The Leading Edge of Now

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  Mrs. McAllister breezes past, shooting us an all-knowing look as she wraps up a plate of leftovers and slides it into the fridge. With a small smile, she walks out of the room, leaving us alone.

  “Sorry,” Owen mumbles. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s fine! I mean, you didn’t — I’m just —” I grab a rag and wipe off the counter like my sole purpose in life is to bravely save thousands from E. coli. “Ack,” I say finally, tossing the rag in the sink. “You have nothing to apologize for, Owen.”

  We wash dishes for a few minutes, Owen rinsing off plates and then handing them to me to slide into the dishwasher. I can hear the TV in the living room, and Janna, talking on the phone to Andy, who called at the end of dinner.

  “Your neck sore?” Owen asks — fair enough question, I guess, because I’m rolling my head around in circles, stretching my neck muscles, as I wait for him to hand me another plate.

  “Too much practicing today without a music stand.”

  He glances at me, surprised, his amber eyebrows arching just the slightest bit as he hands me a platter. “Did you leave it in Tampa?”

  Putting the plate in the dishwasher, I say, “When I went into foster care, I was given only a certain number of my things. It wasn’t the biggest priority to the state of Florida, I guess.”

  “So it’s gone?”

  There’s a constriction in my throat. I speak around it. “Yeah. It’s been two years. I’m over it.”

  The only sound in the kitchen is the clink of silverware in the stainless sink. “Careful — sharp,” Owen says as he hands me a knife. “I’m glad you kept it up, the violin. Yesterday, I heard you playing that Brahms song …”

  “The Brahms violin concerto?” I supply. It’s weird standing in the McAllisters’ kitchen having a regular conversation with Owen. Also, it’s not weird.

  “Yes! Love that one. You’re getting really good. Have you been taking lessons?”

  “Nah,” I say, shrugging a bit. “I mean — I’ve always taken orchestra at school, but orchestra teachers don’t really teach individual lessons.”

  We’re quiet for a few minutes as we finish the last of the dishes and start the dishwasher. When I turn toward Owen, I find him leaning against the counter, watching me. I can tell he’s about to say something serious, because his eyes are solemn. “Look,” he says in a low voice, glancing toward the living room and then back at me, “I know I should’ve said this the last time we talked, and I know it’s probably way too late, but I want to apologize. For everything. For leaving you alone that night on Labor Day weekend. For not trying to track you down when you fell off the grid. I should’ve known you wouldn’t walk away unless something huge had happened, unless something was really wrong. It’s just —” He stops and fidgets with the cargo pocket on his shorts. “You were this awesome, beautiful girl, and I was a total disaster. I honestly thought I was dragging you down.” His voice breaks on the last word, and my heart twists.

  “Owen —”

  He raises a palm. “Hear me out, please. I feel like an ass. I was hurt because I thought you were brushing me off. Not trying harder to get in touch with you after you went back to Tampa — it was shitty and it was wrong and I need you to forgive me, because I want to be part of your life again, Grace. You want to just be friends? Fine. We’ll be friends. If you want something more, well, you can have that, too.”

  Is this real?

  Is this actually happening?

  I hedge uncomfortably, stuffing my hands in my pockets. Then I say, “I’m not the same person anymore, Owen.”

  He ducks down to meet my eyes. “Yes, you are. And I’m going to help you figure out who this” — he pauses, clenches and unclenches his jaw — “person is who hurt you.”

  I don’t think I can do this. “Owen, I —”

  “Grace,” he says, his voice pained. “Please let me help you.”

  I stare out the kitchen window at Rusty’s house, where Rusty and Faith and Eleanor have been buzzing around ever since I arrived — hummingbirds visiting flowers — busy with their own lives.

  I’m tired of being surrounded by people but feeling so alone.

  Owen and I can hang out, can’t we? I’m not going to jump into a relationship relationship with him. I won’t get in over my head. “Okay,” I whisper.

