I’m relieved when we’re finally finished and he helps me find Lynn to learn my next task. Thankfully, he doesn’t report all my screw-ups to her, and I’m just grateful to survive the rest of the day without making any more mistakes.
I’m exhausted and dirty when I get back to Grandma’s. She’s reading in her armchair, and Susan is on the couch working a crossword puzzle. She did come back. I flew by her earlier in the kitchen on my way to work.
I tell Grandma—actually both of them as Susan is surprisingly interested—about my first day at work, complete with a full description of my humiliating introduction to Ryan. When I announce I’m going to take a shower, Grandma surprises me.
“How about we go to the beach instead? You could cool off in the ocean,” Grandma suggests, closing her book.
I’m surprised because it’s around five and Grandma has a strict 7:00 p.m. dinnertime. I’m not sure we could go to the beach and be back in time to get cleaned up and fix dinner by then. “What about dinner?” I ask.
“Oh, we can eat later this once. Can’t we?” I’m not sure if she’s asking me or Susan. “You haven’t been to the beach yet, and school will be starting soon...” She raises her eyebrows as her voice trails off.
All I wanted to do was shower and veg out on the couch, but Grandma’s eyes are practically dancing, and I hate to disappoint her. Plus, I do want to go to the beach and take my first swim in the Pacific Ocean. Callie has been hounding me for beach pictures. “Sure. Yeah, that would be fun,” I say.
“Great.” She claps her hands together and rises. “I have a couple of beach chairs out in the garage.”
Susan leaps to her feet, translating Grandma’s declaration into a task to be completed. We get changed and not more than twenty minutes later, Susan has dropped us at one of the numbered streets that dead-ends into the beach. I have her cell number, and I’ll text her when we’re ready to come home. There’s no way she could have stayed if she wanted to; there isn’t a single empty parking space anywhere.
I carry the chairs and Grandma carries her beach tote and the towels. The coarse grains of sand slide through my toes as we traverse the wide expanse of beach. We weave around the many clusters of people who remain despite the late hour.
Grandma stops midway to the water. “How about here?”
I wanted to get closer to the ocean, but I say, “Sure. This is good.” I set out the chairs and spread the towels in front of them. Grandma sits and fishes her large straw sun hat out of her bag. I pull off my shorts and tank top. The sun is still hot, and I’m already sweating.
“Do you want to walk down to the water with me?” I ask.
“Oh no, sweetheart. I’m going to read my book. You go ahead.”
I realize she hasn’t even worn a bathing suit. I had assumed it was under her long-sleeved blouse and shorts. Although I’m not sure why I thought that; she never wore a swimsuit to the lake in Ohio either. “Didn’t you wear a bathing suit?” I still inquire.
She dismisses such a silly notion with her hand. “No, I never do. I just like to be out in the sunshine and fresh air. Plus, at my age, no one needs to see that.” She shakes her head.
“Grandma! You’re not that old!” I laugh.
“I’m fine here. You go ahead.” She waves me on.
I head off. When my first foot meets the water, I recoil in sheer horror. It’s an ice bath. Definitely colder than the Atlantic water I remember from our Florida vacations. I whip around toward Grandma and her body quakes with laughter. I grab my upper arms and shiver as if to say, “Why didn’t you tell me???”
I turn back and try again, this time armed with proper expectations. I wade ankle deep and stop to acclimate. A little boy to my right squeals in delight as a baby wave crashes right in front of him, sending salty sparks up to tickle his face. The water is fairly calm today with small waves rolling in one right after another. Out beyond the break line, the deep blue water ripples in the gentle breeze. The setting sun is angled so it creates a spotlight of tiny sparkling twinkle lights dancing on the water’s surface.
I move a bit farther out until I’m knee-deep. The water is fairly clear, and I spot a fish darting around and finally crashing into my ankle. I think of Grandpa Emilios and the picture in Grandma’s hallway of Grandpa fishing in Corfu when he was a little kid. I gaze at the endless water in front of me, seeming to go on forever, and think of how much Grandpa Emilios must have loved living here—the sand, the water, and the open sea in front of him.
