The Ethan I Was Before

by Ali Standish

  “Promise,” Coralee and I say together.

  “Well, then. I gotta open the shop back up now before I lose all my customers. And I’m doing inventory, so I’m afraid y’all have to play somewhere else today.”

  Without another word or a backward glance, Mack lifts herself from her chair and strides out the door.

  One Heck of a Story

  CORALEE AND I SHOW ourselves out while Mack points a lady to the fertilizer aisle. We sit at the edge of the curb, the same place I sat on my first day in Palm Knot, and squint into the hot sun.

  “That was weird,” I say. “What do you think Mack’s plan is?”

  Coralee scuffs her shoe back and forth against the pavement. “I don’t know,” she says. “But Mack always does what she says she’s going to. If she says she’ll take care of it, then she will.”

  “Yeah, but how? Do you think she knows who—”

  “I’m too tired to think about it,” says Coralee, turning toward me. Her head is drooping from her neck like a wilting flower, like she’s too weary to hold it up. “I’m just relieved Mack’s helping us.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too. You wanna come over to my house? Mom’s making tofu teriyaki for dinner.”

  She shakes her head. “I have a bed at home with my name on it.”

  “All right,” I say, standing up and wiping a sheen of sweat from my forehead. Coralee lifts her hand toward me. I grab it and pull her up.

  We bike together over the bridge and past the empty fruit stands until my turn. “See you tomorrow,” I call.

  “Hey, Ethan?”

  I slow down and look back. Coralee’s face splits into the first smile I’ve seen all day.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is going to make one heck of a story someday.”

  “Yeah. Someday.”

  Then I pedal off, wondering all the way home what Mack has planned and why she won’t tell us what it is.

  Roddie’s Moment

  AS SOON AS CORALEE walks through Ms. Silva’s door the next morning, I can tell that the mysterious woman failed to make an appearance during the night. The circles under Coralee’s eyes aren’t quite as dark, and her tiny braids swing confidently from the high ponytail she’s tied them into.

  She gives me a thumbs-up on the way to her desk, which I return with a grin.

  The woman doesn’t come back that night either. Or over the weekend, which Mom makes me spend hauling out the rest of Grandpa Ike’s old boxes, and which Coralee has to spend at home with Granny while Adina works back-to-back shifts.

  Whatever Mack’s plan was, it must have worked.

  With every day that passes, I find myself thinking about the woman and the jewels less and less. But maybe that’s because when we get back to school on Monday, our teachers keep us really busy with practice tests and extra homework to try to get us ready for our end-of-year standardized tests next week.

  Or maybe it’s because Coralee and I barely have a chance to talk the whole week. Having a conversation in class is out, since all the teachers are being extra strict. Mr. Charles threatens to call Coralee’s mom when he catches her passing a note to me during our math quiz (“Go ahead and try,” she grumbles), and even Ms. Silva snaps at us for whispering while we’re supposed to be writing practice compare-and-contrast essays.

  We can’t really talk during lunch, either, because Herman sits with us every day, and we don’t hang out after school because Adina is still working afternoon shifts, which means that Coralee has to take care of Granny. “Sorry, Ethan,” she says every day. “I would invite you over, but Granny’s having another bad day. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have company.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I reply casually, trying to hide my disappointment. Because the afternoons feel a lot longer without Coralee to fill them, with nowhere to go but home. When Coralee’s here, no one fights as much as they usually do. But when I get home after school on Wednesday, Mom and Grandpa Ike are shouting at each other in the living room.

  “Your mother gave that chair to me for our tenth anniversary!” Grandpa Ike shouts, throwing his faded baseball cap across the living room floor, where it whacks against the glass door. “And I’ve sat in it every night since. You had no right to throw it out!”

  “You’d think you could manage to take better care of the things you apparently love so much. The stuffing was coming out. It was falling apart—”

  “Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been trying to get in my room, too.”

