20. Daphne
Daphne
I don’t know how many times Rickie caught me staring at him this morning. Quite a few, I’m afraid. It was bad enough when I was only struggling with his raw sensuality.
But it’s even worse now that I have Chastity’s whispered gossip playing on repeat in my head. Rickie never hooks up .
First of all, that is incredibly hard to believe. I’ve never met someone more comfortable with his sex appeal. And secondly… never ? Does that include kisses in the truck, and heavy make-out sessions on a blanket in the orchard?
Because that happened.
On my best days I don’t do all that well with uncertainties. But now they’re driving me crazy. After breakfast, my poor wandering eyes get a break when Rickie and Chastity head outside to hang pest traps in the orchard.
The rest of us have a family meeting. That means Griffin, Mom, and Audrey run the payroll, and then we all talk about plans and expenses for the coming month. Even May drives out to the farm for a family meeting.
“Where’d Dylan go?” I ask as we all sit down.
“Here!” he says, sliding into his seat at the last minute. He hates family meetings, they make him fidgety. I’m not a huge fan, either, but I show up out of obligation, and also to help my mother plan Thursday dinner, which is a family tradition.
“First order of business,” my mother says. “Tonight’s dinner will be served outdoors. It’s just too hot to have twenty people in the dining room.”
She’s right, it’s going to be a scorcher. But the number sounds high. “Wait, how many chairs do we need?” I ask.
My mother picks up her pen and starts jotting names down the margin of her legal pad. “Griff, Audrey, Gus, May, Alec…“ She keeps going, adding herself and me and Dylan and Chastity and Rickie. “No Zach tonight, but Kyle, Kieran, and Roderick are coming.”
“That’s thirteen,” I say. “Plus Grandpa is fourteen.”
“Is he bringing a guest?” Audrey asks with a smile. “I’ll just ask him.” She pops out of her chair and disappears into the TV room.
When she returns a moment later, she’s shaking her head. “No guest?” my mother asks, pen poised above the paper.
“Actually, he’s just not sure.”
“I got a bit of a situation,” Grandpa says from the doorway. “It could be a plus one, a plus two, or a big fat zero.”
“How’s that?” Griffin asks, looking amused.
“Well, I’m trying to date Mabel. But she said she's too old to start over. And I think that sounds like horse-pucky.”
My mother is still clutching the pen. “Should I write down Mabel as a maybe?”
“Then I danced with Patrice at the twins’ birthday, just to give Mabel something to think on. And it backfired.”
“ Really ,” Audrey says slowly. “Who knew that a blatant exploitation of a woman’s emotions could backfire?”
He gives her a sour look. “Now she says I'm too much of a bad boy for her taste. Do I look like a bad boy to you?”
“ Yes ,” says everyone at the table, in unison. It might be the only time we've ever agreed on anything as a family.
Grandpa scowls. “I invited Patrice to dinner. But now Mabel is asking me what I’m up to tonight. She’s fishing for an invitation. It’s a very fluid situation. Anything could happen.”
“Keep us posted,” my mother says. “We’ll assume Grandpa has one date tonight. That makes our grand tally about seventeen people.”
“Fifteen,” I correct, because accurate data is kind of a sticking point with me. Oh, the irony.
“We’ll be seventeen,” she says firmly, writing down that number and circling it.
“Do you have two dates tonight, too?” Griffin asks.
“I guess you’ll find out,” she says crisply.
There’s an awkward silence at the table. Dylan and I exchange a glance. It asks: what is up with everyone today?
“So,” Audrey says, her sunny voice puncturing some of the tension. “What’s on the menu?”
“I was thinking we should have a taco bar,” Mom says. “Grilled chicken and slow-cooked beef, and a lot of toppings.”
“Excellent.” Audrey claps her hands. “I can make a couple of sides. Mexican rice? Spicy black beans? Oooh—guacamole!”
“Roderick is bringing that,” my mother says.
“Even better,” Audrey chirps. “His guacamole is great.”
“I can make sangria, and lemonade,” I offer. “But what about dessert?”
“Pies,” my mother says. “We’ll make them after lunch. Will you help?”
“Sure,” I say quickly. “No problem.”
“Okay, on to finance,” Griffin says, opening a file folder. “I’m trying to decide the best timing for investing in solar. There’s a nice tax incentive that would cut down the cost. But the up-front expenditure is still kind of steep.”
“How steep?” Mom asks.
“The proposal is right here. But I haven’t seen this year’s tuition bills yet. Who’s got numbers for me?”
Oh boy. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I pull my financial aid award out of my back pocket and hand it to Griffin. “This came a week ago. They took their time.”
Griffin unfolds the document, which he quickly scans. “Whoa. Why’s the cost so much more than last year?” He looks up. “Shouldn’t we be saving money with you at a state school?” His eyes dart from me to my mother.
Mom just shakes her head.
