by Anne Dayton
Zoe sits up and begins to dust the sand off her back. “We’ll walk you home,” she says. Ana’s house is in Ocean Colony, right on the beach, so we’re not too far. Ana pushes herself up. We stand and stretch, and Christine shakes out the blanket and tucks it under her arm. The four of us link arms and take a few steps.
“Wait!” Zoe screams and drops out of line. She bends over and grabs a stick from the clump of debris at the water’s edge, then runs over to the flat, dry space where the beach becomes the sea. She bends over and starts to scratch out a message. When we figure out what she’s writing, the rest of us we cheer her on. Finally she finishes: The Miracle Girls Forever.
She runs back to join us, and we slowly begin to weave our way up the beach toward Ana’s house. The others laugh and joke about senior year as we walk down the stretch of the shore lit by the brilliant moon, but I stay quiet. Waves lap at the hard-packed sand, and with each step, I fight the urge to turn around. I can’t bear to see if our little mark on the world has been washed away already.
3
“Bye, Riley!” Emma chirps but doesn’t dare break rank as I dash for the door. This summer Christine’s stepsister tried out for cheerleading and made the freshman squad easily.
“Next time plan to stay later, okay?” Ashley calls after me in a firm voice, adjusting a sophomore’s spot in the dance formation. Ashley is captain of the varsity squad, so she’s our cheer overlord this year, and she intends to make us the best squad this school has ever seen. Naturally, this means practice ran late again. Hopefully Michael hasn’t been waiting too long.
I jog to the parking lot, my bag slamming against my back. Mom usually picks him up right after school, but this year his Boy Scout troop, which meets in one of the classrooms at Marina Vista, gets done right at the same time as cheer practice is supposed to end.
I scan the parking lot. There’s Michael, standing in front of the gym in his scout uniform, surrounded by a few other guys. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t think any of us has recovered from the time a few years ago when he got on a bus to go visit Grandma Philips without telling anyone.
“Varsity!” The word cuts through the air, and I quicken my step. That doesn’t sound like one of Michael’s friends. It sounds like . . .
I squint. Why is Paul Pera hanging around my brother? The wind whistles in my ear as I run toward him. Michael is in the middle of a group of basketball players who are laughing their heads off. Jordan Fletcher is hunched over, clutching his side. My feet pound on the pavement, and I reach the crowd quickly.
“Michael.” I call out to him, but my voice is lost in the confusion.
“Hey man, maybe we should recruit this guy for varsity basketball.” Paul knocks against Michael’s backpack. Michael’s thin legs look so pale sticking out of his uniform shorts, and he’s flapping his arms like he does when he’s happy or upset—anytime his emotions are running high.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what’s going on. The high-school level of Boy Scouts is called Varsity Scouts. These guys are making fun of Michael’s uniform, which looks like a letterman jacket.
A dark-haired guy steps into the center of the circle, a skateboard tucked under his arm. He’s thin and kind of geeky, and it dawns on me that I know him. It’s Ben Nayar from my youth group. His family moved to Half Moon Bay last year, and I think I knew he went to Marina Vista but we’ve never really talked.
“Wow, they tell you jocks are stupid, but I always thought it was a stereotype.” Ben lifts his chin, but he fidgets after the words come out of his mouth.
“Shut up, stoner.” Paul pushes Ben hard, and he stumbles backward, dropping his board with a loud thwack. The other idiots begin to ooohhh at the commotion, and the skaters and burnouts start to gather around. Suddenly the air around us changes, and I realize there’s going to be a fight.
“Stop it!” My voice is shrill and high. The guys all stop and turn to me, as if surprised to see me standing there.
“Oh, hey, Riley.” Paul doesn’t look the least bit ashamed.
I push past him and reach for my brother, but the crowd is blocking me. “Come on, Michael.” I put my hand on his arm and pull him toward me, but Michael doesn’t budge.
