Goodbye, Rebel Blue

by Shelley Coriell

  Back inside the ballroom, I go on another Nate hunt, and when I don’t find him, I head for the only place I haven’t looked. On the way to the men’s bathroom I spot a familiar buzz cut atop no neck near one of the food and beverage stations. I run to Bronson and grab his arm. “Where’s Nate?”

  Bronson, who holds a plate of mini meatballs and mozzarella sticks, looks at me and squints. “Rebel?”

  I smooth my hand along the sea-glass hair clip. “Yep, I clean up pretty good. Now where’s Nate?”

  Bronson pops a meatball into his mouth. “He’s not coming.”

  “What? He’s supposed to be here with a girl from his calculus class.”

  “Something came up with her family, and she had to cancel.”

  “And he didn’t ask anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t he coming alone?”

  “He sold his ticket.”

  “That makes no sense.” I clutch his arm. “Prom is important to him. He should be here.” My words are loud and panicky.

  Bronson leans in. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.” I nudge him away. “Nor am I doing drugs.” I tap the broken shoes against my thigh. What now? I didn’t come for the mozzarella sticks. I don’t want to dance and stand in circles chatting about summer plans. I want Nate.

  I spin around—and smack into a bronze brick wall.

  “Where have you been?” Nate’s words are snappish and breathy, as if he’s been running. But he’s not dressed for running. Nor is he dressed for prom. He wears shorts, a white tank, and flip-flops. A sloppy wing of hair hangs over his forehead, and I have a crazy urge to run my fingers through it. “Gabby said you were supposed to be with Penelope and her friends.”

  “I’ve been running around looking for you,” I say. “Where have you been?”

  “Running around looking for you.” He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. “Mission accomplished. Now we need to get going.”

  I dig my heels in. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “Getting you out of here.”

  “Why? This is prom.”

  He pushes his hair off his forehead, but it falls back. “You don’t belong here.”

  The panic swirls in my chest. No. He’s wrong. This conversation is wrong. “Listen, Nate. I’m trying. Don’t you see I’m trying?” I raise my hands in a pleading gesture, and the broken heel falls to the floor. I grab it and tuck the wounded shoes behind my back. “I can do this. I can be a normal girl at a normal dance. For you.”

  “No, Reb. I’m serious. You don’t belong here.” I open my mouth, but he presses a finger to my lips. “And neither do I.” For the first time tonight, Nate’s dimples appear, and all of a sudden things seem very, very right.

  Heads spin as Nate hustles me out the door. It’s a good thing I’ve been working out with the track team for weeks, or I’d be struggling to match his pace as we hurry along the boardwalk. I don’t ask where we’re going, because Nate, as usual, has everything under control, or, at least, I hope he does. There’s something different about him tonight, something a little less buttoned-up.

  Tonight the moon hangs full and low, the sky glowing with false twilight that illuminates Nate’s face. His hint of a smile grows to a full-fledged grin by the time we reach the marina. He waves to the guard at the security booth and leads me along the crisscrossing docks lined with boats of every shape and size. I picture Nate’s face the day he told me about the twenty-five-foot Hunter sailboat with teak deck and bobble-head dolphin. I saw joy mingled with longing and a dash of adventure. He wears the same look now, but to the tenth power.

  Midway down a dock, he turns me toward the water and motions to a boat with a grand sweep of his arm. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “She’s …” I press my lips together, trying to keep a straight face. “She’s something, all right.” I know very little about boats, but this tiny sailboat is no sleek, twenty-five-foot Hunter with a teak deck that will make it all the way to the Baja.

  “She’s a twelve-footer, a 1974 Montgomery, and she’s mine.”

  “You bought this boat?”

  “Technically, I’m still buying it.” He takes the shoes from my hand and flings them into the bottom of the boat. “I took the money that I would have spent on prom—money for a tux, dinner, flowers, the tickets—and used it to put a down payment on this. The former owner is going to let me make payments every week, and, come the end of summer, she’ll be paid off and all mine.”

  “I’m happy for you Nate. I really am.” He’s listening to his heart and honoring his true self, and I can see it on his face.

  He squeezes my hand. “Me, too.” Then he lets out a quick breath. “Now it’s time.”

  “For what?”

  His dimples deepen. “The anti-prom.”

  I laugh. “The what?”

  “You’ll see.” He puts one foot into the boat and reaches for my hand. I lift my skirt to climb in, but he shouts, “Wait!” He drops my hand and leaps into the boat without a sound, all strength and agility and grace. Still a sporto at heart. He fumbles with a box at the front end, and seconds later, soft violin music floats on the air. Then he reaches into his pocket, takes out a book of matches, and lights a tiny candle with some saintly guy’s picture on it.

  I picture his sister playing the music and his little saintly brother offering one of his candles, and a lump rises in my throat. “It’s beautiful.”

  He reaches for my hand but then smacks his head. “No! Not yet. Man, I’m screwing this up.” With an intense seriousness, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a white bow tie and slips it around his neck. Finally, he takes my hand and escorts me onto his sailboat. On one of the bench seats sits a tray with two sandwiches, a single apple, and two bobbing mounds of flan with a shiny brown sauce.

  “Mateo said you really need to try flan with caramel sauce. It’s traditional and his best.”

  I can’t speak.

  Nate’s fingers worry the right side of his hair. “I know it’s not normal and—”

  “No!” I hold up a hand and add more softly, “No, it’s perfect.” Like Nate. Like everything about this strange and wonderful night. I have flowers from Uncle Bob, a barrette from Aunt Evelyn, Cousin Pen’s broken shoes, cover-up from Macey, and Percy’s penny. My life is far from perfect, and it will never be perfect, but right now, being here at this moment, surrounded by these things, is the right choice.

  I’ve made choices, and I am exactly where I need to be, when I need to be there. With a giddy laugh, I sit on the middle bench, and Nate moves to the back of the boat and starts the engine.

  He unhooks the tether and pushes off from the dock. “Time for the ol’ Rebel Girl to sail.”

  “Rebel Girl?” I dip my head in a not-so-humble bow. “I’m flattered that you’re naming your boat after me.”

  Nate aims the boat toward the open ocean. “Nope. She had the name long before me.”

  “Come on, Nate.”

  Nate points to the back of the boat. “Take a look.”

  I bunch my wispy skirt in my hands and walk to the back of the boat on bare feet. Written across the back in faded letters are the words Rebel Girl.

  Yes, this is where I belong. I sink back onto the seat, my skirt fanning out like a silvery cloud. I turn my face to the midnight sky, to the stars, to whatever is beyond. Tonight, it all feels right and good.

  It’s destiny, I say.

  Every inch of my skin prickles, and I grab the sides of the boat. It’s too dark to see, but I can’t help but search for a perky blond ponytail.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This story was born in the aftermath of three deaths that profoundly changed my life and the lives of people I love. To the three who died, thank you for making this world a better place. Joy and peace on your respective journeys.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Young adult author Shelley Coriell writes stories about teens on the edge of love, life-changing moments,
and a little bit of crazy. Her debut, Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe, was a 2012 Indie Next Pick, and Publishers Weekly praised Coriell for her “sparkling wit and great skill in creating complex characters with memorable personalities.” You can find Shelley at shelleycoriell.com and on Twitter @ShelleyCoriell.

  Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe

  This book was designed by Maria T. Middleton.