by Ali Standish
But Dad has already driven past it, and we have to turn around in the parking lot of the Pink Palm Motel.
On the far side of the motel, there’s a restaurant called the Beachy Keen Fish House. Nearer to us, next to the parking lot, is a bean-shaped pool. Even though it’s only the beginning of April—when the kids in Boston are just hanging up their snow coats for spring—steam rises off the turquoise water. The pool is already crowded with kids who all seem to know each other, judging by how they splash and roughhouse together.
I like swimming, and diving especially. But this pool is nothing like the one Kacey and I used to go to in Boston, the only one nearby that still had a high dive board.
“Mr. Ernie always lets the local kids swim, since he never has any paying guests anyway,” Mom says, following my gaze. “I used to play there all the time. Do you want me to take you later?”
I think of the press of alien faces that would greet me if I showed up at the pool. The eager crush of questions about where I’m from and what Boston is like and when I’m starting school.
I watch as the kids line up on one side of the pool for a race.
It looks like fun.
“No,” I say.
Flowers line the outside of Mack’s Hardware Store, and wind chimes hang above the door, clanging against each other in the breeze. Two identical tabby cats lie side by side on the welcome mat, so anyone who wants to come into the store has to clamber over them.
I follow Mom and Dad inside and trail behind them, stopping every once in a while so they can debate the pros and cons of organic glass cleaner and what the probability is that Grandpa Ike has a working lawn mower.
The air in the shop hangs heavy and moist, and everything smells like earth. Like we’re standing in a giant coffin. My stomach begins to churn, and I suddenly feel a choking that makes me want to claw at my throat.
“Mom? Can I wait outside?”
Mom fumbles with the screwdriver in her hands, and it clatters to the ground. She casts a bleak look in Dad’s direction as she bends to pick it up. “I don’t know, Ethan,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”
“I’ll stay right outside,” I say. “I want to, um, pet the cats.”
Okay. So sometimes I lie, too.
“Maybe your dad should come—”
“I’ll stay where you can see me through the windows. Promise.”
“Where I can see you,” she echoes, looking flustered as she reaches into the basket and pulls out the wood polish Dad put in, scanning the shelves for a different kind. “We won’t be long.”
As I make a break for the exit, a dreadlocked woman behind the shop counter, who is fanning herself with a square of sandpaper, points to a colorful jar in front of her. “Taffy?” she asks.
I shake my head and yank the door open, hurdle over the cats, and heave myself out into the seething heat, where I inhale deep gulps of salty air. It’s hotter out here than it was in the store, but at least a breeze rakes in from the ocean.
I pull my sweatshirt up over my head and knuckle it into a ball. No one told me it would be so much hotter here.
I look over my shoulder, on a hunch, and see Mom staring at me through the window. She waves at me before ducking behind a display of toilet-cleaning supplies.
I guess even here, a place with no buses and no trains—no way for me to get to Kacey—they’re afraid I’ll try to run again.
I sit down on the edge of the hot curb and stare across the road at the murky bay, which as far as I can tell has no official name. The no-name bay has no beach, either, just waves lapping against a ridge of rocks that separates the ocean from Main Street. A few boats bob on the lazy ocean swells.
Maybe they think I’ll steal one of those and try to sail back up the coast.
And maybe the Ethan I was before that day Roddie tackled me onto the pavement would have.
But I won’t.
My gaze wanders to the Sand Pit, the only building on the other side of the street. I know it’s a grocery store, since Mom pointed it out on the way into town. But there are also hopeful advertisements in the windows for snorkel sets and shark-tooth necklaces, and blow-up pool toys line the sidewalk outside. A woman comes out and holds the door open for two little kids. A boy and a girl, both licking ice-cream cones.
Suddenly the girl trips on a crack in the sidewalk, and her cone goes flying. The boy is quick to help, lifting her up and offering her his cone to stop her tears. She wipes her eyes and beams at him.
