8. Darcy
DARCY
She wasn’t hungry for dinner, but she was for information. Ever since he’d flashed her a smile in the hallway, she couldn’t get that boy from the club out of her head. Flick, he’d said, when he’d introduced himself. Flick was cute. Though nothing like Spencer Delancey, let’s be clear. Spencer was blond and broad and chiseled: textbook Ken doll. Flick was more… boyish. His dark hair was cut short, his skin the color of her favorite iced coffee. He’d looked more than a little lost standing under the chandelier in the foyer. And his clothes had been all wrong for the club. But that smile .
“So, how was camp today?” her mother asked too brightly, as they all sat down to eat.
Darcy blinked. She was beat from a long day with little people, and she really did not feel like regaling her mother with the exacting recap she seemed to require these days. Ever since she started working at the realty office, instead of being normal and plunking herself in front of the Bravo channel with a glass of wine like Lily’s mom did (and she didn’t even have a job), Ingrid Birch came home and cooked elaborate dinners and insisted on family time. She knew her mother wanted to spend time together, but all Darcy wanted was to be left alone. It was an exhausting dance.
“Darcy, honey? I asked how camp went?” her mother repeated.
“Fine,” she replied, shoving a giant forkful of salad into her mouth before her mother could ask a follow-up.
In addition to pushing houses and aggressively parenting, Ingrid was working on communicating with her teens. The other night, Darcy had come downstairs to make popcorn and caught her mother bent over her laptop. When Darcy peered over her shoulder she caught the headline of the article she was reading: “Talking to Your Teen: Making the Most of Reluctant Conversation Partners.” She’d had to bite her tongue.
Her mom had glanced up wearily, then back at her screen. “Maryanne says we need to help Adam engage in conversations.” Maryanne was Adam’s speech pathologist. But Darcy secretly wondered if the article had more to do with her.
She loved her mother. But sometimes Ingrid was just so… Ingrid.
As she’d waited for the popcorn to pop, Darcy couldn’t help but scan the article. Be sure to ask open-ended questions of your teen. Open-ended questions invite more detailed answers than those disappointing one-word replies, the killers of conversation.
Why did adults feel the need to complicate everything? Maybe, like her, Adam just didn’t feel like talking sometimes.
Now, Ingrid blinked expectantly at her over her untouched plate. “Just fine?”
Ingrid should probably reread that article; she hadn’t learned to ask open-ended questions yet.
Darcy turned to her father, who had no excuse to look as tired as he did: at least he’d spent his day in the air-conditioning instead of chasing kids with sunscreen and bug spray. “So, Dad—you had an interview?”
Her father nodded. “Yes. For kitchen help.” He took a bite without offering anything more.
Darcy tried again. “Seems like a nice guy.”
This got her father’s attention. “You know him?”
“Not really. I ran into him in the hallway and showed him where your office was.”
Her dad cocked his head. “Did you recognize him?”
Hadn’t she just said that they’d met in the hallway? Maybe her father should read that article, too. “Should I have?”
Her father set down his fork. “So, I had a little surprise at work.”
This cheered her mother right up. Darcy could read the thought bubble over Ingrid’s head, Finally, some information!
“Turns out my interview was with our new neighbor, Flick Creevy.” Her father shrugged. “He seemed like a nice kid. Decent candidate. It’s too bad, really.”
None of this was making any sense. Darcy knew all about the new neighbors—she’d heard the late-night music, she’d seen their obnoxious RV, she’d even smelled pot wafting from their yard one night. No one had mentioned a teenage boy. That she would’ve remembered.
“Flick is our neighbor ?” Darcy’s mind reeled. The cute boy from the hallway had not only applied for a job at Mayhaven, but also lived next door? She pushed her chair back. “I can’t believe this.”
“Wait, where are you going?” her mother stammered, looking in alarm at her full plate.
“Why didn’t you guys tell me?” Darcy cried. Of all the meaningless things they talked about, no one had thought to mention a new teenage neighbor?
