by Anna Shinoda
I must have written him hundreds of times, beginning in first grade when my little hands wrote short, misspelled words in fractured sentences, missing punctuation and capitalization. Luke has sent me exactly thirty-eight letters, including this one, and Christmas and birthday cards. Each still in its original envelope. The earliest praised me for my good marks in school, said how proud he was that the teacher thought I was good at paying attention.
I pull out one from the first grade. Wow, little Squeakers, you are growing so fast! I wish I were home to see you in the school play. I’ve shown everyone the photo of you as the snowflake. My friends agree that I have the cutest little sister. Don’t grow too much more before I can see you again. This letter is especially worn. I was cute. Luke and his friends said so.
Shifting through the pile, I don’t have to open the envelopes to know what he has written in most of them, but the desire to read them sidetracks my need for rest.
One more. I’ll read one more, then go to sleep. I blindly grab a letter and open it. I bet the applesauce tasted even better since you helped with it! Eat an apple for me, Squeakers. And take good care of our tree so I can have lots next year. I swallow, remembering how Mom had to explain to me that we couldn’t just mail an apple to Luke. How, to make me feel better, she took pictures of us picking apples to send to him instead. But he’ll be home this year when the apples are ripe.
I add my new letter to the box, carefully close and lock it.
As I lie down to sleep, a vision of Luke walking through the front door appears behind my closed eyes. I miss him so bad, my heart actually aches.
But then there’s the other side of his return, the whispers—prison, prison, prison, shame, shame, shame— the glowering looks. No wonder Luke doesn’t plan to come home immediately. It dawns on me: It’s better for him to go where he has a blank slate. Where people can get to know him like I know him. A place where the present overrides the past. And real second chances exist.
Push all of it out of my mind. Too tired to think anymore about it tonight.
Chapter 8
Blue Circles
THEN: Age Seven
I overheard Mom tell Dad that Luke was getting out of prison on March 23. I circled the date on my calendar, circled it in bright blue, sky blue, the happiest color I could find.
Writing Luke a letter, I listed all the things we would do as soon as he came home. I wanted to play in the park and show him how I could swing. I wanted to teach him charades because we’d just learned it in class. I wanted to help Mom make his favorite meal: beef Stroganoff and peach pie.
March 23, March 23, circled in blue.
March 23 came. March 23 ended, at midnight, with me awake in my bed, waiting for him to come home.
March 24 started, at midnight, and eventually I fell asleep, waiting for Luke to come home.
On March 24 Mom told me that Luke was probably visiting with friends and that he’d be home soon.
On March 25 I wondered why Luke’s friends were more important than me, and I cried when I had to go to bed.
On March 26 I threw my stuffed animals at my calendar and scribbled over March 23 in black, black ink.
On March 27 I sat next to the door, looking at Mom’s clock on her desk. When the little hand hit five, Luke would be home. When the little hand hit six, Luke would be home.
On March 28 I was scared that they hadn’t let Luke out of prison, or that he had been hurt, like hit by a car. Maybe we should call all the hospitals between the prison and here. Maybe we should call the prison to make sure he left.
On March 29 I gave up.
On March 30 he came home. He didn’t know why I crossed my arms and turned around when he appeared.
He asked, “Why is Squeakers mad at me?”
I cried. He hadn’t come home right away. He didn’t know why I was mad at him.
He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Do you know why I call you Squeakers? No, huh. You were too little to remember, right? Well, when Ma brought you back from the hospital, right after you were born, you took one look at me and squeaked. Like you were saying hello. And I said ‘Clare’ was too serious a name for cute little you, and you know what you did? You squeaked at me again, like you were agreeing. Still mad, Squeaks?”
“Why didn’t you come home on March twenty-third?”
“I had some stuff to take care of, and I don’t have a car, so I had to hitchhike.”
“Hitchhike?”
“You ever see the people walking down the street with their thumbs up? They’re looking for a ride somewhere.”