  Thirty-Three

  The next day begins like any other day. I roll out of bed, shuffle into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, grumble at the cat on my way to the bathroom, make a face at my reflection in the mirror, slouch my way back to the kitchen, drink too much coffee and attempt to make my hair presentable.

  When I walk back to my room, though. That’s when it happens.

  I find Eleanor crouched over my desk, the top drawer slid open. She straightens up as I enter, smiling congenially. “I have to wonder,” she says slowly, gesturing to the drawer, “whether you obtained those wallets in a legal manner.”

  Suddenly I feel like I’m sliding down the steep, gravelly slope of a mountain, arms flailing, unable to stop. Words start flying out of my mouth. “I can’t even — I mean — those aren’t — why were you going through my things?”

  Eleanor rocks back on her heels. “Was going to borrow a pair of socks,” she says, and she has a smirk on her face that tells me she finds this whole thing vaguely entertaining. “I have to admit — I didn’t see this one coming. You, a thief?” She shakes her head back and forth in disbelief.

  I shut my eyes so I don’t have to look at her. But I can still hear the ghost of her words, echoing in my head. You, a thief? I want to feel angry with Eleanor for invading my privacy. But all I feel is humiliation, thick and tar-like. And all I see is Dad, looking down on me, his expression heavy with disappointment. You, a thief?

  I’m sorry, Dad.

  I open my eyes. I’m crying huge, stupid tears. Eleanor’s form swims in front of me as she says, “Relax, slick. Your secret is safe with me.”

  I wait a moment for this to make me feel better.

  It doesn’t happen.

  I want to tell Eleanor that I had my reasons for taking those wallets, that I’m not a bad person. But I’m not sure whether I believe that anymore.

  Who am I? The criminal or the victim?

  I don’t even know.

  Time and time again, I’ve told myself it was okay to steal from those men, because they made me uncomfortable, because they were disgusting, because they shouldn’t have been looking at me like that in the first place. I felt like I was taking things back, collecting all the little parts of me that had been blown apart, putting myself together again so I wouldn’t have to worry about footsteps behind me or leering eyes or creepy stares.

  But what I should’ve been doing was finding the person who stole my trust in the world. I should have been looking for him, because he’s still out there. And as much as I’d love to blame that on someone else, I can’t.

  I can’t.

  I’m the one who gave him his freedom.

  I’m the one who let him get away with what he did.

  I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. All these wrongs I’ve committed, well, I’ll right them somehow. What matters most is stopping this monster before he hurts someone else.

  #

  “Do I remember a dark-haired kid who used to work with me a couple of years ago?” Rusty repeats as he uncovers a container of leftovers he’s pulled from the fridge. He’s still wearing his work clothes. I barely let him walk through the front door before I started asking questions. “Not specifically. I’ve worked with a lot of kids who match that description. They come and go all the time.”

  I square my shoulders and draw in a breath, steeling myself. “He came over to your house to watch the Gators’ season opener a couple of years ago, that time I was sick.”

  A complex, u
nidentifiable emotion passes over Rusty’s face. He puts the container on the counter and turns toward me. “Why do you ask?”

  I tell him the truth, or at least part of it. “Logan told me he saw me outside that night, talking to that guy. I just thought it was weird, is all.”

  A little crease forms in Rusty’s forehead. “You went outside that night?”

  “Apparently.”

  Leaning against the counter, Rusty says, “Maybe it was when we walked over to the beach to watch the fireworks.”

  “You left the house to watch fireworks?”

  Rusty shifts his weight. “I mean — most of us did? Can’t remember who all went. I had a few beers that night.” He lifts his hat and then crams it back on his head. “I think Andy hung back, though. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Thirty-Four

  I leave a long, detailed voicemail on Andy’s phone that night, but he never returns my call. So the next day, I leave another.

  And then another.

  And then another.

