Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

  I don’t see anyone else around here. All this time, Crystal has been sitting in the shade by herself.

  “I bet it takes a long time to sew a costume,” I tell her.

  “That’s sort of an understatement.”

  “What if I helped?”

  “For real?” she says, brightening. “You would do that?”

  “If you showed me how.”

  Crystal grins. “Nobody ever asked me before.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re the first. So what did you have in mind? I could sew a nice purple bodice for you, real princess-like.”

  “I’m not much of a princess.”

  “Of course you are. Maybe you could be a Spellcaster or a Dragon Barbarian. You can be anything you want.”

  “But I don’t know how to play.”

  “Everybody knows how to pretend. You’re already good at it. In fact, you’re probably an expert.”

  She’s right.

  I’m good at hiding the truth.

  And that’s why I don’t feel very good at all.

  chapter fourteen

  rotten fruit

  When the game ends, I steer Crystal’s wheelchair into the sunshine and help her pack away the costumes.

  Crystal shoves a handful of feathers into a bag. “Want to grab lunch? My blood sugar’s going to crash.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means bad things happen if I don’t eat. Sometimes I get dizzy and pass out. That’s the worst, you know?”

  I do know.

  “Then you should probably eat soon.”

  “Sooner than later,” she says. “Or else I’ll turn into a zombie. But if you don’t have time, that’s totally okay.”

  “I’ve got time.” Actually, I’m supposed to be back at the workshop helping Dad. But I don’t want to go home. Not when I’m having so much fun.

  “Where should we go? I’m so broke right now,” says Crystal. “Is there, like, a dollar menu nearby? Oh wait. Do you like mango shakes?”

  “Mango’s my favorite.”

  “Me too. There’s this little fruit stand I keep hearing about. It’s in the Amish neighborhood. They’re supposed to have amazing desserts. I’m talking homemade cookies and pie and everything.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Isn’t that kind of far away?”

  “Nope. This place is actually super close. I didn’t even know we had Amish people in Sarasota.”

  There’s no way we’re going to Pinecraft. What if Crystal thinks it’s weird? I’ve never had any friends who aren’t Amish. She doesn’t know that I grew up without TV. Or that I wear the same boring clothes every day. I’ve kissed a boy, but I haven’t gone further. I think about that kiss a lot. At night, I press my fist to my lips and remember.

  “Here we are.” Crystal waves at a black van, as if it can see us. The windows are covered with stickers—a dragon gobbling a family of stick figures. On the antenna, a tiny pirate’s flag snaps in the breeze. “This is Captain Darkwater, my suburban assault vehicle.”

  I’m still trying to think of a way out.

  Crystal pushes a button on her keychain. The van’s door swings open and a ramp lowers to the ground.

  “Pretty sweet, huh?” she says, wheeling herself onto the ramp. “Just like magic.”

  I climb in the passenger seat. No going back now.

  “The seatbelt’s busted,” Crystal says. “But it’s all good. I don’t speed on rainy days.”

  “It’s not raining.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “This thing is dangerous, right? It’s already surpassed another level. Ignore the sand.”

  Now we’re flying down Ringling Boulevard. I haven’t been here since the party last Friday, when Faron drove to the beach at sunrise.

  “Hello? Earth to Lucy?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s because you were spacing out. Can I turn on some music for our listening pleasure?”

  “Okay.”

  Crystal plugs something into the radio. Drums explode out of the speakers while the singer ahh-ahh-ahhhs.

  “You like Matt and Kim?” she asks.

  “Who?”

  “Their last album was epic.”

  “I don’t listen to a lot of music,” I say, watching the power lines swoop across the window.

  “Are you serious? I am so totally burning you a mix.”

  We turn onto Bahia Vista, a road I’ve crossed all my life. Everything feels so far away. Big Olaf’s ice cream. The parking lot where the buses pull up, carrying the snowbirds to Florida. The girl in a long dress and bonnet, waiting at the stoplight, holding her daddy’s hand.

  “This place is so freaking cute,” says Crystal.

  As we pull up to the fruit stand, an Old Order man steers his three-wheeled bicycle through the intersection. He doesn’t even look twice.

  “Oh, my god,” says Crystal. “Where can I get one of those bikes? You could put me in the basket and push me around. That would be hilarious.”

  I glance at the Beachy-Amish women at the fruit stand, checking to see if I know any of them. Everybody’s waiting in line, all lined up in their pastel dresses, their baskets loaded with strawberries. Behind the cash register, a girl is racing back and forth, trying to keep up with them.

  Mallory Keller.

  “You can go ahead. I’ll wait in the car,” I tell Crystal.

  “What? Now you’re ditching me?”

  “Okay, okay.” My hand trembles as I reach for the door. If anyone sees me without my prayer cap, I’m going to be in trouble.

  Crystal lowers the platform thing and eases her wheelchair onto the pavement. “Those Amish girls must be sweating to death,” she says. “It’s like, ninety degrees out and they’ve got long sleeves.”

  It feels like she’s judging me too.

  Crystal’s talking really loud and everybody’s staring. A couple of girls from my old school are right behind us.

