by McCall Hoyle
EMILY DICKINSON
On Wednesday, Chatham suggests we move our study session to the picnic tables behind the cafeteria. I’m feeling braver, and I’m a sucker for the mid-October temperature. If I’m going to follow through on this Bodie thing—I guess it’s a date—I’d better get used to spending time alone with Chatham.
We have the place to ourselves except for three kids from the middle school next door involved in a vicious game of keep-away on the soccer field. The sand dunes, extending from Jockey’s Ridge along the spine of the island, rise up behind them to the west, where the grass ends. In a couple of hours, the sun will turn orange, then red, then maroon, like the mural in Ayla’s living room, before dipping behind the creamy ridge of sand in the distance.
“Have you started your essay?” Chatham asks. “Mine’s done, and you’re going to be impressed.” He smiles, leaning over to dig it out of his backpack.
This is not the language arts student I met my first day at the Ridge—the one who fidgeted nervously while Ms. Ringgold returned papers. This boy is the bold MVP who sees a challenge and meets it head on.
The afternoon sun highlights the streaks of blond in his light brown hair. Another reason to love October, when all but the last tourists have left for the season. Something about the slant of light just makes everything look better, softer somehow.
“Yes.” I lie. I have no idea what I’m going to write about, but I’m not telling him that.
Ms. Ringgold assigned this five-hundred-word essay, due tomorrow. Her lecture today included a twenty-five-slide PowerPoint detailing Jack London’s life. According to Ms. Ringgold, London was everything from an oyster pirate—whatever that is—to a gold prospector before settling down to a life of professional writing. She gave us the spiel about the importance of pursuing our dreams with a “single-minded focus”—her words, not mine—and expects us to write an expository essay by tomorrow explaining what we want to be or do when we graduate.
Apparently, the assignment was much easier for Chatham than for me. He lays his crumpled two pages on the table in front of me, smoothing the wrinkled corners with both hands. “I’ve known what I wanted to do since seventh grade.”
I imagine the typical teenage-boy scenarios—soldier, professional athlete, astronaut. As usual, Chatham surprises me.
“I want to go to Chapel Hill and get a degree in counseling.” His chest inflates. His shoulders rise, like he’s just announced he’s going to discover a cure for cancer or something. “I want to be an elementary school counselor when I graduate.”
“That’s pretty specific.” I remember him saying something about volunteering at The Potter’s House when he gave me the poetry book in the media center, and realize yet again what a genuinely nice guy Chatham is and what a jerk I’ve been for withholding the truth.
“Yep.” He pushes the paper toward me. “My little sister was diagnosed with Asperger’s when she was three.”
My mind flashes to the serious little girl on the beach as I try to remember where I’ve heard of Asperger’s. I come up blank.
“It’s a high-functioning kind of autism. It makes her a little clumsy and affects her social skills.” He shrugs. “Mom and I love her. We don’t care, but kids can be cruel.”
“What about your dad?” I ask. The man on the beach didn’t seem like he’d have much patience for imperfection.
“My dad’s not around much unless sports are involved.” He pauses to watch the kids horsing around near the goals. His normally bright eyes darken, his face hardens.
I try not to stare.
“My parents kind of do their own thing. Since Mary Catherine was diagnosed, that means Mom does everything for my sister and Dad spends all his time at his office working. My dad says he hates quitters, but he totally quit on Mary Catherine when times got hard.” His hands ball into fists—tight white against the weathered gray boards. “I do not quit. Plus, I’m pretty good at the whole man-of-the-house thing.”
He twists his lips into a smile as he shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with his show of emotion and ready for me to read his work.
I’m starting to believe that everybody’s life might be a little messed up—maybe even as screwed up as mine. Ayla’s mom walked out on her and her dad. Chatham’s parents “do their own thing.” His sister has Asperger’s. Ms. Ringgold’s son has Down syndrome. I mean, what the heck? Where are the Cleavers of the world?
