Better Than the Best Plan Read online

“Hello, George,” Peter replies. “This is Maritza.”

  George’s eyes flick over to me for a split second, but it’s immediately clear he has no interest in me. He’s got his conversation already lined up, and it appears that nothing and no one is going to stop him from having it. “Did you hear about the docking fees down at the marina? A ten percent hike! It’s highway robbery! For that price, your excursion should come with a happy ending.”

  Pete’s cheeks flush, and I have to bite back a laugh. This is apparently the infamous George of the miserable boat talk.

  “Well, no, I hadn’t heard about that, George, as I don’t have a boat docked at the marina. Or a boat at all, as a matter of fact,” Pete says, his tone dripping with sarcasm that sails right over George’s head. The man is so involved in the conversation he’s decided he’s going to have that he doesn’t appear to care if someone is actually having it with him.

  “Yes, well, I’m thinking of looking at docking over on Amelia instead, but then who wants to drive across the bridge to get to their boat?”

  He sputters on, a litany of indignities related to the care and keeping of his boat. As a waiter passes by me with a tray of shrimp, Pete turns and lunges for one, taking the moment to whisper, “Get out while you can. I’ll fall on this grenade.”

  I bolt at his tone but am immediately sorry. Sure, listening to George sputter about swabbing the deck or whatever was boring as all get-out, but at least it was a thing to do. I pivot on my heel to go back, but then hear another weird maritime sex joke escape George’s mouth and decide I’m better off going it alone.

  If I’m going to be by myself, it’s probably best to keep moving, like a shark who keeps swimming so as to avoid dying a social death. I start down the stairs. I pass the cocktail tables and the dance floor, then weave through the revelers until I’m at the far edge of the crowd. I pause, wondering if this is a good spot for invisibility or if I’ll just look like a wallflower without an actual wall. I head off toward a corner of potted palms, my eyes on a low ledge where I can probably sit and wait out some of the party. On my way, I spot a bar, and thinking back to the apocalyptic predictions about a line, I figure I ought to go ahead and get a drink.

  “What can I get for you, miss?” asks the waiter, a handsome guy who looks like he’ll be headed to a fraternity party after this.

  “Coke, please,” I reply. “Two cherries,” I add, remembering Pete’s advice. I can’t help but think back to my Sonic score just yesterday. Jeez, was that yesterday? It already feels like a lifetime ago, when I had my feet up on Lainey’s dash, bopping along to oldies while fishing cherries out of a Styrofoam cup. Now here I am watching middle-aged people bob their heads to jazz or some such background music while a guy in nicer clothes than I usually wear serves up as many cherries as I request. For free.

  “Coming right up,” he says. He fills a glass with ice and soda, then drops three cherries in. I guess two just isn’t indulgent enough in this crowd. “For you.”

  Popping the first cherry in my mouth, I turn and head back to the corner I scoped out earlier, but when I get close, I see that it’s already occupied. A small group of people around my age are there. A guy in a suit is seated on a low wall and has a girl in a slinky red dress draped across his lap. Another girl in a silver strapless dress tosses back a drink, and I’m just about to turn and seek another hiding spot when the tall guy with broad shoulders turns, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes.

  “Hey, you’re from this morning,” he says. It’s Spencer.

  “Oh, um, yeah. Hi,” I reply, completely fumbling the greeting.

  “Hey, guys, this is Maritza,” he says. “She’s staying with Kris.”

  “Oh, I love Kris!” coos the girl in the red, her arm slung around the neck of a guy with buzzed dark hair. “She made the best cupcakes for a bake sale I ran. You know, the one for the after-school program?”

  “This is Bennett and Avery,” Spencer says, gesturing to the couple seated on the wall, the names running together like a celebrity duo, Bennett-and-Avery. “And this is Ryleigh.”

  The girl in the silver dress grins at me, her red lipstick accentuating a wide mouth and a longer face. Her dark hair is already falling down from the delicate updo it must have started in, and her dress seems to be making a break for it both from above and below, as she keeps tugging at her cleavage and pulling on the hem.