“Don’t be like that. Riley’s a cheerleader.” Jordan slips his arm around Michael’s shoulder, and Michael shirks it off sharply and balls his fists. I say a quick prayer that Michael won’t snap and hit somebody. “All the varsity guys date cheerleaders.”
What in the . . . I spin on my heel and get right up in Jordan’s face.
“He’s—my—brother!” I hiss. Jordan rears his head back and blinks, and I knock him out of the way and grab Michael’s arm. “Come on.” This time he follows, a step behind me.
“Whoa. Riley’s brother?” Paul is almost whispering, but I still hear him. I flip back around and give him a hard stare.
“What is your problem,” I say, making it an accusation, not a question; then I clamp my mouth shut. All I really want to do is scream at him that Michael can’t help it, that he’s doing really well in a regular high school, that he’s made so much progress, that even if he wasn’t my brother, it would still be horrible to make fun of him. But I stomp silently back toward the car, chasing after Michael, because I learned long ago that losing my temper at people who don’t understand my brother only makes me feel worse.
“Riley!” Jordan yells. I can hear him chasing after us. “I . . . I didn’t know.”
I refuse to turn around and give any of them the satisfaction of apologizing to me. Let them feel horrible. What they did is despicable, and how could they not know? Michael is a male version of me—tall, blond, bony, awkward.
“I’m sorry I was late,” I say, but Michael doesn’t respond.
I love him a lot, but it’s not exactly like we hang out much at school. I hardly ever see him, actually. He’s got his own classes and a few friends, and I’ve got cheerleading, and the clubs, and the girls, and . . .
“I’m so sorry, Michael. Those guys . . . Well, no one likes those guys, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Michael’s eyes are watering so I keep going, but I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. For leaving him stranded. For being a terrible big sister. For not taking better care of him at school. For the twinge of embarrassment I felt when I saw him standing there.
“I’m sorry for not calling Mom to come get you when I knew I was going to be late.” I wasn’t that late, but I have to keep talking to keep myself from breaking down. Those guys have it so easy, and they’re making fun of my brother, who’s had to fight for everything he has in this life.
I unlock the van’s doors, and we both pile in quickly. I try to pray as I strap myself in, but between my barely restrained anger and Michael’s watery sobs in the passenger seat, I don’t exactly feel like talking to God right now.
4
“I still don’t understand why you want to take extra classes.” I pull the visor down and check the mirror to see if I have anything in my teeth. “Your applications already look incredible.”
“It’s enrichment.” Ana pulls into the parking lot, shuts off the engine, and steps out onto the pavement, swinging her purse strap onto her shoulder. “Colleges like students who show initiative, and community college classes are a good way to get their attention.”
Something about her voice is wrong. Did her mother put her up to this? We were supposed to study calculus at her house tonight, but she dragged me along to this with her instead. I’ll pretty much take any excuse not to think about derivatives for an evening, but now that we’re here I’m suspicious.
I follow her toward the open lawn in the middle of a cluster of buildings. Tonight City College of San Francisco is hosting an enrollment fair, and each department has set up tables around the lawn to showcase different fall classes.
“It’s your free time, I guess.” I follow after her, and my flip-flops stop their slapping as we step onto the lawn.
The sof
t grass tickles my toes. Early fall is often the warmest time of year around here, but we won’t have too many more mild nights. It’s weird to think this will be my last September in the Bay Area.
“Oh! Biochem—that sounds fun!”
I plant my feet in the grass, and Ana jerks backward.
“Ana, you’re a terrible liar. What’s this really about?” She starts to open her mouth, but she has a plastic smile on her face, so I interrupt her. “And, no, I don’t buy that even you think biochem is fun.”
“Okay, busted.” She hangs her head and laughs. “But it was for a good cause. I wanted to help you figure out what you want to do with your life.” She gestures around the sunny lawn. “I realized Marina Vista doesn’t challenge you—our classes are just stupid core requirements. But they have all kinds of choices here. What if there’s a future anthropologist inside of you waiting to get out or something?”
