The Girl in the Gallery

By Krystina Schuler

Henry held Kate tightly in his arms as they looked at the city lights dancing on the bay. The last of their guests had left the party, and they were left alone to their own memories. Kate traced the embossed text on the invitation for their anniversary celebration with her finger. “Fifty years,” she whispered, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

Henry nuzzled her behind the ear, and she purred like she always did when he touched her that way, the way she did the day they met their senior year of high school back in 1994. “I still remember the day we met like it was yesterday,” Henry said, his lips brushing against her neck. Kate closed her eyes and was transported back to the beginning of it all, when everything was new, emotions ran raw, and anything was possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krystina Schuler
• Release date: Dec 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310550119

Krystina Schuler

What's this all about? Thanks for asking!I am a recovering paralegal, avid reader, and now a writer. A New England native, I grew up in Connecticut and am now a Mid-Atlantic transplant where I live with my husband and son. When I am not writing, I can often be found teaching myself to play piano and ukulele, or listening to a range of eclectic music. I also enjoy long bike rides with my family and have fun dying my hair purple. I cannot whistle, and I don't like the taste of honey.I have always liked writing. I was that weird kid in your class who didn't complain about the next writing assignment. I may have groaned along with you, but secretly I was worried about how to stay within the page limits, not how to reach them! While I've spent a huge part of my life reading other authors' books, I never tried writing my own novel before, until now.My first novel, The Girl in the Gallery (to be released for sale soon, stay tuned for a specific launch date), started off as an experiment spawned by a minor identity crisis on one usually jarring birthday. Starting off as a personal challenge, I soon discovered that the more I wrote, the harder it was to stop until Henry and Kate's story was told. I enjoyed creating their world. I hope you enjoy discovering it.What's your story? Swing by my website or Facebook page and drop me a line to say hi!

Book preview

Chapter 1

The smell of spicy eggs, chorizo, and corn tortillas stung my nose, and an annoying beeping sound clawed at my head. Rolling over, I looked at the clock; it was 4:30. I smacked the snooze button to stop the beeping, begrudgingly climbed out of bed, and plodded to the bathroom. This has been one amazing experience, I thought, as I prepared myself for the day. As I left the bathroom, I threw a pillow on top of Carla. Groaning, she threw it back at me.

Carla's parents, Cecilia and Francisco, looked up as I entered the living room of the suite. Cecilia offered me breakfast, which I happily took, thinking it would be the last time I would have real Mexican food for a long time. Carla joined us a few minutes later. Everyone was quiet and melancholy. Today was my last day as an exchange student and temporary part of the Castellano family. It had been the opportunity of a lifetime, and I'd become quite fond of my new friends and adopted family. I was going to miss them all very much. Francisco, eying his watch, informed us that we'd need to leave for the airport in a few minutes.

After everyone's bags were packed, we descended to the hotel lobby and waited for the shuttle to take us to the terminal. We disembarked and queued at the ticket counter where I retrieved a boarding pass. After passing through security, we ambled by the shops on our way to the gate in no particular hurry. We had given ourselves more than enough time to catch my flight, which was now delayed because of the storms overhead. We spent the next hour reminiscing about the past year.

The storms subsided and the passengers were called to board the plane. We shared plenty of hugs, kisses, and tears; I even caught Francisco wiping his eyes. I got in line, walked down the Jetway like it was a plank on a pirate ship, and shuffled down the aisle looking for my seat. I retrieved my book and a package of tissues, stowed my bag in the overhead, and started crying.

A grandfatherly man sat down in the seat next to me. Moments later, the plane took off and we were New York bound. Not wanting to make my travel companion uneasy, I tried to be discreet, but the tears kept coming. He patted my hand. Smiling at him, I attempted to stifle my tears. I wiped my eyes and nose with a tissue and introduced myself to him, explaining that I was returning home after a year abroad and already was missing Mexico. He told me his name was Pedro and that, as an archaeologist, he too had left his heart in many places over the decades. We chatted before returning to our reading materials, my tears getting the better of me for a little while longer.

The plane touched down at JFK International Airport in the late afternoon, several hours after it was scheduled to land. Foul weather delayed several flights on the East Coast. Raining and gray, the weather matched my mood. I should have been more excited to be home. Instead, I was hungry, tired, my head hurt from crying, and I felt grimy. What I wanted was a hot meal, a hot shower, and a warm bed, but I was going to get the third degree about my trip home, my year abroad, and a long car ride back to Connecticut.

The plane pulled up to the gate and the radio crackled. The pilot thanked everyone for flying AeroMéxico, welcomed the passengers to the US, and wished them a pleasant visit or return home. He reminded the passengers of the local time and date, in case anyone forgot along the way. After a few moments, the plane jerked to a halt and the flight attendants opened the door. Passengers tugged bags out from underneath seats and the overhead bins and waited to disembark. Pedro helped me pull down my carry-on bag. I thanked him for his assistance and rummaged through my belongings for my passport and customs declaration form.

