The Invincible Summer of Juniper Jones

by Daven McQueen

  Ethan settled for a sigh and a quiet, “Bye, Dad.”

  As his dad said good-bye to Aunt Cara and Uncle Robert, Ethan set his drink on the porch railing and made his way back to the car, where the twins sat waiting. He said good-bye to Anthony and Sadie, leaning through the open window to wave. They responded distractedly, too absorbed in a fierce game of Crazy Eights in the back seat.

  “See you later,” he mumbled as he backed away from the car. His dad edged past him on his way to the driver’s side. He paused with his hand on the door handle before turning and wrapping Ethan in a stiff hug.

  “This is the right decision.” The last word curved itself into a question. He pulled away and stepped into the car without another word. Starting the engine, he looked up and gave his son a conflicted glance. The look hit Ethan like a jab to the gut. This was the look his dad would give his mom when Ethan misbehaved as a child. Ethan hadn’t seen the expression cross his father’s face in years, and when he blinked, it was gone. Ethan was left weak kneed on the driveway, blinking against the sun.

  His father was already putting the car into gear. The twins scrambled over each other to stick their tanned faces out the window and shriek their good-byes to Aunt Cara. They ignored their brother, who was inching back toward the house.

  “See you in September!” Aunt Cara called, and Ethan waved. His father stared ahead, hands tight on the steering wheel, as they rolled out of the driveway and back onto the road. With a rev of the engine, they were gone, and Ethan was struck suddenly by all the days he had to clamber through before they returned. The dust, disturbed by the tires, rose into his mouth and clawed at his eyes. It stayed there, suspended. So did he.

  Two

  Ellison was silent at eight o’clock in the morning. Not even the wind could rouse itself to combat the thick summer air. Ethan trailed his uncle down the lane toward downtown. The wide dusty path curved through the trees, jutting off every now and then to reveal a driveway to another little house. Far off in the forest, bugs kept up a constant buzz. Ethan squirmed away from the bulbous flies, feeling like little insect legs were crawling up and down his body. Uncle Robert was unfazed.

  It took about fifteen minutes to reach downtown—if the area could really be called that. Back in Arcadia, downtown meant six city blocks, twelve streets, two movie theaters, twenty restaurants, a hotel, and countless stores. In Ellison it was a single intersection, though the road was paved here, at least. There was a general store, a gas station, a mechanic’s shop, a post office, two small restaurants that both claimed to have the best burgers in town, and Uncle Robert’s malt shop. A little way down the road was the town hall, but according to Uncle Robert, the mayor had so little to do that the building sat empty most of the year. And that was all. Other amenities had to be brought in from the next town over, about a twenty-minute drive away.

  Ethan was horrified.

  He kept his head down and watched his sneakers scuff the pavement as he followed Uncle Robert. It wasn’t until they reached a small grassy area next to the post office that he finally looked up—and jarred to a halt.

  In this clearing, two benches faced each other across a bubbling fountain. Next to one of them was a flagpole, its three flags hanging limp in the absence of wind. On the top, the American flag, its forty-eight stars lost in the folds. Below it, the simple, diagonal red cross of Alabama’s state flag. And at the bottom—its edges lifting in a sudden light breeze—was a pattern Ethan had seen only in history books: a red background with a dark blue X across the center that was filled with bright white stars.

  Uncle Robert, a few paces ahead, noticed that Ethan was no longer following and glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. “Come on,” he snapped, but he paused when he saw the path of Ethan’s eyes.

  “Uncle Robert,” Ethan said, swallowing hard. “Why is that here?”

  His uncle straightened, a defensive look coming across his features. “Well, it’s an important part of our history. It’d do you well not to disrespect a cultural symbol. Now, come on.”

  Ethan ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn. He forced his gaze away from the flagpole and trailed after his uncle, the sweat on his arms feeling suddenly like crawling ants. The realization was forming in the pit of his stomach that this was where his father had grown up—that he had walked these dusty streets, passed beneath that flag probably thousands of times. And still, he had sent him here.