  “Because the exterminators needed to get in!” Mom cries. “You’re too busy out doing God knows what every day to take care of basic—”

  “You’re a guest in my house, damn it. But you set foot in that room one more time and you won’t be anymore.”

  “What is going on out here?” Dad shouts, marching out of his office. “How am I supposed to get any work done with all this screaming?”

  Grandpa Ike glares at Dad for a moment before storming upstairs and slamming his door just like Roddie.

  He doesn’t come back down for dinner, so I make a ham-and-mustard sandwich and bring it up to his room.

  Mostly, I just want him to know I’m sorry that Mom is changing all his stuff, even though I don’t think he actually means all that about kicking her out of the house.

  But a small part of me is hoping he’ll let me in, so I can see what’s in his room.

  Then I could have solved at least one mystery around here.

  When I knock on Grandpa Ike’s door, he opens it after a minute, but only gives an inch or two.

  He looks surprised to see me, but he takes the sandwich. “Heard your mother and me fighting, huh?” he says without opening the door any wider.

  “Yeah. I wish I knew why you didn’t get along. Maybe I could do something to help.”

  “Your mother’s problems with me have nothing to do with you. Nothing for you to feel upset about.”

  An awkward silence falls over us.

  I guess he’s not going to invite me in after all.

  “Haven’t been driving for a while,” Grandpa Ike says finally. “How about we go for a spin soon?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.”

  Grandpa Ike and Mom aren’t the only ones fighting these days.

  Later that night in my room I hear Mom and Dad arguing. I can’t make out what they’re saying, just the dull hiss of their conversation like hot water running through the pipes. They’ve been fighting like this almost every night.

  Usually it starts a few minutes after the phone rings.

  I wonder if it’s Mr. Reid who keeps calling, but I’m usually too afraid to pick up the phone and listen. I pick it up once, just for a second. Just long enough to hear a man’s voice crying before I punch the “end” button and dive back into bed.

  Why is Kacey’s father crying on the phone? Why is it making my parents fight?

  The only person who seems to be feeling better about things is Roddie, who is spending less and less time in his room these days. The school board approved the Palm Knot High baseball team for next year, so he’s been staying late at school to organize tryouts and to get the field cleaned up. He spends his evenings out in the driveway working on Grandpa Ike’s Fixer-Upper until it gets dark. Grandpa Ike helps too, when he’s actually here.

  On Thursday, while Dad’s helping me with my science homework and Mom’s cooking dinner, we hear a clunk, clunk, clunk, followed by a loud whooping. We all pile out onto the porch in time to see a black puff of smoke blooming from the exhaust pipe of the Fixer-Upper, now whirring with life. Roddie’s sitting in the driver’s seat, his left arm out the window, his hand raised in a triumphant fist pump. Grandpa Ike looks on with a satisfied expression.

  “I can’t believe it!” Mom calls. “I can’t believe you actually did it!”

  Dad runs down from the porch and peers under the hood, which is being propped up by an umbrella. “She’s a beaut,” he says, a big sappy grin on his face.

/>   I wish I could run down too, trace my fingers over the red stripe of the truck that Roddie has washed and polished meticulously, and high-five my brother.

  Mom must know what I’m thinking, because she gives me a gentle push. “Go on,” she says. “Why don’t you go congratulate Roddie? Maybe he’ll take you for a ride.”

  But I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I don’t want to spoil this for him.”

  This is Roddie’s moment. I know he doesn’t want me to be a part of it, so I turn and walk back inside, trying to ignore the twist in my gut. I guess a part of me was hoping now that Roddie doesn’t seem completely miserable, he might stop hating me quite so much. That he might start looking at me again instead of through me.

  Later that night, I do catch him glancing at me across the dinner table. His face reminds me of the way he looks at the players of the losing team when he shakes their hands after a game.

  I don’t want Roddie to feel sorry for me, but it’s kind of nice to know I’m not completely invisible to him after all.

  Pool Party!

  WHEN CORALEE GETS TO school on Friday morning, she looks tired again.

