“Lexi, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She tossed the T-shirt into the closet. It landed on the floor in a pile. “My best friend, Laura, who goes to Yale, sent out a group e-mail last week telling our high school friends that I left Smith and was coming here. Now, just like last time, they’re all going to send me care packages. I don’t know why anybody would think a T-shirt, mug, or bumper sticker from whatever college they’re at is a good gift for someone like me. All they do is constantly remind me that I’m not at school. But nobody thinks about that. Last time I was in treatment, I got stuff from Boston University, Skidmore, and Brown.”
“How do you like being a Smithie?” The words were barely out of my mouth before I cringed. What I’d meant to say was, What’s Smith like? Is it amazing? but instead I sounded like one of those people who uses slang nobody actually uses, like my uncle Rodney, who lives in Atlanta and always says, “What’s happening in Beantown these days?” when no local I know has ever called Boston Bean-anything.
Lexi scowled. “I can’t really say since I was only there for two weeks.”
Crap. I’d said the wrong thing. “Oh. Sorry. So when did your eating stuff start?”
“When I was eleven. I spent three weeks last year in a hospital being fed through a tube. My organs were at risk of failing. When I stabilized, I went to New Hope, which is just like this place but in New York.”
I’d read about how you could only come to places like Wallingfield if you were medically stable enough to eat and not in need of around-the-clock medical care. Otherwise, you went to a real hospital, where you just sat around hooked up to a feeding tube.
Lexi avoided my eyes as she continued. “The good news was that all this happened after college applications were due. Mom talked the guidance counselor into not telling Smith about my medical leave in the spring. I got out just in time to graduate.”
“Is Smith going to let you go back?”
She sighed. “I think so. I’m hoping for January. I should be better by then. It sucks, because I really thought I’d be okay this time. But as it turns out, transitions are hard for me. I fell apart pretty much the minute my parents dropped me off. The dean of students made me leave after I ended up in the hospital. I fainted and hit my head.” Her whole body slumped and she looked like she might cry.
“I’m sorry.” I felt terrible for asking. “That does suck.”
“Thanks. But enough about that. It’s so depressing.” She gestured to my second package. “What else did you get?”
“I don’t know.”
She studied the paper-wrapped box. “That’s a ton of stamps.” The box was covered with at least twenty Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix postage stamps. “Hurry up and open it! I’ve got to go to therapy in, like, two minutes.”
“Okay.” I ran my finger over my name, written in blue pen. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, which was cramped and small, and there wasn’t a return address.
When I shook it, something thumped inside. I scrunched up my eyebrows and immediately heard Mom’s voice in my head—Stop! You’ll give yourself wrinkles!
Ray had broken the seals, so it was easy to slide out the tissue paper inside. A silver dollar–sized brass ring, strung on a red satin ribbon, fell into my palm. The surface was worn and smooth, and it glowed like dull, tarnished gold. Holding it, I felt calmer, like how I felt with Flippy, my stuffed dolphin. I put it around my neck, the ring swaying gently back and forth against my chest.
“Who sent you that?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted the ring over my head and carefully hung it on my bedpost, where it clinked before settling against the metal frame.
“Really?” Lexi didn’t believe me, I could tell.
“I’m not kidding. I seriously have no idea.”
“You know, it looks like one of the brass rings you get on the Flying Horses,” Lexi said thoughtfully.
“Flying Horses? The carousel on Martha’s Vineyard?” My heart beat a little faster. Martha’s Vineyard is an island off the coast of Massachusetts. Lots of kids I knew went there on vacation in the summer.
“Yes. Have you been there?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it.”
Lexi nodded. “It’s pretty cool. I went once when I was little. When you ride the carousel, you pull rings from this metal arm when you go around. The last ring right before the music ends is a brass one. If you grab it, you win a free ride.”
“Right.” I’d learned about that carousel from my ex-boyfriend Charlie. Charlie, officially Charles Winthrop Abbot III, used to ride it all the time when he was a kid. His family had a house on the Vineyard. From the photos he’d shown me, Charlie spent most of his Vineyard time sailing, playing tennis, or wearing reddish-pink pants or shorts that were must-haves if you were a guy and your favorite store was Vineyard Vines or J.Crew. My family had never been to the Vineyard, and I don’t think my dad owned a pair of pink-colored anything.
Now, though, I perked up. One night over the summer, at a bonfire on Chorus Beach, Charlie and his friends traded stories about their wild parties on the Vineyard, especially on South Beach. In the middle of one story that involved fireworks, dune grass, and the police, Charlie drunkenly promised that he’d take me there. He told me about the carousel and promised that when we went, he’d win me the brass ring. His friends made fun of him for being so romantic.
That night, lying in bed, I’d pictured us riding the horses together, sharing cotton candy and leaning in to kiss as the carousel went round and round. Cheesy? Sure, but awesome, too. I still thought about it sometimes. I’d assumed that Charlie had forgotten all about that. Beer—and breaking up—has a way of wiping memories clean. But now? Maybe he hadn’t forgotten after all.
“Do you go to Martha’s Vineyard a lot?” I asked Lexi. Maybe she knew Charlie. He’d said the island was small.
“What? Oh, God no. I’m a Long Island girl. I prefer the Hamptons.” Lexi gathered a notebook and black sweatshirt into her hands. “I’ve gotta go,” she said. “I have a phone therapy session with my dad.” My brain flashed back to the man I’d seen on the first day, completely buried in his laptop. He hadn’t seemed like the talkative type.
“Good luck,” I said, sending her a sympathetic glance.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’ll see.”
Willa walked in as Lexi left, the two slipping around each other like they were made of air.
“Elizabeth!” Willa said. “Tell me what you got!”
I hesitated, already half wishing Lexi didn’t know. It felt good to have a secret here. But it was Willa asking, and she was so excited I didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.
“It’s just a little thing. I’ll show you, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”