Wild Blue Wonder

by Carlie Sorosiak

  “Never too early or too late for waffles,” Dad says. One-on-one, he and I have never been especially conversational. Mostly marine biology facts or swim practice details. So I’m surprised when, after our food arrives, he adds, “I like Alexander. He seems like a nice kid.”

  I wince at my breakfast food. “Yeah, he is.”

  “. . . But?”

  “But . . . it’s . . . You saw what happened at Mousam River.”

  “Yes, I saw a kid who appears to be a decent friend, and I think you could use some more of those.”

  “I don’t know why he’d want to be my friend after that.”

  Dad holds up his hands, bacon grease glistening on his fingers. “All I know is you might not want to write him off so quickly.”

  “I’m not writing him off. I’m just saying that I can’t imagine why he’d want to hang around me, that’s all.”

  Dad chews his bacon and mumbles, “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  Dad’s right.

  Back home half an hour later, Nana says as soon as we walk in the door: “There’s an envelope waiting for you in the kitchen.” She’s wearing her sun earrings—yellow, jagged—and beaming like she’s just pulled a quarter from behind my ear.

  “From who?” I ask.

  “Alexander.”

  I’m not a blusher, but I can sense my skin lighting up from the inside like a paper lantern. “Why?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” she cackles. “Go find out yourself.”

  I snatch the envelope from beside the toaster and open it in my bedroom. Inside there’s a thick piece of paper, which I unfold third by third.

  Whoa.

  It’s a drawing of me in several frames, graphic-novel style. Like in the image he sketched at Thanksgiving, I’m hovering on top of the ocean, except this time, water’s washing everything in blue ink. My alter ego raises her arms, sending a wall of water toward the camp. WHOOSH! SPLUNGE! Frame by frame, she shapes the water with the curve of her hands, until a dome forms above the cabins.

  Everything ends with the camp, the text reads. And the camp starts with her.

  July

  There’s Something I Need to Tell You

  I avoided you for three whole days, Dylan, the longest we’d ever gone without speaking. That Thursday, it rained—dousing The Hundreds with four inches of water, flooding out the stage seating. Nana canceled our weekly salute to Maine’s wildlife in favor of ghost stories in the mess hall. I wedged myself between Hana and Fern as Reed switched off the lights and shone a flashlight on his face, telling the campers of dead nighthawks coming back to life, of inky spirits that enter through your nostrils. Mom told him to tone it down a bit, so he talked about the book-pilfering Tupelo ghost, and how something in the Chang residence kept stealing spoons.

  “Sorry if I scared some of you,” he ended with, because that was the type of thing he’d worry about: keeping little kids up at night. “I promise all the good things in the world outweigh the scary.”

  Back in the cabin, it was hot. I kicked down the covers to only a sheet, the girls snoozing all around me, semicool ice packs on their foreheads. My phone lit up just after midnight: hey, you there?

  I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. I thought briefly about not texting back . . . then: I’m here.

  A response came quickly, simply: ropes course.

  Ropes course. Our joint favorite spot in camp. We loved the adrenaline of heights.

  But another type of adrenaline began to stutter my heart as I slipped down to the floor and out of the cabin, careful to ease the screened door closed. Halfway there in my cotton boxer shorts, old Yogi Bear T-shirt, and rubber flip-flops, I suddenly realized that maybe I should’ve changed before I left the cabin. Or at least put on a bra. Or brushed my hair. Or anything. Plus, flip-flopping through the dark woods—after stories of dead nighthawks and nose dwellers—was raising the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.

  Underneath the tangle of ropes high in the trees, you were waiting, flashlight in hand.

  “Hey,” you said quietly.

  “Hey,” I said.

  And then you jumped in: “What I told you before, in the maze? I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “You mean you didn’t compare liking me to having a cold?”

  “I messed up. Oh man, I messed up. It was like I panicked and it just came out. After all this stuff with Fern? I didn’t want to . . . I just knew that you didn’t like me back.”

  Not when I was in sixth grade, I should have said. But now . . .

  “And the thing is,” you said, “you always call me on all my crap, so I have the chance to, you know, apologize. But this time you didn’t, and it was, I don’t know, like you’d given up on me or something?”

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “You know—I’m this guy who does stupid things and says stupid things and messes things up. And you are the last person on Earth I’d want to mess things up with, Sawyer. Especially now. Because there’s something I have to tell you.” Hope lifted me up like a raft—and then dropped me straight back to the ground. “I’m not going to Winship U in the fall.”

  A pause, my throat thickening. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s . . . ah. It’s hard to explain. Okay, you know how Tegan threw that big party after school ended this year, and you and Reed left around eleven, but I stayed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I ended up in her basement, and I was just standing there in a crowd of these people who were supposed to be some of my best friends, and suddenly I had nothing to say to them. None of the things we had in common seemed, I don’t know, important? And I’ve been thinking about that moment a lot ever since, because half of them are going to Winship U, and it just seems like a lot of the same, you know? And this town—”

  “I thought you loved Winship.”

  “I love this camp, yeah. I love the summers. And”—clearing your throat—“your family. But this town . . .” You dragged a hand through your curls, the night air stilling around us. “It feels like in this town, you only get to be one thing. And I’m the goofy athlete who’s just big—I’m not even that good. I see you with your swimming and all those documentaries you’re always watching about whales and stuff, and I . . . want something like that. I can’t do that here, where I’m this one thing. Does that make any sense?”

  Yes. And no. “Where are you going, then?” I asked, feeling very small.

  You shrugged. “I thought I’d drive to the Grand Canyon, see what there is to see along the way.”

  “And when you get there?”

  “Well, check out the Grand Canyon.”