I walked down the Jetway into the terminal, working the stiffness out of my joints and rubbing my eyes, following the other passengers to Immigration. I waited my turn and was greeted by an unusually pleasant immigration officer who smiled and welcomed me back home. I breezed through Customs and made my way to Baggage Claim. My bags tumbled down the chute onto the carousel. I lugged them off the belt and strapped them to the luggage rack.

Dragging my heavy bags behind me, I trudged through weary and excited travelers to where my parents were waiting. I saw them before they saw me. They hadn't changed while I was away. Somehow, I thought they would look older or different, but they didn't. My mom, Helene, was still dying her hair auburn to hide the gray. She was taller than I was, not too plump, but not skinny either. She wore a pair of shorts, the summer version of mom jeans, and a pink sweatshirt that had NY printed on it, no doubt purchased at the airport because she got cold.

My dad, Edgar, who stood a few inches under six feet, looked tan and fit except for a protruding beer belly. His salt and pepper hair was cropped close to his head to tame his unruly curls. He was wearing his uniform—worn, dirty-looking but clean jeans, and a plaid work shirt—which he varied from only when forced.

My brother, Aaron, had noticeably changed, except for his dark brown hair that he shaved to avoid dealing with his curls at all. He was going into the eighth grade in the fall and seemed to have sprouted a foot and bulked up while I was gone. As I observed them, I realized how much I missed them.

As soon as my mother saw me, she rushed me and gave me a bear hug, squeezing me to within an inch of my life. I groaned in response. Laughing, she let go, tears streaming down her cheeks. You look so grown up!

My outfit was a going away gift from the Castellanos. I looked down at my once crisp linen pants that couldn't have been more wrinkled. A less wrinkled, fitted, white t-shirt, short hip-grazing linen jacket, an aqua scarf, and jeweled leather sandals completed the look. My long, dark, curly hair was gathered off my face in a silver clip that was a gift from one of my fellow exchange students. I felt disheveled instead of sophisticated and mature.

My brother gave me a quick hug, which was followed by another bone-crushing embrace from my father. He took my bags from me. Sheesh, what's in here? he grunted as he started for the door. Come on. Let's get a move on.

Can we get something to eat first? I'm famished, I said.

We'll get something once we're out of the airport, my mother said. Your father's had enough of this place. We'll find somewhere on the way home.

Well, at least let me get a snack. I'll just be a minute. I started to walk to a snack kiosk and realized I didn't have any US money. Turning around, I asked, Dad, can I have some money, please? All I've got is pesos. I'll need to exchange my money on the way out. I don't know why I didn't think to do that in Atlanta.

He chuckled, You've been back for less than five minutes and you're already hitting your old man up for money. He handed me ten bucks. Is that enough?

Yes, dad, plenty. Thanks. And I've been back for over an hour. The lines have been horrendous. Does anyone else want anything? They shook their heads. Heading back toward the snack kiosk, I purchased a pastry, grabbed a fork and napkin, and returned to my family.

My mom took my arm and led me down the passageway, following my dad and brother. Let's hear all about your trip, she gushed.

It was grueling. I'm not really in the mood for storytelling right now. Later, please? I pleaded. She acquiesced. Sharing an umbrella to shield us from the rain, we walked to the car, and my dad and brother loaded the trunk of the old family station wagon. I couldn't believe the thing still ran. It had to be at least ten years old.

As we left the airport and entered the highway, I stared out the window, taking it all in. Once out of the city, I was struck by how green everything was. I had grown accustomed to the arid brown of central Mexico. Growing up in New England and having never traveled outside of the greater northeast, the desert-like environment was a shock to the system. The buildings and streets seemed covered in a layer of gray dust and it never rained. There were few plants around, just some palms and scrubby cactus. Lawns were rare. Lazy dogs relaxed on the sidewalks, trying to stay cool in the hot, tropical sun. Now all this green matter was smothering.

An hour from the airport, my dad pulled off an exit with a sign for a mom-and-pop restaurant. For as long as I could remember, he had avoided fast-food joints, preferring local restaurants and diners. He seemed disappointed that fast food didn't materialize as soon as he ordered it like it did on Star Trek. Since it didn't, he preferred to wait for food to be hand-delivered to him, by a red-headed young woman whenever possible. If she flirted with him, she'd get a bigger tip. It was embarrassing. We turned into the parking lot of a small, nondescript restaurant, probably offering decent but nondescript food. I didn't care; all I wanted was an actual meal. The snack on the plane didn't go very far.

A plump, middle-aged, mousy woman looked up from the seating chart and greeted us with a tired smile and a weak hello. It must have been the end of her shift. She grabbed some menus and shepherded us to a booth by the window and asked if we'd like anything to drink. After giving her our requests, she left us to absorb a voluminous menu ranging from French onion soup to New York-style cheesecake and everything in between. It was one of those places that did everything, but nothing particularly well. You could hear deep-fryers sizzling and spatulas slapping the griddle behind the counter where the wait staff picked up their orders. The place smelled of old cooking oil, onions, and vinyl. The waitress returned to take our order.