  “Is everything okay?” I whisper as Ms. Silva goes over the testing schedule for next week. “You haven’t seen—”

  Coralee shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just all this testing stuff.”

  “Coralee and Ethan. Eyes up here and mouths closed, please.”

  We turn our attention toward the timetable on the board, but it’s hard for me to concentrate. I can’t help but feel like there’s something Coralee’s not telling me. Since when does a test make her anxious?

  Ms. Silva dismisses us to first period, and everyone gathers their things.

  “Wanna go to Mack’s after school today?” Coralee asks. “Adina finally has an afternoon off.”

  “I have to leave early for a dentist’s appointment. What about tomorrow?”

  Coralee nods. “Definitely,” she says, and her smile makes me feel slightly better.

  Daniel and Suzanne push past us as they’re walking toward the gym.

  “Did you hear about the hurricane they think might hit us next week?” Suzanne asks loudly.

  “Yeah,” says Daniel. “It would be so awesome if they canceled school. Awesome for most people, that is. If I lived in a shack like Coralee’s, I’d be pretty worried.”

  Suzanne looks over her shoulder and giggles. “That thing could blow over with a slight breeze.”

  Coralee’s mouth tightens into a scowl, and her hands clench into fists. She squares her shoulders and takes a step forward, but I grab her by the arm. Coach Sluggs is standing at the end of the hall, his whistle in his mouth, watching us.

  “I’d be hoping for school to get canceled too,” I say just loud enough for Daniel and Suzanne to hear me, “if I knew I was going to fail all our end-of-year tests and get held back for a second time.”

  Daniel spins around, his lips drawn up in a snarl, but Suzanne pulls on his arm. “Coach Sluggs is right there,” she hisses. “You’ll get suspended. Get him back later.”

  Daniel hesitates, glaring at me, then allows Suzanne to lead him into the gym.

  When I look over at her, Coralee isn’t upset. She’s beaming.

  “That was a good one,” she says. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  I shrug. “It was nothing.”

  Before we can follow Suzanne and Daniel into the gym, Herman shuffles up and hands us both thin envelopes. “You probably won’t want to come,” he mumbles. “But my mom is making me give invitations to everyone.”

  Coralee rips hers open, revealing a square piece of paper with a picture of three kids jumping into a pool. It says POOL PARTY! in big letters at the top. Then, below the picture: Please join us this Sunday 2–4 p.m. at the Pink Palm Motel to celebrate Herman’s 13th birthday.

  “It’s okay if you don’t come,” Herman says quickly, seesawing from one foot to the other.

  But he’s looking at us, his wide eyes like soggy green Froot Loops in pools of milk. They hold a silent plea. If Coralee and I won’t agree to come to his pool party, who will?

  “Of course we’ll be there,” Coralee says.

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” I add.

  Herman’s body sags with relief. “Really? That’s great! That’s— Yeah!”

  The bell rings, and Coach Sluggs calls from the end of the hall. “Let’s go, let’s go, people!”

  Herman’s face breaks into a grin, and he looks back and forth from me to Coralee. “I have to go give Suzanne and Daniel theirs now,” he says. Then he pats me on the back with one of his massive hands, knocking me off balance. “See you Sunday!”

  “Poor kid,” Coralee says. “I think we’ve given him a false sense of confidence.”

  Once we get into the gym, we watch as Herman taps Suzanne on the shoulder. She turns away from her conversation with Daniel, who’s still scowling, and looks at Herman like he’s some bum on the street about to steal her purse. He hands them their invitations, swipes his hand nervously through his greasy hair, and disappears into the locker room.

  Suzanne opens the envelope and wrinkles her nose. Daniel says something that makes her shriek with laughter, and they drop their invitations in the trash can as they turn the corner.

  Grandpa Ike’s Errand

  WHEN I GET HOME after my dentist appointment, Grandpa Ike is in his new chair, waiting for me. He gets up when I walk in.

  “I have an errand to run,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Want to come?”