  “Is that Lucy Zimmer?”

  “Why isn’t she wearing her kapp?”

  “Does she think this is Rumspringa?”

  Mallory tilts her head at me, then at Crystal. It’s hard not to look. The back of her wheelchair is loaded with balloons and feathered masks, along with bags of magic potions (actually, birdseed).

  Crystal peers at the menu on the chalkboard. “I can’t wait to try the mango shakes.”

  “We’re out,” says Mallory, hiding a box of cups behind the cash register.

  “Out of what?”

  “Everything.”

  I push my way over to the counter. “You’re lying. I just saw you hide the cups.”

  “No, Lucy, you’re the one who isn’t telling the truth.”

  I glance back at Crystal. “Let’s go.”

  “But we just got here!”

  “Come on,” I say, turning to leave.

  “I came for fruity awesomeness. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Mallory jabs her finger at me. “Don’t act like you weren’t at that party. I heard you were on the beach that night. You were with that Old Order boy. The one who’s been shunned.”

  I’m so embarrassed, I lower my head.

  “Maybe if you didn’t take off and leave Alice in Water Tower Park, she’d still be here.”

  I try to focus on the ground, as if I could hold still, just by concentrating on one small thing.

  Mallory’s voice fades away, but I hear every word.

  “If Alice is dead, it’s your fault.”

  The tingling swells inside my fingertips, crashing against me like the ocean, sweeping me in its tide. I try to catch my breath. We have to get out of here. Fast. I spin around and bump into a man waiting in line. He’s holding a plastic bag of bananas. Most people don’t want them after the peel turns brown, but they still taste good.

  “Been waiting for you, Smidge,” he says, dropping the bag on the counter. “Thought I’d make some banana bread to go with supper. You didn’t eat mu
ch today. But I guess you’re too busy running around.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Dad stares at my empty hands. “Got work at home. That’s where you belong.”

  He waits for me to follow him, like I always do. Instead, I stand next to Crystal.

  “All right, Lucy,” he says. “It’s time to go.”

  When I don’t move, he frowns. Dad walks off, silent. He marches across the road, clutching that plastic bag of splotchy bananas. At that moment, I want to sink inside the crates of swollen fruit.

  I feel just as rotten.

  chapter fifteen

  breaking the rules

  “So that was your dad,” Crystal says.

  We’re at Big Olaf’s. Same place where the buses roll up, carrying the snowbirds. Florida’s Finest Ice Cream says the sign next to a giant soft-serve cone. The sun’s high above the palm trees. Not a speck of shade on Bahia Vista Street. I dig my plastic spoon into a cup of Cookies and Cream.

  “Yeah, that’s my dad,” I finally say.

  Crystal takes a sip of her shake. She’s quiet. No doubt sizing everything up. The brightly painted mural of a horse and buggy on the wall down the block. A man with a bushy Old Order–style beard, towing a boat behind his pickup truck. The girl in a long dress, just like mine, carrying a baby in her arms.

  “Does that mean you’re one of them?” she asks.

  Them.

  I take a deep breath. Okay. Here it comes. “My family belongs to the Beachy Amish-Mennonite church.”

  “But you don’t look Amish.”

  Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But it’s more than what you look like on the outside. It’s about everybody being the same. That way, there’s no pride to get in the way of your path to heaven. How can I explain this to Crystal?

  “Mennonites are different from the Old Order.”

  “Seriously?” Crystal widens her eyes. “What’s the difference? Come on. I won’t judge you, I swear.”

  Then the questions begin to roll.

  “Do you believe everybody’s going to hell?” she asks.

  “No.” Why would I believe that?

  “Are you allowed to go out with boys?”

  “Yes,” I say, my face tingling with heat.

  “I thought Amish girls had to wear bonnets or something.”

  I scoop the last bite of ice cream into my mouth, but I don’t even taste it. Why are these questions so hard to answer? Maybe I’m embarrassed about being different. Or maybe it’s because I never tried to talk to someone about it. Not if they’re from the outside world.

  “I’m supposed to keep my head covered,” I tell Crystal. “Usually, I wear a prayer cap. That’s kind of like a bonnet. But I took it off.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing it?” she asks.

  “I don’t want to anymore.”

  “Because it makes you feel weird, right?” she says, nodding. “I bet people stare at you.”

  “All the time.”

  “That sucks,” she says.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  I’m surprised. At first, I expected Crystal to judge me. Now it seems like she understands. I mean, really understands.

  “Are you in trouble now?” she asks. “Your dad was kind of freaking out.”

  That’s one way to put it.

  Crystal doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Does this mean you’re going to get shunned?”

  “No, my church doesn’t believe in shunning.”

  “Is that really a thing? I mean, does it really happen?”

  I think about Faron, the scars on his fingers. “Yes, it really happens. The Old Order are a lot stricter than us.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it easier,” she says.

  “Maybe.”

  “But you still have to follow the rules.”

  “We don’t really have ‘official rules.’ It sort of depends on where you live. Here in Florida, the church is pretty relaxed. Everybody kind of does their own thing. I mean, it’s not like I’m in a cult or something.”

