Any Other Girl (3 page)

chapter 3

O
ur cottage wasn't much to look at from the outside. Or the inside, for that matter. A thousand square feet with only two bedrooms, it wasn't much different in size from our condo in the city. But whereas our condo was modern and sleek, the bungalow-style cottage was thirty years old and rustic-looking. Ugly oak paneling covered the entire front wall of the house, and the living room and bedrooms all had this hideous fuchsia carpeting that had been there forever. The previous owners had been kind enough to install beautiful oak hardwood in the kitchen, which sort of drew the eye away from the faded laminate countertops and ancient appliances. My dads had planned to do one major renovation each year, but not much had changed in the six years since they'd bought the place.

“We didn't buy it for its looks,” they'd say every summer when I complained about the lack of progress. “We bought it for
that
.” And they would gesture toward the huge yard and shimmering lake visible through the living room window.

I saw their point. The only person who spent much time indoors during the summer was Pop. His writing career was the reason a summer cottage was doable in the first place. Unlike Dad, who had to commute back to the city during the week for work, Pop could do his job anywhere, anytime, all the while keeping a watchful eye on me. And making me oatmeal bread.

“Give me a hand with this, would you, Kat?” he said, struggling to unload his illicit box of appliances from the back of the Volvo.

I paused in my inspection of the scraggly front lawn and went over to help. Shooing him away, I hoisted the box and balanced it on my hip. I may have had a propensity for flab like Pop, but I'd also inherited Dad's impressive upper body strength. Well, three years of boxing lessons may have helped.

“Pop, how much did you
bring
?” I asked, peering down into the giant box. Along with the blender I'd noticed earlier, I saw a food processor, a waffle maker, an electric can opener, and that blasted bread maker. My arm muscles were burning.

“Just the essentials,” he called from the back seat where he was gathering up his e-reader and laptop bag. He backed his way out and looked at me over the roof of the car. “I know you and your father are content to live off Pop Tarts and grilled hotdogs, but I'm sorry, you're getting fresh fruit smoothies at least four times a week.”

I carried the box into the cottage where, coincidentally, Dad was unpacking a grocery bag filled with processed, non-perishable goodies in the kitchen. The house smelled musty and stale, the way it always did the first day. He must have gotten there at least fifteen minutes before us because all the windows were open and the counters and kitchen table looked shiny and dust-free. He could not abide dust.

“Everything seems to be in good working order,” he told us, opening the old fridge to show us the working light inside. Going by experience, it would be hours until it got cold enough to put food inside. “The septic tank and well look good, too.”

“How long have you been here?” I asked, depositing the box on the scratched pine table. The cottage had come mostly furnished, and most of the furniture was just as old as the house. The only things we'd bought new were our beds. Dad couldn't abide used mattresses either.

“A half hour. You guys are slow.”

“I always go the speed limit when I have Noodle in the car with me,” Pop said as he unloaded his prized appliances. Dad gave him the same affectionate exasperated look Pop had given
him
when he sped past us on the highway. There would be no more petty bickering, I knew. All the grievances they'd had with each other last night had been swiftly forgiven, the slate wiped clean.

“Damn it!” Dad said as he searched frantically through the shopping bags. “I forgot to bring a box of light bulbs. And the one in the bathroom is burnt out. Shit.”

“I'll run to the corner store and get some,” Pop said.

“The corner store doesn't carry light bulbs, remember? We looked last year when the oven light died. I think there's something wrong with the voltage in this house.” Dad sighed impatiently. “I really don't feel like getting back in the car right now and driving into town. Katrina,” he said, turning to me. “Go see if your aunt Carrie has some spare light bulbs.”

“They're not here yet,” I told him. “Harper told me they wouldn't be in until around noon.”

“Hmm. How about the McCurdys?”

“No
way
,” I said. The McCurdys had a son my age who was a complete douchebag. He'd likely twist my asking for bulbs into a dirty joke and torture me with it for the rest of the summer.

