by Emma Mills
I asked my dad once why the puppy had to die. He said simply, “Tragic irony.”
Despite that, Sand on Our Beach is still my favorite one. It tells the story of Sarah, a twentysomething living in the shadow of a terminal diagnosis, who moves to a small beach town to live out her final days in peace. She writes her memoirs (I know it sounds stupid, but young people can write memoirs, Sarah declares in chapter two. Just because you have fewer years doesn’t mean they were any less meaningful) and reconnects with the sea (The first place I ever felt like there was more out there than myself, she tells Jack in chapter ten).
That was one of my favorite passages—her talk with Jack about the ocean. I’m tempted to flip ahead, but I can never really read books that way. I always end up going back and picking up what I’ve missed, even if I’ve read it a dozen times before. It doesn’t seem right, skipping to the best parts and ignoring the in-between.
We’re kind of at an in-between right now. I look over at my mom as we ease back onto 30A. I don’t know why I said I miss Paula.
I know they would’ve stayed, if I had asked. They would’ve stayed in New York so I could finish high school where I started it. But I didn’t ask, because I didn’t care. Maybe there’s something a little bit wrong with me. Or maybe that’s just what comes of being the daughter of a fictional puppy killer. Different sensibilities. Different priorities.
“I’m kind of too old for this stuff,” Laney says when we present her with the Floopy toy back home.
“Fine then, I’ll take it.” I go to grab the toy from my mom’s hand, but Laney snatches it away.
“No, I want it!”
“That’s what I thought,” I say, and she makes a face at me but clutches the plastic package to her chest all the same.
three
When I get to AP biology on Monday morning, I find my seat has been taken.
Technically it’s not like there are assigned seats, but there is this self-imposed thing where you sit in the same spot every time anyway. It’s basically unspoken classroom law.
“Sorry.” I hover by the other chair at the bench where Bree and I usually sit. “Are you—did you want to partner with Bree?”
“No,” the guy in my seat says. “We switched. I’m Remy.”
Remy has close-cut hair and a faint goatee going, like it’s something he wants to try out, but his face isn’t certain of it yet.
I glance around and clock Bree sliding into a seat in the back, next to a stocky blond kid. She waves at me when I catch her eye and flashes me a smile and a double thumbs-up.
Huh. So either Bree is into that blond kid, or Remy is into me. You don’t just up and switch. See unspoken-seat thing. That universally acknowledged tenet of You sat there on the first day, and if you don’t like it, you damn well better get over it.
I take a seat and glance over at Remy. A shiny class ring gleams on his pointer finger. I can just make out the little sports emblems etched onto it: a baseball and bat flanking the stone on one side, a football on the other.
“I’m Sloane,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
It’s then that Mason Pierce sidles along the aisle in front of us. He settles into the seat in front of Remy, glances back at us, faces forward, and then does a double take. He looks between us, and his lips curve into a smile that’s more like a sneer. Remy, meanwhile, gives him a nod.
“Johnson,” Mason says curtly. “Got a new friend?” He manages to make the word friend sound like an insult.
“Let’s just say I got a new seat and leave it at that,” Remy says, with a smile that belies the edge in his voice. Before Mason can answer, the teacher clears her throat, and class begins.
It’s a lecture today, no lab stuff, so Remy and I don’t interact much. The lead in my mechanical pencil snaps at one point and ricochets off in his direction, to which I say “Sorry” and he says nothing. When class is over, he packs up his stuff, gives me a nod, and then heads out.
So maybe Bree really is into that blond guy. I can’t catch up with her after class to ask, but it seems like the most likely scenario.
Until Vera plunks down in the seat across from me at lunch and says, “Remember me?”
I’m at a corner table in the cafeteria, munching on an apple and reading The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes.
“From the party,” she adds when I look up.
“I remember.”
“Good. Because I couldn’t forget you. I’ve never seen Gabe that annoyed with someone who wasn’t me.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Annoying Gabe is a great thing,” she says with a grin. Then she angles her head, taking in the title of my book. “Sherlock?”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do: “My, uh, my dad used to read them to me, when I was a kid.” Now he reads them to Laney, and if I happen to stand in the doorway and hear a few, then so be it.
“They’re the best,” she says. “I just wish there was one where they finally admit that they love each other.”
“Sorry?”
“Sherlock and Watson. They never really say that they love each other in the canon, but it’s so freaking obvious. Like, Sherlock would straight-up kill for Watson.”
I smile.
“Are your friends on their way?” she says, glancing around the room. “I don’t want to take someone’s spot.”
I hold up the book. “Sherlock and Watson are my friends.”
She looks at me for a moment, something alight in her eyes. Then she says, “We’re going to eat lunch together, okay?” And takes a sandwich and an apple out of her bag.
