The Baddest Girl on the Planet

by Heather Frese

  Mom looks up and her mouth pops open. She turns back to the closet and shuffles some things around inside. A bunch of hangers fall on the floor and clang against each other. “It gets chilly at night,” Mom says. She puts her hand up to her mouth, then rubs her forehead like she has a headache. She stops taking out clothes and sits down on the bed.

  I go lean up against her. “Mommy, I’m tired of camping,” I tell her.

  “I know, baby,” she says. “But sometimes we have to do things that are difficult. Sometimes it’s not enough for things to just stay the same.” She pats my hair. Then her hand gets harder on my head. “Have you not washed your hair?” she asks. Then she goes and gets that scoldy voice. “Evelyn, you have to wash your hair after you’ve been swimming. How many times have I told you this?” I pull away from her. She stands up and keeps on yanking things from the closet and tossing them on the bed. “Hair like seaweed,” she says, all muttery.

  “Evie,” Aunt Fay calls from the living room. “Get your paper and let’s go.”

  Mom lifts her head up and sniffs. “Is she smoking in here?”

  I don’t want to get Aunt Fay in trouble, so I don’t say anything. I don’t like it, being here with my mom’s clothes all out of the closet. I decide that camping’s maybe okay. “It’s just for the summer, right? Camping with Aunt Fay?”

  Mom folds up a bright pink sweater with a stretchy neck. “We’ll figure it out soon,” Mom says. “You’ll be home soon.”

  I hear Aunt Fay stomping down the hallway, so I hug Mom and run out the door before she can get there. “I’m ready,” I tell her.

  Outside, Bob waits in the blue car. Aunt Fay and I get in her truck and she backs out, fast, without looking behind her. We drive down the twisty neighborhood roads and out to Highway 12. We swish through puddles. I think about how I forgot my book list of summer reading. I think that all I’ll have to do is spy on tourists if I don’t have any books to read. Then I get to thinking about something else. “Aunt Fay?” I ask. “If Bob’s only here for work, but he’s leaving after the summer, then he’s not a tourist. So what does that make him?”

  Aunt Fay snorts. She sounds like Nate when she does that. “A home-wrecker,” she says.

  I picture Bob on top of a great big wrecking ball, knocking over our little house on stilts. I imagine sharp pieces of wood flying everywhere. Home-wrecker. I don’t like the way that word tastes in my mouth. I don’t like it at all.

  My dad comes to visit us at Frisco Woods that night, but he doesn’t play with me or even talk much. Mostly he sits around at the stand-up take-down table with Aunt Fay and drinks beer. His face is all prickly, and I wonder if he’s going to grow a beard like Bob. He doesn’t come the next night, but he comes back the next. He talks with me a little bit then.

  He drinks beer and says, “Evie, come tell your old man a story.”

  So I sit on his lap and tell him all about how Jack and I barely escaped some pirates on the beach today, and how Jack was braver than that dog Brandy in Taffy of Torpedo Junction, even if Jack didn’t fight any Nazis.

  I’m leading up to my big question of can I get a dog when my dad pats my head. He says, “Nazis are the least of our worries right now, kiddo.”

  “I told you, we didn’t fight Nazis,” I say. “We fought pirates.” Dad hugs me and rocks me back and forth. His beard prickles the top of my head. It itches, but I don’t move. “Do you need some warm fuzzies?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, just squeezes me tighter in his arms. I’m all squished, but I don’t say anything. I sit on Daddy’s lap until he has to go home.

  The next day, Aunt Fay says enough time’s gone by for the rangers to not have burs up their butts, so we can go back to the National Seashore campground. I go search for the catalog kids to tell them goodbye, because my mom says always be polite, but their fancy RV is gone. I’m glad we’re leaving. I hate it here at Frisco Woods.

