Wild Blue Wonder

by Carlie Sorosiak

  He . . . made me meatballs? And wow, this dish weighs a bazillion tons.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you,” Nana answers for me.

  “Um, yeah,” I chime in. “Thank you.”

  “I was wondering if . . . ,” Alexander says to me, trailing off a bit. “Do you have a second?”

  “Yes, she does,” Nana says, mind-pushing me out of the barn. “We’re almost done here for the afternoon.”

  I say, “No we’re—”

  Words string together as they blast out of her mouth: “Oh-don’t-worry-about-me-go-on.”

  And that’s how I end up outside the barn with Alexander, a dishful of meatballs sweating up my palms, even though the air is perfectly frigid between us.

  The sky is charcoal blue, our footprints muddy in the snow.

  “Hana and I . . . well, we have study hall together,” he explains, shivering and digging both hands (semisuccessfully) into the pockets of his skinny jeans. The tips of his ears are turning red in the snapping wind. “She told me you lived at a summer camp, and I put two and two together. . . . I . . . You see, the thing is, I rang the doorbell, and your mum said you were in the barn. . . . Christ, sorry, I shouldn’t have just stopped by, but I owe you an apology for what happened today. I was a total bellend in the dining hall.”

  I blink at him. “What’s a bellend?”

  Even in the half-light, I can see the bloom of pink on his cheeks. “It’s a . . . it’s sort of a guy’s . . . Know what? Never mind. The point is I’m sorry, and nothing says please accept my apology like dead cow with spices.”

  The corner of my mouth twitches up. “Well, thank you. There’s no reason to say sorry, though. I knew it was an accident.”

  “Right . . . it was. But still, not the best impression. . . . I’m usually not so clumsy.” He cocks his head back and forth. “Actually, that’s a lie. Usually I’m just not so obvious about my clumsiness. Anyway . . . uh . . . enjoy the meatballs.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I will.”

  “Brilliant.” He begins to head back toward the trail but then rethinks it, turning on the heel of a blue suede loafer, his words blooming in the cold. “Am I . . . allowed to ask one more thing?”

  And I’m positive—absolutely positive that he’s about to ask about last summer. It’s a small town, after all. News travels quickly.

  “I just wondered . . . if you could possibly tell me, well, what you and Hana were doing in my front garden on Halloween?”

  Oh. That. Of course it’s that.

  I let out a frozen breath.

  “By any chance,” he continues, “is it some American tradition I don’t know about? Or trick-or-treating, perhaps?”

  “No,” I say, “it was just— If you really want to know, Hana thought your grandma was a ghost, we went to take pictures, and she wasn’t a ghost. That’s the whole story.”

  His brown eyes study me, a half smile spreading across his face. “A ghost?”

  “You don’t believe in them?”

  He backs up a foot, pretending to withdraw himself from the conversation. “I don’t want to dig myself back into a hole. . . . I’m afraid that’s the beginning of an endless cycle, and you might get sick of meatballs, so . . .”

  He looks like he’s about to retreat another step. Nana mistakes this for the end of the conversation. “Hold on a minute!” she shouts, weaving her way out of the barn, hands on hips and a bit huffy. “We can’t have you and your yaya outdoing us on the neighborly front. Do you want to come into the house and have some pie?”

  No. No. Not the cat-hair pie.

  Nana hasn’t baked a dessert without accidental Galileo fur in it for years.

  I imagine Alexander saying yes; I imagine welcoming him into the House of Sad, the three of us hunkering around the coffee table and siphoning cat hair from crust. But he must see a glimpse of something in my face, something certifiably stay-awayish, because he blinks a few times at me and comes out with: “Thank you, really, thank you, but I should be off. I haven’t fully unpacked yet, and my yaya’s just about had it.”

  “Mmm,” Nana says, “you’re in the old Atwood house, right? A few ladies in my knitting circle were talking about someone taking over the property.”

  “Right, yes, my yaya and Belinda—Ms. Atwood—were friends for a long time. Yaya moved here from Greece to sort out her things, and I . . . you see . . . I came with her.”