While we waited for our food, I spun the tale of my journey from Mexico City: my sad farewell from the Castellanos; the flight delays because of storms over Texas; an unexpected and long layover in Atlanta, where we waited for more storms to push off, allowing for a safe landing in New York. I told them about Pedro and the pleasant immigration officer. As I finished, the waitress returned, weighed down with a large tray full of heavy plates.

As expected, she delivered serviceable but unremarkable dishes. We ate our food in relative quiet. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who was hungry. After we ate, my father paid the bill and we clambered into the car. With my belly full, I rested my head against the window and fell asleep.

***

Kate, honey, wake up. We're home, my mother said as my father parked. He and my brother hopped out of the car and unloaded my luggage. I yawned, stretched, and climbed out of the car.

Except for last year, I'd lived here my whole life. As I climbed out of the station wagon, I surveyed the familiar, humble green and gray mobile home. It seemed smaller, if that was possible, perhaps because the Castellano's house was huge. Our whole house could have fit in their living and dining rooms. I had my own bathroom for goodness sake!

The front porch that my dad and uncle built years ago needed a coat of paint, but otherwise the house sat on the corner, unassuming and tired. Readjusting to the cramped quarters of a trailer wasn't going to be easy, and the contrast with the luxury I just left, dredged up all of my insecurities about who I was and how people saw me.

I followed my parents inside. A suspicious look graced my mom's face. I braced myself. That look meant she had done something she was proud of and that I was supposed to appreciate. My dad dropped my bags in my room and scooted out of the way. I walked up to the door and peered in.

When I left, my room had pale wood paneling on the walls, a small twin bed in the corner with an old blue gingham bedspread, a small, dark three-drawer dresser, and a little pine desk for homework. In the corner was a portable closet. I thought about how I might decorate my room when I came back, but saw little point in spending the money if I was going to go away to college like I had planned.

My mom had other plans and took it upon herself to redecorate my room for me. The room was now a dark rose that overwhelmed the small space. The bed was covered in a flowery, lacy bedspread with matching curtains. The dresser was painted white, a definite improvement over its old exterior. Thankfully, the desk was untouched and the poster of the ballerina still hung on the wall. I wasn't sure what possessed her to think this was my style, but she missed the mark. Maybe she thought it was romantic and grown up. Do you love it? she asked me, interrupting my assessment.

Well, it's very unexpected, I said. Since I knew what she wanted to hear, I lied, Yes, mom. It's lovely. Thank you. It wasn't exactly a lie. It was lovely, just not what I would have picked myself.

Well, we'll let you get settled, she said, a satisfied smile on her face. I turned to my bags and started unpacking. I gathered my bathroom necessities and a bit of laundry and took them to the bathroom. When I opened the door, I chuckled. My mom had been busy in here too. Now the walls were a light blue color, the carpets had been replaced, and the shower curtain had ducks on it. I thought my mother's incessant redecorating was an attempt to turn the trailer into her dream home. But no amount of paint was going to turn this place into a Cape Cod with a white picket fence.

After a quick shower to wash away the imagined and real grime I collected through three airports and two planes, I sought out my parents to say good night and found them sitting together on the couch watching a movie. Seeing them together was strange. They divorced a few years ago due to irreconcilable differences, which wasn't surprising since it seemed that for years prior, that's all they seemed to share. I was happy they were splitting up if it meant the fighting would stop. While I was away, they reconciled some of those differences and decided to try again, this time in separate houses. Perhaps they were the kind of couple that did better apart rather than together. While most children wished for their divorced parents to reunite, I was indifferent. If this new arrangement made them happy, who was I to disagree?

***

The next morning I woke to a quiet house. My mother had left for the office where she was a receptionist at a local insurance agency. Who knew where my brother was? Both were considerate in keeping the noise to a minimum and letting me sleep. I stretched myself out like a cat and climbed out of bed. I pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, but despite it being eighty degrees and humid, I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, thinking I was getting sick. Then, I realized it was thirty degrees cooler here!

I went to the kitchen, poured myself some cereal and juice, and sat down in front of the television to eat. Flipping through the channels, it was obvious that there was nothing worth watching. Silly talk shows featuring sad and angry people who had been cheated on or who couldn't figure out who impregnated them ruled the schedule. I turned the television off and finished my breakfast in silence, wondering what I would do with myself the rest of the day. If I were in Mexico, I'd go for a walk to the plaza to listen to mariachis and do some shopping or take the bus to the country club and play some tennis, but there weren't any mariachis in River Valley or a country club, or buses, for that matter.

River Valley was a tired old town in southwestern Connecticut with a river running through it. The town remained a small farming community until the 1800s when industrial tycoons built brass mills along the river and stately Victorian mansions on what used to be the farms. A small town grew to accommodate the new mill workers.

A town green in the center of town was ringed with churches, a school, and the town hall, the newest of the buildings in town, which was unattractive and utilitarian and held little New England charm. The few historic buildings of the town hailed from its Victorian heyday and had been converted into small businesses. Most of the downtown, if you could call it that, was a hodgepodge of styles from the mid-1800s through the mid-1900s, when it seemed the concept of development or renovation went out of vogue. Its real shining glory were the abandoned mills along the river, which now sat derelict and forlorn, forgotten and ignored.

