pulling the strip, ripping the envelope open. I start to follow her, but the bells on the door ring and soon I am boxing up cupcakes for two women in jeans
and twin sets, who seem forced-relaxed in a way that tells me they’re from the City. As they leave I hear the back door open and then Gram’s voice. She
starts talking about the family she just photographed. How the baby spit up on the father’s suit and the two children started fighting over a toy, which led to
a skirt being torn and a black eye. Her voice sounds tired. My mother keeps um humming, as though she’s barely listening. Then she says something so
softly I can’t hear it. I stand next to the door to hear better and think, I’ve been reduced to eavesdropping.
“It’s a good offer,” my mother says. “I should probably take it.”
“Have you told Penny?” Gram asks, and I’m nearly leaning against the door. No! I want to shout. No one is telling me anything!
My mother sighs. “I will,” she says. “As soon as it’s more definite. I mean, I wouldn’t want to tell her and then have to untell her.”
“I think you should tell her,” Gram says. “But it’s your choice.” I hear footsteps coming toward the door. I back up and busy myself with wiping the counter. “Penny,” Gram says, pushing through the door. “I have to tell
you about the shoot.”
“Later,” I say, moving past her toward the back. I’m tired of everyone hiding things from me, making decisions behind my back and telling me when it’s
too late to change anything. “I’m going . . .” I start to say “home,” but then I realize I’m not sure where that is anymore. “I’m going back to the house,” I say. I
pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I go out into the alley without even pulling on my coat. I can see my mother’s face as she looks up from
the papers and Gram’s as she watches me from the doorway. I just keep walking, head down, feeling the cold seep all the way through me, settling deep
inside.
I drop my backpack in the entry hall when I get to Gram’s. I kick off my shoes and put them in the washer, where I dropped my jeans and socks earlier.
Maybe a good wash will get the slightly moldy gesso smell out of everything. I pull on a pair of sweatpants that are sitting on the dryer and walk into the
kitchen. The clock on the oven blinks. Nearly five. I’m on my own for a while. I know Gram and Mom will be late getting home. They have to put together a
huge wedding order. I feel a tiny bit bad for not helping, but I just had to get out of there. I pull a sleeve of Saltines out of the pantry and sit on the window
seat, looking out at the ocean. I lean my face against the glass. It feels cool against my cheek. I keep thinking the one thing I’ve been thinking all day. I just
want to go home. I want to go away from this place where everyone either hates me or hides things from me. I sigh and put the corner of a cracker in my
mouth. And then I do a dumb thing. I only say it to myself, but it’s enough. At least it can’t get any worse.
The phone rings, making me jump.
“Hello?” I’m expecting Mom or Gram or maybe Tally. It’s not any of them. It’s my dad.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “I got your message.”
I try to think of something to say but can’t. Ever since we left the City, there’s been this big gap between us that neither of us seems to be able to cross.
“Listen,” he says finally, “I need to talk to your mother. Is she there?” They only refer to each other as they relate to me now. Your father. Your mother.
“She’s still at the bakery,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, and then there’s this tiny laugh. “The bakery.” He sounds like he’s making quotation marks with his fingers and rolling his eyes. Part of me
agrees with him, and part of me gets mad. “Listen, just tell your mom I got the paperwork today.” I’m thinking, What paperwork? But I don’t have to wait
long for an answer. “Tell her I talked to the Realtor. If she can get everything filed before the weekend, we can close before the end of the month.”
Somewhere in all those unfamiliar terms, I realize he’s talking about an apartment. And I get excited. I mean, people who are splitting up don’t buy a
new apartment together, do they? I’m thinking a great walk-up in SoHo or maybe one of those places in Tribeca that are funky-cool even if they need a lot
of work.
But as he keeps talking, I realize that’s not what he’s saying at all. He’s not talking about some new place we’re buying, but our old apartment in the
Village and how we have a good offer and he thinks it’s a good time to sell. He keeps saying “we” and
“us,” as if I have any say in all of this.
He finally stops. I know he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’ve got nothing. He clears his throat and takes a breath loud enough for me to hear it
through the phone. “Penny, I know you’ve been through a lot, but just remember your mother and I still love you very much.” And I wonder if he’s reading
from The Big Book of Stupid Things Parents Say to Their Children.
All of a sudden I feel dizzy and too hot and I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. But my dad just keeps talking and talking until I have to pull the phone away
for a minute so I can breathe.
I hear my name and put the receiver back to my ear.
“What?” I ask.
“Penny,” my dad says, “did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out more as a whisper than anything.
“Are you okay, Bean?” he asks. He hasn’t called me that in years. I can feel the tears coming again.
“I just hate it here,” I say. “I want to come home. I miss you.”
“I know, Bean. I miss you, too.” He’s quiet, and for a moment I wonder if the call dropped, but then he clears his throat. “Listen, I want you to know that
you always have a place with me. Just say the word and you can come here,” he says.
