No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  “Good. You need to maintain a relationship with her. Ms. Gress’ recommendation will really add a lot to your college admissions applications this fall. Have you been working on your essays?”

  College is absolutely the last thing on my mind. “A little.” When does he think I have time for this?

  He shook his head. “You should’ve had a few drafts done by now. I know we discussed this months ago. You’re going to have to have something ready before you start back at Blue Valley. Your lack of follow-through is disappointing. Abysmal.”

  It was the same old speech, but much of the bite was gone. Still, it stung. I pressed my mouth into a firm line and tried to ignore the feeling of shame that was trickling in.

  Dad rubbed his palms against his bloodshot eyes. “What about the other employees? Are you making good connections?”

  Connections, not friends. Other people were only good as rungs in the ladder to success. Whatever that looked like. I vividly remembered the day we drove to Blue Valley at the beginning of last summer, when my dad warned me to be careful whom I associated with. “If you spend time with trash, Ashlyn, you’ll become trash.” It was a knife through my heart. An equally harsh reminder of my bad choices—a criminal boyfriend most notably—and the fact that he only approved of my friendship with Tatum because her parents were educated professionals and, therefore, “acceptable.”

  Instead of shutting down, I tried an old trick—making it about him. “How’s your job going here?” I would much rather listen to him talk about the merits of clean floors in a prison than my future, specially designed by him.

  It worked. Dad launched into a monologue about how none of the inmates ever paid attention to the wet floors signs he put up after mopping, which was “quite the hazard” he wanted me to know. Always complaining, never about himself. He was just getting warmed up on how many guys had to go to medical after falls when the guards signaled that time was up.

  “See you next time, Dad,” I said measuredly.

  He stood up and gave me a quick side hug. “Work hard.”

  “Always do,” I said, with more ice than I normally would.

  I pretended to be asleep all the way back to Sweetwater to avoid conversation with Uncle Ed. I knew he would listen to me, whatever I needed to say, but I just didn’t feel like talking. It felt useless. When the car pulled through the main gate, Uncle Ed put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Wake up, kiddo, we’re back.”

  I opened my eyes. “I wasn’t really asleep.”

  “I know. I’ve been a parent long enough to recognize when my offspring don’t want to talk. And long enough to know not to push.”

  “I don’t think my dad got those genes.”

  Uncle Ed chuckled. “No, subtlety was never Arthur’s strong suit. There isn’t a social cue he hasn’t missed at least once.”

  This time I laughed and then the smile faded. “I wish I’d grown up around your family more.”

  Uncle Ed put a gentle arm around my shoulder. “We’re your family too.”

  I managed a watery smile, grabbed Aunt Greta’s chocolate brownies, and waved goodbye. I walked directly to my cabin, put the brownies on Hannah’s bed, and headed out into the summer sunshine of the afternoon. I was off for the rest of the day, and I made a beeline for the pool. I knew Marcus was working this shift, but I was pretty sure I could find a way to convince him to take a break.

  Chapter 18

  Marcus was there, which was great. So was Mallory, which wasn’t. The two of them were laughing side-by-side next to the lifeguard chair at the deep end of the pool. It must have been pretty funny, because she had her hand on his shoulder, doubled over at the waist.

  Maybe she’s planning to go headfirst into the deep end, and fake drowning, hoping he’ll save her. I blinked at them. It sounded like something Tatum would accuse me of doing, actually.

  I should go over there and get in the middle of their conversation. Or not. That would be petty. I could find something else to occupy my time. Maybe I’ll head back to the cabin and give myself a pedicure. The green polish I’d applied a few days ago was starting to chip.

  I had my quote journal with me, as usual, so I ducked into the women’s locker room. It was empty. On the skinny edge of the door that swung back and forth as retreaters came and went, I wrote:

  I DO LIKE NOT KNOWING WHERE I’M

  GOING, WANDERING IN STRANGE WOODS,

  WHISTLING AND FOLLOWING BREAD CRUMBS.