  “An errand?” I ask. Then I remember his promise the other night to take me driving. “Oh! You mean—”

  He puts his finger over his lips and tips his head toward Mom and Dad, who are sitting at the kitchen counter. They still don’t know he’s been teaching me to drive.

  Grandpa Ike mumbles something to Dad about going into town, and we head out together. He drives until we get to the Blackwood house. Then he stops and climbs out so we can switch places.

  The house is just the same as always, rotting and silent and still. Almost still enough to make me wonder whether there was ever any woman there to begin with, or if it was just our imaginations.

  Almost. But not quite.

  Grandpa Ike tips the brim of his baseball cap across the drive to Mr. Bondurant, who sends a salute back.

  “It’s weird how he’s always on his porch like that,” I say, shifting gears.

  “Some people have nothing better to do with their time,” Grandpa Ike mutters.

  But what does Grandpa Ike do with his time? According to Mom, he’s barely ever home during the day, when Roddie and I are at school. The question sits on my tongue, ready to spring out.

  “Where do you want to go?” I say instead.

  “I need to stop by the hardware store,” Grandpa Ike replies, pointing toward town.

  “For what?”

  “Just an errand, like I said. How’s that friend of yours, Coralee? Why hasn’t she been around much lately?”

  “She has to take care of her grandmother sometimes.”

  “Good kid.”

  When we get to Mack’s, Grandpa Ike tells me to wait in the truck.

  “I won’t be a minute,” he says.

  “That’s okay,” I reply. “I don’t mind coming in.”

  I haven’t seen Mack since the day she took the jewelry from Coralee and promised that no one would be bothering her again. Maybe there’s a chance she’ll tell me how she got rid of the woman and what she did with the stolen jewelry.

  “No,” says Grandpa Ike. “The truck doesn’t lock anymore, so it’s better if you stay here.”

  And before I can protest, Grandpa Ike has slammed the door behind him. I watch as he walks into Mack’s and stands at the counter for a minute, talking with her. Then he returns to the truck, empty-handed.

  “Mack didn’t have what you need?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Mack always gets me what I need.”

  It�
�s funny, I think, how Grandpa Ike sounds a lot like Coralee when he talks about Mack. People in this town seem to trust her a lot.

  As I steer us out of the parking lot, Grandpa Ike punches on the radio, which is basically just static, so I guess he doesn’t want me to ask any more questions.

  Mack’s Desk

  ON SATURDAY, WE MEET at Coralee Cove and spend the entire morning going back and forth between the secret beach and Mack’s store, floating in the warm salt water and lying in the sun, which is out in full force. By noon, the air sticks to me like a second, scorching skin, and I make Coralee follow me to the Fish House for air-conditioning and milk shakes. It feels great to be out of the house, away from all the fighting.

  After our shakes, we promise Mack to spend the afternoon potting and watering her new summer plants, and in exchange she gives us two beach chairs to take with us to the cove. Once we’re done potting, we wash off our hands and trudge back to the library, thoroughly exhausted. Even in here, the May air is as thick and sticky as warm honey, so we fan ourselves with Mack’s paperbacks.

  “My arms are so sore,” Coralee complains. She isn’t even five feet tall, but she somehow manages to drape herself over the entire couch.

  “My whole body is sore,” I say.

  “I’m too tired to even unwrap a taffy,” she moans.

  “Well someone has been eating a lot of taffy,” I say, pointing to the trash can beside Mack’s desk, which is overflowing with waxy wrappers.

  “Weird,” Coralee says with a small frown. “Mack doesn’t usually eat it. She just keeps it for kids.”

  I shrug as I slump into one of Mack’s overstuffed armchairs. Mack greeted us in her usual way this morning, asking us how we were and throwing us each a taffy.

  She didn’t ask Coralee if she’d had any more trouble, or offer up any information.

  It didn’t seem to bother Coralee, though, so I didn’t ask any questions. I guessed I’d just have to trust Mack, like Coralee and Grandpa Ike do.