  I want to crowbar open that sentence:

  What about your parents?

  What about your friends?

  What about your life?

  “We’re lucky to have another fine young man in town, who is so devoted to his grandmother.” Nana gives me a look. “Come over anytime.”

  He says thanks, and when he’s out of earshot, safely back on his side of the woods, Nana pipes up again. “Well, Cookie, you certainly do have a lot on your plate.”

  I glare at her. “Trust me when I say that it’s not like that at all.”

  She winks in return. “How did you know I wasn’t talking about the meatballs?”

  June

  Trouble

  Your horse was winking at me, Dylan.

  You’d named her Trouble after a country song, even though she was an Appaloosa—as sweet as could be. She just liked to give people the eye. Two years ago, she’d appeared in your pasture after a blizzard, icicles in her mane. No one would claim her. No one remembered a horse like that ever being in Winship. You bathed her in warm water, steamed off the ice, and gave her a name.

  I fed Trouble carrots from the palm of my hand. “You’ll keep her when you go to Winship U in the fall, right?”

  You didn’t even hesitate. “Course. Abby’s helping me take care of her.”

  Your older sister, Abby, always intimidated me. She was so cool, with her nautical tattoos and quintuple-pierced ears and string of leather-jacketed boyfriends. She worked in Winship’s only bar, The Lobster, and still lived at home—which was probably for your benefit. To help out with your mom. I never blamed you for leaving home in the summers; your family’s property was only three miles from The Hundreds, but you said that was enough. Space to breathe.

  “Hungry?” Dylan asked.

  “You talking to me or Trouble?”

  “You. I hear your stomach grumbling from over here.”

  “I literally cannot stop eating. All the extra laps in the morning.”

  “Then it’s settled,” you said. “I’ll make you some mac ’n’ cheese.”

  I scoffed. “Since when do you cook?”

  “Hey. I am a microwave master.”

  It was a Sunday, muggy and warm—our first afternoon off, the end of week one. You and I had led the closing-day water balloon battle, ensured that each camper wrote a wish on a slip of paper, and then helped arrange the lines of vans as campers hugged one another and promised to text the moment they got home. Bright and early tomorrow morning, a new batch of one hundred would arrive, but right now, I was enjoying walking across the pasture and through the spruce trees to your house, which was small and old and red.

  On the porch, your bloodhound, Henderson, was barking up a storm. “Hey, buddy,” you said, flapping his silky ears. “Hi, howya doing, hi.” Supposedly Henderson was a hunting dog, but all he caught was squirrels. Before he left, your dad had taxidermied them to decorate the living room, strategically positioning them as if they were climbing up the wall. Stuffing animals was his job, but neither of us knew what he was doing now. He’d had an affair with a dental assistant from New Hampshire—met her on some dating app and decided to up and move to Hanover.

  Inside your house, it smelled of bacon grease and pine air freshener. You called out to your mom from the foyer, slipping off your hiking boots: “Hello?” We heard a murmur from the living room, where she was smiling at us from her armchair, but she didn’t get up. I said, “Hi, Mrs. McKenzie,” and you smoothed down her hair and kissed the crown of her head.

  Henderson barked. I patted his back, an
d he followed us into the kitchen. I whispered to you, “How is she?”

  “Same as always,” you said, riffling through the empty kitchen cabinets. “But the real question is what you want with your mac.”

  “Dylan . . .”

  “Tabasco? Bacon?”

  Your motto was: always have fun, and never take life too seriously. But after your mom’s car accident four years ago, she hadn’t uttered more than two sentences out loud. She did some things like before—still petted Henderson and watched those game shows with Steve Harvey on TV. She was just quiet. Really, really quiet. And sometimes she’d stay in that chair for half the day.

  I wanted you to talk about it. We all did. Nana tried. Reed tried. We all tried.

  “Tabasco,” I finally said.

  The yellow bowl spun in the microwave, and I leaned against the kitchen counter, crumbs underneath my palms. When the timer beeped, you pulled out the mac with paper towels and traveled to your room, where basketballs and baseballs and swim goggles were like rubble on the ground, where that Grand Canyon poster was peeling above your desk.