  “Sorry,” she says, chewing her straw. “I’m all up in your business.”

  Now I feel bad. “It’s okay. You can ask me anything. I don’t mind.”

  “So what makes you different from the Old Order?”

  “Mennonites can have modern things like electricity. We’re allowed to drive cars and listen to the radio and stuff. That’s a pretty big difference.”

  “What’s so bad about technology anyway?”

  “It’s the electric part that’s bad. The Old Order doesn’t want the outside world connected to their homes. I mean, they can use batteries and solar power or whatever. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess,” she says. “What else is different?”

  “I’m not allowed to have Rumspringa. You’ve probably heard of that, right?” I know everybody likes to joke about it. I try to put it into words. “It’s when you have to make a choice. If you decide to join the church, you have to stay Amish forever.”

  “That’s crazy,” she says. “You have to make a big decision like that? I can’t even decide if I like Gushers more than Fruit Roll-Ups.”

  “It’s a pretty big deal.”

  “And what if you don’t want to be Amish?”

  It’s a question I’ve been thing about a lot lately. In my mind, I see the Old Order girls dancing in Water Tower Park. Alice in her skinny jeans, walking away from me. When we were little, we used to climb the mango trees and share our secrets. But all that’s changed now.

  “If you don’t want to be Old Order Amish, you can’t stay in that world anymore. You have to leave everything behind. Your friends and family. It’s all gone.”

  She shakes her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because people think it’s weird.”

  “Yeah?” she says. “A lot of people think I’m weird.”

  As we finish our ice cream in the sunshine, a pair of Old Order girls zip past on bicycles.

  Crystal smiles. “It’s like your own secret world.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Everybody’s just like you.”

  I never saw Pinecraft that way before.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “I want to show you something cool.”

  At the post office next to Big Olaf’s, there’s a bulletin board covered in scraps of paper—so many fliers and notes, I can’t see what’s underneath.

  “This is where we leave messages,” I explain.

  “Secret messages?”

  I laugh. “Well, it’s not a secret if everybody can read it.”

  She pushes her wheelchair up to the bulletin board. “This is so amazing. I could make a collage out of all this stuff. Or feathers for a mask. The possibilities are endless.” She stretches out her hand and tears off a scrap of paper. “So where’s your school?” she wants to know.

  “It’s next to our church on Honore Avenue. But I’m not in school anymore. My classes only go up to tenth grade.”

  “You’re already done with school? Isn’t that against the law or something? What if you get busted by Child Protective Services?”

  What is she talking about? “I’m not a child anymore.”

  Crystal sighs. “Wow. You’re so lucky.”

  That’s what she thinks.

  “If you’re not in school, what are you supposed to be doing?” she asks.

  “I work for my dad. We build gazebos and stuff.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “It is.”

  “Don’t you miss being in school?”

  I watch the Old Order girls on their bicycles. As they disappear under the coconut palms, their long skirts ripple in the breeze.

  “I miss it a lot.”

  “Here’s another question,” she says. “Would your dad try to stop you from going to college?”

  “We never talked about it.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time.”

  Dad wouldn’t like it if I went to college and studied th
e ocean. Would he push me away? Or turn his back on me, the way Faron’s dad had shunned him?

  When we’re back in the van, I’m still thinking about it. Crystal slows down near the canal in Pinecraft Park. Behind the chainlink fence, the bearded old men are playing shuffleboard, like always.

  “Looks like they’ve been around forever,” she says, leaning out the window. “Maybe since the dinosaurs.”

  “Pretty much,” I say, sinking lower in my seat. I don’t want anybody to see me. Not after what happened today.

  “What about Amish guys who aren’t a hundred years old? Are you allowed to go out and have fun?”

  I glance at the empty basketball court. “Fun” isn’t something I know much about.

  “Well, at church, there’s the Youth Ministry. That’s kind of like Bible study. We mostly just sit around and talk.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Do you guys party? I mean, do you go out drinking and stuff?”

  How much should I tell her?

  “The Old Order boys . . . they have big parties here in Florida,” I say. “It’s kind of a secret, but everybody knows about it.”

  “How do you find out? You don’t have cell phones or computers or—”

  “Yes, we do. My best friend, Alice, is Old Order. She’s on her Rumspringa, so she’s allowed to have worldly things.”

  “So your B.F.F. has different rules. Isn’t that weird?”

  I never used to think so.

  Until now.

  “It’s hard when you’re Old Order. You can’t do anything without the whole world waiting for you to mess up. That’s why Alice tried to run away.”

  “Wait. Your friend ran away?”

  I want to keep talking to Crystal, but it feels like a betrayal, letting her into my world. At the same time, I’m aching to talk to somebody.

  “Last weekend, me and Alice were at a party,” I explain. “We were supposed to go to Lido Key and watch the sunrise. But she never showed up.”

  “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know, okay?”

  How can Crystal help me? Her life is so different from mine. She’s got a car. She can drive wherever she wants. She’s going to college next year, studying fashion design, whatever that is.

  She’s free.