  A waiter sweeps by with a tray of something tall and bite-sized, artistically arranged on a cracker but bearing no resemblance to any food I’ve ever seen. Ryleigh reaches out and wordlessly plucks one from the tray, popping it into her mouth like a tortilla chip. As soon as she bites down, though, she makes a yuck face and swallows hard.

  “Ugh, dill! I hate dill,” she moans, then reaches for my glass and takes a long sip, swishing it around in her mouth. Her nose wrinkles for a second time. “Is this just Coke?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. Just Coke? I suddenly feel like I should apologize, even though she was the one who took my drink without even asking.

  “Rookie mistake,” Spencer says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a silver flask, something I’ve never seen outside of a James Bond movie. He expertly unscrews the cap with his fingers while holding it in his palm. “You want?”

  “Don’t be stingy!” Ryleigh says, reaching for the flask before I can say, No, I definitely do not want. She pours a hefty splash into the glass, stirs it around, and then takes a long pull. “Ah, that’s better.”

  She passes the glass back to me like she’s bestowing an enormous gift upon me, but now all I want is to get it out of my hands. Not only do I not drink, but I’m worried what might happen if Kris or Pete or anyone else catches me with it. Just holding it, I can smell the alcohol wafting from the ice.

  “I, uh, need to go find Kris,” I say. Spencer nods, but no one else even looks at me. They’re already deep in their own conversation of in-jokes and friendly banter. It makes me homesick for Lainey. I miss our jokes and our easy conversation. Right now, I’d give anything to be on the couch watching The Brady Bunch with her. Will I ever get back there?

  I tiptoe away slowly before turning and hustling through the crowd and up the stairs, taking deep breaths to steady my emotions. I will not cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of these people. I distract myself by looking for someplace to stash my drink, finding it on top of an empty café table. I leave it behind like a spy doing a dead drop and quickly walk away. But I don’t get far before I’m stopped again.

  “Maritza, right?” A woman in a gorgeous emerald-green sheath smiles at me, and it only takes me a moment to place her as Spencer’s mom, the activewear-clad woman from the store earlier. She has the same friendly smile and sparkling eyes, though tonight they’re rimmed with some kind of shimmering makeup, her lips a pale pink.

  “Yeah,” I say, then realize I sound kind of trashy. I clear my throat. “Uh, yes.”

  “I’m Kate Ford,” she says. “It’s so nice that you could come.”

  “Oh, well, it was nice to be invited,” I reply, though really, it was unofficially mandated that I be here. My name is definitely not on any list anywhere in this facility.

  Mrs. Ford gazes around the party with a beatific smile, exuding the kind of calm, relaxed persona that I always associate with the people who take spa vacations.

  “It’s a really good cause,” she says. She nods to a row of tables behind us loaded down with gifts and prizes, people scrawling bids onto auction sheets. I spot Pete standing behind a gilt-framed painting, George still beside him yammering on, oblivious to the pained expression on Pete’s face. “The Jacksonville Community Clinic does such important work.”

  She launches into her talking brochure explanation of the clinic and their services, but I stop listening. I don’t need to hear it. I’ve been there. Without health insurance, it’s where I’d gone when I needed my MMR booster or a tetanus shot. I’d been in for strep a couple times, and bronchitis, and that time I stepped on a yellow jac
ket sophomore year and my foot turned all red and swelled up with hives, giving it the appearance of angry hamburger meat. I can practically smell the mix of linoleum and disinfectant in the waiting room, the buzz of cartoons on a TV overhead just barely distracting the kids from their long wait.

  Still, I smile and nod like this is all new information, like I haven’t been the recipient of the funds raised at events just like this. That the people drinking and dancing and bidding on rounds of golf and framed art aren’t the reason why I got a prescription for amoxicillin just last month.

  “Oh, excuse me, I see someone I really need to talk to,” Kate says, nodding toward a woman in the crowd who is frantically waving her over.