  Tilda Swinton

  I swished the door open and passed through before it could swish closed. I decided to take a loop around the property and check out whatever caught my eye. It was really a very pretty place—charmingly rustic. Dirt and gravel paths through tall pine and oak trees led me past the volleyball courts that overlooked the lake, an archery range where a group of high school principals fumbled with their bows and arrows, and near Hannah’s equipment kiosk where all manner of sporting items could be borrowed.

  As I approached, I spied Hannah backing out of the kiosk and locking the door.

  “Taking a break?” I called.

  She turned and grinned. “You’re just in time. I’ve got the rest of the day off and so does Bax. So we’re going to bike into town. Want to join us? You’re off too, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t want to crash your plans. I’m not really a very good third wheel.” Also, I don’t know how to ride a bike. But saying that out loud, at my age, was beyond embarrassing.

  Hannah put both hands on her hips. “Please. If anything, you’ll make it more interesting. When Bax and I hang out, it’s me who does all the talking and he usually just nods or shakes his head. And as much as I like to hear my own voice, it gets old.”

  “How can I turn down an offer like that?” I joked. She made Baxter sound super boring, when, from my vantage point, he was one of the most intriguing people here. The words he spoke seemed to be chosen very carefully, which made me wonder which ones he was thinking, but didn’t say out loud.

  “We’re meeting at the front gate in fifteen minutes.” Hannah tossed me a ring of tiny gold keys. I surprised her, and myself, by catching it. “Take a bike from the rack. I’m going to get cleaned up, see you down there.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said to myself after she’d jogged off. Two bicycles, a red one and a black one, had already been unlocked. I released a purple one—if I was going to fall on my face, at least it would be on a bike that was my signature color. “Piece of cake. You can do this, Ashlyn. Little kids ride bikes all the time. If they can do it, so can you.”

  I did own a bike when I was younger, but never got past the training wheels stage. I preferred to be inside reading, and my parents never shoved me out the door so I could get fresh air. They were indoor people too. They never signed me up for soccer or gymnastics like the other kids I knew. I spent my free time after school working with tutors and doing extra math problems. The good news was that I genuinely liked school and found learning exciting, but there were times when I wished I was on a team. Not that I wanted to be running and jumping but being part of a team and working together was something I didn’t really experience until high school and Quiz Bowl. But, even then, I don’t think it was exactly the same.

  “Hey.”

  I turned around to see Baxter a few feet away from the bike rack.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said, trying to act like I definitely knew what I was doing with the bike. “Hannah invited me to come with you into town. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. It was genuine. There seemed to be nothing fake about Baxter.

  He wheeled his bike, a red one, around to the road and swung his leg over. “Come on. Hannah is getting helmets on her way back from the cabin. We can go ahead, she’ll catch up.”

  I slowly wheeled my bike to the road and stared at it. The tires were so much bigger than the little bike I’d had growing up. I imagined myself rolling along, losing balance, the wheels wobbling, and me endi
ng up face down on the asphalt. I gripped the handlebars more tightly. You’re going to look ridiculous if you fall, phantom Dad sneered. You shouldn’t attempt things you know you’re not good at.

  “Are you going to get on?” Baxter teased.

  “I . . . uh . . .” I started, as he raised a blonde eyebrow at me. “Maybe I’d rather walk.”

  Baxter’s pale blue eyes studied my face. “Do you know how to ride a bike, Ashlyn?” I didn’t answer. “Because it’s okay if you don’t. I can teach you.”

  I met his gaze, grateful that what was so embarrassing to me was, to him, no big deal at all. Baxter hopped off his bike and laid it on the ground. He walked over to me and put his hands on the handlebars, outside my grip.

  “I’ll hold it steady and you get on.”

  “Okay.” I swung my leg over, like I’d seen others do. His arms must have been as strong as his legs, because the bike didn’t wiggle or sway at all as I mounted my perch. “Now what?”

  “Now you pedal.” He said it like it was the most logical next step, when, in fact, the logical next step for me was panic.