“No, unfortunately,” I explain. “They, um, just don’t have the same endowment as Harkness. Dylan’s full-time bills look just like mine.”
“I thought that was because Dylan is a B and C student,” Griffin says.
“You’re kidding right now, right?” my twin asks. “That’s not how financial aid works.”
“I didn’t know that,” Griffin grumbles, scanning the page again, as if the numbers would change. “Is it because Daphne applied late?”
“No! But thanks for asking,” I snap.
“Hey!” He holds up two hands in surrender. “I just thought maybe there was a chance we’ll do a little better for the second semester.”
“No,” I say, drowning in my shame. “The aid is just not as good. And I couldn’t determine that before I switched. Also, last year I got a fellowship. And, uh, this year they didn’t fund me.”
Everyone stares at me with pity in their eyes. And I actually feel worse than I did last night when I finally dared to open the envelope.
“Okay,” Mom says gently. “It is what it is.”
“I could take out an additional loan,” I offer. “Just for this year. To replace those funds.”
“But what about grad school?” Griffin asks. “That’s still your plan, right?”
“I’ll, uh, worry about that later. I’ll be applying for other fellowships.”
There’s an awkward silence. Griffin scans the numbers again and jots something down on his notepad. “I still am not a hundred percent clear on why you’re transferring. Actually, I’m zero percent clear.”
“Griff,” my twin warns. Dylan hates conflict. “She doesn’t have to explain every decision.”
“This was a big one, though,” Griffin says quietly. “Can I not ask?”
Another silence follows, and everyone is staring at me. They’re all wondering why I spent my teen years saying I couldn’t wait to go somewhere more cosmopolitan, only to come running home a year before I received my degree from one of the nation’s most elite colleges.
“It wasn’t the right place for me,” I say eventually.
He sighs. “Okay. If that’s what you’re going with.”
“Does it matter?” May asks. “What if I loaned the farm a couple thousand dollars, so you don't have to choose between the tuition and solar panels?”
Oh hell no. “I’m not taking your money,” I say, and it comes out sounding way too sharp.
May sits back in her chair, like I’ve just slapped her. And Dylan just shakes his head at me.
So I’m the bitch again. Lovely. But I really don't want her paying for my mistakes. I have enough sister guilt, thanks.
“Never mind,” Griffin says. Now that he’s stirred everything up, he wants to move on. “I’ll pause the solar until spring. Moving on to payroll… we have all the help we need right now, which is nice. Why is the bank account out of balance with QuickBooks?”
"Rickie hasn't cashed his paychecks,” my mother says.
"Ah," he jots down a note.
”Daphne, can you remind him?" Dylan asks.
"Why me?" I squeak. Is it really that obvious that I spend way too much time thinking about Rickie, and his wicked mouth?
Dylan gives me a look like I'm an idiot. “Because you two go to Burlington every week, where he banks?"
"Oh, sure." I really need to just keep my mouth shut this morning. Where’s the duct tape when I need it?
“All right,” Griffin says. “So everything is on track for the remainder of July and August, personnel wise. But I’m worried about September and October. Daphne, Dylan, Chastity, and Rickie are all back to school. We'll need bodies.”
“Especially on the weekend,” Audrey adds.
“Do we know anyone from church who’s taking a gap year before college?” my mother asks. “Recruiting was easier when Daphne and Dylan still had high school friends.”
“This does get harder every year,” Griffin admits. “Kieran and Kyle used to give us hours. They’re both too busy now. Isaac moved away. I need a new plan.”
“Chass and I will still come home on the weekends,” my brother says. “We’re both available for U-pick season. If the bunkhouse is full, we can stay in my room.”
“I’m more worried that the bunkhouse will be empty,” Griffin says. “I’m going to call the guys at the agricultural extension and ask about hiring some Jamaican apple harvesters. I’ve never wanted to take on all that immigration paperwork, but we really need a new play.”
“I’ll come home on the weekends,” I hear myself offer.
Everyone blinks. “You never do that,” Dylan says.
“No kidding, I used to be three or four hours away. Besides, I’ll need a part-time job. Why should I work in a Burlington bookstore when I could be working at the farm stand instead?”
“Okay. That’s helpful,” Griffin says slowly. “Thank you.”
I can see that he doesn’t actually believe me. And that’s what I get for spending most of my teenage years telling everyone who’d listen that I couldn’t wait to get out of Vermont.
We had family meetings when I was a little girl, too.
My father liked to gather everyone around the table, and explain whatever changes he was making for the new season.
He’d tell us about his choices—whether or not to regraft a set of trees, or whether or not to buy a new cow. Then he’d ask our opinions.
“You choose, Daddy,” I’d always say. “I’m not a farmer.”
My views haven’t really changed, but my circumstances have. And since I’m not twelve years old anymore, I understand that sometimes you just have to pitch in and help your family.
They don’t believe me. They don’t trust that I’m sincere. That’s my fault too, I guess.
So many things are.