My First Love and Other Disasters (20 page)

“Oh, God, DeeDee, not yet,” I moan, covering my face with the pillow. I feel her creeping under the covers, and I know sleep is hopeless. She's like a jumping bean in bed.

“Where are the hands?” I ask the same question every morning.

“The big hand is on the twelve and so's the little one.”

“Can't be,” I tell her.

“How come?”

“Because then it would be twelve o'clock.”

“Oh.”

“Go look again, okay?” And she runs down the steps while I hide back under the covers. Something about the day feels strange. DeeDee comes back all out of breath.

“Now, little cookie, where is the big hand?”

“On the one.”

“That sounds right, now what about the little hand?”

“It's stuck on the twelve.”

Crazy! I bend over the side of my bed and look out of the window. It does look different and it's noisier, and I think DeeDee's right. It's twelve. I can't believe it. The little monsters let me sleep till noon.

I jump out of bed, almost knocking my head on the ceiling. I'll never learn.

“What happened?” I ask DeeDee. “Where is everyone?”

“Everybody's sleeping except me and you. Was your mommy mad at you last night?”

Oh, she must have heard me on the phone with my mother.

“Well, she was a tiny bit angry at first,” I answer. More like out of her head furious, but I don't tell DeeDee that. For a full five minutes my mother did a nonstop number on how my not staying alone overnight had been the most important condition of the job and how could I completely disregard their rules? Obviously I was too young for such a responsible job. Then she went into how I probably shouldn't be out there all by myself and was working herself up to how maybe Cynthia ought to look for someone else, and somewhere in there she had to stop for breath, and that's what I was waiting for.

I started talking and told the story right from the beginning. When I came to the part about Mr. Landry visiting the kids and how they were almost lost in the storm, she was stunned. Then Cynthia got on and told her how I jumped in the boat and saved the kids.

I love to hear the story even though it changes every time someone else tells it. Naturally it gets better.

My mother was very impressed, and then we had to wait while she recounted it all to my father, and then I got back on the phone and they asked me a million questions about the rescue and everything.

In the end they understood. My father agreed that there were extenuating circumstances and mostly I had made some good choices and they were very proud of the way I handled myself in an emergency.

“But please, Victoria,” my mother ended up saying, “next time you get in over your head, remember we love you and care about you, and all you have to do is call us and we'll help you.”

So it ended up that they were pleased and proud of me, and when your parents feel that way about you nothing can be too wrong with the world.

“Anyway, DeeDee,” I say, and give her a kiss on her tiny nose, “they're going to come out and visit us this Sunday.”

She loves that idea and when I tell her they're going to bring her a surprise she can't wait.

“Can we go to the beach today?” she asks, folding up my pj's until they're practically small enough to put in my wallet and then stuffing them under my pillow. She's a terrific help.

“Sure thing. Right after we eat.”

“Is he going to come?”

“Who?”

“The boy in the living room.”

“What boy in the living room?”

“The one from yesterday,” she says.

Can't be. But it has to be. DeeDee doesn't play tricks like that. “Why,” I ask, “didn't you say something before?” I guess I sound sort of aggravated because she screws up her face as though she's going to cry and says, “You didn't ask me.”

“You're right. I forgot.” And I give her a hug.

“I love you, Victoria,” she says and gives me a big wet kiss on my cheek.

“I love you, too,” I say and hug her again. I think she's getting to be less of a monster. I hope.

When the love scene finishes, I ask her which boy is in the living room.

“The big one,” she answers. No help. To her, both Jim and Barry are big. But I know it has to be Barry because Jim wouldn't come here. That's not like him to just pop in. He's sort of a big-shot type, and I know he'd expect me to meet him somewhere or better yet come over to where he was. It must be Barry. Great. Maybe he'll come to the beach with us. He'd probably be wonderful with the kids. Then I let my mind dance around a little. What if it's Jim? I guess that's like all the dreams I had coming true—and on my terms too. What a thought!

I send DeeDee downstairs to tell whoever it is I'll be there in a second, and then I race down to the second floor bathroom and brush my teeth, wash up, and comb my hair the best I can. Nice, if you like rat tails.

I take my time walking down the bottom flight of steps. Can you imagine if it really was Jim? That would be like saying he was very interested in me. What a fantastic summer this could be! The three of us could hang out together. Jim, me, and Barry. You know, I really like Barry a whole lot now that I've got to know him better. I probably
like
him even more than I like Jim. But that's not the point. My feelings for Jim are completely different.

I hear DeeDee regaling whoever it is with a wonderful tale of how my mother was angry with me last night but now she's not and did he know that when she, DeeDee, wakes me up in the morning sometimes I curse?

I move a little faster. God knows what else she'll decide to tell him.

No question about it. I want Jim Freeman to be standing in that living room. My luck, it'll be Steven.

But it isn't. It's Jim. Excellent!

“Hi,” I say, smiling like crazy.

“Hey.” He smiles back. “You snuck up on me. I was listening to some very interesting stories.”

“Oh, God, DeeDee, don't you dare.” And I pretend to be horrified. I know I told you he was handsome, but I think he got even better looking overnight. The sun has put white streaks in his straight blond hair and turned his skin this
absolutely fantastic apricot color. He's positively gorgeous. The kind of person people turn around and stare at.

“Come on, DeeDee.” He picks her up in the air and she squeals with delight. “You and I have a few things to talk about.”

“No, you don't,” I laugh. “DeeDee, don't you tell him a thing.”

“Oh, yes,” he says, and we play this back and forth, and DeeDee loves it, but I can see she's trying like crazy to come up with something, so I cool it because she really could produce a few beauts.

