.”
“But since you’re taller, you’d need more oxygen, wouldn’t you?”
They clinked glasses and sipped their lemonade, calling it even. Kate was a bit shorter and plumper than Helen, but that didn’t make her either short or fat. Helen always thought of the word zaftig when she saw Kate, which she had a notion meant “sexy curvy.” She never used it, though, in case Kate took it the wrong way.
“Is the book club on tonight?” Helen asked.
“Uh-huh. But I doubt anyone will want to talk about Kundera,” Kate said with a smirk, jingling the ice cubes in her glass.
“Why? Hot gossip?”
“Smokin’ hot. This crazy-big family just moved to the island.”
“The place in ’Sconset?” Helen asked. At Kate’s nod, she rolled her eyes.
“Oh-ho! Too good to dish with the rest of us?” Kate teased, flicking the condensed water from the side of her glass in Helen’s direction.