Her father was looking at her funny. “I thought we did. Besides, I only met him briefly that night I went over there to welcome them to the neighborhood.”
That night . It was all her parents had talked about, in hushed tones, since. The big neighbor, Stan. His big RV. And the big slam in her father’s face. All interesting intel, but not exactly relevant to Darcy. Like an opened Snap on Snapchat, fleeting and instantly replaced by the next. Still, someone could have mentioned a teenage son.
“Flick Creevy,” Adam said, looking up from his dinner. “He moved in ten days ago. He drives a 2013 Chevy Malibu.”
Yep, Adam had been listening.
“That’s right,” their mother said. “How did you know his car is a 2013? Have you met him, too?”
Adam shook his head.
Darcy pulled her chair back in. “So, are you giving him the job?” If Flick was going to be working at Mayhaven with her each day, she’d like to know.
This seemed to weigh on her father. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, I sure hope he’s more polite than his stepfather,” her mother said, standing up. She was the only one with a clean plate. When Adam tried to stand, too, she said, “Lemon meringue for dessert, for those who eat their dinner.”
Adam plopped back down in his chair. “Chevy Malibus have been produced since 1964. The 327 V-8 had 300 horsepower.” Adam took a bite of his dinner and continued with his mouth full. “It was raised to 350 in 1965.”
Their father smiled. “How do you know all that?”
Adam took another bite. “I like Flick’s car. I looked it up on YouTube. If he drives, he has a license. Which means he’s at least sixteen.” He looked at his sister. “You’re sixteen, too.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. Even Adam knew more about Flick than she did.
But their father was already changing the subject. “Do you know, your grandfather had a Chevy, too, Adam? It was a red Chevelle.”
Adam froze in concentration. “Chevelle. What year?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I was a kid when he got it. Must have been 1975 or 1976?”
Adam pushed his chair back. “I’m looking it up.”
“Dessert!” their mother barked from the kitchen sink. Adam slumped back down. Darcy knew exactly how he felt.
“So, back to the interview,” she prompted. Was she being too obvious?
Luckily her mother was even nosier. “Yes, you said you’re desperate for kitchen help. So what makes you unsure about Flick Creevy?”
“The situation next door.”
The situation: it sounded so dramatic, especially from someone as old as her father.
“The RV,” Adam said decisively. “The RV is the situation.”
They all gazed toward the window that looked out on the driveway, and the behemoth RV. “It’s still there,” her father said, gripping his napkin.
“But surely you can’t hold that against Flick,” her mother said.
It was one thing Darcy and her mother agreed on. “Yeah, he can’t help it if his stepfather is an asshole,” she added.
“Swear jar!” Adam leapt out of his seat and ran to the kitchen counter.
“Asshole is hardly a swear.”
Adam plunked the jar down on the table. “Times two!”
“He’s right,” her mother said.
Darcy looked to her father, who rubbed his eyes wearily. “Times two.”
“If he’s a good candidate, it’s only fair to give Flick the job.” She wondered if Flick would be going to her high school. Based on the high-end cars in their driveway and the gleaming RV, they had money. Maybe he’d go to Thwarton Prep, like so many of the other kids at the club. She was glad Spencer Delancey didn’t go to Thwarton.
“I’ll think about it,” her father said, rising slowly from the table. He looked exhausted, so Darcy let it go.
Adam leaned across the table and jingled the swear jar under her nose. “He said he’s going to think about it. Now pay up.”
Up in her room, Darcy opened her closet door and pushed the hangers of clothes aside so she could see better. The back of the closet floor was where she tossed things she didn’t want, like old shoes or out of fashion purses. Hidden among them was an old duffel bag; it was what was in the duffel bag that she was after. As she knelt, she saw a flicker of gold. Shoved against the far side of the closet were her trophies, toppled over and half-covered by discarded clothes. Darcy sat on her haunches and regarded them.
They were only a handful of the many she’d won over the years. The others her father stored on a shelf in his study downstairs, alongside his own, from his youth.
