By Holly Hertberg '93
Illustrations by Jennifer Playford
There was this girl at the lake where Danny sold hot dogs his first summer in upstate New York, this girl who wore a big-brimmed floppy hat with a wide black ribbon hanging down from it. Danny saw her and her hat and thought to himself, if I could talk to her, I could do anything.
But for a while he just watched her as she sat on her white plastic chair, the kind that sold for 10 dollars at Kmart, her arms deep red-brown like stained wood, the brim of her hat flopping over her face. He could see her profile and the long brown hair that came out of her hat and over her shoulders. He thought maybe he would bring her a Coke from the snack bar during his break and sit down on the sand beside her and ask her her name. He thought she might like that, she looked like the type of girl—long and lean and graceful—who might appreciate something like that. They would sit there, the two of them, drinking Cokes and looking out over the lake with the flashing windsurfers and the diving birds, and then he could do anything.
He waited a long time to talk to her. The stretch of sand between the ketchup-stained counter and the white plastic chair seemed almost insurmountable, and he wasn't sure yet that he could do it. She wasn't moving, except for the flapping of her hat, a still life among the cartwheeling kids and the Frisbee players, and he began to wonder if maybe she was asleep.
He couldn't go talk to her if she was asleep. He had to be careful, handle the approach perfectly. He was the new kid there, as he had always been the new kid everywhere, and he knew about the delicacy of his position. One wrong move, one too-sudden approach, and he would be a marked man. There would be a group of giggling girls in skimpy bikinis, their hair shining in the sun and skin smelling like coconut, looking at him and whispering, "That's the guy who accosted Wendy." No, this time he had to be careful not to make the mistakes he had made before.
In Coronado it had been the blue bicycle he rode to school, the one with the basket on it that he had bought because it reminded him of an Italian movie he had seen. When he rode it he remembered the blue of the sea and the narrow roads lined by leaning buildings and the fresh baked loaves of bread that the men in white linen had in their baskets, and it had seemed to him a real thing of beauty. The kids at his new school had laughed at it and called him wicker boy, and he never lived that name down the whole nine months he was there. He sat at lunch with the boys in the chess club with the cowlicks and uncooperative limbs but never really made friends with them.
In Arlington, it was his violin. His music teacher insisted he play a solo during the orchestra recital. While he played, knees shaking and forehead sweating under the lights, he could hear how good he was, how he had played it the way that Boccherini had meant it to be played. And even while his fingers slid over the strings and his heart swelled as it couldn't help but swell with the grace of the music, he knew that he had just sealed his doom. When he took his bow to the sounds of bored applause, he wanted to cry. He could not see the faces through the blinding stage lights, but he knew what was there in front of him.
And so this time, in this place, it would be different. He would wait for the right time to talk to her, all summer if he had to. Right now it was enough to look across the sand to where she blotted out a little part of the lake, her flapping hat giving him glimpses at something perfect.
Brian Sturdevant worked with Danny at the snack bar and came in for the lunch rush. He was a tall kid, wiry and strong and stretched-out looking. His eyes were small but very green, and they flashed when he laughed. He was always talking and Danny liked him. Brian knew a lot of the kids at the lake and they came up to see him, leaning against the counter and folding their dollars in their hands while they talked. They called him Sturdevant, drawing out the first syllable. Danny had met a few kids through Brian, even though Brian usually forgot to introduce him. Danny would stand back from the counter while Brian and his friends talked, trying to think of something to say.
When there was no one else at the counter, Brian would talk to Danny and tell him stories about the kids who had come up, vaguely mentioning parties he'd take Danny to. Danny thought Brian was a good person to know and wanted Brian to like him, so he thought very carefully about everything he said to him.
When Brian came in the day that Danny had spotted the girl in the hat, Danny was taking some hamburgers from the grill and putting them under the warming lamp.
"Hey, man," Brian said, pulling a stained apron from his backpack and wrapping it loosely around his waist. "How's business?"
"Slow," Danny said.
Brian reached into his backpack and put a six-pack of beer into the cooler.
"Want one?" He held a can out to Danny.
"Sure," he said. He took the beer and the cold metal felt good on his hands. He hadn't expected the North to be so hot. He had always pictured it lying somewhere underneath a foot of snow, bleak and desolate, the sky indistinguishable from the ground. But now it seemed vibrant, lit up by the summer sun and the glinting water.
Brian pulled himself up onto a stool and rested one foot on the edge of the counter. He let out a long sigh. "Hair of the dog," he said, pulling the tab on his beer and putting his ear up to it to listen to the fizz. "Now this is how work should be."
Danny sat on the other stool and opened his beer. He took a long drink and put the can between his knees. He felt suddenly very happy.
"I went to this party last night," Brian said. "This guy Muzz—he was here yesterday—the guy with the tattoo?"
