The Summer of Lost Wishes

by Jessa Gabrielle

  “Tickets, please,” she says.

  The man behind her catches my gaze. He’s about ten feet back, toward the edge of the pier, with a mop and bucket full of sudsy water. His hair is receding in the front, drawing out a long but wrinkled forehead. However, he has long scraggly hair in the back that looks as though it hasn’t been washed in months. He wears an apron, but I can’t make out the logo from here, and I don’t want to stare any longer than I already have.

  I hand the girl the paper stub in my hand. She rips off the edge of it and hands it back. I drop it into my bag and keep close to Rooks as we step onto the boat. As promised, he leads us back to a bench further away from the crowd.

  “Ladies first,” Rooks says, holding out his arm toward the seat.

  I ease in between the seats and walk down toward the far end, closest to the railing. I drop my bag onto the flooring, right between my feet, so my flip-flops can be the guardians of the lost love letters.

  “Did you see that man on the docks?” I ask, trying to make sure no one else around us hears me when I speak.

  Rooks nods. “He’s a local guy. I think he’s a fisherman, but I don’t know anything about him. Why?” he asks.

  I shrug, but a chill sweeps over me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a breeze off of the water. “No reason,” I lie. “Just sort of creeped me out.”

  I wonder if I’ll always feel out of place and a bit paranoid about Coral Sands. I think, in time, I could get used to this place. I could adapt, since I don’t really have a choice anyway. I could be in a lot worse places than a town on the beach. I just wish Mom had maybe chosen another house. I don’t want the Shark Island stigma to follow me around for the rest of my life.

  “Don’t let people get to you,” Rooks says. “The novelty will wear off. Once you’ve been here a year, people will begin to associate your house with you, not the Calloways.”

  I like how I don’t have to explain myself, but he instantly knows where my mind is. Does this make us soul mates or something? I mean, yeah, we’re young and we just met and I’m naïve for even going there in my mind, but I like to believe there’s something about this town that influences young love and fate. Like Seth and Hanna. But without the death part.

  “Ahoy mateys!” A man’s voice echoes over the loud speakers.

  A brief overview of the ship’s rules is given, along with a quick itinerary as to where we’ll be sailing today. We’ll leave out of Moonlight Harbor, sail through the East Passageway, and into the Coral Sands Bay, which takes us past Hollow Cavern and Lighthouse Rock, better known to tourists as Shark Island.

  I avoid eye contact upon hearing those words. The ship can’t sail too closely to Shark Island because of the rocks and its past reputation. Shark nets apparently don’t change people’s minds about the actual location. It has history, and that’s all that’s required to scare people away.

  The crew makes their way to the deck, each dressed in ruffled shirts, leather vests, and cropped pants. They wear large pirate hats and bandanas. Hector strolls into the crowd, the feather in his hat swaying in the wind. He stands next to a ‘treasure chest’ filled with prizes for the kids. He looks less than thrilled to be here.

  Rooks cracks up and looks down at the flooring of the boat. “I came out here and took this tour three different times last summer, all by myself, just to get under his skin,” he says. “Hector hates dressing the part, but this tour pays a dollar more an hour than the regular glass-bottom boat tour does.”

  “He’s not going to be weird about me too, is he?” I ask.

  Rooks shakes his head. “Nah, he hates the tragedy,” he says. “His girlfriend Natalie is the mayor’s daughter, and her mom is all about remembering the victims, so it’s in Natalie’s face all the time. Plus, the other girl who died that night would’ve been the mayor’s aunt, so there’s no way to escape it.”

  Maybe after the anniversary, after the summer passes, after we’ve officially moved into our house… Maybe then, everything will be somewhat normal. We won’t be the new people anymore. The fifty-year deathiversary will be over. Our house will be finished. The town will grow bored of the gossip, and we’ll continue moving forward.

  But Rooks will be back at his mom’s house, and I’ll be the new girl who lives in the Calloway Cottage, unsure if people really want to know me or want to look around my house.

  I refuse to think about it right now.