  “Sure, of course,” I say, but she’s already drifting away. Everyone here seems to be doing an awful lot of talking, but no one seems to be particularly connected with the person they’re talking to. It’s like they all arrived with an agenda, a script, and a mandate to tick all their boxes before climbing into their luxury SUVs and driving home. It’s the least social social event I’ve ever been to.

  I reach into my purse and glance at my phone. When I see that I’ve only been here less than thirty minutes, I realize this is going to be a long night, and all my attempts to blend in have left me spit out on the other end. I’m back at the top of the stairs, still alone, and I don’t even have a Coke in my hand to show for it. It may be time for some good old-fashioned hiding out in the bathroom.

  Which I do, for a good half hour. I listen to women drift in and out, having shockingly candid conversations for a public restroom. I learn that someone named Angela caught her husband with the nanny again, and she’s starting to think she’ll have to fire her. I overhear a woman fumbling through her purse, searching for a spare Xanax. I know that’s what she’s looking for because she literally says out loud, “Now where is my fucking Xanax?” I hear two women discuss the point at which they’ll finally break down and send their teenage daughters to weight-loss clinics with the same intensity that I usually associate with college admissions.

  By the time I decide I can’t hide any longer, I’m thoroughly disgusted and thinking that maybe my life, though shabby and unconventional, isn’t actually that bad. Would I really want to trade what I have, crappy apartment and all, for nice clothes and obnoxious neighbors? Maybe my mom, though flaky, was right whenever she railed against consumerism. If she could see me now, she’d probably sigh and shake her head. That dress is nice, Ritzy, she’d say, but is it prescription-drug-addiction nice?

  Eventually I leave the bathroom and wander deeper into the Island Club. I wind down hallways covered in photos of golf teams, a plaque celebrating all the holes in one (hole in ones?) dating back fifty years. There are framed portraits from ladies’ luncheons and a couple autographed pictures of celebrities I vaguely recognize toasting on the patio or hitting golf balls. I keep going until the wood and carpet gives way to linoleum and the light fixtures take on a neon glow overhead. I pause in front of a corkboard covered in notices, none of them aimed at club members. There’s a page advertising uniform ordering and something with instructions on clocking in. There’s a list of health code violations and the required workplace safety placard.

  And then a pink flyer catches my eye.

  HIRING FOR SUMMER

  DISHWASHERS

  SERVERS

  LINE COOKS

  $12/HR

  There’s an email address and a phone number, and the bottom is cut into those little pull-off strips. I flash back to the email I sent to Mr. Reynolds at the sandwich shop, and the smell of the Del Taco drive-in fills my nose, equal parts melted cheese, grease, and gasoline. Sure, this is still food service, but it’s classy food service, right? And with no update on when I might be leaving here, it would probably be a good idea to try to line something up. It would be nice to have my own money in my pocket instead of letting Kris buy me things, and that might make it easier for me to get comfortable here.

  “Sucks, all the good jobs are already taken.”

  Spencer’s wandering down the hall toward me, a glass in his hand, his tie loose, his hair still characteristically askew. I can’t see exactly what’s in his glass, but the redness in his cheeks and the lazy amble of his gait point to the contents of his flask.

  “Good jobs?” I ask.

  “Lifeguard, camp counselor, beach attendant, that kind of thing. People start lining those up around spring break.”

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Do you work here?”

  “Yeah. I teach tennis lessons a few days a week,” he replies, reminding me of his mid-court meltdown the previous night. “Avery is a pool attendant, Bennett is a lifeguard, and Annie works at the kids’ camp.”

  “Really?” I say.

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “You’re surprised?”

  I pause, wondering how honest to get, and then I figure, Hell, just go with it. The less honest I am, the more I become like the people here, and then I’ll have completely lost myself. “It didn’t occur to me that any of you guys would have summer jobs.”

  He smirks. “Ah, so you pegged us rich kids for obnoxious layabouts glomming off our parents’ money?”

  “No, it’s just—” I say, then pause, the mental dominoes falling into place. Somehow, he’s got me pegged for not a rich kid.