Hurt boomerangs unexpectedly through me, and I look away.
I’m not lying when I say Mom and Dad don’t have to worry about me trying to run again.
Back in Boston, I ran because I wanted to find Kacey.
If I could find her, then I could make everything okay again.
But I know now that I can’t.
Because where Kacey has gone, I’ll never be able to find her.
Suzanne
AFTER WHAT SEEMS LIKE a lifetime, Mom and Dad finally emerge from the store, carrying about twenty bulging bags each.
“Oh, Dave, we forgot to get something to get rid of that spider infestation,” Mom says. “Could you—”
“All right,” Dad mutters, setting his bags down on the curb next to me and shuffling back into the store.
Mom hovers over me and smooths my curly black mop of hair. “So what do you think so far of—”
“Is that Lara? Lara Pomeroy?”
I look up to see a woman with platinum-blond hair in cutoff jeans and a tank top striding toward us. Her long legs, her shoulders, and her face are all burned pink, which makes her look kind of like a giant flamingo.
“Gretta? Gretta Carroway?” Mom responds uncertainly.
“You remember!” the woman exclaims, throwing her arms around Mom. “Lara Pomeroy! I can’t believe it.”
“It’s Truitt, now,” Mom says. “My husband is inside. And this is my son Ethan.”
Mom gestures for me to stand up.
“Ethan, this is Mrs. Carroway.”
“Oh, it’s just Ms. Carroway now,” the woman drawls. “Mr. Carroway took the Greyhound to Orlando some years ago.”
She holds out a manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure, doll. I went to high school with your mama. And my daughter, Suzanne, is—” Ms. Carroway casts a look over her shoulder. “Suzanne! Stop gabbin’ on that phone and come say hello.”
A girl steps out from behind a parked car, her face half hidden by her phone. Her fingers whir across its screen.
“I don’t know where her manners are,” Ms. Carroway says, making a clucking sound. “Suzanne, this is—er—Edwin?”
“Ethan,” Mom corrects tersely.
It’s weird to think that Mom is the same age as Ms. Carroway. Her graying hair and the crinkly lines around her eyes make Mom look older.
Suzanne taps her phone one last time, probably hitting “send” before finally lowering it. My first thought is that she looks like a doll. She has neatly curled blond hair surrounding her heart-shape face, and a smudge of blue over each eye. She wears a bikini top and white shorts, and there’s a towel draped across her arm.
“Hi,” she says, looking me over.
“Hi,” I echo, flinching as I hear my voice crack.
“What grade is Ethan in?” Ms. Carroway asks.
“Seventh,” Mom says. “He’ll be starting over at the middle school next Monday.”
“Well ain’t that just somethin’! Suzanne is in seventh grade too!” Ms. Carroway titters, folding her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “She can be Evan’s friend on his first day.”
“It’s Ethan,” Mom says again.
“Ethan, yes. So what brings you back?” says Ms. Carroway, tapping a pointed nail against her lip. “You must have had an awful good reason to come back to this hole.”
My heart stumbles in my chest. I don’t like the way Ms. Carroway looks at Mom, like she knows she’s hiding something. Mom makes the usual excuses.
“Dave and I, we both work from home anyway, and with Dad getting up there in age, we thought he could use some help.”
“I bet. We hardly ever see him in town, you know. Not for years. Not since—”
As Mom interrupts Ms. Carroway to continue her list of fake reasons, I turn my eyes back to Suzanne, who is studying me.
“Where’d you move here from?” she asks finally.
“Boston.”
“Oh. That’s really cool,” she says, raising her eyebrow as if impressed. “I’ve always lived here. We almost never get new kids. What was your old school like?”
“Um, you know,” I say. “Boring.”
Suzanne rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. But I bet you were popular there, weren’t you? I can always tell.”
I don’t really know how to answer this, so I look down, but Suzanne’s rhinestone flip-flops are glittering so brightly in the sun, they make me wince. I squint back up at her and shrug, the only response I can muster.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll make sure you know who to hang out with. You can sit with me at lunch, and I can show you off to everyone.”