“Mom says not to pick them up. Mom says those people are dangerous.”
“Maybe some, but is your brother Luke dangerous?” Laughter. Luke dangerous? That was a silly idea. “No, not me. I just need a ride, that’s it. And someone was nice and they picked me up and brought me to you. It took a few extra days. That’s all. I’m here now. So why don’t you teach me how to play this charades game you wrote me about.”
Like always, and like magic, Luke made me feel better. Special. Smart and funny and cute. I drew a big, bright, blue circle, sky blue, the happiest color I could find, around March 30.
And hoped this time he would be home for good.
Chapter 9
Half-Safe
NOW
“Crap!” I forgot to set my alarm! I jump out of bed—pee, brush teeth, flick waterproof mascara on, pull hair into a ponytail. Throw on my bathing suit, deodorant, a pair of shorts and tank top. Grab my work bag, sunscreen, and a towel. I look at my watch. Thirteen minutes. Not bad. I see my car keys on my dresser. Really? I forgot to leave them on Mom’s desk last night. But . . . I’d rather be grounded for an extra day than be late for work. I snatch the keys and run out the door.
In my car. Turn the key. Nothing. Turn it again. Still nothing. The battery must be dead.
“Crap!” I shout again and scramble out of the car. Stupid car is always breaking down. Maybe because it’s a million years old and I bought it for six hundred bucks.
“Why today?” I growl, sliding my fingers under the edge of the hood to find the latch. It opens with a groan. I stare down in shock.
The battery isn’t dead; it’s gone.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Dad appears, sipping coffee, a suspiciously greasy hand cradling his mug. “Is something the matter?”
Like he doesn’t know.
“My battery,” I say, pointing to the abyss, “seems to be missing.”
He grins even wider. “That can’t be. Let me see.” He cranks his neck to the side, pretending to take a long look under the hood. “Well, look at that. It does appear that your battery is gone.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with this?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you’d left your keys on Mom’s desk last night,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
“DAD! This is so unfair. I have to go to work. I’m going to be late!”
He laughs. I’m crazy angry, and he’s laughing.
“You think it’s funny? BEFORE you pulled my battery out of my car, did you think for one moment that I might be fired for being late?”
“Is Clare Bear getting upset?” Dad laughs harder. “Come on. It’s funny. Admit it!”
“It’s not funny, Dad.” And don’t call me “Clare Bear”; you know I hate that. Now my stupid eyes start to water. Don’t cry. I slump to the ground. “How am I supposed to get to work on time?”
“Ride your bike.”
“My bike?” He wants me to ride my bike? It’s probably a black widow nest by now. I haven’t ridden that thing in years.
“Yes, your bike. You know, Old Faithful or Superbike or . . . what was it that you used to call it?” Dad gulps his coffee like a camel.
Bike-a-saurus Hex. My parents bought it way too big for me. And they chose green. Chunky-vomit green. It was a curse to have to ride it.
“Bike-bye? Bike, Bike? Motor-bikel?�
� Keep guessing, Dad. Keep pretending like you don’t remember.
“Tell you what, Clare Bear,” Dad says as he slams my hood shut. “I was just on my way to work. I’ll give you a ride.” He puts his coffee mug down on the edge of the driveway. “And tomorrow you can leave with enough time to take . . . Bike-a-saurus.”
His eyebrows jump up and down. I don’t smile.
“Clare.” Dad gallantly opens the passenger door of his truck for me. Saunters to the driver’s side. Pulls his work jumpsuit from the back and whistles as he steps into it. He always looks more like he’s wearing a costume than a uniform. I used to tell everyone at school he was a superhero. Mandy Jordan was the one who broke the news to me that Dad picked up dead animals for a living. It would have been so much easier if my parents had just told me that instead of letting me be publicly humiliated by my archenemy.
“Dad, I’m going to be late.” I tap my watch, irritated.
“Okay, okay.” He jumps in and shuts his door. “All buckled in?”
