Brooke hated that Tara had called out her ex-boyfriend in front of his friends. Because Brooke was the senior boy’s secret. And especially because, Brooke tried to explain, he had used her. Gotten bored and forgotten her. Or pretended to. So when Tara rose to his bait, the pathetic−but over and done−situation only got sorrier. “Figure it out, Tara; now everybody knows.”
[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]
Tara apologized and begged for details, which Brooke was anxious to unload. So Tara had crawled beside Brooke on the floor, the TV casting its blue glow on the ceiling, and the sisters whispered to each other all night.
Tara learned: How Brooke had lingered on steps and strolled past his parked car. How in his presence she remained motionless and alert. Because maybe he’d nod her way. And if so, Brooke followed, burning with adrenaline and suspense.
When he was in the right mood and found the right place, where intrusion was unlikely, he held Brooke and kissed her until it seemed she was dreaming. And just the fact that he sometimes felt like bestowing such loving gestures on her was enough to keep Brooke enthralled. It had seemed marvelous how in sync they were. They both smiled and Brooke would take off her clothes, lie down, sit up, put her mouth on him, whatever he wished.
Until last week when he had sneered at Matthew King−that broke the spell.
Tara knew all that. The corollary was plain: How Brooke still fantasized about him night and day. And that even though he strutted around, his regular girlfriend Miriam draped all over him, she prayed that he would peel Miriam off, shove her away, and nod at Brooke. Everything the same as before.
Not likely now, however, since Tara had announced after an assembly that her sister wasn’t cold; the guy must have a problem, warming up.
Tara said, “He was talking shit about you, Brooke. And you said he was afraid to be seen with you. Where’s your pride?”
“Napping.”
“Well, wake it up. Playing the masochist is all-wrong for you, Brooke. Besides, it’s habit-forming.”
“Habit-forming, ha ha. Good one, Tara.” Brooke drifted outside to ride her bicycle before sunset.
Lately, she rode uphill, up Mountain Road, past the monastery, and onto mountain bike trails. She rode her ordinary bike furiously until, even with patches of snow still on the ground, sweat trickled all over her body.
Her point of exhaustion was never far from the remnants of an Indian sweat lodge.
Brooke had been crawling inside the dome of sticks since she was little. But the historical society had just this year figured out what the sticks were: the structure of an Indian sweat lodge. Marked with tape, it was supposed to be untouchable. Brooke didn’t touch it. She just sat quietly in her childhood place.
After she stopped sweating and her coordination and balance returned, she hopped back on her bicycle and sped downhill so fast she couldn’t see; the trees, ground, and sky blurred into shifting colors.
Form and shape fell away.
In the all-encompassing rush, Brooke was not some sad little waif asking to be mistreated, but speed itself. Unstoppable, even lethal. Surviving her daredevil feat validated her.
Still strong and confident, she locked her bicycle for the night and burst into the kitchen ready to forgive Tara and revel in the moment.
Tara was on the home phone. “Here she is; she just got home. Please ask the Kings to keep me in mind.”
She handed Brooke the phone, saying, “It’s Matthew King’s planning guy. They want you to babysit in July and August.”
Phone in hand, Brooke circled the room, head tilted. Eight am till the kids’ were asleep? No problem. The planning guy explained that the childrens’ mother was in Argentina. Matthew, however, was between projects. He was looking forward to a working vacation. Was Brooke available seven days a week? Yes, she definitely was; she’d enjoy it. “Thanks.”
She spun around the room. What luck!
Not until they were making spaghetti for dinner did she recall Tara saying, “Keep me in mind.”
“For what?” she asked, squeezing a lemon half. “To steal my job?”
“No,” Tara said. “Only if you’re tired of it by next summer.”
“I won’t be.”
“Three summers straight, Brooke?”
Tara didn’t bother warning her against last summer’s fantasyland. That was a given.
Brooke nodded and stepped an inch from Tara’s face. “One day, Tara, something or someone’s gonna get you swinging on the high trapeze−no net. And if not? If you’re always so solid, straight up and sensible? Well, then I feel sorry for you.”
(Click here to read the next episode)
