Eleven

by Lauren Myracle

Ty and I cheered.

  Bo leaned over to give me a high five, and I held my hand extra stiff so there’d be a good slap. Sandra stared at us as if we were crazy, but inside she was smiling. Bo knew it, and so did I.

  Outside the store, a horn honked.

  “Mom’s here,” Sandra said.

  I glanced through the window and saw Mom’s station wagon. “No fair, she’s early!”

  “Thank God for small miracles. Go on, she’s waiting.”

  Ty ran ahead while I lingered by the counter. “Maybe I could run out and ask—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Winnie, go.”

  I turned to Bo, pleading with my eyes.

  “Hey, she’s the boss,” Bo said. He stepped closer to Sandra and rubbed her neck. She didn’t pull away.

  Sometimes summer can last too long, especially if your best friend and your second-best friend are out of town at the exact same time and your sister has a job and all your little brother wants to do is microwave marshmallows and watch them swell into white, fluffy pillows.

  “Why can’t we rent a beach house?” I asked Mom. “Please?” Amanda’s family had gone to Pawley’s Island for an entire month, and all I could think about was how much fun she must be having. Amanda promised she’d bring me some shells or a sand dollar if she got lucky, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be there myself. I wanted to rent a house next to Amanda’s and have bonfires in the evenings and gaze at the stars.

  “Winnie,” Mom said, in that warning tone of I’ve-answered-that-question-enough.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “But can’t we do something? Go to Disney World or something?”

  She put down her dishrag. “Honey, your dad and I would love to go on a family vacation, but we can’t just pick up and—”

  “Just send me, then. I can take care of myself. Chantelle’s visiting her grandparents in Tennessee, all by herself with just her cousins, and last year her granddad took them to the biggest water slide in the world.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “You want to stay with Grandmom Perry in Greensboro?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. Grandmom Perry lives in a one-bedroom apartment that smells like Dentyne, and she goes to church on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Before every meal she makes me recite a Bible verse.

  “I’ll try to think of something, all right, Winnie?” Mom said. “Just ... hold on.”

  I slumped lower in my chair. Hold on, while outside in the real world people rode waves and swooped down water slides and slipped ice cubes into one another’s shirts. All I wanted was to join in.

  “Stop it!” Sandra squealed. She struggled to escape Bo’s grasp. “I swear to God, stop it!”

  “Not until you say I’m king,” Bo said. He straddled her on the sofa and tickled her her ribs. “Say it!”

  “No way! You cheated!”

  “Did not!”

  “Did, too!”

  I watched from the door to the den. Mom had taken Ty to a birthday party at World of Fun, and Sandra and Bo were supposed to be “including me in their plans,” as Mom put it. But they were too busy including each other to even know I was there.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you guys doing?”

  Bo lifted his head. “Winnie, come help me tickle your sister.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Sandra said.

  “What are you the king of?” I asked Bo.

  “Everything.”

  “Oh, please,” Sandra said.

  He dug his thumbs into her sides, making her yelp. “But especially,” he continued, “of doughnuts. I am and always will be King of Doughnuts, regardless of whether your sister has the strength of character to admit it.” He finished with one last side tickle, then sat back and let Sandra up. “I ate ten. Your sister, a measly half dozen.”

  “Liar! I ate nine and you know it. And you ate nine, too, Bo Sanders.” She looked at me, flushed and happy. “He ate half of the tenth and wadded the rest in his napkin.”

  “Krispy Kreme or Dunkin’ Donuts?” I asked. Krispy Kreme doughnuts are so light that I’d once eaten an entire dozen by myself, which, if Bo and Sandra would take my word for it, made me the doughnut king.

  “Dunkin’ Donuts, of course,” Bo said. “Who couldn’t eat nine Krispy Kremes?”

  “Enough,” Sandra moaned, putting her hand on her stomach. “We have to stop talking about it.”

  “Oh, are you full?” Bo asked. He put his arm around Sandra’s shoulders and made a tsking sound. “Poor thing. Didn’t know your own limits, did you?”

  Sandra let her head fall on his chest. “I’m begging you—shut up.”