“Yes. Can we go now? Please?” After clicking his seat belt, he backs out of the driveway.
Finally.
Barely two blocks down he slams on the brakes, coming to a stop next to a raccoon roadkill. “Look at that!” Dad fishes at my feet for something. Grabs his clipboard and scans it. “Not even called in yet.”
“Can you pick it up after you drop me off at work?” I plead.
He taps his pen on the clipboard.
“Well . . . I guess.” And mercifully he steps on the gas. “Do me a favor, Clare Bear,” he says, handing me the pen. “Write up the address and put ‘roadkill’ in the second column.” His clipboard falls onto my lap. Gross. No telling how many times he has touched this after handling a dead animal. I hold the pen at the very tip.
“Speaking of dead animals,” he says, staring ahead, “yesterday I picked up a dead squirrel at the campgrounds past Lookout Ridge.”
“Big surprise,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “You pick up a hundred a day.”
“Not up in the campgrounds. No. Plus, this one was called in. Called in the middle of the night. The voice sounded a little familiar too.”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “Every voice sounds familiar to you. We live in a town with population nothing.” Dad’s clipboard is still on my lap. The bet. I glance down. Lookout Campground Squirrel pickup: 10:14 a.m.
“Yeah. I guess I know everyone around here. Especially your friends.” Get to the point, Dad. “When I picked it up, I was pretty surprised to see a lot of trash up there. Looks like someone had a pretty good party: beer cans, cigarette butts, tiny empty baggies. Wouldn’t happen to be the same party you were at the other night?” Silent. Frozen. I know what the deer in headlights thinks right before getting hit: Something bad is going to happen, and I can’t do anything to stop it.
Dad brings the truck to a stop just outside the gated entrance to the lake. “Tell you what, Clare. As part of your punishment for sneaking out, you’ll be picking up the trash at that campsite after work today. You do that, and we won’t have to tell the ranger, or the sheriff, where your secret party spot is. Okay?”
I don’t have time to argue. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. I grab my bag. And slam his piece-ofshit-truck door as hard as I can.
While running for the lifeguard post, I imagine Dad’s truck falling apart as the door slammed, leaving him sitting on the seat, holding the steering wheel, attached to nothing. A confused frown across his face. Cartoon style.
I glance down at my watch. Breathe a sigh of relief. I’m perfectly on time.
“Clare. Late on the first day? It is eight thirty-five and you are supposed to be here at eight thirty sharp.” Lucille Jordan’s plastic face tries to smile. Why does Mandy’s mom have to be my boss? I’m surprised Lucille. She swirls the cup in her hand and takes a small sip out of the straw before continuing. “I hope this isn’t going to be a habit of yours.”
“Sorry. My watch says I’m on time. I’ll set it five—no ten—minutes back.”
“Why don’t you do that,” she says, sarcasm lacing her voice.
I rush through my morning duties, concentrating on checking the safety equipment instead of wallowing in how crappy my day has been already.
Before my butt hits the chair on the too-short lifeguard stand, a dozen kids jump into the water with elated screams.
The lake’s kinda gross, but it’s the only body of water in our dumpy town bigger than a bathtub. Fed by snow runoff and a natural spring, it was originally a huge mud hole that fed into a large stream. Then someone thought it was a good idea to define two sides of the lake with a concrete slab. They dug out the mud hole, and the stream shrunk to a brook as the lake filled. They planted grass. Great mountains of sand were brought in to create a beach on the shallow side. Tractors groomed the beach until it was smooth and flawless.
And then, what did they do?
They left the last side natural: the swamp. A place where the mud is so thick, it grabs your feet and pulls you in to your knees. Tall weeds tangle to the surface. Sharp reeds grow wild, sticking out of the muck that seeps into the woods, where rattlesnakes live and poison oak grows.
Half-man-made, half-natural. Half-safe. Splashing and screams on the shallow side of the rope turn my head. Mandy’s little brother, Chris, is jumping high into the air, using both hands to push a little girl’s head underwater.