“I’m not into bugs.”
She refuses to laugh at my joke and beams back her hopeful smile.
We’re standing in the middle of the square, surrounded by colorful booths. The English department has a huge bust of Shakespeare on their table. I suppose I could read the classics and get a jump on college that way. I turn to my left and see the Physics table. Dry computations bore me to death, but understanding the logic of the physical world has always intrigued me. Beyond that, the art department has drawn a crowd, thanks to a potter and his spinning wheel. I imagine the feel of the clay under my fingers. I used to love art projects. Or, in the other direction, there’s the sciences, or history, or economics, or—
I stop turning and press my fingers to my eyes. “This only makes my head hurt more.” There are too many choices and not enough time to try them all. How can you rule things out if you like them all about the same? “Maybe I’ll hold off on college until next year.”
“C’mon, Riley.” Ana’s face is pleading. “Choose something—anything. If you love it, great. Then you’ll know what you want to do with your life.” She points at the biochem table and shrugs. “If you hate it, fine. You’ve eliminated a path, and you can hold me personally responsible for wasting your time.”
“Wait. What’s this really about?” I study her face for a moment. Ana’s determination is bordering on desperation. “I’m touched you want to help, but why are you so adamant?”
She sighs, and her shoulders slump. “No reason.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. She can’t think that after three years together I’m this clueless. “Ana?”
“Nothing.” She digs into the soft earth with her toe and lowers her voice. “I’m worried about you. That’s all. Maybe it was that thing you said the other night about Tom.”
“There’s nothing between us. I promise.”
“I’m only saying, be careful. The last thing either of us needs is a new boyfriend—or in your case, a recycled boyfriend.” She puts a hand over her heart. “After that fiasco with Dave last year, I’ve promised myself I’m going to stay unattached this year. I don’t want to be making decisions about my future because of some high school boyfriend.”
“You’re totally right,” I say. She perks up, almost in surprise. “No recycling. Good for the environment, bad for exes. Tom’s helping me wrap my head around the whole college thing and the applications process, stuff like that, but we’re not getting back together.”
Maybe I’ll stop answering his calls, and he’ll slowly fade away again. Life is complicated enough without him.
Ana frowns and stares past me at a group of people huddling around the Philosophy booth. “And you know you can talk to us, right?” She tilts her head, her face showing something like confusion. “About whatever’s going on?”
I stare at my sure-footed friend, thinking of how to put into words something I don’t fully understand myself. I take a few steps and Ana follows me, slipping her arm through mine. We weave slowly through the crowd.
“How did you know you wanted to study medicine?” The sky is turning a soft orange in the fading light as we aimlessly wander over to the English booth. There are hundreds of colorful pamphlets spread out on it.
“I don’t know. I feel called, I guess.” Ana takes a flyer off the English table and flips through it. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. Being a doctor has always been my dream.”
“Called,” I mumble to myself. Is that what I’m missing? “All my life people have promised me that if I work hard, I can do anything in the world, but no one has ever told me how to figure out what that is. If God has a plan for my life, he could stand to be clearer about it.”
She bites her lip. “I’m sure it will become clearer, but maybe not on your schedule. God’s timing doesn’t always make sense to us.”
“I hope you’re right.” The student manning the English booth steps toward us. “But until then, I don’t know what to do except watch reruns and eat Cheetos and pray for things to start making sense.” The bust of The Bard stares at me with a piercing glare. I put my hands over his eyes. “Stop it, Willy.”
“You can’t do nothing in the meantime. I don’t think that’s what God wants either.” Ana thumbs through the pamphlet in her hands and stops on one of the pages. “You could try a creative writing class. That could be fun, and maybe it will help you sort through some of this.”
I take the brochure out of her hands, and my eyes scan the syllabus: two fifteen-page stories and one thirty-page story.