I want to say “the word,” but I don’t know what it is. Help? Then I realize I don’t even know where
“here” is. I’ve never been to his new place. I only know
it’s somewhere uptown. He starts talking about his apartment building and how it has a rooftop garden and how it’s right around the corner from the
Museum of Natural History. He keeps adding details, but they’re just adding to the sinking feeling in my stomach.
“I mean, just think . . .” he says, and I am, but not about his new apartment and his new kitchen and his new life, but about my old one and how it’s going
away.
“Listen, Dad,” I say. “I have to go, okay?”
“Sure,” he says. “Think about it, Penny.” There’s silence for a moment. “Let’s talk—” But I don’t hear the rest because I push the End button on the
phone and drop it onto the window seat.
I try to calm myself by looking at the ocean again, but it’s dark out now, and all I can see is my own reflection looking back at me. The sick feeling won’t
go away. I want to get out of my own skin, but I can’t. So I do the next best thing—get out of the house. I pull my windbreaker tight around me and walk
down the trail until the water covers my feet. I can’t believe they’re selling the apartmen t. I know it’s just a place, but it’s our place. “If the apartment goes,
what’s next?” I ask the seagull sitting on a rock near me. He doesn’t answer, just looks at me and flies away. The wind coming off the water makes my
teeth chatter, but I just stand there, letting my toes sink into the soft sand. Somehow, with each announcement my parents make, my old life seems to drift
farther and farther away. I let the cold water lap against my ankles. And along with the cold, something else begins to seep into me. Like the wat
er pulling
at my feet, it threatens to pull me under. It’s a feeling of hopelessness. And of being completely alone.
Gram says if you stand on the beach long enough, eventually everything will come to you. I’m sure she was talking about ideas. But while I’m standing
there, feeling cold and miserable and sorry for myself, something does come to me. When it does, it knocks me down.
“Oh man, I am so sorry.”
I have to squint because my eyes are filled with either sand or salt water or tears—or more likely all three. “Here.” I can see well enough to know that a
hand is reaching out to help me up. I let myself get pulled back to standing. Now I’m wet all the way through. But it doesn’t matter, because I now realize
whose hand I was just holding. “I am so sorry,” he says again, and I feel something soft being pushed into my hands. I use it to wipe at my eyes. I keep the
soft thing pressed against my face for a moment, listening to the sound of a dog’s soft chuffing and t hen his panting and the dull thudding of his tail against
the sand. “I am so sorry.”
I look up and smile. “You already said that.” Marcus has one hand on Sam’s collar and the other is nervously combing through his hair.
“I am sorry. I mean, we’re—” Sam chuffs again as if in agreement.
“It’s okay,” I say, first to Marcus and then to Sam. I put my hand out to Sam, who is straining to get to me. I let him lick my hand and I rub him behind the
ears. Marcus is only wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, and I realize that I’ve been wiping myself with his sweatshirt. “It’s just a little water,” I say.
“And sand,” Marcus says.
“And sand.” I’m not as nervous as I was when I saw him in the hallway. Maybe because it’s dark, or maybe because I’m soaking wet, or maybe it’s
because we don’t have an audience, or maybe it’s just because of Sam. “Thanks for the candy.” Marcus shrugs, and for an instant I wonder if girls all over the school are getting Jolly Ranchers from him. Maybe he just started giving them to me
because he needed a new grape girl. Then he smiles at me.
“I’m sorry we interrupted you,” Marcus says.
“I was just thinking.” Saying it makes the thoughts start up again.
“The beach is a good place for it,” he says.
I picture him and his father walking up and down the shore after his mother died. Thinking about his parents makes me think about my own. How they
seem only half there, like ghosts. And I imagine what it would be like to lose one of them. Here one day, then gone completely. I can’t even get my mind
around it. I mean, my dad is busy and my mom is sort of confused, but I still know where they are.
Sam stops straining and sits, as if he’s thinking thoughts of his own. He’s quiet, except for his tail, which keeps beating the sand. Marcus lets go of his
collar, and Sam comes and sits by me, leaning against my leg. He feels warm and solid, which I don’t have much of right now. All three of us watch the
waves as they push toward shore, breaking into low whitecaps and then drifting across the pebbled beach. As the water pulls back away from us, it rolls
across the rocks, dragging them along with it, making a low rumbling sound.
“When I was little I thought that was a monster growling,” I say. It’s out before I can stop it.
But almost before I finish Marcus says, “Me, too.” He looks over at me. “But now it seems more like it’s whispering than growling.”
I listen for a moment, the waves breaking and the water sliding over the sand. “It does,” I say. I like how he changed it for me with just one word. “I wish I
could understand what it’s saying.”
“You mean you don’t speak Ocean?” Marcus asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Just Spanish, sort of. And un peu de français. How about you?”
“Un peu français aussi,” he says.
I smile at his affected French accent. “Actually, I meant do you speak Ocean?”