Danny nodded. He remembered him. He had come up for a hot dog with a cute blonde in a blue bathing suit. Brian had given Muzz the hot dog for free and flirted with the girl, snapping her bathing suit strap. When Brian's fingers had pulled the tight fabric away from her skin, Danny could see a thin, faint line of white where the strap had been flash and then disappear. She had giggled and rubbed her shoulder and pointed a finger at him. "Brian Sturdevant," she had said, just his name, but Danny felt a little twinge of envy anyway. Had a girl ever said his name like that?
"Muzz's parents went to Colorado for the week and he's been partying since they left. You should see his house. Trashed. The whole pool," he stretched his arms out wide, "full of empties."
Brian laughed and put his beer up to the back of his neck. "Maybe we'll go there tonight. You want to? You have to get some beer, it's bring your own, but I've got my brother's ID."
"Sure," Danny said. He smiled, maybe too widely he thought, but he couldn't help it.
Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He held up the fake ID so Danny could see it.
"Look at that. We don't even look alike, but there's this place over on Central that doesn't care. As long as you've got something laminated, they sell to you."
An older woman, sixty maybe, Danny thought, with graying hair pushed back by a headband and one of those bathing suits with a skirt, came up to the counter. Danny and Brian hid their beers under the counter quickly and stood up.
"How can I help you, ma'am?" Brian asked, smiling and leaning forward across the counter.
"I'll have a hot dog," she said, smiling back at him.
"At your service." Brian turned and took a hot dog out of the warmer and wrapped it in a napkin. He handed it to her and took her money and called after her, "Now you wear your sunscreen, you hear?"
Danny could hear the woman laugh as she stepped carefully across the hot sand to her towel.
"You are a salesman," Danny said, looking down to where Brian was kneeling down, retrieving the beer.
"You have to know what people want." His grin cut lines into his face and made it look even sharper. "You see a woman like that, alone at the beach in the middle of the week, and you know she wants a smile and a wink from some young stud like me."
Danny rolled his eyes but he laughed. He took the can that Brian held out to him and looked out at the beach to where the girl in the hat was sitting. She was moving now, getting up and stretching her arms. She started walking down to the water. She was like one of those women in old movies with her hat and her slow walk, each step a small triumph. It was like listening to music, watching her walk, and he felt the same longing that he did when in those great symphonies the music paused for a moment before starting up again. It wasn't a longing for her exactly, but for something that was around her, something that she could bring to him.
The girl in the blue bathing suit from the day before came up to the counter and Brian handed her his beer. The girl drank it in slow sips, looking at Brian as she drank it. Her fingernails were long and painted bright red and stood out against the silver can. Danny smiled once at her, but she didn't seem to notice; so he looked back out at the girl down by the lake. She was standing calf-high in water, her hand on her hat to keep it from flying off. A little farther behind her, a boy and a girl were wrestling in the water, the girl's shrieks high-pitched and punctuated with laughter. A group of teenagers walked by the girl in the hat, but she didn't seem to notice them. She stayed still, standing in the water and holding onto her hat, looking past the swimmers to where the boats passed by. Then he watched her turn, walk out of the water, and go back to her spot on the beach. She leaned over her chair and picked up a bright pink bag, and he realized suddenly, like someone had hit him with it, that she was walking up toward him. He watched her as she came closer, and he saw that she was beautiful like he had imagined, tan and smooth-skinned, with a thin face, not sharp like Brian's, but delicate looking.
She came to the counter, and she glanced at him and then looked past him at the chalkboard with the menu written on it.
"I'll have a Jimmy Cone," she said. He liked her voice. It was quiet and kind of low, and even ordering an ice cream it sounded musical.
"OK," he said. "Coming right up," he added, because it sounded like something Brian would say. He reached for the ice cream in the cooler, behind the six-pack of beer. He turned to her, waiting for something to come to him, anything, and handed her the ice cream over the counter. He looked over at Brian, hoping he would recognize her and start a conversation. Brian was curling a piece of the blonde girl's hair around his finger and the blonde girl was tapping her red fingernails on the counter and acting bored.
"It's $1.50," Danny said, smiling at the girl in the hat.
She unzipped her purse and pulled out a handful of change. "You're new here, right?" she asked as she counted out the coins.
"Yeah," he said. "I just moved here."
He watched her place the coins down on the counter one by one. Her hands were tan and there were lots of silver rings on her fingers that flashed as her hands moved.
"Where are you from?" she asked. She pushed the pile of coins toward him, mostly nickels and dimes, and he swept them off the counter into his hands.
"Lots of places, but Virginia last. My dad's in the military."
"I went to Virginia on a school trip," she said, taking the wrapper off the ice cream cone. "We went first to D.C. and then we went and saw Monticello."
"It's pretty, isn't it?"
"I liked the flowers. The house. The whole place. We had to walk up that long driveway because the shuttle bus had broken down, and when we were walking up there I kept thinking how incredible it must have been to ride up there on horseback like Jefferson would have, looking over into the valley and the mountains, and to know that it was all yours. All yours but kind of not yours, you know?" She licked off the ice cream that was melting down the cone.