I wave at Grandma, but she’s no longer watching. She’s got her nose in her book and doesn’t see me. She’s here in this seaside town—even after my grandpa died and her only family was still back in Ohio—and she doesn’t even like the ocean. She’s living out Grandpa’s dream, dedicated to it just as this shore underneath my feet is dedicated to the water that ceaselessly crashes its waves against it. It’s funny to me how much she has in common with the sea and yet has little interest in it.
A bigger wave splashes me, and I turn back toward the water. I know I just have to go for it. I can’t be scared or tentative. I inhale a giant breath and slowly let it go. I squeeze my eyes and brace myself. One, two three... I open my eyes and dive forward into the crisp blue water.
Chapter 7
Today is a shock. In so many ways. I’ve gone to school in Sycamore Hill my entire life. Even when I moved from elementary to middle to high school, I never felt as though I was changing schools because there were still all the same faces. It was the same cast of characters on the same stage but with a different backdrop after a scene had come to an end.
Today, it’s as though I’ve gone from that small-town performing arts center stage to a Hollywood movie set. It feels bigger and scarier and different.
Before I even step foot on campus, I realize changing schools means much more than different classmates in different classes. I circle the parking lot twice before I choose a parking spot. Driving to school had been so automatic, but today I feel fresh out of the DMV with a brand new license. I’ve had the same parking space for three years, but here the lot is laid out differently, and I’m not sure if there’s a senior lot I’m supposed to park in or if one of these open spaces might be some other girl’s usual spot where she’s parked for three years. Plus, I’m thrown off by the silence in the car. Last year, I started driving Connor to school, and though I hated his constant chatter and incessant need to flip through radio stations like a deck of cards, I became accustomed to it.
It gets no easier once I finally choose a parking spot for Grandma’s little white Honda. Normally I would race to the table in the quad where my group hangs out. We’d talk, and I would eat the bagel Mom had pressed into my hand as I flew by her on the way out the door. Today, I wander through the crowded halls trying to remember where my locker is. I make a few wrong turns and am lost when the first period bell rings. I barely make it to Physics on time, with a full backpack and the uneaten bagel I’d pressed into my own hand on my way out the door.
Most of my classes are fine. The teachers seem nice enough, and they let us choose our own seats. I pick the ones in the farthest back corners, except in fourth period French. I get lost on my way there, and when I show up after class has already started, there’s only one seat left, front and center. A sea of eyes tracks me as I slink into my spotlight seat. At least the teacher, Madame Nelson, isn’t a spitter.
That’s about as dramatic as my classes get, though. For the most part, kids are nice and nobody notices me. A few girls smile at me, and I receive the expected fresh-meat leers from a few jerseyed football players. The only person who actually speaks to me, though, is a kid named Dan in an MIT sweatshirt at my Physics AP lab table. And I think he just wants to know about me to make sure I’m not going to ruin his grade.
I’m happy to survive the morning and make it to lunch. I find my only friend—Chick-fil-A—and take my meal to a planter at the edge of the quad. I pull out my phone and let my backpack crash to the ground. I still
haven’t found my locker. I check the time and hope I can catch Callie after school but before cheer practice. I miss my friends, today especially, and a melancholy yearning to hear about the classes I should have—English AP with Mr. Barton and Calculus with Mrs. Chen—is growing inside me. I wait, but there’s no response from Callie. I try Hannah but get the same silence.
I finish my sandwich and scan the quad for Ryan. I haven’t seen him since my first day of work. I casually mentioned him to Lynn, and she said his usual day is Sunday. It was a fluke that he was there on the Saturday I started. I’ve looked for him today in all my classes—my one shot at seeing a friendly face. But I’ve had no luck there or now at lunch.