I feel the water going up her nose. The hands pushing on her head, moving with her as she tries to find a way back up. Hears his laughter.
I blow my whistle. Point at Chris: beckon him to me with a single finger. As he lets go a little red head pops out of the water, coughing and wheezing.
Chris wades to the side while I jump in to check on Redhead.
“Are you okay?” She lifts her arms. My hands lock under her armpits, and I pick her up, pull her out of the lake, and wrap her in my towel.
“Chris.” I use my stern voice. “It’s the first day. The whole summer isn’t going to be like this, is it?” Oh, damn it. I sound like Lucille Jordan.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything wrong!” Chris throws his arms into an overexaggerated shrug. “We were just playing.”
And he sounds like Peter.
“That’s not playing, Chris. It’s dangerous. She could drown. You get to sit with me for ten minutes.”
“Hey,” he protests, splashing his arms down angrily. “I’m supposed to get a warning first.”
“You got all the warnings you needed last year. Tenminute time-out for the first offense; fifteen for the second. And you’re going home on the third.”
“I’m telling my mom you didn’t give me a warning,” Chris says. “Hey, Mom!” he yells. Lucille Jordan chats with her friends, lounging under a huge blue sun hat, looking like something out of an expensive alcohol ad.
“Not now, honey. Mommy’s busy,” she shouts back.
“But Moooom.”
“I said not now.”
Chris scowls at his mother. Defeated, he climbs out of the water and sits on the edge of the lake, pulling his legs to his chest in perfect pout position.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask Redhead again.
“Yep.” She hands me my towel and jumps back into the water. Soon she’s singing and splashing and playing.
“Man, this stinks,” Chris mumbles. I look at him. The real problem is that he’s too old to be stuck in the shallow end. I remember exactly how that feels.
“Don’t you want to be able to swim in the deep end this year?” I ask.
“Leave me alone.”
“It’s a really simple test. You could pass after taking some lessons.”
“Shut up,” he mutters.
“What was that?” I use my stern voice again.
“Nothing.” Chris slumps forward and groans.
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Bet you didn’t know that I couldn’t even float until I was eleven years old.”
Chris turns his blond head and stares. “You lie.”
“It’s true. And I didn’t learn to swim until a year after that.”
“And you’re a lifeguard now? Yeah, right.”
“Believe what you want.” I pause. It would probably be pretty fun seeing him learn. “I can teach you.”
“I don’t need a stupid teacher.”
“Fine.” That’s it for the talking. For the rest of the ten minutes, we stare at the lake.
••• Chris seems to be behaving after his time-out, so I go on autopilot. I’m taking in the sun and the splashes and the glimmering water. I’ve never been hypnotized, but I imagine it’d feel like this.
“Clllllaaare.” Drea’s nose is almost touching mine. “Some kid’s gonna drown on your watch. Where the hell were you at?”
“I was concentrating on the water.” I look down at my watch. Noon. Already?
“Whatever, crazy. Listen, the party last night was awesome. Mandy puked, like, eight times, and still stumbled around for at least forty-five minutes thinking she was all hot. Vomit breath and chunks in her hair. Ryan eventually convinced her it was time to go home. But . . . once he got her all tucked in, he was back at the party.”
“No Mandy? Almost like he was . . . single?”
“Uh-huh.” Drea grabs my whistle and blows it hard, yelling, “Hey. No dunking, jerk.”
She spreads a towel and sits down next to my chair. Even though I’m grounded, at least I work at the summer hangout. That’s going to save my sanity.
“Anyone else planning to show up today?” I ask, hoping she’ll say Ryan. Without Mandy.
“Nah—not with all the drinking last night. But I think Chase, Skye, and Omar are going to come by tomorrow. And they’re dying to know who won the bet. You get the squirrel pickup time?”
“Yep. Can you send a group text for me? Squirrel pickup time: ten fourteen a.m.”
“Okay,” Drea says. “Remind me—how much longer will I have to be your messenger?”