I had an affinity for those old mills, perhaps because they held so much potential. Or because they reminded me of myself—easy to overlook, quick to forget, pretty only to those who bothered to look, yearning for purpose, and wanting to be wanted. I fantasized about becoming filthy rich and buying and rehabilitating them. I suspected by the time I could get around to realizing that dream, the buildings would have long since been demolished or fallen into the river of their own accord. Maybe my real fantasy was developing myself into something worthwhile.

River Valley was sprawling and hilly enough to make travel by foot or pedal unappealing. A marked lack of road shoulders and sidewalks didn't help matters. Public transportation was non-existent except for a city bus from Waterbury that passed by twice a day at times convenient to no one. MetroNorth and Amtrak serviced the town, stopping at the train station a few times a day, heading for the cities along Long Island Sound and to New York, or up to Boston. Without a car, you were dependent on others. I was going to have to learn how to drive and get my license as soon as possible, not that I knew what good that would do without a car and no money to buy one.

Unfortunately I wasn't born into a family of money. My family was blue-collar and hoped my dad's factory wouldn't fall victim to outsourcing like most of the other high-paying blue-collar jobs in the area had. While my dad's factory hadn't closed yet, each year it got a little harder to consider ourselves middle-class despite my parents working their fingers to the bone.

That didn't stop my tendency to make friends with the wealthier kids, resulting in my mother classifying me a snob because I wanted the finer things, as if aspiring to more was despicable. Lack of funds made it impossible to keep up with my friends. They went on ski trips or vacations to the Caribbean, and I stayed home waiting for post cards. They went to concerts and I was lucky to get the cassette. I felt like an interloper, not bringing much to the table. I always felt like no one would notice if I wasn't around, like I was on the constant cusp of being dumped.

Shaking my head, I tried to dispel this funk. I reminded myself that the friends I made in Mexico loved me and didn't judge me on my finances or lack thereof. Living with families of equal status gave us the chance to know each other without the usual social pressures resulting from disparities of wealth and privilege. We struggled together to adjust to a new culture. We became close friends who supported and challenged each other in different ways. I never felt less-than when I was with them.

Thinking of friends returned me to the present. I still hadn't figured out what to do for the day. As I wondered if I should call Lynn or Sami, the phone rang.

I answered it. Hello?

"¡Hola, chica! ¿Cómo estás?" I heard on the other end of the line.

It was Lynn, my best friend. We met the first day of high school in Spanish class where we were paired to do one of those introduction conversations where after saying hello and asking each other's names, we spent the rest of the time talking in English about our upcoming plans for the weekend or who we thought was cute, hoping the teacher didn't hear us speaking English. Later that year we joined the tennis team; neither of us knew how to play, but the coach was willing to train anyone who was interested.

Lynn was a beautiful, blond girl with bright blue eyes. She was taller than I was, but then, not many people weren't. She was built in that sturdy Scandinavian sort of way. In addition to playing tennis, she swam and had the muscles to prove it. If she wasn't such a hippie peace-freak, she would be intimidating. She was intelligent, fun-loving and had a sharp sense of humor. I missed her terribly while I was away. She would have set Mexico on fire!

Lynn! I yelled. It's so good to hear from you. How are you?

I'm good. Listen, I'm glad you're back, but I'm at work right now on break, so I can't talk long. I wanted to call you to invite you to the lake tomorrow afternoon. Mark invited us over for a barbecue and swimming. I didn't know if you had family stuff going on or not.

Um, let me look at my social calendar, I said with an edge of sarcasm and a smirk you could hear. Yep, looks like I'm free for the indefinite future. I'd love to go. It would be nice to get together with some friends. Being in this house without anything to do and no way to get there was making me feel claustrophobic, and it hadn't even been a full day.

She laughed, I thought you might. I can come pick you up after work. Say around 4:00?

Sure, that would be great. Is anyone else coming?

I think just Stephie and Sami. I've gotta get back to work. See you tomorrow. She hung up as I was saying goodbye.

Mark was a boisterous guy, average height, thin, with short, dark, spiky hair and brown eyes. If you didn't know any better, you would mistake him for gay, but he wasn't. He's been madly in love with Stephie since sophomore year. His parents have a cottage that sits on Lake Nathan. It was tradition for kids to spend the summer after graduation at the lake, and summertime was wild there. I'd been to a few chaperoned parties at Mark's place freshman and sophomore year, and you could hear and see the raucous gatherings at the other houses up and down the lake.

Sami was Mark's best friend since Kindergarten. If Mark was having a party, Sami would be there. Sami was Thai, taller and broader than the average Asian build, with dark hair and eyes, and an air of maturity about him. He was brilliant and had a wicked sense of humor. I was paired with Sami freshman year when I asked for a math tutor. We developed a deep friendship, and the letters he sent to me in Mexico kept me going when I was lonely and homesick. I couldn't wait to see him again.

Until then, I decided to review the hundreds of college brochures I received in the mail while I was gone. I poured some ice tea, took a towel outside, set up the lounge chair, and tried to warm up under the sun. While reading glossy print ad after glossy print ad until I couldn't tell one school from another, my stomach growled at me, grumbling that it was time for lunch. I went inside and made a sandwich.