  He laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears. I marveled at how comfortable they seemed with each other. Sandra, my sister, with a boy. Then I thought about how every day this week Sandra had stayed late at work, calling to say that Bo would drop her off after they took inventory or restocked the paper goods.

  Sandra’s eyes fell on me. “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “You’re supposed to be hanging out with me,” I said.

  “You’re eleven years old. You can hang out with yourself.”

  “But I’m bored.”

  “Well, go be bored somewhere else.”

  I leaned against the end of the sofa, not looking directly at either of them. “I can eat a raw egg,” I said. This was not exactly true. However, once last year I had seen Alex Plotkin eat a raw egg, and I’d watched the guys around him cheer when he lifted his head and wiped his mouth.

  “Big whup,” Sandra replied.

  “I could show you if you want.”

  Sandra looked exasperated. “Winnie—”

  “No,” Bo said. “This I want to see.” He pushed himself up. “You want to do it here, or should we go to the kitchen?”

  “Uh, kitchen. In case there’s a mess.”

  “Like if you spew?” Sandra said.

  But she let Bo pull her from the couch, and several minutes later the three of us sat around the kitchen table, Bo and Sandra at one end and me at the other.

  “In case you spew,” Sandra said again.

  “She’s not going to spew,” Bo said. “Are you?”

  I didn’t answer. I held a glass in one hand and an egg in the other, its shell cool and smooth against my palm. I hesitated, then cracked the egg against the rim of the glass. The yolk squelched as it separated from the shell, and I grimaced. I’d forgotten how squelchy eggs were.

  Little baby chick, said a voice inside me.

  “Well?” Sandra said. “Are you going to do it, or are you going to wimp out?”

  “I’m going to do it,” I said. I just didn’t know how. When Alex did it, did he do it all in one quick gulp? Or did he make the mistake of looking at it first: a wet, yellow eye in a pool of jelly?

  “In this lifetime?” Sandra asked.

  I raised the glass. The egg stared up at me.

  “Ten,” Bo said, “nine, eight—”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said.

  “—seven, six, five, four—”

  “No fair! You can’t just—”

  Sandra smirked and joined in. “Three, two ... one!”

  “Do it, Winnie!” Bo said.

  “Now!” Sandra commanded.

  I looked from Bo to Sandra to the egg, and then I screwed my eyes shut and tilted the glass, throwing my head back and forcing myself not to gag as the egg slipped, cold and oozy, over my tongue. I didn’t even swallow. It shot down my throat before I had the chance.

  “Yeah!” Bo cheered. “Way to go!”

  “Wh-hoo,” Sandra said. “You’re amazing.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Bo? You ready?”

  “Huh?” he said. “Oh, right.” He high-fived me on his way to the door. “You’re a stud, Winnie. Never forget.”

  I scrambled out of my chair. “Hey! What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  “It’s four o’clock,” Sandra said. “Oprah.”

 
; “Can I watch with you?” I asked, following them upstairs to Mom and Dad’s room, where there was a second TV.

  “No,” Sandra said. “You can watch it in the den.”

  “I don’t want to watch it in the den. The den’s boring. I want to watch it with—”

  Sandra pushed me away and shut the door. A second later came the click of the lock.

  “But—” I stared at the door. Why was everything so hard sometimes? I was all alone and I had no friends and inside my stomach was a baby chick. Bo and Sandra had stuffed themselves with doughnuts. And me? I’d gotten stuck with an oozy baby chick.

  I saw the yolk quivering in the glass, and my stomach quaked.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered. “Oh, no, oh, no.” I knocked on my parents’ door. “I think I’m going to throw up!”

  No response.

  “I’m serious! I think I’m going to throw up!”

  “Winnie, shut up!” Sandra called. “God!”

  I vomited onto the carpet, a yellow puddle the size of my hand.

  The doorknob clicked as Sandra unlocked it. “Jesus, Winnie, couldn’t you at least have gotten to the bathroom?” She put her hands on her hips. Then she knelt beside me, careful to avoid the throw-up, and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Afterward, the carpet scrubbed and my mouth rinsed out with Listerine, I sat between Sandra and Bo and watched the tail end of Oprah. The topic was “Hunks Who Dress Like Slobs,” and Bo asked Sandra if she’d still go out with him if he wore the same pair of underwear for three weeks running.