I take DeeDee into the kitchen and set her up with a tuna sandwich, and when I come back into the living room Jim is sprawled out on the couch looking through the sports section of the Times. So far he hasn't said why he came by. As soon as he sees me he puts the paper down and says, “So what do you want to do today?”

Like a dummy I answer, “I don't know . . . I have the kids you know.” I guess with Jim the terms have to be his.

“Are you stuck with them all day?”

It's a funny thing, but I haven't been feeling my usual uptight heart-racing kind of thing with him today. In fact something's bothering me but I don't know what it is.

“If you put it that way, I guess so.”

“That's okay. Why don't we all go down to the beach this afternoon? I know where I can get a kite. I bet the kids would love that.”

“Are you kidding? They'd go wild. They love kites.”

“Terrific. I'll get the kite and meet you down at the bay beach in about three-quarters of an hour.”

“No good,” I tell him, “the kids hate the bay beach.”

“Well, just tell them that's the only place I can fly the kite.” And he starts to open the screen door. “See you at one thirty.”

And he's out of the door.

“Wait! Wait up!” I run to the door and shout.

He stops and turns to me. “What's up?” he says.

“It won't work. DeeDee's terrified of the bugs and things on the bay beach. She absolutely won't go.”

“Then you want to forget the whole thing?” Suddenly he's angry. And I know he's talking about a lot more than the kite and the beach. And then it hits me what's been bothering me about him since yesterday, maybe even from before that but I guess I didn't know. I think he may be a little spoiled.

Actually a lot spoiled. Spoiled rotten, I think that's what they call it. I told you how he was so fantastic looking, really gorgeous, and that he has a very
channing personality—you know, charisma and all that. So naturally with that combination people are always fighting to be with him and catering to him, and by now he's come to expect it all the time. He's the guy in charge of all the hanger-on-ers, and it bugs him if someone doesn't do things his way. Like now about the beach or even yesterday when we were searching for the kids. As soon as he saw he wasn't in charge he didn't really want to be part of it, and it has nothing to do with his being afraid of the storm. He is definitely not a coward. It's worse.

He's arrogant. We bruised his ego, Barry and I did, just because we didn't let him run the whole show. The fact that we were trying to actually save people's lives, little kids'—that was secondary. The big thing to Jim Freeman was who's running things, and if it wasn't going to be him—well, then, forget it, and that went for the kids too.

I don't know how he and Barry could be such good friends. I mean, they're so different. Like yesterday. Barry didn't even give a thought about his boat or himself or anything. All that mattered was finding those kids.

Funny how I guess I never looked much deeper than Jim's good looks. I suppose I'm pretty much like everybody else that way, but now, knowing what kind of person he really is, I'm beginning to think that maybe he isn't so gorgeous after all and
that I don't want to go to the beach with him today—or any day.

He's still standing there, good old arrogant Jim, waiting for my answer, and you can tell just by looking at that confident face that he expects me to crumple up and practically beg him to let me go with him to the bay beach.

“Okay,” I tell him, “then let's just forget the whole thing.”

Beautiful. For half a second even his suntan turns ashen, but Jim Freeman types recover fast.

He shrugs a kind of
your loss
shrug and turns and starts walking down the street.

Watching him walk away, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I almost want to call him back but I don't. Am I making a mistake? God, I hope not. I let this great thing walk out of my life when I could absolutely have him (nobody's going to believe it, anyway) and I don't do a thing. This just isn't me.

Or is it?

Because it feels right.

I walk back into the house and sit down on the bottom step and try to decide whether or not to cry. After all, it's not every day you fall out of love for the first time. It's not such a bad experience. Disastrous, but not really too bad. So I decide not to cry.

And I make another decision.

I go right to the phone and I'm just about to dial when I see this note propped up against a little vase on the table. I open it. It's from Cynthia. I didn't even know she wasn't home. It's another one of her cuties. It asks me “pretty please” will I give the kids and Mr. Landry lunch and put in a load of laundry and then there's a shopping list for when I get back from the beach and could I be a “positive pussycat” and iron her white pants outfit. If the “best little shrimp cleaner in the country” wants to clean the shrimp in the refrigerator she has no objection. The note ends saying I'm a doll and she's over at the Walkers' for the afternoon. It's signed, “Love ya to pieces, Your Summer Mother.”

It takes me about ten seconds to decide what I'm going to do. I grab the pen next to the phone, turn Cynthia's note over, and
the new me
writes:

Dear Summer Mother,

Could you Pretty please hem my pink skirt and my black pants and I'm Missing four snaps on my white blouse, two buttons on my jacket, and the zip on my red shorts is stuck. Could you do them before the weekend? I would be forever qrateful if you could spare an itsy—bitsy 45 Minutes every evening to help me with my loqarithms for extra summer credit. Love ya!

Your Summer Daughter

Victoria

Now I dial, and as I listen to the phone ringing at the other end I begin to feel very happy about a lot of things and more excited than I expected about making this phone call.

Yes, going to the beach with
someone
today is definitely a terrific idea, but Jim just happens to be the wrong person.

“Hello,” the right person's voice says.

“Hi, Barry. You dried out yet?”

Francine Pascal is the creator of the phenomenally successful Sweet Valley series:
Sweet Valley Kids, Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley High
, and
Sweet Valley University
. First launched in October 1983, the series now sells in twenty-two countries and has been translated into fifteen languages. Francine has also written for adults, including fiction, nonfiction for magazines, and TV scripts.

Francine has three grown-up daughters and several grandchildren. She draws much of the inspiration for her books through her own experiences and memories of growing up in New York. She says, “I was a very optimistic teenager and my conflicts were the stuff of everyday teenage trauma: loyalty, friendship, sacrifice, honor, truth, and love.”

She divides her time between New York and her second home in France.

Read all of the books in the Victoria Martin trilogy.

My Mother Was Never a Kid