Miraculously, the next three nights of the Nantucket High School’s production ofWest Side Storywent off without a hitch. Per Greta’s instructions, Alana dug into the emotional wounds of her relationship with Jeremy Farley, pushing beyond the face-level beauty of herTeen Vogue-worthy face and presenting herself as a “force to be reckoned with,” according to the Nantucket local newspaper.
Bernard and Greta Copperfield appeared in the fourth row in the center for every single performance. When Alana dared to glance down at them, they were both rapt with attention, their eyes bright with pride. She couldn’t blame them. This was the first time Alana had actually done something that had anything to do with their interests. They were the Copperfields after all— the owners and operators of the esteemed Copperfield Artist Residency, which occupied half of The Copperfield House.
Alana’s boyfriend, Jeremy, came to Saturday night’s performance. Just as he was supposed to, he brought her a bouquet of red roses and kissed her on the cheek in front of half the school and her parents. Jeremy liked to be seen as the perfect all-American teenager, the one who’d won the prettiest girl in school.
Both Julia and Ella came to Sunday’s performance. They sat toward the back, barely visible from stage. During intermission, Alana peeked out to watch Julia scribbling in her notebook and Ella listening to her Walkman.What did her little sisters think of her? Did they think she had any talent at all?
The eldest child of the Copperfield Family, Quentin Copperfield, had run off to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career. When he caught wind of Alana’s “passable” performance, he called long-distance to congratulate her. “Maybe I’ll see you out in LA soon?”
To this, Alana scoffed. “I don’t know about that. I don’t have your skills, Q.”
“Come on, Alana. You can’t just stay on Nantucket, can you?”
“What’s so bad about Nantucket?”
“What would you do there?” Quentin asked. “Everyone you know is leaving, aren’t they?”
The weekend after the final performance, Greta Copperfield cooked a typical French dish, Boeuf Bourguignon, in celebration. Three members of the Copperfield Artist Residency sat around the table with Alana, Julia, Ella, Greta, and Bernard, discussing their current projects and laughing over wine. Greta poured Alana a small glass of Bordeaux with a wink, saying, “You’re nearly eighteen. In France, teenagers enjoy wine with their parents.” Julia and Ella glowered at Alana with jealousy from behind their glasses of milk.
The three members of the Copperfield Artist Residency who sat at the dinner table included a writer named Bethany Strong, a filmmaker named Tyler Ratcliffe, and a painter named Asher Tarkin. Bethany was chatty and chubby-cheeked, discussing her “golden” childhood back in the Midwest and her belief that she had to suffer in NYC before she really knew what to write about. The filmmaker, Tyler, disagreed with this, saying that you could find artistry in nearly anything you did. The painter, Asher, brooded at the far end of the table, his dark hair covering more than half of his eyes. He made little lines through the sauce over his beef with his fork, as though it, too, was a painting.
“What do you think, Asher?” Bernard asked. “Do you have to suffer to really get to the heart of your paintings?”
Asher’s fingers reminded Alana of the skeleton outside the Halloween shop that opened every September and closed up by November 1st.
“Good question, Mr. Copperfield,” Asher began. “I’ve thought about this extensively, and I’ve come to the conclusion that all of life is suffering. It’s our job as artists to leaf through the muck and draw out the beauty within.”
At this last word, “beauty,” Asher’s eyes flicked toward Alana. Alana’s heart pounded. She dropped her gaze toward her half-eaten beef as her father’s laughter lifted toward the ceiling.
“All of life is suffering,” Bernard repeated. “I take it you’ve studied Buddhism.”
Asher lifted his shoulder. “I’ve dabbled. But I also don’t believe in calling myself a Buddhist. I don’t believe in calling myself anything.”
Again, Asher’s eyes locked with Alana’s. Alana cursed herself for staring at him. Still, what he said about not labeling himself seemed to connect with her soul.Who am I? Does it even matter?
The landline in the kitchen rang out. Greta tapped her mouth with her napkin and headed off to answer it. A split-second later, she called, “Alana! It’s for you.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Ella muttered.
Truthfully, when the phone rang, it was usually for Alana. She flipped her hair over her shoulders and sauntered off toward the kitchen, where she fielded a call from another girl on the cheerleading squad. “There’s a party at the beach tonight. Senior students only. You have to come.”
“Does Jeremy know about it?”
“I assume so. You haven’t talked to him?”
Alana and Julia helped Greta wash and dry the dishes. Ella retreated to her bedroom with her guitar, saying she wanted to finish writing the song in her head before the end of the night. Greta and Julia got into a conversation about the poetry of Eileen Myles, whom Alana had never even heard of.
“Okay, I’m off.” Alana interrupted her mother and sister, drying her hands on a scratchy kitchen towel.
“Where?” Greta asked, tilting her head.
“I told you. There’s a party at the beach.” Alana let a beat pass before she added, “Seniors only,” for her sister’s benefit.
“I think you should bring Julia,” Greta urged.
Julia’s cheeks flashed pink. “Mom, it’s okay. Really.”
“No! Seniors only? That’s baloney. You belong there.” Greta arched her brow with finality.
Alana had been through this rigamarole enough times to know that if Alana didn’t take her sister with her, Alana wouldn’t be allowed to go at all. With an exhausted groan, she gestured toward Julia and said, “You can’t wear that.”
Julia hustled upstairs to change into a dress, tights, and a big puffy coat. It was the first week of May, flourishing with gorgeous afternoons before darkening into shivery evenings. The bonfire would make up for it.