  I look for him at the beach and downtown and in the library. I go to his house and knock on his front door. But I can’t seem to find him anywhere. Which is upsetting in a sharp, visceral sort of way, because earlier this summer, I bumped into him practically every time I turned around.

  Thirty-Five

  The first thing Rusty says to me when I get home from my therapy appointment Tuesday night is, “Sorry it’s so loud,” followed closely by, “Want some orange juice?” I’m unbelievably exhausted, the past several days wearing on me like a toothache. All I want to do is curl up in bed and sleep an entire week away. But the sight of Rusty, wearing glasses, standing at the kitchen counter with Faith, a juicer and a mountain of oranges in front of him, makes me hitch to a stop.

  Who is this person, even?

  Rusty must see the question mark in my expression, because he says, “We’re stocking up on folic acid. It’s supposed to prevent neural tube defects in babies.” He pauses a moment, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, he goes on, sounding like he’s reading from a brochure in an ob-gyn office. “Women who ingest the recommended dose of folic acid can reduce the risk of neural tube defects by fifty to seventy percent. Also, folic acid helps decrease the chance of cleft palate and heart defects.”

  Pretty sure that even in Rusty’s head, he misspelled the words “neural” and “cleft.”

  I say, “So you’re trying to knock up Faith, and you thought it would be a good idea to make a year’s supply of orange juice.” I try to make the words come out rather seriously, but I feel the sides of my mouth creeping up as I speak, negating my tone completely.

  “I’m a day late, actually,” Faith says.

  “A whole day?”

  Clearly Faith doesn’t speak sarcasm. “Yes!” she says, pointing at me. “Exactly! And so I said to myself, ‘Faith, it’s time to pay attention to your folic acid intake.’”

  I turn back to Rusty and just stare at him.

  “What?” he says.

  “I mean, you’re making juice,” I point out. “And wearing glasses.”

  Faith pats his cheeks with both palms. “They look distinguished on him, right? I told him he should start wearing them. It’s time for him to grow up. He just needs a nudge in the right direction.”

  #

  I’m lying in bed that night, half asleep, when I hear a tiny tapping sound on my window. I jerk upright, completely startled, and find Janna peering through the pane. A scarf is hippie-wrapped around her head. In her hand is a rigid container filled with what appears to be tea. I throw her a questioning look as I yank open the window. “Sorry!” she yell-whispers. “I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and wake everyone up.”

  This is Classic Janna, and it feels so familiar — a pair of old shoes that I slide my feet into. “What’s the story?” I ask.

  This makes her smile.

  Long ago, Janna read a book about two sisters who hijack their mother’s car and drive cross-country to see their favorite band in concert. Janna found it fascinating and empowering in this it’s a big, amazing world and we need to conquer it sort of way, so she started converting the things we did to adventures.

  What’s the story?

  It’s shorthand for What sort of awesome thing can we do today? Where should we go? What kind of fun can we have? Janna has forever dreamed up fabulous stuff for us (e.g., the “I’m Too Sexy” thing at Island Pizza) and I have forever gone along with it.

  Janna says, “The tide is low, so I thought you might want to go with me to The Point.” She pauses dramatically. “Momma turtles. You. Me. What a fabulous time we’ll have.” Then she backs away to make room for me to climb out, not even waiting for my reply. I’ll say yes, obviously. I’ve always said yes.

  We hike out to The Point, a sandy jut of beach just north of Rusty’s, and then settle shoulder to shoulder in the sand. It’s a beautiful night, a small consolation prize for a horrible week. The sounds are all water slapping onshore and wind whistling through the dunes and Janna’s quiet inhalations. Overhead the stars are spinning and infinite.

  Janna offers me her green tea. I make a yuck face and grumble, “Nasty.” But then I take a sip anyway and pass it back to her. Janna got into health foods right around the same time she started wearing mascara. I’ve always figured the two are related, but I’ve never quite deciphered how.

