by Lisa Fiedler
When I realize he’s considering a third kiss, I press my hand to his chest. “I think we’re making the tigers uncomfortable,” I say, and immediately feel like a complete idiot.
James laughs, a soft, silky rumble from deep inside his chest. “Wouldn’t wanna do that,” he drawls. “C’mon.”
Suddenly we’re running, side by side, toward the train, pounding up the three metal steps and into the dry silence of the narrow corridor. We make our way to the door of my car. My hair is dripping, my heart is racing, my knees are trembling. By the time we reach my room, I’m dizzy with wondering.
What’s going to happen next?
With my eyes locked on his, I open the door and back into the room. He smiles and swipes a wet lock of hair off his forehead.
And then I see it—the flicker of hesitation, the sudden change of heart.
I have to bite my lip to keep from urging him to follow me inside, to make this moment our moment. Let what happens next be exactly what I want.
But what happens next is this:
“Thanks,” he says, “for going to Boo.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding hard but only as an excuse to pull my gaze from his. “I just hope he—”
But James is already halfway down the hall.
He’s gone.
FIFTEEN
ON THE MORNING OF Ponce de León’s birthday, Callie stood at her bulletin board and once again considered her collection of Victoria-isms.
Per Jenna’s advice, she was wearing her bathing suit. “In case you feel like taking a dip in the Atlantic before the Conquistador competition,” Jenna had said cagily.
When she’d pulled Gram’s vintage denim cutoffs on over her swimsuit, she wasn’t surprised to find that they fit perfectly.
In the living room, Quinn, Brad, and Jenna were frantically collating the literature they’d printed out for the open house marketing blitz. Considering they’d had only three days to prepare for it, the amount of material they’d been able to generate was mind-boggling. Callie probably should have been helping them pack up, but instead, she lingered at the bulletin board, her fingers tracing the outline of a cocktail napkin with the fading logo of a place called Husky Pete’s printed in the bottom corner. Above the logo was a phrase written in a hand that was not her grandmother’s: James loves Victoria. Her heart twisted, then flip-flopped, thinking of the surf date that wasn’t going to happen simply because she was too naive to even know she’d been asked out.
It’s better this way, she told herself. She’d never admit it to Jenna, but she had the feeling she could actually like Kip Devereaux, as a friend or maybe more, and that was definitely out of the question. She’d be leaving Lake St. Julian as soon as humanly possible—either for Un Piccolo Circo Familiare in Perugia, or some other circus—and she didn’t want anything tugging at her heart when she left. She might not have had a lot of experience with missing people in the past, but losing Gram had been a crash course in misery. Just keep moving forward—that’s the only way to stay balanced. On and off the wire she preferred the freedom of being a solo act; why suffer from someone else’s missteps? And just because her mother kept calling this place “home” didn’t mean it was. The thing about a traveling circus was that you got to bring home—however you chose to define it—with you wherever you went. For Callie, home was a moving train, a taut wire, and a cavernous Big Top ringing with applause.
The applause of strangers whose absence she wouldn’t feel the need to mourn when the tent came down and the jump was made.
“Cal?” Brad peeked in through the open door. “Your mom wants me to tell you we’re leaving in five.”
To her surprise, he came over to stand beside her at the bulletin board, taking a moment to examine the scraps. “Quinn was telling me about these. Pretty fascinating.”
“Four minutes and counting,” Jenna announced, striding into the room.
Callie immediately took Jenna’s arm and tugged her a few feet away from the bulletin board. “Hey,” she said in a low voice. “I sent you a video.”
“Was it the one of the squirrel making pancakes? Because I’ve already seen it.”
“Quit playing dumb. It’s of me performing last year in Ann Arbor. It’s for my website. For my job search.”
“Duh.”
“So? Have you started working on my profile?”
“Not yet. I’ve been a little preoccupied with trying to help your mother not lose her job. But I’ll get to it. I promise. Right after the open house.”
They shuffled back to the bulletin board, where Brad was reaching for the Husky Pete’s napkin. “This one’s interesting.”
Callie had to resist the urge to slap his hand away. But then she saw that he was removing the tack in a way that was almost reverent, and cradling the napkin as carefully as if it were a priceless artifact (which, in a way, it was).
Fine, he can hold it. But only for a minute.
“Husky Pete’s,” Jenna read. “I assume that’s the name of some long-defunct drinking establishment. Question: before something becomes defunct, is it just considered funct?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Callie. “You’re the one who’s profoundly shifted.”
“Gifted, wiseass.”
“Okay, Team Sanctuary,” came Quinn’s voice from the living room. “Time to go.”
Jenna practically bounded out the door.
“Mind if I hang on to this for a bit?” Brad asked, indicating James and Victoria’s napkin. “I’ll bring it back,” he added quickly. “And I swear, I won’t let anything happen to it.”
Something about the way his blue eyes were almost twinkling made Callie decide to trust him.
* * *
• • •
The parking lot of the St. Julian Inn across the street from Crescent Beach was already full when Callie slid out of the Range Rover. A replica of Ponce de León’s fabled ship had been erected on the side lawn of the hotel. And while it didn’t look seaworthy, exactly, it was still pretty imposing, especially considering it had been built by students from sophomore woodshop class.
