The Vacationers

Lawrence reached out and put his hand on Fra

That made her smile. “Yes, I think so.” She stood up. “At least one of us has a good husband. Come on, let’s finish cleaning up before it’s morning and the cretins destroy everything all over again. It’s not the worst thing in the world not to have children, you know. Makes your life a terrible mess.” And with that, Fra

Day Five

FRANNY AND SYLVIA DROVE WITH JOAN, AND CHARLES, Jim, and Lawrence followed behind them. It was Fra

“Sorry that we’re all crashing your date with Joan today, Syl,” Fra

“Let’s try to stay adult here, shall we?” Sylvia said. “I’m sorry that my mother is sexually harassing you, Joan. No le prestes atención.” She crossed her arms over her chest, secure in the fact that her mother would be adequately a

Sylvia leaned back, curling her body into the corner of the seat. The car was the size of a pedicab, and about as secure. The chassis rocked side to side as they climbed a hill, and Sylvia closed her eyes, happy that if she was going to die on the mountainous roads of Mallorca, she at least would have had the last word with her mother. It wasn’t fair to be a

There were four people from her class also going to Brown, but two of them she would immediately never speak to again, an obvious and unspoken agreement based on the fact that they hadn’t exchanged more than three words in all of high school. The other two were the problem: Katie Saperstein and Gabe Thrush. If Sylvia could have chosen two people to excommunicate for the rest of her life, to actually push a button and have them vanish off the planet, it would be Katie Saperstein and Gabe Thrush. Both together and separately.

Sylvia and Katie had been good friends—mud masks, sleepovers, shared Googling of half-naked movie stars. Katie was plainer than Sylvia; it wasn’t cruel to say so—she had brackish-colored hair and a nose that always looked like she’d just walked into a plate-glass door. Once, when Katie was frustrated by how long it was taking to grow out her bangs, she cut them off at her forehead, creating, in essence, a small, growing horn. They both wore terrible clothes (that was the point) from the Salvation Army, ill-fitting jeans and ironic T-shirts advertising places they’d never been. Since tenth grade, they’d been close, eating lunch together most days on one of the stoops around the corner from school, with Sylvia ignoring Katie’s blatant overuse of mayo

That was how it went, Sylvia had to remind herself. Even though she vastly preferred blaming Katie, the pug-faced slut, it was really Gabe who had done her wrong. They hadn’t been exclusive, of course. No one was, except for the idiots who pretended that they were engaged and went home and had sex during their free periods because their parents weren’t home and the maid wouldn’t tell. Most people just floated around, too afraid to say what they wanted and too afraid to get it. Gabe had made a habit of coming to the Post house on a weekly basis. He and a few friends would ring the bell sometime in the afternoon, that magical zone during which Fra

They hadn’t had sex, obviously. Sylvia could scarcely imagine Gabe paying less attention to her, but having sex seemed like it was probably the one way to make that happen. He had tried once, she thought, but didn’t know for sure. Mostly it was just rolling around in her bed with her shirt open or off, praying that no one walked in. Sylvia considered the romance the greatest achievement of her life to date, in that Gabe was good-looking (unlike some of the mutants she’d kissed out of boredom at summer camp) and popular, and when he called her on the telephone, they actually had amusing conversations. The problem was that Gabe Thrush was having similar relationships with half their class, including, it turned out, Katie Saperstein.