Stalker Girl (13 page)

Isabelle was there, too, combing apartment listings and returning parents’ phone calls.

Running Stony Hollow had turned out to be much harder than she’d imagined. Every day brought a new crisis. The homesick kid who wouldn’t stop crying in bunk two, the head-lice invasion in bunk seven. It seemed like when she wasn’t fixing a crisis, she was explaining it to parents.

“These people,” she said, after hanging up from what sounded like a particularly exasperating conversation. “If I could afford to send my kids away, I wouldn’t be spending every day worrying about them.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Carly said from behind her computer.

“Oh,
pffft
. You know what I mean. I’d worry. Of course I’d worry. But I wouldn’t harass the people who were taking care of my kids.
Trying
to take care of my kids. I wouldn’t try to micromanage your day from a distance. The calls,” she said, holding her forehead. “They’re endless! That was Mrs. Friedman. Did I know that Bonne, spelled B-O-N-N-E, Friedman, whose medical form
clearly states
she is lactose intolerant and should under no circumstances consume dairy products, ate an ice-cream sandwich on Tuesday? Why, yes, Mrs. Friedman, I am aware. At exactly twelve noon, Eastern Standard Time, I personally rammed that ice-cream sandwich down your daughter’s throat. I took the Tofutti Cutie—
that she knows full well is there, that we put out especially for her and the vegans
—out of her hand myself.”

Carly looked up from her laptop. She hadn’t heard her mother’s biting humor in what seemed like ages. Through the years at Bellwin, Isabelle had become quite the mimic, performing some of the more egregious parental atrocities for Nick and Carly’s amusement at night.

“See, I wanted her to get gassy. I wanted her to fart all night and get made fun of by the girls in her cabin.”

They laughed. Together. “That’s good, Mom. You should write a book.”

Isabelle returned her gaze back to her computer screen and kept it fixed there. “Actually, I have. A couple, as a matter of fact. No one’s interested.”

“I know. I know. Sorry,” Carly said. Her mother had never actually invited Carly to read her fiction, but one time, when she was using her mother’s computer, Carly had peeked at a manuscript. The part she had read was a long scene with a middle-aged couple hiking in the Grand Canyon, fighting about whether they were going to live in New York or California and what each place would “mean.” Carly found it boring and gave up after two pages. She’d never felt the need to pry after that.

“But I mean a
funny
book. A camp director/college admissions counselor tell-all.
The Stupid Things Parents Do and Say.
Something like that. What’s the deal with that Genevieve girl? The one you made Jess trade places with? ”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Genevieve Hartmann had to be moved away from the window in her cabin. The cold air was aggravating her vocal cords, and Genevieve needs to preserve her vocal cords for the music camp she’ll be attending later this summer—and, apparently, for the stardom that is her destiny.”

“See. You’re funny.” Carly said. “That Genevieve is a brat, by the way. She never scrapes her plate. She purposely makes extra-disgusting piles of food before sending her tray in on the conveyor belt. It drives Brian nuts.”

Isabelle didn’t say anything. She made a sound, kind of like
hmm
, but she didn’t take the opening.

When Carly was seeing Harris Gibson, Isabelle was reasonably curious. Not terribly intrusive but curious. She asked questions about where he lived, what kind of student he was. But with Brian, she’d exhibited little to no interest after Carly told her he wasn’t planning to go to college unless the music thing didn’t work out. Her eyebrows went up and her lips went in and she offered one of her
hmms
. But she didn’t ask about the music, or his family or anything. She had made inquiries about adult supervision when Carly told her she was going over to Ernestine’s the first time, but she’d shown no interest in hearing anything more.

Which was too bad, because Carly could imagine Sheryl and Isabelle liking each other. She could see Nick fitting right in with the family, telling stories about growing up in Queens or the early days in the Meatpacking District. The Quinn family dinners sort of reminded her of the dinners Nick and Isabelle used to have back when the loft was half finished.

“Wow.”

“What? ”

“A lead. Two bedrooms, decent neighborhood. Affor—Well, not
too
expensive.” Isabelle reached for her phone and pushed a button. “Come on. Come on, Nancy. Pick up.”

Isabelle’s sister Nancy, who lived across the river from Manhattan in Jersey City, had been going to check out apartments for Isabelle.

“There you are. I have a lead. You’ve got to go first thing tomorrow. . . . Yes. . . . I don’t know. . . . Nan, I told you. I don’t care how close it is to the PATH train.”

Nancy kept trying to convince Carly’s mother that Jersey City—where she had bought a condo—was not only not bad, but in some ways better than Manhattan.

“I’m not going to live in Jersey City. . . . Not even temporarily. . . .”

“So I’m going to go,” Carly said as she headed toward the door.

Isabelle nodded and waved. “Look. If I have to lose Manhattan on top of everything else I’ve lost, I’ll—”

Carly let the screen door slam over the end of that sentence and headed up the camp driveway to the road, where Brian had said they’d pick her up. He’d told her to be there by eight fifteen.

When it turned out that Val couldn’t—or wouldn’t—come, Brian had second thoughts about Carly going to the gig with them. “I’m not going to be able to hang with you. And those frat guys—I don’t know.”

But Carly really wanted to see Quinn play for an audience, and she assured him she could take care of herself.

By eight thirty she was still waiting. She didn’t think Brian would stand her up. Even if he changed his mind, he’d call and tell her. But why weren’t they there yet? He’d told her she couldn’t be late. She took out her phone to call him but decided not to. Not yet. She didn’t want to be one of those girls.

A few cars and pickup trucks passed, raising and dashing her hopes when they turned out not to be the van. One, a tiny red convertible with an older, well-coiffed and well-dressed couple, crested the hill and slowed to a stop beside her. The woman beamed at Carly. The man scowled at the woman.