“Okay.”
Vera chats while she neatly works through her lunch. The garage light from the weekend’s party hadn’t really done her justice. My mom would describe her as “va-va-voom.” Something tells me that there is no product in science or nature that could make my hair look that shiny, nothing Sephora has to offer that could turn my eyes that bright.
That being said, I get the feeling it’s not really her looks that do it, or her hair, or her makeup, because if you took all that away, there would still be something about her, some kind of magnetism. Vera leans in to talk to me—like we are conspiring somehow—and the little smile at the corner of her lips sort of makes me want to smile, too.
It’s only when we’re making our way through the hall after lunch that Vera slants a look over at me and says, “Did he give you trouble? In class?”
“What?”
“Mason. Was he a dick to you in class?”
“Oh. No. I mean—how’d you know we have class together?”
“Remy said.”
“You know Remy?”
“Of course. Who do you think told him to sit next to you?” She grins and then grabs my arm and pulls me into the nearest bathroom, where she fixes her makeup. (It’s flawless.) When she’s done, she holds up her phone, very carefully angles her body so her waist looks incredibly small and her chest and ass look incredibly … prominent … flashes a smile, and clicks.
Then, “Sorry. That’s so rude. You want to be in it? We can make it a photoset.”
“Oh, I don’t really—”
“Smile!”
I quickly turn to the side like Vera as she clicks again. Upon viewing the picture, Vera looks like a Victoria’s Secret model, whereas I look like someone brought in for violating parole.
“I’ll tag you—what’s your Instagram?”
“Uh, I don’t really…” Document my life for the Internet.
“No worries.” She flips through filters, and then her thumbs fly: “‘Post-lunch selfie with new friend Sloane.’” There is a pause. “Sweet. A hundred likes.”
“Wait…” I follow Vera out of the bathroom. “A hundred? You posted it like ten seconds ago.”
“I know. They think you’re cute.”
“They?”
“The Internet. I do stuff on the Internet. It’s fun.”
I will later learn that “do stu
ff on the Internet” loosely means that Vera has enough followers on various social-media sites to fill a professional football stadium, several times over. Companies send her stuff to promote. Strangers send her jewelry.
But right now, post–bathroom selfie, all I know is that in under a minute, one hundred people had “liked” a picture of me looking dismal and still thought I was cute. Maybe people just look better next to Vera. Like a planet shining brighter in proximity to the sun.
She walks with me to my next class and says, “We meet by the buses after school. You should definitely come.”
This begs some questions—like “Who’s we?” and “Why?”—but I don’t let them loose. I just nod and say, “Yeah, sure.”
“Awesome.” She gives me a sunny smile, and then she’s gone.
four
When I get home later that afternoon, my dad is sitting in his lounger with a towel draped artistically over his head. He looks like a shepherd in a Sunday-school nativity play.
“Where were you?” he asks when I come in.
“Hanging out.”
“Ooh, with who?”
“Some local youth.”
“You sound eighty.”
“And you look like a maniac. What are you doing?”
“I’m relaxing.” He rubs the towel. “Terry cloth is good for the brain. I read an article on it.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, I read a blog post. On a somewhat less-than-credible website. But it did say it could—how did they put it?—‘re-energize your photons’?” He fishes for his tablet.
“Really.”
“There may have been mention of a lizard overlord. But that shouldn’t automatically discredit what they say, right?” He swipes the screen a couple of times. “It’s supposed to ‘clear the path to rationalization.’”
“Did you write anything today?”
“I wrote a slogan for that website. ‘Come ’cause you’re stressed, stay ’cause you’re blessed … by the reptilian messiah.’” He does finger guns.
“Dad.”
“Elder child.” He tosses the tablet aside and slaps his knee. “Come. Tell me about your day. Tell me about these youth.”
I sink down onto the couch. “They’re from school.”
“I figured as much. Gimme some names and faces.”
Well, first, there was Aubrey, who sidled up to me in front of the buses and said, “Hey, it’s new friend Sloane.” Upon my look of confusion, she held up her phone. “I follow Vera,” she said. “Like half the continent.”
“Oh, cool,” I said, still a little confused. “So you’re like … a fan?” Was Vera so Internet famous that I could be recognized by proxy?
“I’m a friend,” she replied. “She said to meet here after school?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
She gave me a tight smile and then promptly turned to her phone as Remy approached us with a wave; apparently he was part of Vera’s we, as well. Finally, Vera arrived and declared that we’d be going to Opal for snow cones.
There are a handful of towns along the coast collectively termed the Beaches of Grove County. The vacation towns, like Opal, have very few permanent residents, so the majority of the kids at Grove County come from a town a little farther down 30A called Grayson. But Opal is good for snacks, the last vestiges of summer still operating. Come the end of the month, summer hours would end, and snow cones would be harder to come by.