Perusing the pantry and freezer looking for something tasty for lunch, I decided to make dinner for my mom. My choices were limited, but after checking the shelves, I settled on pan-fried chicken, roasted potatoes, and peas. I set the chicken out to thaw, while I finished looking at college brochures.

My mom was a decent cook, but far from creative. Her repertoire consisted of meat and potatoes, various stuffed vegetables which I hated, and comfort food, like macaroni and cheese. She didn't bake either, but sometimes there was a cake mix or two on the shelf. I, however, loved to cook, and enjoyed learning several Mexican recipes from Pueblita, Cecilia's housekeeper, a charming, plump, old mestizo woman, with a long gray braid that swung down her back to her knees, and who didn't speak a word of English. What I wouldn't give for a plate of her flautas!

I was browning the chicken when my mother came home. Inhaling when she came in, she said it smelled good, and thanked me for making dinner. Aaron must have smelled food from where ever he had spent the day, because he came home in time for dinner too.

While we ate, we argued over whether I could go to Mark's barbecue and then what time I had to be home. My gut told me this year was going to be a continuous struggle for freedom, even though I was eighteen. After suggesting inviting my grandmothers over for breakfast in the morning, she agreed I could go to the party. When she told me I had to be home at 9:30, I laughed out loud and asked her if she thought I was still ten. I didn't have a curfew in Mexico. I would tell Francisco or Cecilia when I'd be home, and they expected me to abide by that. It was a sign of mutual trust and respect. We settled on the still preposterous time of 11:30.

Then, she commenced the alcohol and drugs lecture, which consisted of this: no alcohol or drugs of any kind ever—only the bad kids did that stuff. I rolled my eyes, but didn't say anything. We were all under-age, which made alcohol difficult, although not impossible, to acquire. And my friends didn't do drugs. But even if they did, it wouldn't make them bad people if they were responsible about it. If my mother knew the amount of alcohol I was consuming in Mexico, she would have had the embassy track me down and deport me back to the United States. I vowed after a night of communion with the porcelain goddess, that I would no longer be so morally self-righteous.

At least she didn't bring up sex and boys. All boys wanted to do was have their way with me, and I was supposed to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. In my mother's world, people didn't have sex, they made love. And that was reserved for married people. She did a fantastic job cultivating an unhealthy amount of guilt and fear regarding sex. I got the message loud and clear—good girls didn't have sex, they didn't want to have sex, and they didn't get pregnant. As a result, despite having had my fair share of crushes, I never pursued any of them, lest that make me something other than a good girl and bring shame upon my family. But after spending the last year surrounded by people from different cultures with more liberal views on personal autonomy, I started reevaluating my core beliefs. It turned out good girls do want and enjoy sex, they take responsibility for their behavior, and sometimes love has nothing to do with it.

Chapter 2

The sun streaming through the poorly closed curtain woke me earlier than I wanted. I showered and got dressed, then went to the kitchen to prepare for my grandmothers' arrival. It was already warm despite the windows being open wide. The sky had that steely overcast quality that could make a sunny summer day seem gloomy. It wouldn't surprise me if there was a passing thunderstorm later.

Before our guests were due, I put the quiche in the oven to bake, started frying the bacon, and mixed the batter for pancakes. While I waited for the electric frying pan to heat, I covered the table with a table cloth and set out the china. This seemed like a good excuse to use the nice stuff—no sense hiding it away in a cupboard. Returning to the pancakes, I poured the first batch, letting them bubble while I set the coffee brewing.

Moments later, my Grandma Agnes pulled into the drive and parked next to my mom's station wagon. Seeing her flooded me with warm childhood memories. Grandma Agnes was like my second mother. I spent countless weekends sleeping over, baking cookies, making pancakes for dinner, and watching scary movies that were far from age-appropriate. We did have our disagreements, though, like when we shopped for school clothes. She was frills and ruffles and lace, chin grazing necklines, and ankle concealing hemlines. I wasn't, but some of that modesty rubbed off. She let herself in and gave me a big hug and kiss.

Right on her heels, my dad arrived with Grandma Hilda. Hilda was a diminutive woman with curly white hair and thick glasses and was several years older than Agnes. Having been a lifelong smoker, her eyesight took the brunt of damage; she was practically blind, and yet she drove when she needed to, which couldn't have been safe for anyone. We didn't have the same sort of warm and intimate relationship that I had with my other grandmother. I don't think she liked children, because my brother and I never stayed at her house. She attended school concerts, birthday parties, and Christmas celebrations, but she wasn't the baking cookies type of grandmother.

Morning, everyone, she said, coming into the kitchen. She patted my shoulder and sat at the table.

I flipped the pancakes, offered coffee, and brought the food to the table, letting everyone serve themselves. Grandma Agnes demanded an immediate account of my trip from the moment my plane took off from New York until it landed again two nights ago. I did my best to hit the highlights.