  The sea oats aren’t green anymore. They’re gold and fluffy and better for hiding behind. I find new trails in the woods around the campground all the time. My legs have scratches from yaupon bushes, but I don’t mind. Scratches aren’t true dangers. While I walk, I hatch schemes to get me and Nate back home with Mom and Dad. So far, it has not worked to: pretend to have malaria; say that I forgot stuff, even if it’s vital to my education; get Dad to call Mom by being bad in his presence, either by stealing cigarettes and acting like I’m about to smoke them or by hitting Nate in the face; or try to get Aunt Fay’s camper to fall on my leg to prove it’s an unsafe environment. That camper won’t fall for anything. I’m hiking today through the deepest jungles of South America, or wherever it is they crashed in Swiss Family Robinson. It is so hot. Even though it’s five o’clock, it’s so hot the air burns in my lungs. Parrots squawk in the trees and a monkey cries out, ooh aaa aaa eee eee. I swash-buckle some branches out of my way, and then, right before my eyes, I see a girl. And this girl is n-a-k-e-d. She’s about my size, and she has hair that’s even longer than mine, and she’s spinning in a circle. Her red-gold hair flies out behind her like a sheet.

  I step out of the jungle. “Why are you naked?” I ask the girl.

  She jerks her head toward me fast and covers up her chest with her arms. Then she bends down to pick up a pink-striped towel and wraps it around herself. She pushes her hair out of her face. “I was waiting for a bath,” she says.

  “I never take baths,” I tell her. “I find them boring.”

  The girl bends down and picks up some shells. “Why are you in our campsite?”

  “I was hiking through the jungle,” I say. I go look at the shells she’s collecting. I show her what’s what. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m good at identifying shells. Coquina. Clamshell. Scotch bonnet. She says she wants to find a sand dollar, and I tell her the story of Jesus that goes in a rhyme about sand dollars.

  She looks impressed. “I’m Charlotte,” the girl says.

  “E. V.,” I say. Then I smooth it out and say it again right. “Evie Austin.”

  A little boy plods through the sand to where we are. He’s got short legs to plow through all that sand. “Mom says it’s your turn,” he says to Charlotte. He’s cute, maybe four years old. I want a little baby brother with short legs.

  “This is my brother, James,” Charlotte says. She points at me. “That’s Evie,” she says to James. Then Charlotte runs down the dune to take her bath.

  I take a shower that night and wash my hair. Then I make Aunt Fay comb it out nice and put it in braids. I eat my supper fast and dash back up to where my trail comes out at Charlotte’s campsite. I clear a fine patch of sand and hunker in. Charlotte’s dad wears his bathing suit from the beach and no shirt, and he laughs and talks to Charlotte’s mom. Charlotte’s dad grills hamburgers and shoos away seagulls while Charlotte’s mom cooks things on the camper stove and walks in and out setting the picnic table. Her mom laughs and shrieks when the napkins blow away, and Charlotte runs around gathering them up. Then Charlotte sets things on each of the four napkins—a salt shaker on her own, a pepper shaker on James’s, a big stabbing fork on her dad’s, and a can of soda on her mom’s, so nothing blows away. For dinner, Charlotte’s family has: Hamburgers. A nice salad. Green beans. Whole grain buns because whole grains are good for you. Juice or milk, you get your choice, or soda for Charlotte’s mom but nobody else. A dessert out of a box. Charlotte’s little brother James is so cute. He’s got blond hair that sits just right on his head, but not like the Frisco Woods bowl-head boy. And he wears itty-bitty flip-flops, not tennis shoes. He swings his legs under the picnic table and asks for more green beans. Who ever heard of a little kid asking for more green beans?

  I spy there for quite a while; then I slink back down to our campsite, unseen.

  A few minutes later, along come Charlotte and James. Charlotte’s holding James’s hand. “Ask your mom if you can come take a walk,” Charlotte calls to me.

  I glance at the camper. Aunt Fay is inside, but I don’t feel like asking permi
ssion. Besides, she’s not my mom. “I can,” I say. We all go for a walk as the sun sets and the Frisco National Seashore campground turns a soft gold color. Me and Charlotte each hold one of James’s hands. He swings between us like a South American monkey.

  During the next two weeks, Charlotte McConnell from Windsor, Ohio, and me become the best of friends. It’s like we’ve always been this way. Most days, this is what we do: Meet up after breakfast. Play horses at the shower stalls. Charlotte’s horse is Casey, and mine is Chestnut. We ride them up and down the beach, then make a loop of the campground, and we’re done. Play Mulan, after she’s a warrior. Play mermaids in the ocean. Build sand mermaids on the beach. Listen to Charlotte’s dad and my Aunt Fay tell stories. Charlotte’s dad’s stories involve the building blocks of the universe. Play with Charlotte’s cousin, Troia, who is as old as Nate but isn’t mean and awful and who buys us popsicles. You say her name like this: TROY-uh. I think her name sounds nice. Much nicer than Evelyn. Troia is pretty. She looks like a fairy princess, or a mermaid; her shiny gold hair curls to her waist, and she has big blue eyes. We build campfires and sing songs. Play pirates. Sleep over in Charlotte’s camper.