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Sandra said.

  “Yeah,” I added. “You don’t want me to throw up again, do you?”

  “Don’t even say it,” Sandra said, shooting me a harsher look than I’d expected.

  During the next commercial, I leaned close to Sandra and spoke into her ear. “Sorry I was such a pain.”

  “Good,” she said. “You should be.” She pressed her lips together. “Just don’t tell Mom.”

  “I won’t.”

  I settled more comfortably on the bed, aware of Bo’s arm behind me as he reached to rub Sandra’s neck. I thought about his scooper’s muscle. I almost asked to touch it, but I didn’t.

  August

  BE SURE TO HELP OUT around the house,” Mom said, fixing my tag so it didn’t stick out of my shirt. “And be agreeable at mealtimes. If Theresa serves tuna fish, then you eat tuna fish. No asking for special foods.”

  “I know,” I said. The Wilsons’ Honda pulled into our driveway, and I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder. “Bye, Mom! Love you!”

  “Love you, too,” Mom said. “Don’t forget to wear sunscreen!”

  It was strange riding in the car with just Mr. Wilson. I nodded sympathetically as he griped about Old Hairball, the manager who’d scheduled the unexpected meeting that brought him back to Atlanta. But my heart wasn’t in it. If it weren’t for Old Hairball, then Mr. Wilson would still be lolling about in the ocean while I melted into a puddle in the hot August sun.

  But now—the beach, the beach, the glorious beach!

  “Yes!” I’d yelped when Amanda called long-distance to invite me, even though it meant a six-hour drive both ways and even though I’d only get to be there for a long weekend. I didn’t care about any of that. I hadn’t been to the beach since I was eight, and now I got to join Amanda for three whole days. We’d be sleek and sparkling mermaids, splashing in the waves.

  “You’re here!” Amanda squealed.

  “I’m here!” I squealed back. “I’m really here!”

  We hugged and jumped up and down, and then I grabbed my bag and followed her up the wooden steps. The house was on stilts so that a big storm couldn’t wash it away, and we had to climb an outside staircase to get to the main level.

  “‘Dave’s Place?’” I said, reading the plaque on the door. It was decorated with shells and starfish. “Who’s Dave?”

  “The owner, I guess,” Amanda said. “All the houses down here have names. Last year we stayed in Calico Cat, which was awesome because it actually had air-conditioning. But Dave’s Place is even better because we’re right on the beach.” She pushed open the squeaky screen door. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  Inside the house were more shells. There were shells on top of the TV, shells in little glass bowls, even shells on the walls, glued to a real fishing net that was strung above one of the sofas. Standing at the sink was Mrs. Wilson, who wiped her hands on a dishcloth and came over to give me a hug.

  “Winnie, we’re so glad you could come,” she said. “How was the ride?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “Our pleasure,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’ll go help Ted unload. I told him to pick up a few things for this weekend.”

  Amanda pulled me toward the back of the house. “This is our room,” she said, pointing to a room with green walls. The bed had a green bedspread on it, and three big conch shells sat on the dresser. “We can change in here, but we’ll probably sleep out on the sofas. It gets stuffy during the night.”

  She gave me a quick tour of the bathroom, her parents’ room, and the kitchen, then led me to the front porch. “And now for the most important thing of all.”

  We stepped outside. The stars were out, and a hundred yards away I saw white foam rolling into the shore. I breathed in the salty air.

  “Come on!” Amanda said. She loped down the walkway. I thought she’d stop when she reached the end, but she leapt onto the beach and kept going.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  She turned around. “What?”

  “It’s dark out!”

  “So?”

  “So what if a crab bites me?”

  She ran back and took my hand. “Goof,” she said. “You have to get in the ocean when you first get here. It’s a rule.”

  “It is?”

  I resisted for the first couple of steps, but then I kicked off my shoes and let Amanda pull me along. The sand squeaked as we ran. At the ocean’s edge, we stopped and let the waves lick our feet.