The many teachers and students on the planning committee were rushing around, in and out of the inn, draping the veranda with floral garlands, setting up refreshment booths, and organizing game tables, everyone resplendent in their sixteenth-century attire. It was corsets and doublets as far as the eye could see; ruffs on ruffs on ruffs.
Glancing toward the beach, she could see several surfers taking practice rides before the official start of the Conquistador contest.
“Go, Callie.”
She turned, surprised to find her mother standing beside her, smiling.
“You know you want to.”
Want was a strong word. Maybe she wouldn’t have minded watching Kip surf . . . Then again, maybe it would be too weird. Or maybe it might not be weird at all. She honestly didn’t know. “I’m supposed to be helping you set up the marketing booth” was her somewhat lame excuse.
“We can handle it. Jenna told me what happened with the surfer boy.”
“She told you?”
“You should go wish him luck in the comp—”
Callie was stamping across the lawn of the inn before Quinn had even finished her sentence. Not because she’d suddenly mustered up the courage to approach Kip, but because if she happened to find herself within five feet of Jenna Demming, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from strangling her.
* * *
• • •
“Hey.”
Kip looked up from methodically applying Mr. Zog’s to the surface of his board. One corner of his mouth kicked up—just one, as though he were only half convinced this particular encounter warranted a smile. “Hi.”
“So . . . I just wanted to come over and, ya know, wish you luck.”
“Thanks.”
“And to say . . . well, to say I’m sorry about the other day at school. I didn’t realize you were—”
“It’s fine.” Full smile: both corners, and as an added bonus, some very dazzling teeth. “Hey, as long as you’re here, how about you let me repay you for the juggling how-to with a quick surf lesson?”
Callie hesitated.
“A friendly lesson,” Kip said meaningfully.
So Jenna had gotten to him, too. Didn’t that girl ever shut up? “Okay, sure.”
Moments later, he’d borrowed a surfboard for Callie to use and was giving her a quick preliminary lesson on the sand, which basically amounted to three words: “Paddle, push, pop.”
“Full disclosure,” said Kip, as they waded into the Atlantic. “The east coast of central Florida is not exactly the surfing capital of the world, but if you’re patient and not too picky, you can actually get some decent rides.”
He left his own surfboard on the sand in order to help Callie with her first few attempts, treading water beside her board while she sat on it with her legs dangling over each side. While they waited for a decent curl to roll in, they discussed the overlap between surfing techniques and tightrope skills, agreed that Scout Finch was a total badass, and debated the merits of soft tacos versus crispy. Kip told her the reasons why he believed Childish Gambino was the greatest artist of all time, and Callie confessed that she wasn’t familiar with his music.
“Well, then I guess we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”
They had to cover their ears a couple of times when the local rock band that would be providing the entertainment at PDLF was setting up their equipment on the hotel lawn; the squeal of their microphones was deafening.
“Are they any good?” Callie asked, skeptical. Peering across the sand, she thought the lead singer might be wearing a suit of armor.
“The Renaissance Renegades? They’re okay for a band that mostly sings about famine and religious persecution. Most of their fans are partial to their haunting stadium ballad, ‘My World Is Flat Without You,’ but I prefer their heavy-metal Inquisition-inspired number, ‘Love Is Torture, Baby, but You’ve Got a Great Rack.’”
Then Kip’s eyes were lighting up at the sight of the Atlantic shrugging its crystalline shoulders to bestow the gift of a wave. “Here we go,” he said, shifting effortlessly from music critic to surf coach. “Okay, now down on your stomach . . . good, get ready . . . perfect peak comin’ atcha . . . okay, paddle . . . paddle . . . push . . . pop!”
And with Kip’s voice cheering her on, Callie VanDrexel, the girl who walked the wire, became the girl who rode the waves.
* * *
• • •
Nobody was surprised when Kip won the title of Surfing Conquistador.
With her denim shorts pulled on over her suit, Callie had watched from the shore as Kip competed against some of the best surfers Lake St. Julian had to offer. Kristi, in her capacity as Queen Isabella, got to award Kip his trophy, which, in keeping with the contest motif, was a shiny metal morion helmet.
As Callie headed for the Sanctuary booth, which had been set up in the inn’s gingerbread gazebo, she saw that the costumed crowd had certainly taken the Fountain of Youth theme to heart. There were poodle skirts and disco suits, and the tie-dye was running amok. She found Jenna and Quinn handing out postcards that had been printed up just yesterday, featuring the Sanctuary’s newest arrivals, the rescued tiger cubs. Jenna had named them Tessio and Clemenza, and her idea was for Lake St. Julian to adopt the tiger babies as community mascots; each cub would have his own Facebook page, so the “townsfolk” (a word Jenna seemed to really like) could keep track of their escapades and enjoy watching them grow up.
As Callie sidled up to the booth, Jenna gave her an expectant smile. “So?”
“Kip won.” The words were devoid of inflection.
“Of course he won. I wanna know what you said, and what he said, and if—”
“You know what’s the best thing about being a solo act, Ambassador? It’s not having to worry that somebody’s going to blab every single thing that happens in your life to your mother.”