I blink, focusing on his writing. He starts with an anecdote about Mary Catherine repeatedly falling and bumping her head when she was two, long after most kids have mastered walking. I feel his warm eyes on my face as I read, and I swallow. He proceeds to share another situation with an insensitive woman in a restaurant who insulted his mother’s ability to discipline her own child. He goes on to explain how he wants to educate patients, families, and the public to help make the world more tolerant of people with special abilities and needs. I insert a missing comma in a compound sentence, break one really long paragraph into two, and make a few other minor revisions. All in all, the essay is well done and touching. I’m speechless.
When I look up, he’s smiling.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod, blown away by Chatham’s big heart. Which is weird, because the first time I saw him, I assumed it was his Abercrombie good looks, not his heart or his mind, that made him so appealing to students and teachers. “Yeah. I corrected a few grammatical things, and that’s it. You want to look at my comments and see if you have any questions?” I hand over the paper, focusing all my energy on my left hand so he won’t see how unsteady I am in his presence.
He glances at my notes. “I got it.” He shoves an open palm in my direction. “So? Let me read yours.”
I shake my head, sliding my hands back toward my stomach. One of them scrapes the weathered boards, and I wince. Yanking my palm toward my mouth, I blow on the jagged line of splinters piercing my skin. But before I can do more, Chatham grasps my hand and runs a finger along the slivers of gray wood. I flinch.
“Watch the kids.” He waves in the general direction of the soccer field.
When I turn, he gently pinches the first splinter from my palm.
“Then at least tell me what you want to do when you graduate,” he continues as he presses the inside of my hand with his thumb, plucking the remaining gray flecks from my skin. When he massages my palm with his warm index finger, the hyperactive hummingbird in my stomach takes flight.
There’s no way I’m telling him I just want to be normal, to be safe. That I don’t want to have epilepsy. Short of that, who knows? I used to think I wanted to be a recluse and stay holed up at home with a dog and my books. But then I’d miss days like this. “I really don’t know,” I finally say.
His shoulders sag a bit. I should’ve said I wanted to join the Peace Corps or become a pediatrician or something half as noble as his life plan.
“What are you interested in?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
I want to turn away, to stop my front teeth from pulling at my bottom lip. “Books,” I blurt before I can help myself. Chatham has that effect on me—this need to bare my soul. Books? That’s all I can come up with?
He perks up. “Reading them or writing them?”
I don’t know. I chew on the inside of my cheek instead of my lip, trading a visible bad habit for one I hope Chatham can’t see. Taking a deep breath, I mentally scramble for the right answer. “Um, reading them, I guess.” I’d love to be a writer, but I’m no Jack London. What kind of life experiences would I write about—homeschooling with Mom, vegging on the couch with Hitch? Hiding in plain sight?
“Maybe you could be a librarian.” He lifts a brow, resting his chin on his hand as he studies my face.
I shrink away. “Uh, no.”
“If you love books . . .” He shrugs, then pauses. I know he’s waiting for me to explain.
“It’s just my mom’s a librarian.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’d love t
o be surrounded by books all day, every day. I’d be good at it too. It’s just . . . I need to be different from Mom. I need to be brave and stop living in everyone else’s shadows, following their footsteps. I need to venture out on my own. I’m tired of being a caterpillar—I want to be a butterfly.
My phone vibrates on the table and I jump. It’s Mom. I glance at her text, breathing a sigh of relief. How ironic that I’m actually happy to be saved from this way-too-personal conversation by my mother. “Oh, uh, that’s my mom.” I stand, pushing back from the table and slipping my phone into the back pocket of my shorts. “She’s out front. I’ve got to go.”
As I sling my leg over the picnic table bench, he stands, bending down to lift my backpack from the sandy ground. When he leans forward to slip it onto my right shoulder, his face lands inches from mine. In the late afternoon sun, his blue eyes turn violet. I think I might swoon like one of the heroines in the racy novels Granny Day keeps tucked under her bed. If he kisses me, I’ll die—whether from shock or ecstasy, I’m not sure.