So we went, and sat, and ate. They chatted. Aubrey texted. I listened politely. Not a bad afternoon. All in all, it was … well, it was an afternoon.
I relate this, for the most part, to my dad, who listens with his eyes shut. When I’m done, he looks over at me.
“Sounds like a productive day.”
“I guess?”
“You made three friends. People only make three friends in one day on sitcoms.”
“We’re not … friends. We ate snow cones. They talked about the Avengers.”
“How do you think friendships are forged? Mutual interests. Food. Repetition. If you see them two more times, they’re your friends.”
I don’t quite believe him. It’s not like there’s some kind of formula to it. And even if there was, I certainly wouldn’t be the one to pull it off.
“Hey, you want to go pick up Laney from her thing?” Dad says. “After School Cultural Whatever It’s Called?”
“Culture Camp?”
“Ugh. Yeah. Culture Camp. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?”
“Yes. Re-energizing your photons.”
He grins. “Touché.”
“Don’t you want to go?” I ask. “You could, you know … put real clothes on.”
“And lose sight of the path to rationalization? Hell no.” He waves me away. “Go get your sister.”
Laney is not so easily obtained. At nine, she’s already a natural social butterfly. I can see her on the lawn in front of her school from across the circle. They have long plastic folding tables set up, piled high with art stuff. They all appear to be painting geometric designs; Laney later informs me that it’s “tile art,” and my mom hangs hers in the kitchen.
Right now I watch as Laney leans in to whisper something to the girl next to her. They both giggle and consult a third.
It was easier back then, wasn’t it? A few good packs of press-on earrings or some credits on Club Penguin and you were in. Or maybe Laney’s just better at that stuff than me. I didn’t do my best this afternoon. Mostly I stared into the depths of my snow cone and wondered how on earth someone could know so much about the Marvel universe (Remy), smile so frequently (Vera), or text with such vigor (Aubrey).
I greet the adultish-looking person at one of the front tables, who calls Laney over.
“Time to go,” I say.
“Ten more minutes.”
“Mom’s making spaghetti.”
“Yummmm, okay.” Laney abandons her friends in the way of a nine-year-old, meaning she goes back to the table and hugs each of them good-bye as if she’ll never see them again. It takes at least ten minutes.
We walk home together and she tells me about her day, and then it’s Mom’s dinner as promised. My dad takes Laney for a walk on the beach afterward, as the sun is going down. It’s too early to see the stars, but Laney brings her constellation guide anyway—A Comprehensive Guide to the Stars by Dr. Angela Fellows is one of her latest obsessions. Once she learned that different constellations were visible at different times—Like the sky is changing, all year long! We’re seeing different parts of the galaxy, Sloane!—it was a done deal.
I don’t join them tonight, instead opting to stay in for the usual. Homework. Practice. And when all is said and done—Laney is tucked away, my mom is watching the news, my dad is re-energizing his whatevers—I get online and search the screen name I saw on Vera’s phone at lunch: @vera_marie.
The accounts come up instantly: vera_marie is on all the networks, including ones I’ve never even heard before. What is Flipit? (“Kind of like Snapchat, but videos only,” Vera will say later when I ask.) What is Heartmark? (“Kind of like Flipit, but with emojis.”)
The numbers are staggering. Followers, likes, views, winkydinks (courtesy of Heartmark). I click over to the image tab, and dozens of Veras stare back at me: Vera posing in front of a mirror in a crop top, Vera at the beach, Vera with her head pillowed on her arms in class.
Her Twitter is a study in affirmations and exclamation points. She at-replies more than she tweets, and there are so many words of encouragement and “<333333”s and “XOXO”s, to rival the number of “please answer it would make my life” and “omg ily”s in her mentions.
Her profile is the same across all platforms: Vera Marie Fuller. 17. Loving life, my friends, my girl.
I click on my girl and it brings me to another profile—@natashah19. A girl who looks, if possible, even more glamorous than Vera. The most recent picture shows the two of them together, lying across a beach blanket in the sand. Natashah1
9’s arm is extended, holding the camera, but they’re looking at each other instead of into the lens. Vera’s hand is wrapped in Natashah19’s dark hair, pulling her in, and Natashah19 is grinning widely.
Gorgeous, the top comment reads, followed by one of those hearteyes emojis.
I click over to one of my own neglected profiles and follow Vera. Then I shut down the laptop and go to bed.
about the author
Emma Mills is the author of First & Then and This Adventure Ends. She lives in Indianapolis, where she is currently pursuing a PhD in cell biology. You can sign up for email updates here.
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contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23