Jenna looked a little sheepish. “It just sort of came out when we were working on the marketing stuff. She kept asking me about how you were interacting with the other kids, and I figured if I could get her to believe you were being, um—what’s the word?—normal she’d chill out and leave you alone. Which, by the way, is exactly what you asked me to do when you offered me my unpaid faux-friend internship.” Jenna fidgeted with the tiger postcard in her hand. “Look, Callie, you should be glad she worries about you like she does. There are worse things than having a mother who just wants you to be happy.”
“If she wanted that, she should have left me at VanDrexel’s.”
“Great, you’re here,” said Brad, approaching Callie with a stack of flyers. “Would you mind taking a lap or two around the lawn to hand these out? Chat people up, tell them they can swing by the booth for more information.”
“Isn’t that what the ambassador’s for?” Callie huffed.
“Excellent point. So how ’bout you both go? You can grab something to drink and pass out the flyers along the way.”
The music of the Renaissance Renegades lent a true party atmosphere, and Callie and Jenna made their way to the refreshment area. Callie noticed how everyone just seemed to feel at home. Graduates divided by decades shared stories of big games and bad teachers; the older alumni spoke of the slow sweep of time and the changes it had brought, but more importantly of the changes it hadn’t. Parents, children, neighbors, all on a first-name basis, all proud denizens of this quirky little town, were mingling and reminiscing, recounting disastrous storms and beautiful springtimes, restaurants that opened and restaurants that closed, noisy summer parades and solemn holiday pageants. And they all spoke, if not in an accent, with a cadence that seemed to belong to Lake St. Julian and Lake St. Julian alone.
The sense of community was powerful, and Callie was surprised to feel a stab of loneliness, remembering how, at the circus, she’d kept her distance from everyone but Gram.
Jenna led her to the beverage concession, the Taberna, where several large coolers filled with ice and cans and bottles were lined up under long folding tables. The festival-goers who had reached the age of majority (or who could produce a passable fake ID) could order up cerveza, sangria, and other cocktails. For everyone else there was the under-twenty-one drink station, staffed by Emma-Kate, who was fetchingly attired in a brocade gown with a starched ruff collar. Jacob’s costume included a sheathed rapier, which Callie sincerely hoped was fake. Zach, who had been given the honor of playing King Ferdinand to Kristi’s Isabella, was experiencing a major sugar high from the seven chocolate beverages he’d already downed. Callie half imagined his crown was vibrating.
“Care to drink from the Fountain of Yoo-hooth?” said Emma-Kate, holding out chilled bottles to Jenna and Callie.
Callie took a sip and found the taste to be both cloyingly sweet and strangely refreshing, though it was clear that any relationship the drink bore to actual chocolate was purely symbolic.
“Hey, Em,” said Jenna, motioning to her fussy neckpiece. “Ruff morning?”
Emma-Kate laughed and threw her arms around Jenna. “Jenz! You’re the best. I miss you, girl. I hate that you’re never around anymore.”
“Yeah,” Zach agreed. “Why don’t we hang?”
Jenna deftly avoided the question, slapping one of her flyers down on the table. “Look, I know things got weird at lunch Monday, but you have to come to the Sanctuary open house on Sunday so you can see for yourself what a cool place it is. And,” she added, looking directly at Zach, “I have it on very good authority that the buffet is going to be awesome.”
“In!” said Zach, cracking open yet another Yoo-hoo. “Es bueno ser el rey!”
But then things got weird
.
Well, weirder.
“Jen, I think I see your mom,” said Emma-Kate, sounding concerned.
Callie followed Emma-Kate’s gaze to where a woman—who’d graduated LSJHS sometime in the late eighties judging by the fact that she was dressed for a Jazzercize class in a spandex leotard and leg warmers—was making her way to the Taberna. She was holding a martini glass.
An empty one.
Jenna looked at Jacob. “How many times has she been to the bar?”
Jacob hesitated. “A few. More than a few.”
With a determined expression and a heavy sigh, Jenna stepped into her mother’s path. If Callie wasn’t mistaken, it took a second for Mrs. Demming to recognize that it was her daughter placing herself between her and the bar.
“Jenna, sweetie!” She pressed a loud kiss on Jenna’s cheek. “How’s the job going? How’s my little ambasssssador?”
“Good. How are you, Mom?”
“I’m fabuloussss, honey! You know me! I adore the Renaissssssance! Tell me, how’s the job?”
“You just asked me that. Hey, I think they’re serving coffee inside.”
“Jenna, it’s a party. Don’t you think we should be toasting old Señor de León on his five-hundred-and-fifty-somethingth birthday with something a little stronger than coffee? Like a martini.” Raising her empty glass, she cried out, “Many happy returns of the day, you crazy old explorer you!”
“Just curious, Mom—how many martini toasts have you made already?”
Mrs. Demming’s eyes went chilly. “Only a couple. And that is the God’s honest troohooth!” Skirting around her daughter, she slid her glass across the table to the bartender. “Martini please, with a twist, no olive. And this time, can you go a little heavier on the gin and a little lighter on the vermoohooth?”