  “I’ll have to introduce you to Natalie,” Rooks says. “She won’t want to talk about your house or who was going to live there or anything else that could possibly link back to the accident. She’s cool. You’ll like her.”

  I can only hope he’s right. Once he’s gone, I need a friend or two to keep me sane, although more than anything, I’d prefer to just keep Rooks around.

  After almost two hours of treasure hunts, fake sword fights, and a massive loop around the bay, The Dragon’s Jewel docks right back where we started. My legs feel heavy when I try to stand. Rooks says it’s normal to have ‘sea legs’ after being out on a boat, but this definitely isn’t for me.

  Hector stands at the edge of the dock where the girl took our tickets earlier.

  “So did you just come to make fun of me or were you planning on hanging out?” he asks, eyeing Rooks.

  “Totally here just to make fun of you,” Rooks says. He cracks up laughing, though, so he isn’t very convincing. “You off work now?”

  Hector nods. “Just gotta get out of this damn thing,” he says, tugging on the vest of his pirate costume. “Meet me at the Surf Bar?”

  Rooks says we’ll see him there before we head back up to the pier at Moonlight Harbor. But my mind isn’t on the boat or my sea legs or this surf bar place. I’m still back on The Dragon’s Jewel, listening to the announcer talk about Shark Island. We didn’t get close enough to really see anything in detail, but the lighthouse remains, sprouting from the end of the rocks, like a rocket that’s waiting for takeoff.

  Everything about Shark Island was eerie, like never-ending gray clouds that absorb all happiness the moment you sail under them. No one spoke. The kids stopped giggling and running around. It was mesmerizing yet terrifying. It only made me wonder even more about the accident and why anyone would be crazy enough to sail out there. None of it makes any sense.

  “You okay?” Rooks asks. He stops in the middle of the crowd and stares at me, as if he’s unable to walk until I answer.

  I nod my head, but that isn’t good enough for him.

  “Are you sure? You’ve been really quiet,” he says. “Was it…the location?”

  I nod again but also give a half-shrug so it doesn’t seem like I’m totally fixated and obsessed. But I’m sure he already knows that I am. I basically live and breathe the Shark Island tragedy and these letters and my new house.

  “Just a little creeped out,” I tell him. “Where are we going next?”

  He tells me that the name of the place is literally Surf Bar, which is probably the most uncreative thing I’ve heard since I got to this coastal town. I fasten my seatbelt once I’m in Rooks’ truck, but I don’t drop my bag to the floor. Instead, I keep it in my lap, arms around it, like it needs extra safe-keeping.

  Like most things in Coral Sands, the little seafoam green building known as Surf Bar is close to downtown, just a few more blocks over from the souvenir shops and boating tours. The sign is hand-painted but looks weathered and worn. A few bicycles are propped up against the side of the building, and most of the cars are parked out in a lot of sand. Rooks pulls into the closest open spot and parks his truck.

  “It’s not exactly high-end,” he says, motioning around the sandy mess of a makeshift parking lot.

  This reminds me of the kind of places where my friends and I would hang out back home. We’d find an open field and park everyone’s cars and trucks in a circle, tailgates down, music blaring. This is about as close as I’ll get to an open field here.

  “You know, I kind of like it,” I say. I grab my
bag out of his truck, because I don’t dare leave the evidence from the wall alone, and I follow him to the entrance.

  “See, I knew you were going to be cool,” Rooks says, holding the door open for me.

  Surf Bar might just be my favorite place in Coral Sands, and I’ve barely even stepped inside. The interior walls are the same seafoam green color as the outside, but it’s unique in a way that’s reminiscent of my Delilah. An actual cow skull hangs on the wall, next to a chalkboard version of a surfboard with today’s specials written on it.

  The counter at the bar is shaped like a surfboard as well. Twinkle lights hang around the room, and bright pink barstools are perched in front of the surfboard bar. It’s like a watercolor canvas of originality with a splash of hippie vibes. Music plays softly in the background – some kind of ukulele sound – and people lounge around talking and laughing while sipping on fruity drinks. It’s just beachy bliss, and I love it.