The conversation of the two girls in cheer sweatshirts drifts over from the bench on my right. I’m bored, so I listen.
“I heard he broke up with Jess this summer,” the one with the long brown ponytail says.
“Yeah, I think she cheated on him at that big party a few weeks ago. The one at Tyler King’s house.” The other one takes down her bun, shakes out her jet-black hair, and wraps it back up.
“You need to make a move. Now’s your chance.” The ponytail girl elbows her friend.
“I don’t know...” The bun girl grins in that way that means she really does know. And it’s a yes. “Do you think he’d go for me?” She scrunches her nose.
“For sure.”
“It would be so much easier if I had a class with him again.”
“I know. But it can still happen. You just need to—” Ponytail girl stops and gently backhands her friend on the upper arm and clears her throat.
I follow their eyes which have locked onto a tall dark-haired kid in basketball gear who has emerged from around a corner. He looks like... I squint because it might be the glare of the sun, but I’m right. It’s Ryan. Ryan from the animal shelter.
“God. Ryan is so hot,” the bun girl exhales dramatically.
“Totally,” her friend echoes.
Suddenly it all comes together: the conversation, the basketball gear, the article I read last night on the school web site. Ryan from the animal shelter is Ryan Mellano, star basketball player for Union High.
Even if I wanted to walk over and say hi to him, I’m certainly not going to do it now. Three other tall guys in basketball gear join him, as do a gaggle of girls. Even from afar, I can see the easy smile and giant dimples, but here at school I can also now see the swagger.
Hmm. I never would have pegged him as a jock. I finish off my fries as the girls nearby continue to swoon. I watch the whole scene until the bell rings.
By the time I find the locker room after school and change into my running clothes, there is already a swarm of bodies out on the track. I get there in time to join the team-building introduction activity, and I’m relieved to discover I’m not the only late addition. After that, we separate into groups for sprint work. I stay with the beginners’ group in the grassy area while the other two groups split off on either side of the track. The young assistant coach—a former Union High track star, I think—sets out some cones and leads us through some very basic speed repeats.
When we’re done, I assume it’s the end of practice, but Coach calls out, “Easy three.” The elite runners take off for the gate at what I would describe as lightning speed, while a lot of us beginners awkwardly eyeball one another. The young assistant coach chuckles. “That means a three-mile run at an easy pace. Just go as far as you can and turn around when you need to. It’s an out and back.” We nod and start jogging at a much slower pace than the others.
I’ve come a long way since that first attempt at running through Grandma’s neighborhood. I have the proper clothes, and I’ve done at least some running every day. But the one thing I’m never sure of is my distance. I keep forgetting to track how far I go. So I’m not sure if I can do this “easy three,” especially after going all out in those sprint drills. My legs are a little rubbery right now.
I don’t know where we’re going, so I press to keep pace with the girls in front of me. I’ve gotten used to running with music, so the increasing volume of my heavy breathing and a little bit of heart-attack panic from my desert-thirst syndrome nearly stop me. But I resist the urge, both due to pride and necessity. If I’m going to run a half-marathon—and I need to start soon—this means I’ll definitely have to be able to run three miles. I am in Calculus.
We make it to the beach after several blocks of alternating uphill and downhill, and the girls in front of me turn onto the bike path. I see the steady stream of high school runners both in front of me and running at me on my left. Apart from the sun’s death rays, this isn’t too bad. I have finally found flat ground, and boy, does that make running a lot easier.
After a few more overheating panic attacks, we reach the pier where all the runners turn around. I nearly crash into a red-headed girl who’s stopped and doubled over at the waist, heaving at a decibel level I’ve not yet achieved. Two girls behind me nearly crash into both of us, and as they pass by, they stare and mumble something disparaging. My muscles itch to rejoin the pace of the pack flowing by, but I glimpse the girl’s strained expression and power down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
No response, just more heavy breathing.
“Hey, are you okay?” I try again, a bit more loudly.