  That hot rush of anger, which had subsided overnight, boiled up again in Ethan’s chest. He clenched his fists as Uncle Robert stopped in front of a pale-green storefront and pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket.

  “Here we are,” he said, pushing open the door. Ethan ducked in after him, taking a long, shaky breath. The malt shop, at least, looked like the one he and his friends frequented back home. Ethan saw the black and white checkered floors, the cold metal counter with the red spinning chairs, the jukebox against the wall. A wave of familiarity washed over him, and with it, a tide of homesickness. One day into his summer exile, and he was already nauseated with dread.

  Uncle Robert went behind the counter of the small shop and flicked a switch, flooding the place with light. “So, this is it,” he said, sweeping a hand to cover the five tables complete with sweetheart chairs, a soda fountain, and the counter. “The Malt. The life of the town.”

  Ethan scoffed—then realized a moment too late that his uncle was serious. “Cool,” he amended, shoving his hands into the pockets of his chinos. Uncle Robert eyed him carefully.

  “Nothing fancy here,” he went on. “Menu’s only got a few items, and since you have the morning shift, you don’t need to worry about closing down. You’ll be okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ethan nodded. It seemed that conversations with his uncle shrank his vocabulary down to just those two words. He didn’t have the voice to mention that back home he had worked at the local Steak ’n Shake for half a year. He wasn’t sure if anyone in this town had ever even seen a Steak ’n Shake.

  “Listen, I wasn’t planning on this.” Uncle Robert looked uncomfortable as he ran a hand over his stiff hair. “But your dad didn’t want you lazing around all summer, and the boy who worked here last summer, ah—well, he’s gone now.”

  Of course, Ethan thought, seething. As if being sent to this place wasn’t enough.

  “Anyway,” Uncle Robert went on. “Let me give you a tour of the place.”

  As it turned out, the place wasn’t much—just the main shop plus a small kitchen in the back, behind a set of metal doors. Tuesday was burger day, Ethan learned, and the only time the rusting old stove ever got put to use. The rest of the time, sodas and milk shakes were the only items on the list.

  “Real variety,” Ethan muttered, glancing over the laminated menu. Uncle Robert, thankfully, didn’t hear.

  Ethan learned how to operate the soda machine—how to blend ice cream into a milk shake the right way—and where, exactly, to kick the jukebox in case it stopped in the middle of a song. All of this instruction was given in Uncle Robert’s curt tone, and all without a single heartbeat of eye contact. Ethan gave his understanding in halfhearted nods, all the while eagerly awaiting the moment when Uncle Robert would leave, and he would finally be alone.

  At a quarter to nine, Uncle Robert completed his tour back in the main area. Ethan looked out of the rectangle of glass on the door and didn’t see a single soul on the street.

  “Well, then,” Uncle Robert said, fixing the collar of his shirt. He coughed into his fist. “Do you understand?”

  Ethan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want any slipups.”

  Hollowly, Ethan recited the same response.

  “Good. Good.” Uncle Robert adjusted his pants and looked at the mirror above the counter, then at the song list next to the jukebox—anywhere but at his nephew. “In that case,” Uncle Robert continued. “I’ll leave you to it
. There’s a telephone in the back if there’s an emergency. Try not to call.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan mumbled. “No sweat.”

  Uncle Robert nodded quickly, his receding hairline catching the light. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said, leaving as if he couldn’t get out quickly enough.

  Once his uncle had disappeared down the lone cross street of downtown, Ethan stood in the center of the malt shop, taking everything in. It was slightly cooler in here than it was outside, but every move Ethan made still felt like he was swimming through the air. It hung; it lingered; it sat on his shoulders and buried his feet in the checkered linoleum. He felt heavier in this place.

  Sighing, he forced his leaden feet to march behind the counter, snagging a squeaky vinyl stool on the way. Once he was situated, positioned conveniently behind the cash register, he looked both ways, licked his lips, and lifted up his shirt.