  “Carter!” Hector shouts out, waving at us from a corner table.

  I follow Rooks to the back table and sit next to him, diagonal to Hector. Rooks is quick to be the good host, asking if I’d like anything, but between the sea legs and twisty knots in my stomach from Shark Island, I don’t think I could stomach anything right now.

  “So, what brings you back to Coral Sands?” Hector asks over his bottle of what he probably wishes was an actual beer and not root beer. “Is it your dad’s ‘two weeks of summer’ or whatever?”

  Rooks shakes his head. “I’m here all summer, actually,” he says. “Mom’s still chasing biker guys, and I don’t exactly suck up to them like she wants me to. So Dad’s been forced to take me in for the next few months.”

  Hector glances at me, but he doesn’t say anything. I feel like I’m under some magic spell where everyone is aware of my presence, but I’m still invisible, so they all linger awkwardly wondering if it’s safe to speak or if I’m standing close by.

  “I’m glad you’re here, man,” Hector says. He picks up his bottle but doesn’t sip. “I’ve gotta have someone to hang out with to get a break from all this fifty-year anniversary bullshit. Natalie’s mom is going overboard with the memorial plans, and Nat’s right there in the middle of it. If I have to help plan one more party or ask Abuela if we can borrow tables from her restaurant, I may seriously flip my shit.”

  All of the beachy bliss I felt when I stepped into the Surf Bar has evaporated with the ocean air outside. I get it – Hector doesn’t like the tragedy. Hector’s girlfriend’s family is linked to a victim. He probably hears about it all the time. But does this mean I’m automatically disliked by association?

  “I’m sorry,” Hector says, catching my gaze. “I don’t mean to be an ass about it. I know you’re living in the Calloways’ house now, so this is probably weird. It’s just, Nat’s mom is the mayor, and she’s the niece of Eileen Baker, so whenever I’m at Nat’s house, it’s never-ending talk about memorial services and candlelight vigils. Sometimes, I just want to hang out and not have it in my face.”

  I shake my head and shrug it away. “It’s cool,” I lie. “I don’t want to be known as the girl who moved into the Calloway Cottage. It’s just a house.”

  “Tell you what,” Hector says. He chugs some of the root beer and places the bottle back on the table. Then he leans forward on his elbows. “The county fair is this weekend. It’s not special or anything, but Nat wants to get away from her mom for a night, so we’re going. You guys should meet us there. We can hang out and not talk about the fifty-year anniversary.”

  I’m hesitant, but it’s mostly due to the fact that this guy hasn’t been very friendly since I met him this morning. Still, it wouldn’t be so bad to meet his girlfriend or anyone else we may bump into at the fair. I’d rather not be one-hundred percent new when school starts this fall. I’d rather not be alone either.

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  It’s dark when Rooks pulls his truck into my driveway. Mom’s new floors should be nice and settled by now. She bursts out of the front door before Rooks even has a chance to turn off his headlights.

  “Finally,” Mom says with a frustrated sigh. “When I said to make yourself scarce for the day, I didn’t think you’d actually be gone all day.”

  She clicks down the front steps toward us. Even at this hour, after the sun is down and she’s spent all day in her heels, she clicks just like she would at eight o’clock in the morning. She’s like a motion sensor light, always on, even when she should be off, as if the slightest movement brings her back to life constantly.

  I close the truck door. “Do you like the new floors?” I ask.

  She nods but doesn’t smile. If I recall correctly, she sent me out with the wolf. She can’t possibly be mad. If you send your daughter into the woods, don’t be surprised if she comes home with the full moon.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Davenport,” Rooks says from behind me. “It’s my fault for keeping her out.”

  Mom waves away his apology with her hand.

  “It’s okay. We just need your help,” she says, immediately back in business mode. “Your dad needs you to follow us over to the hardware store. They’re waiting for us, and I’m sure they’re ready to shut down and go home, so we need to hurry.”

  Seriously? She just completely overlooked the metaphorical sticks in my hair from rolling around in the woods with wild animals. For what? Cans of paint and new doorknobs? I exhale a sigh, trying my best not to let my frustrations erupt from the surface. I’ll be so relieved when this house is done because it’s turned my mom into a crazy interior design monster.