  I sat on your unmade bed. I always sat on your bed.

  Should it be any different now?

  “You haven’t pranked me this summer,” you said.

  “Nope.”

  “I’ve been waiting for it.”

  “Maybe that’s the prank. That there is no prank, so you just have to watch your back all the time.”

  “Man. You are a prank mastermind.”

  A corner of my mouth lifted into a grin. I surveyed the space. “You don’t look like you’ve packed anything.”

  “Patience, grasshopper,” you said, stealing a bite of my mac straight off my fork.

  I gobbled the rest of it down, and we spoke of what your life would be like in the dorms: the parties, the three-a.m. cram sessions before big exams. You’d gotten into Winship U by the skin of your teeth. But at college, things would be different. You’d try harder. Study something you were passionate about. You just weren’t sure what that was.

  Right before we left your house, you said goodbye to your mom, who tugged on your arm and pointed upstairs. So you carried her. You lifted her straight into her arms, let her hair drape over your shoulders like rain.

  And if I thought I’d loved you before, Dylan, I really loved you then.

  I couldn’t shake it.

  Later that afternoon, when Reed asked if I wanted to bike down to the Owl’s Head Light, I jumped at the chance—to push all that energy into my muscles, to crowd out Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. We decided to race. Four miles.

  I said, “What do I get if I win?”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “For you to admit that I’m faster.” I had a competitive streak.

  Reed grinned. “Maybe.”

  I shouted, “Go,” and we shot off from our usual starting point: directly underneath The Hundreds’ wooden sign. Mosquitos whizzed past our faces. The brisk air stung our eyes as we pedaled faster and faster, shoulder to shoulder, our lungs heaving, our hearts racing. With the lighthouse finally in sight, I made a sharp left at the Faircrest Inn, but Reed . . . Reed stopped.

  And Reed got off his bike.

  And Reed dropped it by the side of the road, crossed to the middle, and bent down.

  I maneuvered my way back toward him, just in time to see the turtle in his hands, see him carefully walk it to the side of the road and delicately, safely set it in the grass. A smile crept onto my face. He would’ve lost. He would’ve lost the race to save that turtle.

  “Let’s call it a tie,” I said across the road.

  He wiped his hands along the sides of his basketball shorts. “Okay.”

  We cycled slowly back to The Hundreds, side by side, me considering if everyone was a thousand selves in one skin. Reed: the basketball player who was fearless on the court. Reed: the turtle rescuer. And for a second, I almost told him. I almost blurted it out: how I was in love. Because Reed would get it. Kind Reed. Patient Reed. He’d understand.

  But as I thought about it, thought and thought and thought, the secret grew. Suddenly it seemed too big. Too . . . too many ways for it to go wrong.

  “Nana’s making cobbler,” Reed said as we laid our bikes in the garden.

  I swallowed. And all I could say was “Great.”

  November

  The Infinite Wild

  Back in the house, I plunk Alexander’s meatballs on the countertop and peel back the tinfoil—and Oh. Sweet. Jesus. They smell incredible.

  Nana’s disappeared upstairs to her yarn studio, so when footsteps shuffle behind me, I know it’s Mom: she and Nana have very similar treads, like their feet are kissing the ground. “Did you cook?” Mom says, smoothing the hair on the top of my head with the palm of her hand. Then she cracks up at her joke, because me? Cook?

  “Actually . . . um . . . a boy from school dropped them off.”

  “So that’s who he was.” Leaning against the countertop, she almost manages to cross her arms in an investigative way—but her shawl this afternoon is particularly chunky; it prohibits that type of movement. “A boy from school, huh?”

  I should’ve just told her that Hana dropped them off; last month she brought us four jars of hobakjuk—or pumpkin porridge—because her mom made too much. “Don’t read anything into it.”

  “Wasn’t going to,” she says, daintily selecting one of the bite-sized meatballs and plopping it into her mouth. Every muscle in her face immediately softens as an mmmmmm fills the room. “Whoever he is, though, let’s stay on his good side.”