  My dad keeps coming to visit a lot before work and sometimes after work if the restaurant isn’t busy or he has time off, and he makes friends with Charlotte’s dad. My mom hasn’t come yet at the same time as my dad, but I wish she would. We run around and play tag while our dads drink beer, and during this time, Charlotte’s mom reads. Sometimes we go lean against our dads and ask them to tell us stories.

  I say, “Tell us about Blackbeard.” And my dad tells us all about the pirate who got his head cut off on Ocracoke then swam around his boat three times with no head at all. We shiver at this and sit closer together on the picnic table. It’s getting to be dusk, the sky streaking red and purple.

  Charlotte says, “Tell us about the Big Bang.” She shifts on her Dad’s lap and pats his shoulder. And Charlotte’s dad tells us about general relativity and the expanding universe. He points at the purpling sky, and I imagine it before there was anything there at all.

  Charlotte says, “Tell us about the time you and Mom climbed the Matterhorn.” Charlotte’s dad talks about how they had to turn around right before the top to help a man with a broken leg.

  The first pinpricks of stars come out, and I say to my dad, “Tell us about how you and Mom met.”

  But instead of telling about the time he rescued my mom from a rip current, my daddy puts down his beer and says, “Honey, I can’t tell that one right now.” His face gets all scrunchy, and I feel like I’m going cry. Then my dad leaves. Charlotte’s dad doesn’t leave, except to go inside to read by lantern light. Sometimes I pretend Charlotte’s mom is my mom, and Charlotte and I are long-lost twin sisters separated at birth, even though in reality we look nothing alike. Charlotte and I keep asking our parents to let me go back to Ohio with her for two whole weeks. We think it’s only fair since she came to my home for two whole weeks. We think since our dads have become friends that the plan just might work.

  One night I ask Aunt Fay if I can have Charlotte over to our camper for dinner and a sleepover. She says yes. Aunt Fay makes hot dogs, but this is fine. I’ve seen Charlotte’s family eating hot dogs. Aunt Fay stands there and grills wearing this funny old t-shirt that’s splattered with paint and rolled-up jeans. She’s smoking a cigarette. Charlotte’s mom walks Charlotte down to our camper. She stands at the edge of our campsite with her hand on Charlotte’s back, and then she gives her a teeny push, like she’s presenting her as a gift to Aunt Fay. “Just came by to say thanks for feeding the kid,” Charlotte’s mom says. She also has red-gold hair, and it makes me think of my pretend dog, Jack. I haven’t thought about Jack in ages. I decide to tell Charlotte about him, and maybe we can play with him after dinner. Charlotte’s mom’s wearing shorts and flip-flops and a pink shirt with a lighthouse on it.

  “Any time,” Aunt Fay says. She waves her fork in the air like she’s waving in a parade.

  I go up and pull Charlotte into the campsite. I show her all my things, and we set the indoor table since it’s real windy. Aunt Fay rustles around outside. Then she cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Nate!” No answer. She does it again. Nothing. Then, “Nathaniel Jacob Austin, this is your last chance for supper.”

  “She’s just joking,” I say to Charlotte. But I know if Nate doesn’t show up, we’ll just eat without him.

  Aunt Fay comes inside with the hot dogs. “You girls want to go see the lighthouse get moved tomorrow?” Tomorrow’s the first day the lighthouse will move along on the train tracks. They’ll move it one whole mile inland, but in tiny little spurts, Bob says.

  Charlotte places a hot dog gently onto a bun. “Maybe,” she says. Charlotte is afraid the lighthouse will fall over and be ruined. I’ve told her not to worry since my mom is making sure the lighthouse movers are being careful, but she’s still scared.

  “I want to see it get moved,” I say. I pour some Kool-Aid. “Mom can get Bob to show us stuff.”

  “What’s your mom’s job?” Charlotte asks. I know that her mom is a mom all morning and teaches English to people who don’t speak English in afternoons, and her dad is a geologist. That’s how come he knows all about the building blocks of the universe. Charlotte fidgets on the red bench, and I hear her legs sticking. “May I please have a napkin?”