Hesitantly, she reached for the largest trophy, the one she hated most. It was from last October, when she’d won the Junior New England championship at Shuttle Meadow Golf Club. The last tournament she’d played, and the hardest one fought for.
Just holding the weight of the trophy in her hands brought back the memory of that day. Surrounded by hills, woods, and streams Shuttle Meadow had been challenging, but Vince had reminded her that she was used to the varied terrain of Mayhaven, and Darcy went in feeling strong. Despite that, she had not started well. On the first two holes, she double-bogeyed, and was behind the leader by five strokes. She parred the next, but the pattern went on and she finished in a lousy fourth place. Maya Lee, who led by seven strokes by the end of the first day, had run into her at the buffet under the big white tent that evening. Darcy appreciated Maya, beyond her obvious skill. She was low-key and friendly, no matter how good or bad she’d played.
“Congrats,” she’d told Maya.
“It’s just day one,” Maya said, winking. “Tomorrow you’ll be coming for me, along with the rest of them.”
It was true. You wanted to start strong, for the mental edge more than anything. But Darcy had played long enough to know that on the second day leaders could have their edge swept away with just one bad drive or missed putt. Once the technical stuff crept in, so, too, did the shaking of confidence. Darcy still had a chance to catch her.
But to her chagrin, the next day she started out just as she had the first: inconsistent in her irons, and unable to secure that feeling she got when her nerves settled and her muscle memory took over.
“Shake it off and start fresh on the next hole,” Vince had coached. “You play your best when you’re having fun. Imagine we’re back at Mayhaven, just practicing.”
He was right, and she tried to follow his advice. But then she sliced the ball into the trees on the fourth hole. When she passed her parents standing in the crowd along the fairway, Darcy couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with her father. It wasn’t just Vince; it was her father who she really wanted to make proud.
But then something happened when she made the turn. Her irons, which had been troubling her all morning, settled into her grip as if they were extensions of her own arms. Suddenly, the ball was flying off her clubs. She crushed her next three drives. With her nerves settling, Darcy found her rhythm. And by the final hole of the day, Darcy was one stroke behind a new leader, Ellis Quinn, with Maya now in third. On her last putt, Ellis choked. Darcy made an eagle. When she looked up and saw her father’s face in the crowd, it was one of the best moments of her life.
What followed, after the awards ceremony that night, was one of the worst.
Now, hands shaking with anger, Darcy shoved the trophy back into the closet. She grabbed the black duffel bag and unzipped it. At the bottom was the green plastic jar she’d been looking for. She unscrewed the jar of weight-loss pills and tipped a handful of capsules into her hands. Their bright yellow color was hope. Summer. Sunshine. She’d discovered them on TikTok, thanks to an influencer she admired for her taut midriff and effortless style. Despite the fact she was Darcy’s age, she looked eons more sophisticated. Worldly. Sexy. The influencer claimed she’d been taking those pills for just one month and was already down fifteen pounds. It was that easy. It was even easier to buy them at the link provided. No questions asked.
The bottle came three days later, and though she’d worried her parents might see it, everyone was so distracted with their own problems that summer that no one in her family noticed. She beat them to the mailbox and hid the bottle in her room. That was less than a week ago. She’d lost two pounds already. The pills made her feel jittery and she peed a lot, but it was no big deal.
The directions called for one capsule each day. Darcy paused, before popping two in her mouth and taking a long swig from her water bottle. Then she shoved the duffel bag back into her closet, beneath the clothes and shoes and purses, where her nosy mother wouldn’t find it and her father wouldn’t think to look.
When she went to the mirror, she imagined a new girl staring back at her with the same green eyes. A girl who didn’t think about trophies or the game or the look on her father’s face that day. A girl who didn’t miss the weight of a four iron in her hand or the sun on her back as she surveyed the fairway from the highest point on the course. Darcy tucked a strand of stray curl behind her ear. She wondered how long it would take until it felt that way for real.