***

After spending all morning and the better part of the afternoon catching up with my grandmothers, they left for their respective homes. I readied myself for the party, changing into a pretty embroidered tank top that I got at an open-air market in San Miguel and a pair of jean shorts. I loaded a bag with beach gear and extra clothes. While I packed, I heard my mom greet Lynn at the door. When she saw me, she smothered me with a hug, jumping up and down with excitement. I was glad to see her too.

See you later, mom, I shouted as I headed out the door. I heard her yell back at me to remember to be home by 11:30. I rolled my eyes at Lynn who laughed.

On the way to the lake, Lynn asked me questions about Mexico. She wanted to know everything. I tried to answer all her questions, but the ride to the lake was a short one. Before we knew it, we were pulling into the small lakeside community.

We passed by the sign announcing we were entering Hale Village, where fifty identical cottages sat on Lake Nathan, with wilderness, walking and biking paths, and playgrounds for children on the opposite side of the street. Each Craftsman-style cabin had a large front porch perfect for gathering or rocking in a chair with a glass of iced tea. All were painted an earthy green, gray, brown, or white. Some had weathered over the years to a soft silver. Screened porches faced the lake on the backside of each house with a terraced yard that stepped down to the beach.

Lynn parked the car down the street from Mark's cottage. Many vehicles lined the side of the road, but given that there was a month and a half before school started, it wasn't unusual for there to be hoards of people at the lake. We walked up the sidewalk and around the cottage to the back where I smelled the smoky goodness of grilling burgers and hot dogs. Turning the corner, a thunderous, Surprise! greeted me, driving my heart almost into a coronary.

I wasn't expecting a party, but everyone was there: all of my friends, along with half a dozen other people we associated with; the seniors from the school Dance Club and a few of my teammates from the tennis team; and a number of vaguely familiar guys, who I assumed were boyfriends who had joined the group during my absence.

I made my way through the crowd, trying to greet everyone. People collected plates and food and sat down in small groups and asked me questions as I made my rounds. It became clear that all the girls wanted to know was if the guys were hot and good kissers, and the guys wanted to know if I drank tequila and smoked pot all day. Discouraged by their vapidness, I informed them that the boys were the same as they were here, maybe a bit more polite, and that while drinking was legal, it was restricted to parties, and being drunk was frowned upon. I had no information on pot other than I never saw any. Perhaps it's all exported to the US, I joked. Their inane questions, based on stereotypes without any real interest in whether they were accurate, made me cringe.

The conversations turned to what I had missed, my friends preferring to talk about themselves, instead of learning something new. It disappointed me that no one seemed to care about my experiences abroad, as self-centered as that was. I listened to their stories of love and loss, the junior prom, tennis and football, and all the other current gossip with feigned interest. There were more important things to care about, like what we planned to do with the rest of our lives, how we could make a difference in the world. There was more to life than who was going to be the next prom queen.

***

The sweltering heat and scorching sun continued to be oppressive. By early evening, we changed into bathing suits to go swimming and play on the beach. I put on my bikini, which my fellow exchange students convinced me to buy on our trip to Cancun. I was always self-conscious of my body growing up. Embarrassed by my early development, I hid myself under over-sized t-shirts and bulky sweaters. I shunned anything that exposed any part of my curvy figure. Even when I went swimming I would keep a t-shirt on if I could get away with it. Buying a bikini was a big deal. My friends had to drag me out of the dressing room and onto the beach. As the day wore on, I became more comfortable being almost naked in front of people and bought two more before we left.

No one here expected me to return to the beach in a bikini, not that I was the only one wearing one. I got several appreciative looks from the boys and several unappreciative glares from the girls who were with them. I did my best to ignore them. I wasn't interested in stealing any of their boyfriends. What was the point of getting into a relationship now when we were going our separate ways next year?

Down on the beach, I took a moment to appreciate the glorious evening, stretching my arms out and turning my face up to the sun, soaking in the warm rays, and inhaling the fresh lake air. For a moment, it felt like someone was watching me. Glancing around, I didn't notice anyone looking in my direction. I shrugged it off as residual discomfort being in a bikini in front of my friends who had never seen this much of me before. I ran down to the lake and jumped in, enjoying the refreshing water.

Later on we played a game of volleyball with a beach ball. As we were about to call it a night because the setting sun was making it difficult to see and the wind had picked up, a gust caught the ball and blew it up the bank toward the cottages. I was closest and ran to get it. When I stood up, I was in Mark's neighbor's back yard. A family sat on lawn chairs on the terrace, but I didn't notice them. I was distracted by the shirtless teenage boy stepping down the stairs from the porch with a glass in one hand and a CD player in the other. He wasn't close enough to see his features clearly, but I could see his shaved head, a brilliant smile, and the sun glinting off his statuesque chest and arms.

They waved at me and said hello. I waved back, before realizing I had lingered longer than necessary. The setting sun behind me left me little more than a silhouette, hiding my blush. I waved again before turning and jogging back to the crowd. Joining Stephie, I overheard Mark say, I wish he'd put his fucking shirt on. I laughed and teased him about it being time to hit the gym.