He nodded and smiled and she smiled back. He realized suddenly that she hadn't disappointed him; she was everything that she had hinted at from the plastic chair. He put the coins in his left hand and stretched out his right. Now. Now it was OK to approach. "I'm Danny," he said.
"Sarah." She smiled again and her hand felt smooth and warm.
"Hey," the blonde said, moving over towards them and leaning her shoulder against the counter. "Nice hat."
Sarah dropped her hand and looked briefly at the ground and then over at the blonde. "Thank you," she said.
The blonde moved closer, almost stepping on Sarah's feet. "Can I try it on?" It wasn't really a question. She glanced quickly at Brian and gave him a little smile.
Sarah shrugged and took off the hat slowly. The blonde took the hat and pulled it onto her head so that the brim was just above her eyes.
"What do you think?" she asked, putting both of her hands on top of her head. She posed for Brian and then for Danny. Danny thought she looked like a little girl playing dress-up, a beautiful and self-conscious child in front of her mother's mirror. The hat did not fit her, and it suddenly seemed a ridiculous thing to be wearing at the beach.
The blonde strutted around in front of the booth and then stopped, suddenly very serious, and laid her arms flat out on the counter, her head drooping to her chest. "I'm simply parched," she said. "Might I have just a touch of tea?"
"Coming right up," Brian said, making a show of pouring tea from an imaginary teapot.
The blonde giggled and took the hat off. She handed it back to Sarah and smoothed down her hair. "I just love it," she said.
Sarah took the hat and held it in her free hand. The ribbon hung limp in the heat. She stood motionless for a moment, looking at Danny, and then she took a step backwards. There was a long trail of ice cream on her arm, dripping down at the elbow. "Thank you," she said. She turned around, and it seemed to Danny that her steps had become awkward and halting, like she was walking on stilts.
The blonde groaned and rubbed the top of her head. "I'd better go in the water and wash my hair off," she said. "Who knows what's living in that hat."
Brian looked over at Danny. "She wears that hat every day. She goes to our school."
"She's a freak," the blonde added. "She doesn't have any friends and she just walks around wearing that dumb hat all day. She thinks she's Mary Poppins or something."
Danny wanted to tell her that it wasn't Mary Poppins that she looked like, but Audrey Hepburn or a woman in one of Monet's paintings, but he didn't. He looked down at the counter, inspecting the names carved into the wood. He had wondered on slow days who these names belonged to, what their stories were, how their names had gotten written deep and permanent into the splintering planks. Their names had seemed interesting, full of possibilities. Now, in this oppressive midday heat, feeling the smell of hamburgers seeping into his T-shirt, he couldn't understand how a few jagged letters carved into wood could have seemed anything but stupid and ordinary.
For a while he listened to Brian and the blonde girl talk about Muzz's party. He watched the girls who came to get sodas and sips of beer, light matches for their cigarettes. He knew he would not talk to the girl in the hat again, just as he knew she did not expect him to. He would go with Brian to buy beer with the fake ID and he would go to the party and drink beer and swim in Muzz's pool and try to make something out of his life here. He would not think again about the girl or the violin or the blue bicycle except to wonder how it had happened that he had never learned to see things the way other people must have seen them, meaningless and empty, the sky indistinguishable from the ground.
About the Author
Holly Hertberg '93 is an assistant professor at the Curry School
of Education at the University of Virginia, where she has served as co-director of UVa's nationally recognized Young Writers Program.
About the Judge
Sue Halpern is the author of Migrations to Solitude, Four Wings and a Prayer, and The Book of Hard Things. Her latest novel, Introducing Sasha Abramowitz, will be published this fall.
A scholar-in-residence at Middlebury, Halpern's work has appeared in Granta, the New York Review of Books, the New
York Times, Rolling Stone, Orion, and Mother Jones.
Judge's Comments
Not surprisingly, coming-of-age stories dominated the submissions to the Middlebury fiction contest, and many of them were quite strong and moving. Of all these, "The Girl in the Hat," though a simple story, was most resonant. In it, a boy notices
a girl and knows that if she notices him back, his life will be made. It's such an accessible sentiment, so full of longing and hope, that the reader is carried along with it. The boy's feelings become the reader's feelings, and the emotional weight of the story spreads and gathers strength. In addition to its poignant moments, the story has some lovely descriptions, places where the emotions embedded in the work find their true expression. This is also true of the very strong runner-up story, "A Man's Lesson," in which a boy's self-flaggellating desire for an older girl is felt not only by him, but by his little sister, who wishes—hope against hope—nothing less than his untortured happiness.
Both the winning entry and the runner-up story—"A Man's Lesson" by MaryJane Bancroft, French '86—also appear on the Web at www.middleburymagazine.org.