He smiles, seeming to sense my rising panic. “I can’t wait till Saturday,” he whispers, his voice hoarse as he pulls me in for a hug.
A cloud of heat blossoms in my lower belly, like the atomic mushroom clouds we studied in physical science when we learned the difference between fission and fusion. I melt into Chatham’s chest as Ms. Ringgold’s SAT Word of the Day flashes in my head: nirvana. “Me either,” I murmur, and I really, truly mean it. I can’t wait. Epilepsy, fear of heights, overbearing mothers—nothing will stop me.
When my phone buzzes a second time, he releases me, and I scurry toward the pickup line at the front entrance on a puff of optimism. Mom’s face snuffs the hope flickering in my chest faster than a fire extinguisher on a candle. Before my butt hits the seat, we’re involved in a game of twenty questions—all directed at me.
“What took you so long?” She swivels to study my face.
“I was helping a friend with an English paper.” Not a lie; I mentally pat myself on the back.
“Oh?” She pauses, her eyes all squinty as she taps her pink fingernails on the steering wheel. I know she’s trying to decide whether to be happy I’ve made another friend or worried that I might be slipping farther out from underneath her thumb.
“How was your day?” I turn the conversation back on her. “Did you see your friend Roger?”
She mumbles something about him stopping by the library to pick up research materials. Whatever. We head up the beach road toward home in the quiet abyss that’s come to represent our relationship.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I breathed enough to take the Trick—
EMILY DICKINSON
Miracle of miracles, the bell rings a minute early Friday afternoon, releasing me from a torturous hour of Music Appreciation. I had no idea music could be so boring until I met Mr. Bottoms. The man stands in front of the room and talks about music fifty minutes a day, five days a week. You’d think he might do something crazy like play a piece of music every once in a while. But no, he’s still talking when kids storm out the door and into the hall.
Grabbing my binders and backpack, I rush to follow them. “Excuse me,” I mumble, squeezing alongside a group of surfers planning some bonfire shindig. I’ve got my own plans with Ayla tonight, which I’m actually looking forward to. I asked her to help me pick out something to wear to Bodie tomorrow and to coach me on the whole hair and makeup thing.
Look at me being social.
Ayla’s waiting for me outside Music Appreciation. “Is he over there?” She cocks her head toward the double doors leading to the pool.
“Maybe.” I shrug, falling in with the rush of students flowing in the direction of the nearest escape, praying she’ll follow. But she grabs the sleeve of Dad’s hoodie, which I’ve been wearing a lot lately, halting me in my tracks.
“Let’s watch.” She tugs me toward the pool. “I told Katsu I’d check out their swim practice some time.”
Ayla swears she and Katsu are just friends because of lit mag, but I’ve noticed how she gets all animated and starts talking with her hands when he’s around and how he’s always watching her out of the corner of his eye at lunch. There’s definitely chemistry there.
“I’m allergic to chlorine,” I blurt, unsure there’s even such a thing as a chlorine allergy, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Her brow furrows skeptically. “You might see Chatham in his swim team suit.”
As tempting as that sounds, I can’t do it. Ayla and Chatham would freak if they knew I’ve lived in Crystal Cove—on an island—my entire life, facing the Atlantic Ocean every day with my back to the Albemarle Sound, and can’t swim. So if anyone saw how nervous I was near water and asked, I’d have to lie and act like I can swim. And I’m a terrible actress. Maybe a little better than when I started at the Ridge, but the drama kids aren’t exactly begging me to join the thespian society.
“Come on, Ayla,” I beg, inching toward the exit, crossing my fingers she’ll follow. “Another time, I promise.” I bite my lower lip, my eyes darting from her face to the door leading outside to the breezeway.
“Oh, okay.” She falls in beside me. “But you’re the one missing out. Chatham York looks good in that little wetsuit thingy.”
I squeeze my binder against my chest. I have no doubt Chatham looks amazing.