  We sit in companionable silence for several moments. We’ve wasted probably a hundred summer nights like this, watching a small stretch of shadowy beach, the only light coming from the moon. Ever since Owen built that turtle-nest enclosure, Janna’s been enchanted with the idea of grown turtles returning to the exact place they were hatched to lay their own eggs. Mind you, we’ve never actually seen a turtle out here — our presence probably scares them all away — but that hasn’t ever stopped us from coming. I think it’s the idea of it, more than anything else, the notion that there’s this essential order to the universe. That somehow, we all find our way back to exactly where we’re supposed to be.

  Or maybe we just like gossiping on the beach.

  Whatever the case, here, now, with Janna, it’s easy to pretend that the past couple of years never happened. This is the place where we’ve admitted crushes and complained about parents and whined about schoolwork. It’s sacred ground, and its magic softens my anxiety a little. I draw in a breath and exhale, gazing out over the dark stretch of sand.

  Janna says, “Seems like there are less stars out here than there used to be, back when we were little.”

  I think about this, then lean back on my elbows. “Really? To me, it seems like the sky just keeps growing bigger and bigger. Like any day now it’s going to swallow me whole.”

  “Must be hard to sleep.”

  “You have no idea.”

  We’re quiet again for a minute, and then Janna says, “So I found out that my Grease costar — Mr. Tall, Dark and Gorgeous — is taken.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m sure there’s another eligible bachelor ready to take his place.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  Andy.

  A couple of years ago, I probably would’ve told Janna about Andy’s crush. Now, though, I understand that some things are best kept private. So I shove my toes into the sand and say, “Logan. He was asking about you the other day.”

  Janna turns toward me, lifting both eyebrows. “Was he now?”

  “He was. I saw him that day you sent Andy to babysit me.” I give her a pointed look, which she ignores completely.

  “Where’d you see him?” she asks.

  “Outside Dream Cones. He was with Sawyer.”

  “You don’t have to say Sawyer’s name like that.”

  “Like what?” I say. I see a shadow shift and I sit up, peering into the darkness, wondering if it’s a turtle. It isn’t, though — just the moon-shadow of a palm frond
, dipping and swirling in the breeze.

  “Like he’s an arrogant ass,” Janna says.

  “But he is an arrogant ass.”

  “I suppose he is,” Janna admits, and both of us laugh.

  I use my toe to write my name in the sand and then squint at it, trying to examine my handiwork. Finally I say, “So I followed Owen to Zoey Barnes’s house. I thought maybe he had a girlfriend.” It’s a little embarrassing, this admission, but I feel like I owe Janna some truths.

  “Hm,” Janna says.

  “Oh, now you’re just screwing with me. What are you thinking?”

  She must see the same moon-shadow, because she straightens up like a prairie dog for a handful of seconds. Then she grumbles something unintelligible and slouches again. “What am I thinking? That you’re still totally in love with my brother. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  I blink. Am I in love with Owen? If I’m being honest with myself — something I generally strive to avoid — then the answer is yes. I try to even out my expression. I don’t know why. Janna has always been able to read me, probably even better than I can read myself.

  “Look,” she says, her voice softening a little, “I know you’ve been through a lot. I get that. But you know what? So has he. And Owen is … he’s pretty clueless when it comes to girls. And he’s been stuck on you for so long that he’s never looked twice at anyone else.” She lets out a long sigh, glancing sideways at me. “I know you had your reasons when you walked out of our lives, and I get them. Honestly, I do. But you really hurt Owen, and he’s too good a person to have his heart broken like that again. So whatever you do, be careful, okay?”

  I feel like she’s giving me her blessing. I sit there for a moment, silent and still, and then I whisper, “I will.” Holding Owen’s heart in my shaky, incapable hands is a tall order for me right now, but I don’t know how not to be in Owen’s life. I’ve tried to walk away from him, but — like the turtles that return here year after year — an overwhelming, invisible force always draws me right back.