  “You say that like it’s easy,” I said, trying to gather my courage.

  “It’s easier than you think it is.”

  He sounds sure. I’m not sure. How is he so sure?

  “And if I face-plant, will you scrape what’s left of me off the ground?”

  “Just pedal.”

  Maybe it was because Baxter’s job was to help nervous retreaters conquer their fears, but the authority in his voice made me rethink staying still. So I pedaled. The pace of a tortoise.

  “You have a greater chance of falling the slower you go,” he said with a chuckle.

  So I pedaled an infinitesimal amount faster and Baxter moved his grip on the bike from the handlebars to the back of my seat. “Don’t let go,” I cried, high pitched and screechy. Not unlike Mallory, but that was neither here nor there. I could no longer see Bax’s hands steadying the bike, and that made my stomach twist into a knot.

  “You’re doing great. Go a little faster.”

  I pedaled a tiny bit faster, and then a tiny bit more. I made my way down the road to the gate while Bax jogged—like a sloth would jog if sloths jogged—along next to me, hand still on the back of the seat. I did my best to concentrate on pushing my feet down and around, keeping my hands steady on the handlebars, eyes on the road, all the while trying not to think about how close he was to me. It was the closest we’d been since we dangled, pressed against each other, in midair on the zipline.

  I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes, focusing on the gate that was just up the road. Before I could convince myself not to, I pushed down hard with my right foot and took off. Up, down, up, down, I pumped my feet, flying down the road. The gravel on the road jumped out of my way, the wind ruffling my hair around my ears. When I reached the gate, I braked and skidded to a stop, panting, more from adrenaline than actual athleticism. But I’d done it.

  “Yes!” I yelled to Baxter, who was strolling down the road toward me, his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

  “You did it.” He smiled at me.

  “That was amazing.” I’d only ridden about a quarter of a mile. Other people did it all the time; they went further than me, rode on more impressive routes than me. But there was something about doing a thing for the first time. It had been a really long time since I’d felt this way about myself, but I was proud.

  Baxter nodded. “I’ve learned that the things we’re afraid of are almost never as scary as they are in our imagination. And, if you’re lucky, that scary thing turns out to be something awesome.” He pointed. “Like riding this bicycle.”

  “Just like riding a bike,” I quipped.

  We smiled at each other, and suddenly I felt shy. A burning blush spread from my cheeks to my ears.

  “Thanks for helping me.”

  “I didn’t do much. And besides, I let go way before you decided to go all Tour de France.”

  “You did?”

  “I did.” His eyes twinkled. “You’re more capable than you think. Don’t psych yourself out too often. You might miss something.”

  This has nothing to do with riding a bike, does it?

  Tatum was convinced there were people in this world who were part magic, put here to teach us lessons or watch out for us or make good things happen. I couldn’t help but wonder if my path and Baxter’s had crossed this summer for a reason.

  “Hey!” Hannah was running down the road with three bike helmets on her arms like giant bracelets. “Thanks for leaving me, jerks.”

  “We didn’t leave you. We were waiting right here. See?” Baxter pointed to himself and then me.

  “Where’s your bike?” Hannah demanded.

  “Where’s yours?” Baxter retorted.

  “Ugh.” Hannah stomped her foot and dropped the helmets on the ground. “Come on. Ashlyn, we’ll be right back. Don’t move.” She and Baxter walked back toward the bike rack, leaving me there to wonder what kind of magic was in store for me next.

  Chapter 19

  I wobbled my way into town with Hannah and Baxter, having to stop a few times to center myself. But I did it. I wasn’t on my way to the Olympic cycling team any time soon, but I did a thing I’d never done before and that counted for something.