The idea of Suzanne showing me off like a new doll at show-and-tell makes me want to wrinkle my nose, but I stop myself just in time. “Okay,” I say reluctantly, willing Dad to be done inside the hardware shop so we can go.
It works. Suzanne is just opening her mouth to respond when I hear Mom say, “Come on, Ethan. Dad’s ready.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ms. Carroway says, reaching out to shake Dad’s hand, even though both his hands are completely full. He gives her a tired smile and struggles to lift the bags out of his right hand. “Suzanne and I are off to the pool. Y’all are welcome to join us.”
“Thanks,” Mom says. “But we really have to be going.”
“Later,” says Suzanne, glossy lips smirking. “Don’t forget. Monday.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Bye.”
It’s not until they turn and are swaying off that I realize I am shaking. Mom didn’t remove her hand from my back the whole time we were talking, and now she is steering me toward the car.
“Suzanne seems nice,” she says. “You talked for a long time.”
Longer than I’ve talked to anyone my age since before the incident, she means.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Friend of yours?” Dad asks Mom.
“Horrible woman,” Mom says under her breath. “Or at least she was in high school.”
She glances at me. “But I’m sure her daughter’s a lovely girl.”
She hands me a few bags to put into the car. “Things’ll be easier for you here, honey,” she whispers.
I nod back, but inside I wonder.
Roddie
BACK IN BOSTON, “EVERYONE” agreed that I should have some time off school to “process” the incident and the move. “Everyone” is (listed in order of importance): (1) Dr. Gorman, my therapist, (2) Mom, (3) Dad, and (4) Ms. Lawdry, my old guidance counselor.
I’m not included in “everyone,” because no one asked me what I thought until after they’d already decided that I would get a week.
I’m not sure what was supposed to happen in that week, though, because by the time Mom and Dad take me to Palm Knot Middle to register on Friday, I don’t feel any different than when I got here.
“Just wait there,” Mom says to Roddie, pointing to a chair in the corner of the office. “I’m sure we won’t be long. Then it’ll be on to the high school, okay?”
Roddie shrugs and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket as he drops into the chair. “Whatever.”
Mom says something to the receptionist.
“Oh, yes!” she replies. “Mr. Beasley is expecting you.”
Just then, a door behind her desk opens and a heavy man in a tie and slacks emerges.
“Here he is now,” the receptionist says to us, beaming like she’s just performed a magic trick.
“Hey, sport!” Mr. Beasley, my new principal, twangs, clapping me on the back as if we already know each other.
There should be a rule against strangers calling you “sport.” Or clapping you on the back.
“Mrs. Oakley tells me you were on the honor roll back in Boston,” he says, nodding to the receptionist. “And did your parents tell me you like to skateboard?”
Everyone blinks at me (except for Roddie, who hasn’t looked up from his phone). I pretend to be noticing Mr. Beasley’s shiny black shoes, which match his shiny bald head. I’ve spent a lot of time noticing people’s shoes recently.
“Ethan?” Dad prompts. “Mr. Beasley asked if you liked to skateboard.”
“Not anymore,” I mutter to Mr. Beasley’s loafers, which respond by shifting backward uncomfortably.
Mr. Beasley blabbers on for another ten minutes about Palm Knot Middle until his receptionist interrupts.
“I have a phone call for you. An Adina Jessup?”
Even though I’ve been rude, Mr. Beasley says twice how happy he is that I’m joining the seventh grade before he takes his call. And on the way out, Mrs. Oakley gives me a supersize Snickers bar. Just because.
Because Mom and Dad told them what happened.
But I’ll bet if they knew the whole story, they wouldn’t be so friendly.
When no one’s looking, I stuff the candy bar in a trash can.
If Mr. Beasley and Mrs. Oakley knew the whole story, they would probably treat me more like Roddie does.