  She rushes back inside to grab her keys. My beach bag never even has a chance to leave my shoulder as I stake my claim over Rooks’ passenger seat again. These letters are burning a hole in my bag, longing to be read, just like an expensive pair of new jeans is begging to be bought and worn.

  I drop the bag into the floorboard of Rooks’ truck. “So much for reading,” I say.

  “Maybe we can make this quick,” Rooks says, as if it’s a consolation. “Grab whatever they need, haul it back, and then you can give your mom some kind of line about being exhausted after your exhilarating day with me.”

  “Exhilarating?” I ask. “If I referred to our day as exhilarating, she would never leave us alone together.”

  As we drive back through the downtown streetlights, toward the hardware store, I see a banner spread across one of the restaurants’ windows. Fifty-Year Celebration of Life Ceremony is all I can read before the light turns green.

  “Do you think this is a waste of time?” I ask, turning toward Rooks. “The letters, I mean. It’s been half a century, and no one has solved the big Shark Island mystery. Finding a few letters in a wall of an old house isn’t going to reveal everything.”

  His face glows yellow as he halts at the light. He looks at me, but it’s too dark to read his face. “Piper, no one’s lived in that house in fifty years,” he says. “No one had a chance to find those letters. Maybe they were just waiting to be discovered. Maybe this half-century anniversary is when all is meant to be revealed, you know?”

  He turns on his signal to pull into the building on our left. The dimly lit parking lot is empty.

  “You think they said the hell with my mom?” I ask.

  Rooks laughs. “There’s a light on,” he says. “If they think she’ll be good for business, they’ll accommodate her. I mean, she’s Coral Sands’ new eye for design, right?”

  And he’s right. The owner rushes to the door to unlock it and allow my mom and Mr. Carter to come inside. Rooks and I trudge behind, less than thrilled about picking up more supplies for my house.

  A few minutes later, I help Mom put the paint cans and smaller bags into the trunk of her car while Mr. Carter and Rooks do the heavy lifting and hauling. Mom better pay them well for all they’ve done to help her. I vote she take them out for an expensive dinner too. They’re not even a third of the way done with the work, and they’ve already put more time into the Ca
lloway Cottage than Mom has. She shows me paint swatches of different neutral shades that she’s debating using for the living room while Rooks and his dad load the last items into the beds of their trucks.

  “You riding back with me?” Rooks calls out.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I wait for Mom to intervene and insist that I ride with her instead so we can talk about which paint matches the new floors best. But she doesn’t. She just tells us to go around to the back door off of the kitchen so we don’t scuff her floors.

  The streetlight doesn’t give much attention to the backyard. A mild orange glow falls hazily over the yard, but I still have to use my cell phone as a light source to find my keys in my purse. Rooks leads the way through the grass.

  “Piper, I don’t think you need your keys,” he says. He stops halfway across the yard, reaches over, and grabs my arm. Then he steps closer to me. “We need to go get my dad.”

  I glance up to question him, but even in the sliver of light, I see why. The glass window pane on the back door is completely shattered. The door itself is cracked open. My heart pounds, echoing in my ears. It thuds in my throat, like it may rupture out of my chest and explode any second.

  “C’mon,” Rooks says, tugging on my arm.

  The dark isn’t much of a factor anymore. We rush back through the grass and around the house, just quickly enough to stop my mom from entering through the front door. Rooks tells his dad about the back door while Mom calls the police station in a semi-calm panic. Mr. Carter doesn’t wait for law enforcement to arrive, though. He takes it upon himself to search the house.

  In the two minutes it takes him to search upstairs and in the closets, I stand in the driveway with Mom and Rooks listening to my heart thud rapidly.

  “Whoever it was didn’t stick around,” Mr. Carter says, as he exits onto the front porch. “Doesn’t really look like they took anything either. You ladies will have to look around to make sure, but aside from a few extra holes in the closet wall, I didn’t see any damage.”