  “A teeny bit deeper,” Amanda urged. “Nothing’s going to bite you, I promise.”

  I eased in up to my shins, then up to my knees. A wave splashed my shorts, and I laughed.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Amanda asked.

  My heart swelled with joy. Then something squirmed beneath my foot, and I shrieked and dashed for the shore.

  The next morning, Amanda and I woke at dawn. At home, I sleep until nine-thirty or ten, but at home I don’t hear waves crashing or seagulls crying outside my window. Plus, at home I have blinds. Here in the beach-house living room, the bright sun shot through the filmy curtains and made Amanda and me blink and squint.

  We wolfed down a quick breakfast of Cap’n Crunch and milk, then slipped into our swimsuits. Amanda wore a new bikini—white with splashy purple flowers—and I felt dumpy and plain in last year’s saggy one-piece. Even Amanda’s mother commented on it, although I don’t think she meant it the way it sounded. “We’re going to have to spruce you up if you want to catch any boys,” she teased, screwing the lid on a thermos of Crystal Light. “Amanda, what about your red bikini with the stripes? Wouldn’t that look precious on Winnie?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, because I could tell from Amanda’s expression that she didn’t want me borrowing it. I could understand. Bathing suits are tricky to share.

  Outside, we shook out our towels and spread them on the sand. Amanda’s was pink. Mine was kind of gray and had Donald Duck on it. We sat down and leaned back on our elbows.

  “Ciggie, dahling?” Amanda asked, drawing a pretend cigarette to her mouth.

  “Why, certainly,” I drawled. “The craving has been unbearable.” I took a drag of my own fake cigarette and collapsed into a spasm of coughs. “Ahhh”—cough, cough—“now that’s the ticket. Wouldn’t you say, dahling?”

  Amanda poured me a cup of Crystal Light,
which I drank in tiny, sophisticated sips even though I’d have rather had grape Kool-Aid. The Crystal Light had that sugar-free aftertaste that Amanda used to hate as much as I did, but I figured if Amanda could get used to it, so could I.

  “Swish it around and then go like this,” Amanda said, pulling back her lips and baring her teeth.

  “Why?” I said.

  “It’ll bleach your teeth and make them really white.”

  I pulled back my lips and bared my teeth. I felt like a tiger. A man walking by raised his eyebrows, and I cracked up.

  “You can’t laugh. You’ll ruin it,” Amanda said.

  “Oh, plop,” I said. “Who cares?” I wedged my cup into the sand and flipped onto my stomach. A few yards in front of us was a little girl about Ty’s age. She was inverting buckets of sand and decorating the domes with shells.

  “Want to build a sand castle?” I asked Amanda.

  “I need to work on my tan,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Maybe in a while.”

  I rested my chin in my palms and gazed at the ocean. I loved how it changed every single second while at the same time remaining so solidly there. I could stare at it for hours—except sweat was pooling in the hollows behind my knees, and my bathing suit was creeping up my bottom. I stood up and tugged at the elastic.

  “Be back in a bit,” I told Amanda. She nodded drowsily.

  I walked over to the little girl. “Hi,” I said, squatting beside her. “I’m Winnie.”

  “I can’t make this flag stay in,” the girl said. She handed me a stick with a piece of seaweed wrapped around it. “Can you do it for me?”

  “Sure.” I pushed the stick into the highest ridge of her castle and watched the sand crumble around the top. “We need it to be wet,” I pronounced. “Go get some wet sand in your bucket and bring it back.”

  “Okay.” The girl trotted down to the water, and I arranged the seaweed to make it look more like a real flag. When she came back, we dripped clumps of sand around the stick’s base.

  “Ta-da!” I said.

  “Now we need to build a moat,” the girl said.

  Before long, Eliza and I had constructed an entire sand village. (Her mom told me Eliza’s name when she brought us both a Popsicle. “How nice you are to play with Eliza,” she said to me. “Eliza, you’ll be a big girl, too, one day. Can you believe it?”) We were putting the finishing touches on our dungeon when Amanda strolled over. She had a red mark on her cheek from lying on her towel.