  Tucked into the waistband of his pants were the two latest issues of Strange Suspense Stories. He had read them about a dozen times each already, of course, but they had been the first of the stack he had smuggled into his suitcase.

  Pulling the comics carefully out, Ethan placed them on his lap. He flipped the top one carefully to the first panel, so as not to wrinkle the pages. His uncle probably would not have approved of this, reading comics while on duty. If he noticed, of course. Which he hadn’t that morning, when, at the breakfast table, Ethan made it through the first edition of Outlaw Kid—twice. He’d absently stirred his oatmeal as his aunt spoke loudly about their neighbor down the road, her voice expanding as if she wanted it to crawl up the walls and nestle into every corner of the woodwork. He wondered if she knew how terrified she sounded.

  The minutes ticked by like years, and not a single customer walked through the door. For four hours Ethan read and reread the comics, stared at the wall, and dug some spare change from his pockets to play a few songs on the jukebox. Most of the options were Elvis. He hated Elvis.

  By the time one o’clock rolled around, Ethan was thinking that in all his fourteen years of life, he had never been so incredibly bored. “This is such a drag,” he announced to no one. He felt energy building up inside of him, trapped between these four white walls, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaping to his feet and bolting out the door.

  Instead, in a grueling display of self-control, he ran a hand over the soft curls of his cropped, dark hair and swiveled back and forth on the stool, knocking his knees against the counter.

  Uncle Robert strolled in just past one o’clock, and Ethan heaved a sigh of relief.

  “How was it?” he asked as Ethan rushed to shove the comics back up his shirt.

  “All right. Empty.”

  “Usually is, in the morning.” Uncle Robert grunted as he circled around the counter, a guttural sound that made Ethan shudder. “Summer, so most kids are sleeping late. They’ll be streaming in about half an hour from now.”

  Ethan frowned. As much as he abhorred the idea of spending his already abysmal summer stuck in a crowded busboy job, he wondered why his uncle wouldn’t stick him in the busier shift for the extra hands. “You sure you don’t want me to stay through the crowds?” he asked. “I could help out, if you need it.”

  Uncle Robert paused with his hand on the back door, his head perking up in what seemed to be genuine surprise. “No,” he assured Ethan, shaking his head slowly. “That’s all right, I can handle it. In fact, you should probably head on home. Cara’s got lunch waiting for you, and it’ll get cold if you don’t hurry.”

  Relief and confusion mingled in Ethan’s mind as he stood, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. “All right,” he mumbled awkwardly. “See you back home, Uncle Robert.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw the man flinch at the title. He lowered his head and quickened his pace out the door.

  Outside, it seemed that the town had finally come alive. Or at least, as alive as was humanly possible in a town with barely more than a few hundred people. Unlike the morning, there were a few people milling about in the streets: two women in floppy sun hats arched out of their seats at the restaurant down the street, their rosy lips in full sprint; across the street, in front of the general store, two little boys turned a jump rope for a little girl in a pink dress; inside, a few slow-moving figures pulled items from sagging wooden shelves.

  Ethan met the scorching sun with his face turned skyward, and for a long moment, he simply stood on the sidewalk in front of the malt shop, taking dusty breaths. The skipping rope and scratching feet coaxed up the dirt from somewhere beneath the pavement to coat the skyline gray and brown. With a sharp kick to the concrete and a dry cough, Ethan turned and headed home.

  Something strange happened as he paused at the intersection, looked both ways, and crossed the street toward the general store. A man, a woman, and a sweet-faced little boy stepped through the ringing door just as Ethan’s feet touched the curb. It seemed as if their necks had been tugged by the same string, three fair-haired marionettes with piercing green eyes that met his gaze head-on. Something electric and frosty passed between them, a chill in the summer heat. The woman moved suddenly, one hand gripping her husband’s arm, the other flying to her purse; her son melted into the rustling folds of her dress. The man seemed to grow four inches in fear. He whispered something into his wife’s ear, then turned his frigid glare back to Ethan.