By nightfall, several kids had left or migrated to other parties at the lake. I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and wandered back to the yard where Mark and Sami had started a fire in the fire pit. Ananya, Jamie and Stephie were already warming themselves. Molly was off making out with her flavor of the week. I slipped into the chair next to Sami, who passed me a marshmallow on a stick, graham crackers, and a piece of chocolate.

Everyone was talking about college, wondering if anyone had decided on where to go, where to apply, what to major in. It was refreshing not to have to defend my Mexican friends from idiotic stereotypes.

All too soon, it was time for Lynn to take me home. I apologized for pulling her away from the party early. I have to work in the morning anyway, so it's probably a good thing. I might actually get a decent amount of sleep, she explained. Lynn worked at the Towne Athletic Club, commonly referred to as the TAC, as a life guard and swim instructor.

As we walked toward the car, I asked her, About that. Are there any positions available at the TAC? I could use something to do all day until school starts and I need to make some money. College isn't paying for itself.

I don't know. I'll ask on Monday when Monica, the manager, is in. If we have similar schedules I'm happy to chauffeur you around until you get your license.

Thanks. I appreciate it, I said, before changing the subject and getting in the car. I never got to ask you tonight where Tim is. The last letter you wrote to me sounded like you guys were getting serious. I was surprised not to see him here with you.

Oh. I really should have written to you more often. He broke up with me. It seems that his only goal in a relationship is to get the girl to sleep with him, especially if she's a virgin, and once she does, he's on to his next conquest.

Oh, Lynn. That's awful. What a jerk! I proclaimed. He must be pretty high on himself to think that he should be every girl's first experience. And what makes him think a girl is going to want to be with him if he sleeps around? She shrugged. I paused, Do you regret it?

Not really. I wanted to do it. I would have preferred to be with someone who respected and cared about me, and I don't like being lied to, but he didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do. I never saw why we should be so precious about losing our virginity anyway. There are a lot of things we do for the first time, and we don't put them off until some arbitrary unknown date in the future. There's no formal first-time-you-ride-your-bike ceremony, like marriage is to sex. We do them when we're ready for them. Besides, boys aren't precious about it. They spend their entire adolescence trying to get rid of it, and girls are taught to spend their entire lives protecting it. I don't think I should have to suppress my sexual desires just because I'm a girl.

I never thought about it like that before. I always thought my first time should be something special. I don't want to do it just for the sake of it.

You don't have to, but you also don't have to deny yourself because of some notion that once you do it, it won't be special ever again. If you get to that point in a relationship where you want to share yourself with someone, then it's special, whether you've been with no one else or many someone elses.

Good point. What was it like?

It hurt a little at first, but once I got used to it, it wasn't that bad. And the second time we did it, I really enjoyed it. Before we could continue our conversation, she pulled up in front of my house.

***

I woke up the next day to the smell of bacon. My father was cooking breakfast. My parents asked how the party was. I caught them up on what my friends were up to and told them that Lynn was going to inquire about positions at the TAC, which would allow me to pay for senior activities myself. They seemed pleased with the idea, not that I expected them to argue about employment. My father placed a platter of sizzling bacon on the table and plated the toast and fried eggs.

My mother told me to eat quickly and get ready for church. Rolling my eyes, I asked, Do I have to go?

Yes.

I hardly ever went to church last year, and Mexico is a very Catholic country. I didn't miss it much and kind of think it's a waste of time.

Her expression suggested she would have put me over her knee and spanked me if she thought she could do it. Church, God, and faith were never a waste of time in her view. After I said it, I realized it wasn't my best argument. It made her more adamant about me going. Faith is a virtue, young lady. You're going to church, she dictated.

I decided not to fight it, huffed to my closet, and put on a dress. Like the obedient daughter I was, I got in the car and went to church. I sat in the pew listening to the pastor's sermon, closed my eyes, and let my mind wander as I pretended to listen, mulling over my growing doubts about God and religion. Too many of my friends were from different faiths, faiths that conflicted with one another and claimed to be the only true way. Which was impossible. They couldn't all be right. What if they were all wrong? What if there was no God? What if we are responsible for taking care of ourselves and each other? What if this is all we get, the sum total of our experiences on Earth, for eighty-some years? What if we piss it all away, attempting to live up to a set of expectations that no one can ever achieve, for the promise of a heaven entirely conjured up in the minds of men?

We rose for the benediction. May the Lord bless you and keep you, the pastor recited, finishing the verse. Every service ended with the same benediction; hundreds of recitations by now, I knew it by heart. But I hadn't ever felt it. Did I want to hedge my bets, just in case, or did I want to own this life and live it for all it was worth and hope God would understand? Leaving the sanctuary, I didn't have an answer. I wondered if I ever would.

***

Lynn called the next day and told me Monica and Mr. Williams wanted to interview me for a front desk position at the Towne Athletic Club. Betsy was returning to college and her shift would be available once school started. After working out the details, I made Lynn tell me everything she could about the TAC. I wanted to sound like I knew something about the place and hadn't been inside since I took ballet there as a little girl.