“Well . . .” I never really thought about writing. I’ve always been pretty good at composing essays, but I’ve never tried to craft a story. But for some reason, I think Ana’s kind of right. Trying something—anything—sounds more appealing than standing here floundering. Who knows? Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do with my life. Maybe all along I was called to be a writer, and I never realized it. “Do you think I could? This is a massive syllabus.”
“You’d be great at it. First of all, you’re good at everything. Second of all, I’ve seen your writing and it’s excellent.” Ana grabs a clipboard off the table with a pen clipped under the claps. “Come on. Sign up for it, and I’ll take it with you.”
“Really?”
Ana nods, her face determined. “I’ll even drive us. Tuesday nights are perfect for me. But we have to do it together.” This is exactly why she’s such a good leader: saying no to her is almost impossible. And it is sweet that she wants to spend time with me—or, knowing Ana, keep tabs on me.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a small bit of hope take root.
“Awesome.” Ana doesn’t wait for me to answer and immediately begins to fill out the registration form. “You’re going to love it.”
“Sure.” I grab another form from the table. “Who knows? Maybe I’m the next Steinbeck.” I begin to scratch out my name and fill in bubbles and boxes, signing away my Tuesdays for a semester. This is crazy, and it feels like grasping at straws, but straws are all I have at the moment.
5
“Let’s open with a quick prayer, shall we?” Assistant Pastor Jandel peers through his outdated wire-rimmed glasses at the people in the church pews. Right now he looks more like a used-car salesman than a preacher. “Dear God, today we ask you to bless our church’s finances and reward our hard work in your name tenfold so that we might bring greater glory to your kingdom—”
I see my window of opportunity and take it. If my family wants to attend yet another insanely boring meeting about the state-of-the-art new wing of the church, that’s their business. I already sat through Sunday school and church on an incredibly gorgeous day.
“Please lay it on the hearts of our brothers and sisters to give generously to the causes of your temple—”
I move down the row, careful not to nudge Michael, who is sound asleep and sprawled out in the pew. I pad quietly down the right-side aisle and slip behind the giant fund-raising barometer to reach the door.
“Amen.” Pastor Jandel steps up to the podium with a slick smile. “I’d like to officially call this meeting to
order. Today’s first topic is growing the church’s budget to provide for the new Trinity Center.”
I peer over at my parents. They are so busy checking on Michael they haven’t noticed I’m gone. Pastor Jandel seems to glimpse me at the back. I roll my eyes, wondering how well he can see me, then shut the door quietly, not sure where I’m going exactly. Just . . . away.
I wander out of the foyer, and my feet choose a meandering path through the building, seeking a quiet place where I can be alone and think. I check the bridal parlor, but it’s full of scurrying people.
I try the nursery, but when I peek in the window I don’t see Mrs. Martinez inside. Did she stop working in the nursery? Ohmigosh. Did she finally pass away? She changed my diapers every Sunday, and then Michael’s. . . . She’s like everybody’s second mom. There’s a young woman in a rocking chair, but I don’t know her so I don’t feel comfortable asking if I can hold one of the babies.
I fork left, dragging my hand down the wall absently, wondering when everything changed. Was it when they hired Pastor Jandel? No, maybe it started before that, when we got the new sanctuary.
I arrive at the gym and peer in the window. “Thank God,” I mumble to no one and push through the old metal door. A few slices of light decorate the floor, but otherwise the gym is deserted. In the corner, there’s a basketball that someone forgot to put away. I take off my high heels and slide over to the ball in my tights, slipping on the dusty floor. The outside of the orange ball has been worn thin with age, and when I drop it, it halfheartedly bounces into the air once and then rolls across the floor.
I pick it up, walk over to the basket, and savor the sound of it hitting the rim, the loud, empty echoing. I need more still spaces in my life.
The side door scrapes open, and I sigh but don’t turn. Maybe whoever it is will go away if I don’t acknowledge them. But as I take another shot, making it this time, the sound of dress shoes on the old wooden floor grows louder.