“The Cantings?” Pop suggested. “They live here year round.”

“Yes! They're bound to have some extra bulbs.”

They looked at me sprawled on the scratchy arm chair at the edge of the living room, massaging my upper arm muscles.

I frowned. “What? Now? Can't I wait until we actually need light in the bathroom?”

“You've been stuck in the car for two hours,” Pop said, arranging the waffle maker just so next to the toaster oven. “Go. Exercise is good for you.”

Sighing, I dragged myself up and began the ten minute walk to the Canting cottage, suppressing the urge to run down the winding gravel road at top speed like I used to. Instead, I walked slowly, slapping mosquitoes off my neck and admiring the way my pink toenails looked against my white flip-flops.

A small black car sat in the Cantings' driveway.
Odd,
I thought. Mr. and Mrs. Canting owned a red truck . . . or they had the last few years, anyway. I walked up to the door and knocked. A minute later, the door swung open and a heavyset blond woman appeared behind the mesh screen. She was neither Mr. nor Mrs. Canting.

“Hi!” I said, unleashing my full I-still-wear-my-retainers-every-night smile.

Blondie looked back at me, straight-faced and unimpressed.

“I was wondering if I could borrow a light bulb.”

She peered at me as if I'd just requested one of her kidneys. “Sorry?”

“A light bulb. See, our bathroom light burned out and the corner store doesn't sell them, so—”

“The Reeses don't arrive until tonight,” she said abruptly. “I don't know where any light bulbs are, dear.”

“I'm sorry . . .”
The Reeses? As in peanut butter cups?
It seemed we had some sort of disconnect. “Um, where are the Cantings?”

“Who? Oh, the previous owners? I think they died. Well, he died, and she moved. That's what Mrs. Reese said anyway.”

It was like she was speaking a different language. Mr. Canting, with his cowboy hat and pickup truck and cigars, was dead? My eyes filled with tears. The Cantings were a nice couple, accepting of my dads even though they were well into their seventies and probably rabidly conservative.

“I'm sorry,” I repeated, clearing my suddenly tight throat. “Who are you, again?”

“Oh,” Blondie said, lifting her hand, which I'd just noticed contained a dusty wad of paper towels. “I'm just here to clean.”

“Oh,” I said, echoing her. “And the Reeses are . . . ?”

“The new owners. They arrive tonight.” She peered at my moist eyes and then bit her lip as if contemplating something. “A light bulb, you said? Let me go see if I can find one for you.”

“No, no, you don't have to—” I said, but she was already gone, ambling down the hallway toward the kitchen. Now that she wasn't blocking my view, I could see that the house was clear of all Mrs. Canting's ceramic dog statues and doilies. I felt another rush of sadness.

Blondie returned a couple minutes later and handed me a grimy light bulb. “Here you go. I took it out of the range hood above the stove. A bit greasy, but it works.”

“Thanks.” I smiled at her tremulously and got a tiny one in return. Then she shut the door in my face.

Holding the non-greasy end of the bulb between my fingers, I walked back to our cottage. Dad was in the detached garage, unearthing the lawn mower, and Pop was digging in the trunk for the last of the luggage.

I walked up to him and said, “Mr. Canting is dead.”

He jerked his head out of the trunk and stared at me in much the same way he had last night when I'd screamed in my room. “What? Oh my God, should we—Mark!”

“Not
now
,” I said quickly before he called 911 and ran over to the Canting house with a first aid kit. “I mean . . . yes, now, but not over
there
, at this very moment. He died at some point over the past ten months and Mrs. Canting sold the cottage to the Reeses.”

“The Reeses?” Dad said as he walked up to us, his T-shirt soaked with sweat. “As in Pieces?”

Dad's mind always went straight to chocolate, just like mine.

“I don't know,” I said with a shrug. “But whatever they are, they arrive tonight.”

