The Shimmers in the Night

Two

Clothing-stuffed backpack over her shoulder, Cara rang Hayley's doorbell for her ride to school. There they would get on the charter bus that would take the team onto the mainland and finally into Boston.

It was so early it was dark out, with the first pale streaks in the sky; Cara was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when Hayley's mother answered the door with her lips lined in purple and her hair done up in a sixties beehive.

Hayley's mom ran a beauty salon along Route 6, a salon with a lot of fake flowers in it where young women got their nails done and old ladies got their hair washed a lavender color and set into wavy helmets. Cara and Hayley had asked her what the reason was behind that old-lady blue hair situation, but Mrs. M never explained it too well. It seemed like a ritual from ancient times-the equivalent of a secret handshake. In any case, Mrs. Moore's own hair was always elaborate and tacky, like a Gaga wig but maybe without the irony.

"Come on in, Cara, hon!" she enthused in her Georgia accent.

It turned on into own and in into Ian. Come own Ian!

"Thanks," said Cara.

Hayley's mom often made Cara feel a bit embarrassed-though not as embarrased as Hayley felt. Mrs. M. was nice, no argument there, but she was also shiny and loud and stood too near, where Cara's mother was soft-spoken and, like a chameleon, always seemed to match wherever she found herself.

"Would you go on up and get her, sweetcakes? I'll be waiting out in the car," said Mrs. M, and pulled on a lumpy fur jacket Cara really hoped was fake. It had animal tails dangling.

Cara dropped her bags and took the stairs two at a time. Hayley was one of those people who always made you wait-at least, if she was involved in a momentous decision such as what to wear. In restaurants, she was the one still studying the menu when everyone else already had a plate in front of them.

"Hay! Time to go!" called Cara as she swung past the shag-carpeted landing and into the upstairs hallway.

Hayley's door was open, showing a wall of celebrity collages. She cut up the gossip and fashion magazines her mom's clients left in the salon.

"I'm coming! Geez," said Hayley.

In fact, she wasn't coming at all. She was posing in front of her full-length mirror, admiring herself in a leisurely fashion and rocking an eighties outfit. She had feathery earrings dangling from her ears and an asymmetrical, triangle-shaped coat that looked, to Cara, on the ugly side.

Of course, she would never say that to Hayley. It wasn't that Hay's feelings would be hurt or anything. Far from it. She'd just roll her eyes at Cara's poor fashion sense and give her a lecture on glamor and trends and the importance of retro. But Cara also knew that Hay's elaborate outfits were carefully chosen at thrift stores. They didn't have the money for brand-new clothes.

"We have to go now," said Cara. "It's a bus. Not a personal taxi service."

"So my goal is like an early Madonna, sleazy gutterslag kinda look," said Hayley.

"Nice," nodded Cara. "Yeah. I can see that. But let me ask you this. Did you pack your swimsuit?"

Hayley stopped popping her gum and snapped her fingers. She swished by Cara, down the hall to the bathroom (where everything was fluffy and/or made of conch shells and beach glass and a really bad poster showed two sets of footprints turning to one in the sand, along with some motto about Jesus carrying you) and grabbed a threadbare Speedo dangling off the shower rod.

"Good thought. Kudos," she said.

•

By the time they were getting into the car, Hayley was already irritated with her mom, who proceeded to grill them all the way to school-driving, as usual, like she was under the influence though all she was drinking was coffee-on the names and family histories of other kids on the team. Mrs. M was what you might call an extrovert. Extreme. She was sure to talk to everyone and bustle around everywhere, Cara thought. There was no way she'd fly under the radar.