  Aunt Fay looks around the camper. She hands Charlotte a beach towel. “We’re out of napkins,” she says.

  “It’s not her official job,” I tell Charlotte. “It’s a special job just for the summer. Like, to live up there and make sure everything goes okay.”

  Charlotte chews slowly. “Who hired her?”

  “How should I know?” Then I think about this. Maybe it was her friend Bob. Maybe it was the Park Service. It has to be the Park Service. I’m about to say this when Aunt Fay starts talking.

  “Do you girls know about the Sea Queen of Connaught?” Before we can answer, she starts telling us all about this Irish pirate queen and her exploits.

  I love pirate stories, and I bet my pen pal, Eamon O’Shea, knows all about that Sea Queen, but something keeps bothering me right now. “Aunt Fay,” I say, interrupting. She doesn’t yell at me, though. “Was it the Park Service that hired Mom?”

  Aunt Fay’s face looks tight over her cheekbones. She moves some plates around on the table. “You’re going to have to talk to your mom about that,” she says.

  This makes me have a funny feeling in my stomach. “Why?”

  Charlotte puts down her hot dog and picks at the bun. She makes a little pile of bun crumbs. “Did the Sea Queen have a sword?”

  “I want to talk to her tonight,” I say.

  “Sea Queen’s long dead,” Aunt Fay says. “We’d have to have a séance to talk to her.”

  “I meant my mom.” I have ketchup on my fingers, but I’m too embarrassed to wipe them on a beach towel. I smear my ketchup fingers on my shorts.

  Aunt Fay shakes her head. “I’m not going out tonight,” she says. “If your mom wants to talk to you, she can come here.”

  “Then I need a quarter to call her,” I say. I push away my plate. It’s a stupid plain white thing that sags if you pick it up. Charlotte’s mom gives us food on thick cardboardy plates that have purple edges and flowers on them.

  Charlotte finishes her hot dog and neatly wipes her mouth with the beach towel. I hate that beach towel. It’s got some dumb cartoon cat on it. Charlotte turns to me. “Let’s have a séance later and talk to the Sea Queen.”

  “If I have time,” I say. I’ve got some important things to do.

  My mom can’t come see me. She says she’s busy tonight, but she’ll see me when I go watch them move the lighthouse tomorrow. Charlotte walks down with me to make the phone call, but I don’t feel like playing with her after. I tell her my stomach hurts, and that maybe I’m having a bad reaction to some chemicals in those hot dogs. We go back to the camper with Aunt Fay. It’s
almost dark and Nate isn’t back yet.

  I want my dad and I want my mom and I want to go home.

  Charlotte and Aunt Fay play cards until it’s bedtime. I watch them. Charlotte and I walk to the bathroom and brush our teeth, then lie down in my bunk. I can’t sleep, even if I pull the sheet up over my ear how I like it. Even if I listen to the ocean waves shush on the shore.

  “I can’t sleep,” Charlotte whispers.

  I turn over and look at her. “Me neither.”

  Charlotte’s face is little and white. I can see her freckles in the moonlight. “I hate it that they’re moving my lighthouse. I just know it’ll fall over and be gone forever.”

  I move one arm out from under the covers. Until now, I hadn’t really thought about the lighthouse falling. I thought my mom would keep it safe. Now I’m not so sure. Nothing feels safe anymore. Not even my very own family.

  At midnight I wake up. I know it’s midnight because Aunt Fay has a little windup clock and it says so. The campground is dark, and the only sounds are crickets going CRICKit CRICKit CRICKit and the soft thud of ocean waves plopping on the beach. I know what I have to do to fix things for my family. This isn’t about rhinos or fake dogs or South American monkeys. This is serious. This is magic, and I have to be very precise. I reach over and shake Charlotte awake. She mumbles, and I tell her to hush.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft and sleepy.

  I sit up in bed. “Come on,” I whisper. “We have to go.”

  Charlotte asks where, but I pull her arm until she follows me out of bed. We crawl over Nate’s empty bunk and slip outside, shutting the door very softly.

  “Look at the moon,” Charlotte says. She tips back her head.

  But I don’t care about the moon. “Come on,” I say. “We’ve got to work a spell.”