The swarms of students thin when we reach the back parking lot. A vintage Volkswagen Bug—not one of the revamped, shiny Beetles that most teenage girls cruise the beach road in—sits in the last spot. Without asking, I know it’s Ayla’s. It’s a true Carolina blue that any Tar Heel fan would be proud of, and it’s sporting whitewall tires like the ones Granddaddy Day always kept on his pickup truck.
“I call her Gussy or Gus.” She pats the roof of the car before opening the creaky driver’s side door and tossing her Wonder Woman lunchbox into the back.
I sink carefully into the passenger seat, and Ayla laughs.
“Don’t worry.” She jams a key into the ignition. After a couple of wet coughs, the engine sputters to life. “Gus is tough as nails.”
Gus may be tough, but she’s slower than the sea turtles Dad and I used to watch at the Roanoke Island Aquarium. We never actually hit the speed limit as we cruise up the beach road with the windows rolled down—literally rolled down, like with a handle you turn. The radio crackles and Ayla spins the dial until she picks up a scratchy version of Jimmy Buffet singing about cheeseburgers in paradise.
When we reach the house, Mom’s car is gone. I told her last night Ayla was coming over for a few hours, and she said she’d stay at the library a little later to catch up on work. I didn’t ask for details, and she didn’t offer any. But I seriously doubt there are piles of work to catch up on at the public library in the fall when the year-round population consists of maybe a few thousand residents.
Ayla pulls under the house, and we climb the steps to the front deck.
“You’re so lucky to live on the beach.” She peeks around the corner of the house to the ocean beyond.
“It’s pretty cool.” I shrug. I’ve never thought of myself as lucky—until recently.
When we step into the tiny living room, Hitch greets us with a smile and his favorite stuffed duck clamped in his mouth. Ayla reaches down to pet him, and he adheres himself to her leg, thrilled with the attention. He glances over his shoulder, brows raised, anxious for me to recognize how wonderful he is at making new friends.
Ayla breaks away, twirling around the room, arms outstretched like she’s landed in a castle. Hitch and I watch, amazed by her enthusiasm. “This room makes me want to dance,” she explains, gliding to the kitchen window. “Look at how the light touches everything.”
She’s right. She sees room to dance and opportunities to paint. And I’ve spent so much time focusing on a faded floral slipcover and a once-white kitchen table that’s now more cracked and peeling than painted.
She caresses a piece of Dad�
�s beach glass resting in the windowsill above the sink. Mom placed Dad’s treasures back in their original arrangement—except for the largest pink piece. When I slung the collection across the kitchen the other night, it shattered. My chest tightens at the sight of the jagged shards sitting in a fruit dish beside the sink—broken, the way I pictured myself that night.
“Who found all the sea glass?” she asks, running a finger along the flat green piece near the ledge and peering out at the dunes.
“My dad. He was the lucky one.” It’s true. He was the only one of the three of us to ever find a four-leaf clover, the only one to win thirty straight family-game-night Monopoly matches, and the only one in the family to ever score a piece of beach glass.
Ayla turns to face me. “‘Was’?”
“Yeah.” I paste on a smile, rubbing the tender hangnail on my index finger with my thumb. “He died three years ago.”
She steps around the bar, heading toward me, but stops when she sees me flinch.
“I’m sorry.” She offers a simple apology, and I love her for it. Most people would ask a million questions or give some lame bit of advice like “He’s in a better place” or the one that really makes my blood boil: “It gets better with time.” Those people don’t understand how full of life my dad was, how he was the energy that kept our family on track and in motion, how empty and alone I felt after he died. They talk to comfort themselves because they don’t know what else to do. I wish they’d just be quiet.
“He had lung cancer.” I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to cry. I can’t believe I’m talking to Ayla about Dad. “He never even smoked.” The words shoot out of my mouth like darts.
She opens her mouth to say something but stops. After a second’s hesitation, she continues. “That sucks.”
Only Ayla could sum it up like that. I laugh, and when I do, my shoulders relax and my hands unclench. For the first time since Dad died, I’m opening up to someone, a friend, and I’m laughing, not crying. Dr. Wellesley would be thrilled.