  He shrugs. “I know your deal. Kris and my mom are good friends. And word on the street is, you and I built sandcastles together when we were babies,” he replies. I hate the familiarity in his tone. Whatever his mom told him, he definitely does not know my “deal.” He doesn’t know anything about me.

  “Well, I’m sure you have plenty of stereotypes in your head about me,” I reply.

  “None, actually,” he says, his eyes on me like a challenge. He reaches up and plucks one of the strips from the bottom of the flyer and presses it into my palm. “Dining room jobs suck, but you might as well apply. At least the tips are good.”

  He turns to go before I can say anything, but halfway down the hall he pauses. “And then we could hang out this summer. Maybe try our hand at that sandcastle thing again.”

  I stand there stock-still in front of the corkboard, the strip with the email and phone number growing increasingly damp in my hand. What just happened? Was he flirting with me? Or just being friendly?

  I wait for him to get far enough away so it won’t look like I’m tailing him through the club. I give myself nearly to a hundred Mississippi before I make my way back to the party. When I emerge onto the patio, I run into Kris.

  “I’m so sorry I was busy, Maritza,” she says with a heavy sigh. “I saw Pete still being held hostage by George. Why that man has latched onto my husband, I’ll never know. But what do you say we go rescue him and get out of here?”

  “Are you sure? I mean, if you need to stay…,” I say, though I do desperately want to get out of here.

  “I did my duty, Pete did his, and now we’re done. Plus, I’m dying to get out of these shoes.” Hearing that her time on four-inch heels wasn’t as effortless as it looked has me feeling better about my own inability to walk in a fancy dress, which makes me smile the first genuine smile I’ve had since we arrived.

  The drive home isn’t as silent as the one to the club. Kris tells me tales of party-planning disasters and speaks wryly about her compatriots on the committee that put on the event. It sounds as though Kris lives among them but is also somehow apart from these women, somehow different, though I can’t yet put my finger on how. Maybe it’s the same thing that spurred her to take in a foster kid and care for her as her own for nearly two years. Maybe it’s the same thing that brought her onto that porch last night, waiting for me sixteen years later. But it does make me feel like living with her isn’t the same as living with the fat-camp moms or the drugged-out ladies from the bathroom would be. It makes me think maybe my mom’s snap judgment of her wouldn’t be right.

  As we pull into their driveway, Kris twists around in her seat to face m
e. “So, is your friend coming over tomorrow?”

  The thought of Lainey here gives me that last push toward feeling better about tonight.

  “Yeah, I just need to text her details.”

  “Great! I look forward to meeting her.” She turns back to face forward, but the smile on her face is practically audible.

  I quickly pull out my phone and text Lainey.

  1423 Bayshore Drive, Helena. Bring a bathing suit.

  Arriving home, I spot lights on over at Spencer’s house. No light on at the tennis court, though. Maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Barney arrives just before lunch, shuddering to a stop, something under the hood doing its usual clunk, clunk, crank after the engine shuts off. It’s a testament to how much Lainey and Barney are soul mates that the car is still running even when odds say he should fall apart in the middle of the road. He just keeps chugging for her. Barney has never broken down, never even had so much as a flat tire. I swear, someone bewitched that car.

  A perk of Barney’s noisy arrival is that I can rush out onto the porch to greet her. Lainey climbs out of the driver’s seat, an oversized tank top covering her bathing suit, then leans over to pull her beach bag off the passenger seat. She slings it over her shoulder, tucks her sunglasses into the messy bun on top of her head, and saunters up onto the porch.

  “Well, look at you, Miss Fancy Pants,” she says, winking, before throwing her arms wide and enveloping me in a hug.

  “Whatever,” I mumble into her hair as we rock back and forth. I breathe in the familiar peachy smell of her favorite body lotion that she drives all the way to the Galleria across town to buy. Tears prick my eyes, because even though it’s only been a day and a half, I’ve missed her.

  She pulls back just in time to see me wiping my eyes, which I’m sure are growing redder by the second.

  “Oh, you stupid sap, suck it up! Besides, you’ve gotta tell me what’s going on, and I don’t want to have to figure it out between sobs, okay?”