Lynn picked me up the next day for my interview. After fretting about my attire, she told me to relax, that my outfit was fine, and that Monica and Mr. Williams were nice people. They pretty much hired anyone who came recommended by a current employee. This interview is just going to be a formality, she assured me. Besides, she said, you're bright, friendly, cute, and speak Spanish. And the old men are going to love you! I rolled my eyes at her, laughing.

She parked on the street near the TAC, which was located downtown, a couple blocks from the green. The club was in an old three-story brick building with white marble stairs that led to the main doors. It used to be an old social club for the wealthy gentlemen of the town, but was converted into a family-centered sports facility. The main floor housed the administrative offices, a public meeting room, the lobby, and a small daycare center. Studios for dance and aerobics were on the top two floors, and the pool, gymnasiums, and locker rooms were in the basement. Lynn waved to Betsy at the front desk and led me into Monica's office where she and Mr. Williams were waiting to meet me.

Hi, Monica. Mr. Williams, Lynn said. This is Kate. Kate, this is Monica and Mr. Williams. We shook hands.

It's a pleasure to meet you, Kate, Monica responded. Why don't you take a seat and we can chat about the position. Would you like some water? I nodded and sat down. She got a cup of water from the water cooler and returned to her desk. Mr. Williams sat next to me. Monica described the position—checking in members, answering the phone, explaining programs, selling gym memberships—and they asked me questions about myself, what skills I thought I had that would be beneficial to the position. After the interview, Monica took me on a tour of the facilities. Not a lot had changed since I took ballet. It even smelled the same, a mix of old wood, cleaning products, and a hint of sweat.

Would you please wait here? Monica asked, as she motioned to one of the chairs in the lounge. She disappeared into the office and I sat down. Moments later she returned with some papers in her hand for me to fill out and offered me the position. What size shirt do you wear, Katie?

It's just Kate, please. And I wear a medium, I answered as I took the forms and pen from her. I had always hated being called Katie, even my parents didn't call me that. It made me feel like a child. Apologizing, she returned to her office and I filled out the forms.

Monica returned with some shirts in her hands. We have an informal uniform here, she told me. Everyone wears one of these shirts with the logo on it, so members know who the staff are, with khaki pants, shorts or skirts that come to the knee, and white sneakers. We'd like for you to start training on Monday when Gretchen returns from vacation. She's been doing this job for a long time and is a great trainer and she's expecting someone new to replace Betsy. Do you have any questions?

Um…no, I don't think so. Not yet. Thank you so much. I'm really looking forward to starting.

Wonderful. Take your time with those forms. When you are done, bring them back to me in my office, she smiled and walked away.

Monday morning I got up early to get ready for my first day of work. The TAC was on the way to my mother's office and she dropped me off, wishing me good luck. I bounced up the stairs in anticipation of what the day might bring.

By the end of the week, I felt confident behind the desk. And Lynn was right; the old men loved me. Many of them flirted with me in that way old men do. Some of them were old enough to be my grandfather, but it was sweet in a way and I played along; it was good practice.

That Saturday, my dad announced that he wanted to buy me a car for graduation, but thought it made more sense to find something in which I could learn to drive now. In his typical fashion, he told me not to get excited as he wasn't buying me a Mercedes, but a nice, safe, used car that would get me around town and to college. We spent every weekend car-hunting to no avail. I was trying not to be picky, but if I was going to drive this car for a while, then I felt like I should at least like it.

Sundays I attending church, although I no longer wanted to. I wasn't getting anything out of it except a gnawing feeling in my gut that something wasn't right about the whole affair. But I knew my mom would have prohibited me from staying home, so I went without complaint. With each passing Sunday, I felt more like a fraud sitting in that pew pretending to be something I wasn't.

And most Saturday nights, I partied with my friends at the lake. Despite repeated attempts to get my parents to grant me a later curfew, they wouldn't budge. No amount of logic and reasoning made a difference. That didn't stop me from having fun. Sami had discovered that looking older than he was has its advantages. He was able to acquire alcohol for the parties from liquor stores with lax employees who didn't care about checking identification. Since I didn't have to worry about driving while intoxicated, I defied my parents in the most juvenile way and drank, despite their admonition not to. If my parents were going to ruin my fun by making me come home early, then I would have the kind of fun they thought my curfew was preventing. And despite checking, I never did see Mark's hot neighbor again.

Chapter 3

It was early when my alarm sounded for the first day of school. Three of us needed to share one bathroom, and I had the pleasure of going first. As I opened the door to leave the bathroom, my mother stood in front of me, arm raised to knock. I'd tarried long enough.

Wrapped in my robe, I headed to my room to dress. I'd chosen a white button-down sleeveless blouse and a pretty floral wrap skirt that fell just above the knee. I might as well show off what little tan I'd managed to acquire before it faded away.

Morning, Aaron. He was at the table eating breakfast, waiting for his turn in the bathroom. He grunted in response. I poured some cereal and juice and joined him. Neither of us was a morning person and we ate in silence.

I was nervous to return to school. My friends and I had grown at different paces. I had had a lot of freedom and independence last year. The entire experience matured me, rendering much of high school life trivial. If it was awkward with my friends, what would it be