“Hi, sugar.” She was tan and jeweled and smelled like the cosmetics department at Bloomingdale’s. Carly wondered if the perfume overdose was the result of an impaired sense of smell or if maybe the woman was afraid it would get blown away in the MG.

“Can you tell us where Route 213 is?” The woman held out a well-worn map with various routes highlighted in assorted colors.

“I’m sorry. I have no idea. I don’t live around here, and I don’t drive.”

Carly’s response appeared to alarm the woman. “What are you doing out here all alone?” She reached for Carly’s hand. “You’re not hitchhiking, are you?”

“No. No. I’m waiting for friends to pick me up.”

“Does your mother know where you are?”

Carly had to think about that one. She had told Isabelle, and Isabelle had nodded.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The woman pointed a red-lacquered fingernail to a circled spot on the map. “We’re trying to get to our son’s new country house, and he gave us the worst directions.”

“The worst,” the man chimed in.

“Would you believe he’s an engineer?”

“A computer engineer, Estelle,” said the man. “Nothing to do with maps. I think they did this on purpose.”

“Don’t be silly,” said his wife.

“What silly? They told us the wrong way so we’d get lost and we wouldn’t embarrass them at the big party.”

“Harvey,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to Carly. “He’s a little sensitive since these days. Since he retired.”

Just then, to Carly’s relief, the boys’ van appeared over the hill.

“My friends can help you.”

Avery screeched to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Hey,” Brian said as he opened the front passenger-side door and hopped out. He smiled and waved at the couple and gestured for Carly to climb in.

“Hey,” she said as she walked toward him. He put an arm around Carly and pulled her in for a squeeze. He smelled soapy, and his hair was wet. He was wearing an FDNY T-shirt. “These people need directions.”

“We don’t have time,” Avery said from the driver’s seat. He looked at his watch and tapped the steering wheel impatiently.

“Yeah, well,” said Brian. “If someone had started loading in when he was supposed to instead of standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes trying to get his hair just right. . . .”

“Hey. You might not think it’s important. But I’m telling you—appearance matters.”

“Yeah, yeah. So start earlier next time, dude. This won’t take long.” Brian headed toward the couple’s little red car.

Carly waved to the couple and climbed into the van. There was one bucket seat for her to share with Brian. A hard rectangular guitar case was propped up against it. “Whoa, whoa,” Avery said as she squeezed herself into the seat, her leg pressing against guitar case. “Watch the Strat, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, even though the guitar case hadn’t moved a millimeter. Brian had warned her about this. How they all got a little stressed before gigs. She’d promised she wouldn’t take it personally.

Liam lifted his chin. He was squished up against a window in the back next to his drum kit. The way-back was packed to the ceiling with guitars, amps, mic stands, and what looked like miles of wire.

Avery looked in the rearview mirror. “Come on, bro, tell them anything. They’re just rich old-fart Citiots.”

Carly turned to look out the window and saw Brian bent over the couple’s map, tracing directions with his finger. Harvey was smiling and nodding, and Estelle had a hand on Brian’s arm.

Carly was glad Brian wasn’t the kind of guy who would mislead an old couple like that. Thanks to Brian, they weren’t going to miss the party. Their careful dressing wouldn’t go to waste.

Avery revved the engine. Brian looked up and held a hand out telling his brother to chill, but Avery didn’t listen. He kept pressing the gas. Liam yelled, “Bri—we gotta go.”

Brian backed away from the convertible, waved, and jogged to the van. He climbed in and pulled the door shut. “Okay. They’re gonna follow us, so don’t go too fast.”

“Dude. Are you nuts?” Avery seemed truly mad now. “We’re gonna to have to book if we’re gonna be set up by nine thirty.”

“We’ll get there.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think my speed is the problem, ’cause that old man is on my ass.”

“Oh yeah?” Brian looked in the side-view mirror and laughed. He rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and waved. Carly couldn’t see anything from where she was, but she heard the
toot-toot
of the MG.

Avery accelerated. She watched the speedometer climb over sixty and looked over Brian’s shoulder to the unused seat belt. He saw, smiled, and pulled it down across her waist. As he leaned across her to click it in, he nuzzled her neck. She was covered in goose bumps despite the heat. He didn’t take his arm back after he clicked the seat belt in. She rested her hands on his forearm and closed her eyes for the rest of the ride.

After two songs, Carly understood why Brian had been reluctant to take her along. There were about two guys for every girl in the crowded yard behind the frat house and they were all on the prowl. But because she could still feel the spot on her neck where Brian had nuzzled her in the van, because she knew he’d be kissing her there and elsewhere in a matter of time, she didn’t mind how guys kept coming up to her asking what year she was, if she wanted a beer, or a Jell-O shot, or to check out the Den of Iniquity in the basement.

Most left her alone after she said no. Some tried again, asking if she was sure, if maybe she brought a friend? And when they didn’t get the response they wanted, they’d back off.

Except this one guy. He was pretty drunk, and he wanted to know why Carly was so unfriendly. What was she doing there if she didn’t want to “interact civilly with other human beings”?

By which he apparently meant himself.

Carly told him she was with the band and he wanted to know which guy. And for some reason she told him. Then he wanted to know what a girl like her would see in “that bony-ass bass player.” He said he could understand if it was that “pretty-boy singer dude.”

Carly was leaning against a fence in the backyard, right next to the deck that was serving as a stage.

Brian knew she was there. When she first made her way through the crowd and found the spot, he’d looked up and winked and waved his chin. But he hadn’t looked back since. He’d warned her about this, too. He told her he had to concentrate during shows, because if he started to notice the crowd, he got all nervous and worried about what people thought about them, and then his playing would get all messed up. He kept his head down most of the time he was onstage.