  In the living room, Dad sets down Discover magazine to ask what the commotion is about, and then it’s the three of us in the kitchen, scarfing down literally all the meatballs. We don’t even make it to the table.

  The house is mostly quiet: except for the subtle moans of wood settling, like there always are. Reed’s out with Charlie, I think, and Fern’s . . . I don’t really know where Fern is. It hasn’t been the three of us—just my parents and me—for a long, long time.

  “This is nice, kiddo,” Dad says, echoing my thoughts. “I feel like we don’t get to see you that much anymore.”

  I start to correct him: You see me all the time. No more swim practice. No more meets or team parties on the weekends. But then I remember how, when Dad went into the office early, I’d tag along, spend mornings doing laps in Winship U’s pool and pressing my nose to the glass tanks in the aquarium, and afterward we’d grab coffee in the faculty lounge before classes began. And Mom: a lot of the time, she’d swim with me. Certainly not as fast—but she was there, hair in a messy, watery bun. She’d float on her back and drift down the lanes, and in between sets of laps, we’d talk: about anything, really—what she was going to plant in the garden that summer, the art classes she took in college, our preference for dark chocolate and how completely and totally weird it was that Reed and Dad preferred milk.

  And now?

  Maybe I’m around more, but I’m not around. I’m in bed with my headphones on. I’m in the shower, back pressed up against the wall for half an hour at a time, telling myself: Get . . . in . . . the water. And as of a few days ago, I’m in the barn with Nana. Neither Mom nor Dad has said anything about that. I wonder if they even know about the whole boat-restoration thing. Dad’s been pulling extra hours at the university, and Mom’s at her desk in their bedroom a lot, redoing the camp’s budget sheets for next summer.

  “Kiddo?” Dad repeats, and I realize I’ve been doing it again—playing a mannequin, staring off into space with glazed-over eyes.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s . . . it’s nice to hang out with you guys.”

  “Well,” Mom says, “the fun doesn’t have to end.” Quickly shuffling into the living room, she stands on her tiptoes, pulls Candy Land from the top of the bookshelf, and waggles the box at Dad and me. The pieces rattle together.

  And memories slap me.

  Candy Land.

  Last summer. />
  The tree house.

  Dylan.

  “No,” I say, under my breath, and then a little louder: “No.”

  “Another game?” Mom asks, still hopeful. “Monopoly? Clue?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not . . .”

  “Scrabble?” Mom’s saying. “You used to love Scrabble. Or how about—”

  “I’m actually kind of tired,” I say, although it’s barely six p.m. “Rain check?”

  Dad nods solemnly, beard gently swaying, and Mom breathes out, “Sure, sweetheart.”

  It’s the most loaded sure, sweetheart that I’ve ever heard.

  That Friday night, after several hours of researching where to purchase a new engine shaft and propeller, I’m lying belly-up on my bedroom floor, still avoiding my parents by listening to The Sunshine Hypothesis all the way through for the second time. The fourth episode is all about the uncomfortable beauty of snowflake eels—how creatures can be simultaneously gorgeous and terrifying—and the fifth discusses the plumed basilisk from Central America, which can literally run on water.

  Some people call it the Jesus Christ lizard. Google a picture of this little guy. It’s nothing like what I was imagining, based on the name. If there are any Harry Potter fans in the house, prepare to meet a real basilisk.

  Obviously I make a mental note to tell Hana. As if on cue, texts from her rush in fast and furious—my phone vibrating in the pocket of my sweatshirt.

  So I’ll tell you about my date with Elliot later (twas kind of awkward), but first . . .

  I had the weirdest dream last week. We were living together in a two-story house, talking upstairs, and suddenly I hear someone and I go “did we lock the front door?” and we had not because generic scary unknown male intruder was creeping downstairs

  You need to stop drinking coffee before bed.

  So we evaporate (?) into the backyard

  And THEN

  a flying saucer appears above the house, beams down, and abducts the intruder. But of course now we have seen the existence of aliens and they are hunting us

  This is nail-biting stuff.