I opened my eyes to a faint glow of sunlight filtering in through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. I was lying in bed, still in my clothes from yesterday, with the wrinkled duvet tangled around my legs.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my temple. My suitcase remained propped up in the corner of the room, untouched since my arrival. The tote bag I'd brought along with me, however, had been completely emptied of its contents. Sketchbooks, gum wrappers, lip balms and ballpoint pens were littered around the floor. I didn't recall using any of those things last night. Then again, apart from the awkward dinner, I didn't recall much of anything from last night.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood. There was a full body mirror on the wall across from me, and without meaning to, I found myself staring at my reflection. My hair was tousled, my clothing was wrinkled, and my under eye circles appeared darker than usual.
I did my morning routine, which didn't consist of much beside brushing my teeth and washing my face, then crouched down in front of my suitcase and began to unpack it.
My mother had instructed a maid to do all my packing. She told me that she didn't trust me enough to bring the right "supplies for this trip." Besides a few meager items, I had failed to smuggle anything of much value into the case.
As I pulled out the many button down blouses, gingham skirts and silk slip dresses that the maid had been instructed to pack, I realized that my wardrobe was very much similar to all the forty year old housewives who used to sit with my mother on our patio, guzzling martinis and chatting about gossip within the country club.
I put on the least haughty outfit I could find—black shorts and a plain white top with spaghetti straps. By that point, after all my unpacking, it was nearly ten. I had always been an early riser, which was difficult, because I was also a night owl. My mother liked to say I was "burning the candle on both ends" when her friends questioned my often distraught appearance, which was caused by lack of sleep. I thought that phrase was stupid, but nonetheless would smile politely when the women around me began suggesting sleeping pills and "home remedies" to cure what they deemed to be insomnia.
It could be insomnia, perhaps, but my theory was always that I was just too busy to sleep. Busy with what, you may ask? I am not sure. All I know is that when night falls, I feel that I still have much to accomplish and that sleep is just a waste of time.
I was beginning to set up my paints on the foldable easel I'd brought, when I heard a knock on the door.
I had completely forgotten that there were other people in the house with me. I'd been so submersed in my activities, organizing the room and whatnot.
I opened the door, expecting to see Maggie standing there, but was unpleasantly surprised to see Billie instead.
It wasn't that I hated her—I just found her somewhat off-putting. Her accusation about me not eating last night, however true it may have been, had irritated me for a reason I wasn't quite sure of. Maybe it was the fact that she, unlike anyone else in my life, had actually noticed something about me. I was uncomfortable with that. I felt like she was violating my privacy in some way.
"Hi," Billie said to me. She was leaned up against the doorframe. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she'd just woken up.
"Hi." My reply was noticeably icy. Her left brow raised slightly.
"There's breakfast downstairs," she said. "My mom just wanted you to know."
"Oh. Alright."
What did I say next? "Thank you?" That might sound weird. "I'll be right down?" Why would she care? "I'm starving?" No. Just no.
I opened my mouth, then closed it, then repeated that process a few more times. I was at a loss for words, and Billie was still standing there, expectantly.
Could she just go away? Or did she actually expect for me to come down and have another awkward experience eating with the whole O'Connel family?
"Um. Yeah. Okay," I eventually muttered, stepping out into the hall. Billie swung around and followed me as I walked down the stairs, through a series of winding corridors, and into the kitchen.
I let out a quiet, relieved sigh when I noticed that none of the family members were there. Well, apart from Billie. But maybe she would go away, and I would be able to eat in harmony.
There was a whole buffet laid out on the island counter. I took a plate and randomly spooned things onto my plate, planning on feeding to the dog when I was alone. However, I never was, because when I sat down at the dining table Billie sat down right across from me with her own plate, which was heaping with food.
I poked at my plate with a fork, occasionally sipping at the cup of orange juice I'd poured myself, wondering when the fuck Billie would leave.
But she didn't. She just stayed there, across from me, eating slowly and seeming completely at peace with the fact that we were total strangers who had only interacted one other time.
"So," Billie said after about five minutes of silence. "Do you like the beach?"
I had been staring out at the ocean through the window behind her. It was right in their backyard, literally—glittering blue in the morning sunlight, void of any people, looking like the perfect subject for a painting. All I needed to do was escape up to my bedroom, open the window, pick up my paint brush, and all would be right with the world.
"Um. I don't know. I've only been to the beach, like, two times," I told Billie.
"Jeez," she breathed. "When?"
"Once when I was eight, and once when I was fourteen."
I recalled the latter especially well, as it had only been three years ago. My mother was attending a yacht party, and she'd dragged me along with her. While she was swaying on the dance floor with all her tipsy friends, I stood alone on the deck, watching the dark water below.