 

During lunch (PB&J on chemical-laden Wonder Bread with a fresh fruit smoothie to balance it out), a knock sounded on the screen door and Harper burst in, all smiles. I squealed and jumped up from the table, attacking her before she even had a chance to speak.

“You look great, Kat,” she said, pulling back to examine my outfit of white shorts and a pink halter top that matched my nails. “Very retro.”

I grinned and took my turn studying her. We'd last seen each other about six months ago, over Christmas, but Harper looked exactly the same: long dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, and slim, athletic build. People always seemed surprised when they found out we were related.

When we were done with our little reunion, my dads came over to greet Harper, too.

“How was your drive, sweetheart?” Dad asked, wrapping her in a hug.

“Long,” she said with a sigh. “Eight hours of non-stop Celine Dion. Mom likes to torture me.”

Pop made a face as he leaned in to receive his own hug. “That's child abuse.”

“Exactly, Uncle Bryce. You make sure to tell her that.”

“I will, when I see her. Where is she?”

“Unpacking,” Harper said. “I kind of ditched her. I guess I should go back and help.”

“Dinner tonight, right?” Dad said, gathering up our lunch dishes.

Harper looked at me, eyes twinkling, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Best summers start with Goody's.

“Um, Dad, I think we're going to walk down to Goody's for a burger later. Harper and me.”

“Harper and
I
,” Pop corrected automatically.

“Is that okay, Uncle Mark?” Harper called both my dads
uncle
even though she was only technically related to Pop.

“Of course,” Dad said. “But tell your mom to come over. We have some steaks in the cooler.”

“I will.” She mouthed the letters
OBS
at me and then left, the screen door swinging closed behind her.

I spent the afternoon setting up my small room, putting clothes in drawers and posters on the walls. At five, I redid my
Gilda
hair until it hung in soft waves and then sprinted through the woods to my cousin's cottage. Aunt Carrie was out front, hosing down her wilted flower garden.

“Come give me a hug, beautiful,” she said when she saw me. I did as she asked, breathing in her customary vanilla scent. Being around Aunt Carrie always made me crave cake. “So good to see you.”

“Same here,” I said, noticing the marked increase of gray in her light brown hair. Carrie was fifty-three, the oldest of Pop's five sisters and by far my favorite.

“See you later, Mom!” Harper said as she emerged from the cottage and took my arm, pulling me away.

“Be back before dark,” Aunt Carrie reminded us and went back to her hosing.

The walk to Goody's took exactly eighteen minutes. We'd timed it one summer. As we hiked up the gravel road, Harper and I caught each other up on the things we hadn't fully discussed over the phone during the last six months.

“So how was the last week of school?” she asked, threading her slender arm through mine. “As bad as you predicted?”

“Worse. Shay wouldn't even
look
at me.”

“Kat.” She sighed and looked down at her feet. “If I say something honest, promise you won't get mad?”

“Since when do I get mad at you for being honest with me? It's what you do.”

“Okay,” she said, picking up the pace a little. “Friends don't like it when you flirt with their boyfriends. I don't blame Shay for being pissed at you.”

I rolled my eyes. Harper had always felt an affinity for Shay because she had more in common with her than she did with me, her own flesh and blood. They were both fit, athletic types who preferred running around on a soccer field to strolling around the mall, shopping for clothes. Not to mention they both had to deal with me.

“We were just
talking
,” I said, not very convincingly. Okay, so maybe I
had
stepped over the line. Some guys just brought out the temptress in me, but it didn't mean anything, really. “I had no idea he'd assume I was trying to seduce him and then go blab to Shay about it.”

“Kat, I've seen you talk to boys. You have this way of making them feel good about themselves. Important.” She bumped my hip with hers. “You're very charming, you know. Even when you're
not
flirting, you're flirting.”

I thought about earlier, when my smile had driven Blondie to swipe a light bulb already in use and hand it over to me. Maybe it worked on females, too.