  “Keep walking, boy,” he barked. “There’s nothing to see here.”

  Ethan swallowed hard, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He hunched his shoulders, buried his chin in his chest, and took sweeping steps past the family. It wasn’t until he had put a store between them that he dared look back. They were in the same place, frozen, all three staring at his receding figure, wishing him away.

  Ethan whipped back around, and for the first time, but certainly not the last, he ran through the town of Ellison. His feet pounded the pavement and startled the dust as the family’s blank gazes lurched to life and chased him all the way home.

  That was the first encounter of many. Over the next few days, Ethan’s life fell into a routine. Wake up, exchange a few sleepy words with his aunt and uncle, eat breakfast, escape to the malt shop. Sit for four hours reading comics without seeing a single customer, wait for Uncle Robert to come and take his place. Walk home, run home, try to decipher the whispers and the stares.

  “—you remember Andrew Harper?”

  “What is that boy doing here?”

  “That’s his son, I heard—”

  “—last time one of ’em was here, it was all trouble.”

  “Married that Negro woman, God knows why.”

  “—too many colored folks moving into these parts—”

  “—doesn’t belong in our town.”

  He caught words here and there as he walked home, arranging and rearranging them in the back of his mind. With each passing day, he was becoming more aware that there was no one here who looked like him. The stares of the people here, their curiosity wrapped in disgust, was familiar in a deep, ugly way. It was as if some part of him had expected it. It reminded him of the way Samuel Hill and those other boys had looked at him after his parents split up, and his mom left town—the same way they had looked at him ever since. Even still, Ethan longed for Arcadia; for his next-door neighbor and the cute girl down the road and the malt shop that was packed with people all day long. He missed walking down the street and getting lost in the crowd, being passed without a second glance. He missed being outside without feeling fear and anger wrestling for control of his emotions, leaving him exhausted and drenched in sweat.

  At dinner, he fended off Aunt Cara’s attempts at conversation and shoveled food robotically into his mouth. Her voice was still too loud.

  It was on the second Thursday of June, a few days since he’d first set foot in Ellison, that Ethan Harper first met Juniper Jones
. He was polishing the already spotless countertop, his eyes trained on the glossy pages of last month’s Crimefighters issue, when the bell above the door let out a jingle. It took a moment for his mind, lost in the action, to register the arrival of a customer. By the time he realized that someone had come inside, she was already at the counter and sticking a freckled hand in front of his face.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice like wind chimes.

  Ethan looked up quickly, his mouth hanging open and his arm still reaching out to wipe at an invisible smudge. He dropped his rag, cleared his throat, and stared at the girl who was now sitting calmly on the stool across from him, spinning herself in a slow circle. A volcano of bright orange hair erupted from her head and spilled down her back in loose, messy curls. Beneath the harsh malt shop lights, she was luminescent.

  “I—” He licked his lips and tried again. “Hi.”

  She swung back to face him, a wide, crooked-toothed grin splitting the galaxy of freckles on her cheeks. “Hi, there,” she said, extending her hand again. Ethan shook it gently. “My name is Juniper Jones, but you can call me June, Junie, or Starfish. Or Juniper, I guess. Or JJ. But really, I prefer Starfish.”

  Her accent was just a quiet hint lingering on the edges of her words, and her sky-blue eyes never once strayed from his face. He fought the urge to take a step back.

  “By gosh, you’re sure quiet.” She snorted. “What’s your name? Don’t make me pry it out of you.”

  “Uh, I’m Ethan Harper,” he mumbled.

  “That’s it?” Juniper cried. “No nicknames, no exciting alias?”

  “I—my middle name is Charlie?” Ethan shook his head. “Listen, Juniper, it’s nice to meet you. Can I get you something?”

  “Juniper again.” She shook her head. “I’ve been trying to convince someone to call me Starfish. It’s catchy, don’t you think? Anyway, Ethan Charlie Harper, I’ll have a root beer float, please.”