Still no response. I know I can be a bit soft-spoken, but if I’m any louder I’m going to be shouting.
“Do you need help?” I shout.
Finally, she straightens up. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears streaming down her face.
“Are you okay?” I repeat.
“No, I’m okay. I’m just tired, and I have a cramp in my side.”
That happened to me a few days ago when I went running in the middle of the day. By accident, I discovered that walking helped it go away.
“Hey, let’s start walking. That will help.”
She turns her head and points at her ear. “You have to talk into this ear. It’s the good ear.”
Sure enough, on her ear is a giant clear hearing aid contraption. That explains it. I maneuver to her good side, and we start walking. A boy and girl stare at us as they pass and snicker. The red-haired girl must hear them because she flinches and dips her head ever-so-slightly.
“How are you doing? Is it getting better?” I ask to divert her attention.
She raises a shoulder. “A little.”
“Let’s try running a little,” I suggest. I’m a little nervous. Fewer and fewer people are passing us on either side. I don’t want to be last, so I start with a slow jog. She joins in, shuffling arduously next to me. She wipes her face with the palm of her hand, and her labored breathing sounds like an old man snoring. After a minute or so, she stops and tells me to go on without her. I won’t leave her out here in the heat struggling as she is. So I slow down and walk with her, continuing to urge her on. Through a combination of walking and running, we finally make it back to school.
We’re close but not the very last to finish. Thank goodness someone set out a giant orange Gatorade cooler with water and cups. We each fill a cup and suck it down like we’ve just raced across the Sahara. We refill then collapse on the grassy area inside the track.
“Thanks,” the girl says. “That was my first time running.”
My eyes bulge. “Ever?”
She laughs. “Yeah. It’s not really my thing.”
“Why did you join cross country then?” I’m sure to speak up because I forget which is her good ear, and I don’t want to stare at her, trying to find the hearing aid.
“I used to be in Mural Club, but the teacher left and I don’t like the new art teacher. My mom said I have to be involved in something or she’ll take away my phone and the car. So I picked cross country.” She swipes at her face and pulls her bangs and short hair behind her head. “It’s open to anyone, and I figured, how hard can it be?”
My shoulders shake as I giggle and remember how I once thought the same thing.
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“I know.” She lets her hair go. “Now, I know.”
We finish our water. In the sunlight, I notice the beautiful red-orange of her hair that’s streaked with flecks of gold. She has porcelain skin like a doll, and it’s really just her unfortunate boxy haircut that makes her look so awkward.
The coach says a few words, then kids stream off the field. Practice is officially over. I stand, and she joins me. As we head to the locker room, she says, “I’m Mari, by the way.”
“I’m Emma.”
“Are you new here?”
“Yeah.” My lips remain parted, ready to say more, but nothing comes out.
“Cool,” Mari says.
We finish the trek back discussing which classes we have, and I discover that she’s a junior. As we are about to part ways, I ask, “Are you going to stick with it?”
“Yeah, I will.” After a pause, she jokes, “I need my phone.”
“Cool,” I say and exhale a tiny bit of relief. I finally know someone here. My first friend.
I’m so tired both mentally and physically from the day that I trip and nearly fall on the front porch steps. Voices travel through the front door, and I remember Grandma said something about hosting afternoon bridge. The thought of small talk with Grandma’s friends doubles my exhaustion.
I inhale a deep breath, let it out, and open the front door. My second foot is just over the threshold when it registers that the voices are not happy gossiping ones. My bags slide off my shoulders and tumble to the ground. I think because I’m so tired, it takes me a moment to process the scene in front of me.
Two of Grandma’s friends are inches from Susan near the dining table where bridge cards, scorepads, and perspiring iced tea glasses sit undisturbed. The ladies and Susan argue with voices that rise an octave with each retort. To my right, Rose sits on the couch with her arm around my grandma who is crying silent tears.
The Brilliance of Fireflies Page 6