And then, suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore. A boy named Brandon, whom I'd known since infancy, slithered up by my side and began speaking to me. His mother and mine were practically best friends, and I saw him hanging around our house often, lurking in the foyer or searching the kitchen for something to eat while waiting for his mother to tell him it was time to go home.
He talked of dull things--his love of the sea, fishing trips with his father, difficult exams in school. When silence fell over us, neither sure what to say to revive a conversation that had been dead from the start, he leaned over and kissed me.
Something about that moment--the salty ocean spray dampening our skin, the way his breath tasted ever so faintly of a gin and tonic, the tan lines peeking out from under the hem of his crisp white polo shirt--that made me rush to kiss him back. It was rough and feverish and clearly took him by surprise, for he took a step back momentarily, as if to balance himself.
One thing led to another, and eventually we found ourselves in a bedroom on the upper level of the yacht. With '80s music drifting up from the dance floor a few floors below us, and the heavy smell of Chanel No. 5 (likely sourced from the numerous elderly women aboard) poisoning my nostrils, I lost my virginity to a boy who I'd hardly even spoken with before that night.
Contrary to what one might think, that memory was sour in my mind. I clamped my lips shut and said no more of my beach experiences to Billie, instead standing up from the dining table and clearing my (mostly full) plate, before excusing myself to my bedroom.
*
In the early afternoon, I got tired of lying in bed, and decided to actually go out and do something. This was rare for me, and I even surprised myself when I actually followed through with this decision.
I left the O'Connels house and walked down the street at a leisurely pace, taking in my surroundings (if I said "enjoying my surroundings" I would be lying).
At some point, I found myself at the end of the street. My throat was dry and my skin felt like it was about to boil off my bones. I reminded myself, for the thirtieth time, that this was why I hated walks--no matter how much health guru shit you see online about how "good they are for you" and how they "boost your mental, physical, and emotional health!", you always end up wanting to die afterwards.
At the end of the street, the road bled into a larger one, whose perimeter was clustered with your stereotypical beachside shops--a classic 80s themed diner, a surfboard shop, a store called "Living Paradise" whose window displays were full of mannequins dressed up in floppy straw sunhats, floral patterned dresses, and pastel swim trunks... the list goes on.
I felt like if I didn't get something to drink I would shrivel up and die. My eyes landed on a neon green sign, hanging above a modestly sized building, that read, "SUPERMARKET." I walked inside there and let out an audible sigh of relief at the feeling of the air conditioning blasting against my sweat-beaded skin.
Fingering the rumpled up five dollar bill in the front pocket of my cutoffs, I scanned the drinks aisle. When I found a water bottle that looked like it would last me for the walk back, I grabbed it and hurried to the front of the store to check out.
The only cashier there was a guy who looked to be about my age. He had light brown hair, tanned skin, and impeccable cheekbones. When I approached him, he smiled at me, the kind of smile you might expect from a little kid--big, toothy, with a dimple on his right cheek.
"Hi," he said, taking the water bottle from me and scanning it. I handed him my money.
"Hi," I replied.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "Do I know you? You look familiar."
I shrugged my shoulders lamely. "Probably not. I'm not from here--I'm just staying for the summer."
"Who are you staying with?" He handed me my change and the waterbottle.
"The O'Connels."
"Nice. They're cool."
Oh, great, I thought. This is the kind of town where everyone knows everyone.
He cleared his throat. "Hey, so, like, I'm having a party tonight at my house. You should come. It's gonna be fun."
I was caught completely off guard. Did this random cashier really just invite me to a party? What was this, Outer Banks?
But then I remembered why I was here, in this pathetic little beach town. A party full of teenagers sounded like a promising chance of getting what I needed to survive here. How stupid was my mother, sending me off to this place thinking I wouldn't be able to get anymore?
So, with the thought of screwing over my mother fresh in my brain, I smiled at the cashier and said, "I'd love to."
*
The cashier had given me the address of his house and told me to arrive around eight. The problem was, according to Google Maps, the address was all the way across town. And I had no ride.
An Uber would've been the easiest choice, except I was saving my money. I couldn't go blowing it all on a twenty minute ride.
And so I found myself knocking on Billie's bedroom door.
When she answered, I hurriedly said, "I got invited to this party, but it's across town and I don't have a ride. So, I was wondering...if you're going...could you..."
I trailed off, praying that she got the point. She was leaning up against the doorway, the ghost of a smile playing across her face as she looked at me. I wanted to slap her for looking so smug, like she was enjoying me practically begging her to drive me.
"I was gonna go already," she said, smirking, after a moment of strange silence between us. "So yeah, sure, I'll give you a ride."
I exhaled softly. "Thanks."
She nodded, still smirking. "Sure."
I walked away feeling somewhat accomplished. Now all I had to do was find the right person at that party, and the rest of the summer might be a little more tolerable.