Like now, when he shoulders open the door to the parking lot just wide enough for himself to get through, letting it slam behind him instead of pushing it open for me.
I don’t know if he hates me for what I did, or because we had to move, but I think probably both.
I get it. If I were Roddie, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave Boston either.
Roddie played shortstop on his old school’s baseball team, the best in the league. He was supposed to be a starter next year, his junior year. Lots of scouts would be at his games, and his coaches told him he might have a chance at playing in college. Roddie’s wanted to play baseball for Boston College since he was hitting plastic balls off a tee.
He used to take Kacey and me to the Red Sox games sometimes, if none of his friends could go. We always sat up in the nosebleed seats where even the big screen is only the size of your thumb, but Roddie clapped and cheered for each batter just like he was sitting right behind home plate. When something great happened, like if Ortiz hit a home run, he’d jump up out of his seat and whistle and slap me on the back and ruffle Kacey’s hair.
Kacey was around so much that I guess it was kind of like Roddie had a little sister, too.
Before the incident, I was working up the courage to tell Roddie I was thinking about trying out for the middle school team and asking if he’d help me train. Kacey was helping me practice, because I wanted to get good before I brought it up. I didn’t want Roddie to be worried about being seen throwing the ball around with his butterfingers kid brother.
Since he was so good at baseball, Roddie always had a lot of friends, and a lot of girls who liked him. But he only ever really cared about Grace.
They started going out last fall and spent pretty much every day together from then until the day we left. I could tell Roddie loved her because of how he used to float around the house all dopey-eyed after their dates. And then one time I was skateboarding in front of the house when he came home, humming and bouncing on his toes. “One day you’ll understand, bro,” he said. “You’ll know what it’s like to love a girl so much, you’d give your life for her.” Then he grinned and winked. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be Kacey.”
I punched him in the shoulder because he knew it wasn’t like that between me and Kacey, and what would I want a girlfriend for anyway?
I get why my brother likes Grace so much, though. She smells like a garden and always hugs me when she sees me. Kacey liked her too. Grace showed her how to pull her hair back in some special kind of braid.
After the i
ncident, Grace brought me chocolate-chip cookies. I didn’t eat them, but it was still nice of her.
Before we go to the high school office, Roddie insists we stop at the baseball field so he can check it out.
The infield is covered in dirt instead of grass and overgrown with some kind of vine that spreads out like giant squid tentacles.
We all stand in silence, listening to the bug chorus that seems to follow us everywhere we go.
“Nobody would play on a field like this,” Roddie says finally. “I bet they don’t even have a team here, let alone scouts.” His voice breaks. Then he spits at the rusted wire fence and kicks it with a loud ping, which I feel in my stomach for a long time after.
Things That Happen on my First Day of School
1. I run into a light pole in the parking lot. I guess that’s the downside to staring at the ground all the time. I have to go to the bathroom and wait for my nose to stop bleeding, so then I’m late for homeroom.
2. The custodian forgot to bring an extra desk to my homeroom, so I have to sit in Ms. Silva’s chair, in front of the whole class.
3. Mr. Beasley comes over the intercom to tell the entire school about the “newest addition to the Palm Knot family,” who should be “welcomed by all with open arms.” Everyone stares at me.
4. In PE we play soccer, and Coach Sluggs makes one of the team captains pick me first. Which is the only thing worse than getting picked last.
5. After PE, Mrs. Oakley tracks me down and tells me to follow her to the office for testing. She says this is so my teachers will have “accurate data” on my “levels of prior knowledge.” So I spend the rest of the day taking tests.
6. Except for lunch. Which I eat by myself in the cafeteria because Mrs. Oakley forgets to dismiss me in time to go with the other kids. I wonder if Suzanne is mad about not getting to show me off.
7. Mom’s car is the first one waiting in the carpool line after school, and she waves hysterically as I walk toward the parking lot, causing a group of eighth graders next to me to snicker.