  The town, also named Sweetwater, was small. My mother would have called it quaint. It was the exact opposite of where I’d grown up. Sweetwater was basically a handful of streets making up the “downtown” area, with houses, schools, and businesses surrounding. There were trees everywhere, plenty of green space, benches for people to sit on, and a general warm and inviting feeling. In contrast, Arlington, which sits on the edge of Washington, DC, was urban and bustling, packed full of stores and restaurants, tall buildings and people. While the average speed in Sweetwater seemed to be somewhere between a stroll and a mosey, everyone rushed from place to place back home. Lining the main street, which was aptly named Main Street, was a drugstore with a doctor’s office above it, a barbecue restaurant with a sign that proudly proclaimed: “THE BEST RIBS IN THE STATE,” a coffee shop that doubled as an ice cream parlor, a law office, a hair and nail salon, and a used bookstore. Down the block, we rode past the courthouse, a statue memorializing town veterans, and a tiny used car lot. It felt right to be riding bicycles down the tree-and-flower-lined street.

  “New girl gets to pick where we go,” Hannah declared, as we racked our bikes outside the law office.

  “Um, how about the bookstore?” My supply of paperbacks in my giant duffel bag was dwindling. I was going to need some reinforcements to carry me through the rest of the summer if Deb was going to keep assigning me to the gym, where I could only take so much sitting and watching lawyers and architects running on treadmills.

  Hannah looked smug and poked Baxter in the arm. “I told you that’s what she would pick.”

  Baxter put both hands up in surrender. “You win.”

  “Did you make a bet or something?” I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

  “There was no money wagered,” Hannah said. “But yes, we did each offer up a guess as to what you’d want to explore.”

  “What did you think, Bax?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “I thought you’d want to go to the coffee shop for a triple shot almond milk latte with caramel foam or something equally as complicated.”

  I laughed so hard I felt it in my core. It was a good guess. “For the record, I like my coffee regular drip with hazelnut flavoring. No caramel foam needed.”

  Bax did a quick bow with a little flourish of his hand. “I stand corrected.”

  I curtsied. Hannah looked at both of us like we had lost our minds.

  Island Book Shop was on the corner. A delicate bell tinkled as we passed through the door. A middle-aged woman, hair graying at the temples that reminded me of my dad on our last visit, stood behind the cash register.

  “Hi, there, welcome to Island.” She smil
ed politely at us.

  “Why is it called Island? There’s no ocean around here?” Hannah asked.

  “It’s a nod to the neighborhood where I grew up,” the woman said, with a wink and a smile. “Can I help you all find anything?”

  I glanced around. The shelves went on forever and were stuffed full of books upon books upon books. I could stay for days, just reading the titles. The store even smelled delicious—that musty, sweet smell only well-loved books carry. I inhaled, held it in my lungs for just a moment, and exhaled.

  Hannah looked at me as if she were really concerned about my well-being.

  “What? I like books. Always have.”

  “You look like you just got high off that sniff of the store.”

  I shrugged. “Books smell amazing.”

  Baxter put both hands on Hannah’s shoulders from behind, as if he were going to leap frog over her. “She’s right, Han.”

  She swatted him away. I knew Hannah was mostly just playing, but there was something underlying. Like enjoying the smell of books was a club she wasn’t a part of and she felt a little left out.

  She stuck her tongue out at me and made a face. I did the same. Then we both giggled like little kids. Was this what family felt like? If so, I could get used to it.

  “I’m going to browse,” Baxter said, and walked down the closest aisle. I ducked down the next aisle over, while Hannah took the path farthest from the front of the store.

  I found myself in the poetry section, which was definitely not a bad place to be. I’d spent enough time in used bookstores to know that certain kinds of books came with more love—lines highlighted, passages underlined, notes made in the margins. Poetry seemed to have that effect on readers. You wanted to record and remember the lines so you could experience what the poet made you feel over and over again.

  I pulled a dusty, battered copy of Leaves of Grass off the shelf. I’d read it years ago and highlighted my copy—a hardcover special edition my dad said “belonged on every scholar’s shelf”—within an inch of its life. When he’d discovered my “love,” he’d pitched a fit. Told me I should take better care of my things, that I ruined this copy, and then threw the book away.