3.
“I want to make this,” I said as I sat on Vanessa’s bed in her large, powder-blue bedroom. I handed her an old photo I’d found of me standing on the beach on Charter Island in a red, white and blue bikini.
“Look at you!” Vanessa said, examining it. “What a cutie. How old were you?”
“Sixish,” I said, peering at it next to her.
“You look like you have a big boat sponge or, like, a gigantic maxi-pad under your crotch,” she said, and she was right. The bikini bottom sagged in the crotch because the suit was made of crocheted wool. When it was wet, it would stay cold on my skin and never, ever dry. I remembered it being incredibly itchy, but there was something about it I absolutely loved, and looking at the picture reminded me of how much I loved it.
“My grandmother made it for me,” I said. “She made blankets mostly, in hideous mustard tones, but she made the bikini, too. I wish she’d made more.” I grabbed the photo out of Vanessa’s hands. “I remember her taking that picture so clearly. We were on the beach on Charter and it was really early in the morning. We were hiding from my parents after some giant brawl in the middle of the night, after Dad got bombed and called Mom a shit-hair.”
Vanessa burst out laughing. “What the hell is a shit-hair?” she asked, reaching over me to a yellow apple on her desk. “Are they dumber than shit-heads? Meaner? Ted, man, he’s got a way with words. Thank God he quit the hooch. Now we just need to find him a together young lady.” She bit into the apple, spinning it around between her thumb and index finger. “I’m officially off Snickers. I think I’m turning diabetic.”
“Do you think I could find a pattern for the bikini?” I asked, tapping the photo.
“I can’t imagine who would publish a pattern for something like that,” she said, pulling an old canvas tote out of her closet.
“Well, I can,” I said. “People are weird.”
“Why don’t you start with a scarf and see how it goes?”
“I don’t want to do a scarf.”
“I don’t wanna,” Vanessa whined. Her black bra strap burrowed into her shoulder and she shoved it to the side. Vanessa had big, beautiful boobs. No points, just circles. “Now, if I’m going to show you, you cannot get frustrated.” I sat up against the wall and she moved next to me, pressing a gray, metal crochet hook into my hand. It was thin and cold and I liked the way it felt.
“I won’t, I promise,” I said.
She fished around in the bag and pulled out a large, messy pile of dark purple yarn. Then she yanked a line off it and took the hook from me. “The first thing you’ve got to do is cast on, which is basically a series of little knots, also known as chains. Repeat after me … chains.” She did the first two, then moved my fingers around the hook until I got it.
“Do about thirty for a scarf. You want it long and skinny, right?” Her head knocked against mine while she watched, and I could feel her breath on my hands. “Tell me about last night. What’s he like? Is he all Arthur Miller–tortured or is he normal?” She lifted my index finger and bent it, like it was a piece of Play-Doh, farther down the hook.
“Vanessa, I like him so much it’s freaking me out,” I said, clutching the loop that hung precariously from the hook.
“Be specific,” Vanessa implored. “What was the place like?”
“Dark and steak-housey, and sort of desolate and empty.”
“Sounds awful,” she said, holding my elbow out as I tried another chain.
“He’s a little weird,” I admitted.
“How?”
“Well, his family sounds pretty out there. His dad works two days a year and spends the rest of the time going to movies, and his mother’s got a degree in public health management, whatever that is, but he says she spends all of her time baking and leafing through old magazines.”
“Weird!” Vanessa exclaimed, intrigued.
I remembered to bring the yarn around from the back of the hook, thinking of Will’s face, his body, his stillness. “I feel sick,” I said. “Is he going to call me?”
“Don’t go rexy on me,” she said, turning the hook toward my chest.
“Or bulimic. You better not.” She took another bite of her apple and chewed loudly. “He’ll call. Then you’ll ’bandon me for the boy. Perfect, you’re getting it. Do a few more and then we’ll start the first row.” She dropped her apple on the bed, where it made a wet stain on her quilt, and fished in the bag for another hook, this one with a square of flecked beige hanging off it.
“Ooh, what’s that?” I asked enviously.
“I just started it.” She spread the chains across the hook proudly. “It’s going to be a sweater.”
“How come you get to do a sweater and all’s I get to do is this crap scarf?”
“God, Thea, you’re so impatient.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Do you think when I’m done with this boring eighties scarf, I’ll be able to do the bikini?” I asked.
“Let’s jump off that bridge when we get to it,” she said with a sigh.