“Oh,” Marcus says. “Well, they don’t offer Ocean at HHHS. I mean, not officially.”
“But unofficially?” I ask, playing along.
“To a select few.” He pretends to look serious. “Actually it’s a pretty small club. Just two members.” I’m starting to think there are a lot of small clubs in
Hog’s Hollow. “But, we are looking to expand our membership. Are you interested?”
“Definitely,” I say. “What do I have to do?”
“You just have to get approval from the rest of the club.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding.
Marcus bends and pets Sam, who is still leaning against me. “Looks like you have one vote,” he says.
“Just one?” I ask.
Marcus looks up at me, and even in the moonlight I can see him blush. He straightens up and gazes back out over the water. “I think it’s unanimous,” he
says. We stand quietly for a bit, just watching the waves and listening to the sounds of the pebbles shifting against one another.
“So what’s it saying now?” I ask.
“It’s more of a feeling, really. Not words.” He’s quiet again. The wind is cold against my damp skin, making me shiver, but I stand as still as I can. If I
move, even a little, I’m going to ruin this moment. “It’s sad tonight.” His voice is soft. I wonder if it’s always sad for him. And if it is, why does he keep
coming out here?
Sam sneezes. The sudden noise startles us. Marcus shifts a little away from me, and it’s like the bubble that we made burst.
“We should get home,” Marcus says. He smiles slightly. The mouth-only smiling must run in their family because it’s the same smile Mr. Fish has. I
wonder if that’s how it’s always been with them or if it’s something that crept in after the accident and never left.
I try to think of something to say, but like so many other times recently, I feel like I have nothing and too much in my head at the same time. When I look
at him, I realize whatever was between us has vanished. I try to hand him his sweatshirt.
“Keep it,” he says. “I’ll get it back later.” He smiles one more time then starts heading away down the beach. Sam stays beside me, leaning heavily, until
he, too, takes off into the night. His weight against my leg disappears so quickly that I almost fall again.
Over the sound of the waves and the shifting
pebbles, I imagine I can just make out the sound of sneakers hitting the hard pebbles followed by the nearly silent sound of paws striking the hard sand.
I make my way slowly through the deep sand back up to the house. The house is dark except for the one lamp in the living room that’s on a timer. I feel a
little like that—cold and dark, with just one small light deep inside. But when I think about Marcus, I feel guilty for feeling so sad about my problems.
I stomp on the mat near the back door, trying to knock off as much sand as I can. I don’t bother flipping on any lights. Sometimes with the lights on it
feels like I’m even more alone, like I’m on this tiny, lit island in a sea of darkness. I sit back o n the window seat, feeling the dampness of my sweatpants
seep into my legs. I should change, I think. But I don’t. I just keep sitting, listening to the sound of the waves filtering in through the open door. I lift Marcus’s
sweatshirt up to my face and breathe in. Somehow the strange smells just make me feel like I don’t belong here even more than before. I keep breathing
in, trying to find something familiar, but it just smells salty and musty and slightly of wet dog.
chapter ten
My eyes all puffy from all the crying. It feels like they are permanently sealed shut. I manage to open them enough to stumble into the bathroom. I stare at
myself in the mirror and try to open my ey
es wide, but they stay squinty and pink. I stick my tongue out at myself and shut off the light. “Penny,” Gram calls
from downstairs, “you’re going to be late.”
I sigh and walk to my closet. I flip past a bunch of clothes that I haven’t worn since I got here. In the City, I would dress to be noticed. Here I try to dress to
disappear. I yank on a pair of cords peeking out from the top shelf in my closet, but they don’t budge. I pull harder, and a whole stack of sweaters falls on
top of my head. I pick up the sweater on top, a navy blue one with just the tiniest hole in the sleeve. To climb out of the closet I have to kick aside a
suitcase that I haven’t bothered to unpack.
“Penny,” Gram calls again. Coming, I think. I quickly get dressed, staying in the T-shirt I slept in. I don’t even bother with a hairbrush. I just pull my hair
back into an elastic, flipping it over and over until it’s a tiny mound at the base of my head. I search the room for my Chucks, even checking under the bed,
until I remember that they’re downstairs still in the washer. Perfect. I pull an old pair, with paint splatters all over them, out of my closet. I can pinpoint where each color came from. Green from when I painted my old bedroom. Pink from my mom’s gallery. Blue and gray from the art project at the MoMA camp
last summer. As I pull my shoes on I keep trying to come up with a way to get out of school, but I don’t think Gram is going to fall for the whole
thermometer-on-the- lightbulb trick.
From the bottom of the stairs, I can see Gram standing with her back to me, stirring something on the stove. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to
give her the silent treatment. I know it’s not her fault that my parents are separated. It’s not her fault they’re selling the apartment, but I feel like she’s in on it and I’m tired of being outside of everything. I try not to talk, but as I walk across the living room and into the kitchen, I see someone else is sitting at the
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