  “I mean besides that.”

  “Haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Do Reed and Fern know?”

  “No, I was planning on telling everyone. I just didn’t know how.”

  “Shit,” I said after a moment. “This really sucks.”

  You stepped a few feet closer, and I brought my head to the crook of your neck, that surfboard-wax scent everywhere on your skin. The side of your rib cage rose and fell against my own, and your hand worked small, comforting circles on my shoulder. Your breath tumbled through my hair as you kissed the top of my head.

  I shivered.

  It felt a bit like a beginning.

  But it felt mostly like an ending.

  December

  Superhero

  There’s no way for me to interpret Alexander’s drawing without getting something wrong. Did he do it just to cheer me up? Does he feel sorry for me? Or is it . . . something else? No way I’m hungry for dinner—not after the Big Breakfast at Waffle Mart. And no way I can sit still during dinner, not with my mind darting a million places at once. Tucking the paper back into the envelope, I distract myself by trudging outside to see if the varnish on the boat has dried.

  It hasn’t—still tacky to the touch.

  I climb the ladder into the Chris-Craft, stepping inside for the second time since summer. Nana an
d I are launching so, so soon; I try to picture myself on the water, but somehow my thoughts keep doubling back to that night underneath the ropes course with Dylan. He was right. Maybe you are only one thing in this town, but that thing can change. I was the athlete. Now I’m the girl who had an egg tossed at her the first day of school, who received how could you? letters stuffed in her locker the first week back, who deserves everything bad thing she gets.

  My thoughts are spiraling—so I slide my phone from the pocket of my Winship U Swimming sweatshirt and text Alexander.

  So I got something in the mail this afternoon.

  Oh yeah? And?

  And I think my hair is holding up remarkably well in the face of this windstorm.

  Technically speaking, not one of your superpowers.

  Let’s hope not. That would set feminism back, like, fifty years.

  But you like it?

  I pause, then:

  Yeah, I really do.

  Thank you.

  But I still don’t have a cape.

  . . . I’m working on it.

  By Wednesday, it’s like the Christmas-tree-farm incident never occurred: no one mentions it at home, and neither does Alexander. It happens to be his birthday. We only know this because his yaya slipped a card in his lunch bag. Hana’s eyes bug out at the card, which has a pickle on the front that says, Happy Birthday—You’re kind of a big dill! “Oh my gosh, Alexander! Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Right,” he says, face flushing, “well, I’m not . . . I’m not the biggest fan of birthdays.”

  “Poppycock,” she says—a word she picked up from Nana. “Everyone loves birthdays.”

  I chime in. “Is that kind of like everyone loves Frozen?”

  She ignores me. “I would’ve brought cake! You’re getting a cake, right?”

  “I kind of told my yaya that I . . . uh . . . didn’t want one this year.”

  “Oh,” Hana says. “Oh no, no, no. Do you know where Leo’s Lobster Pound is?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Take the number-three bus four stops past the cinema. Meet us at Leo’s around five o’clock and we’ll go from there. Come hungry.”

  I think Alexander’s smart enough to realize that there’s no arguing with Hana Chang.

  So at 5:01 exactly, he rocks up in the wood-paneled dining area, a vague expression of worry coating his face. Hana seats him under the gigantic faux oil painting of Leo (early-twentieth-century Lobster Pound founder, great fan of green waders), and attaches a white plastic bib to Alexander’s neckline.

  “Is this entirely necessary?” he asks of the bib.

  “You’ll thank me later,” she says, retreating to the kitchen.

  The manager, Bennet, lets me close out the gift shop superearly—no one’s bought a keychain in days, anyway—so I slide into the booth opposite Alexander, still in my bright red uniform.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I say.

  In response, he lifts up the bib. “I think I may have to purchase five or so of these . . . a real fashion statement.”

  “Wait until you get going, though. It’s messy.”

  “This may be the most American thing I’ve encountered, that’s all.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been to a moose rodeo yet.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that’s not an actual activity.” He reclines into the cushy pleather backrest. “So I’ve . . . slightly embarrassing to admit . . . but I’ve never eaten lobster that’s still in its lobster form.”

  “Really?”

  “Never. I’ve had lobster, yes. But not like this.”

  So when the food comes, I teach him: how to crack the hard-shell claws, how to dig out the meat from nooks and crannies.

  “This is fascinating,” he keeps saying, intermixed with: “But I do wish the lobster would stop staring at me.”

  Hana and Elliot slide into the booth halfway through, and by the time we’re done, Alexander has flecks of lobster meat all over his hands, arms, and hair.

  He raises the empty lobster shell. “I feel like we should name him. He’s given so much.”

  “Earl,” I deadpan.

  “You’re right. He does look like an Earl.”

  When Alexander tries to pull out his wallet, Hana says it’s on the house. They bicker for a minute—“No, I should pay” and “Really, it’s fine”—and then we’re on to Birthday Phase II. Dropping by Hannaford, we load the minivan with $23.17 worth of groceries and party supplies and drive to Alexander’s house.

  Theia welcomes us in. There are giant swipes of clay along her smock. “So good to have you here,” she says. “Come, come, out of the cold.”

  Inside, the walls are freshly painted—blues and whites—and most of the furniture is warped wood. In the center of the rooms are bins filled with . . . photographs? Yeah, black-and-white photographs, and photography equipment. Fern would get a kick out of this, I catch myself thinking, but then swipe it away, plunking one of the grocery bags on the floor of the small kitchen. There’s very little counter space; it’s clean but covered with tons of cooking instruments. I notice a book, Cooking and Baking the Greek Way—about a hundred Post-its sticking out from the pages.

  One late-night viewing of Like Water for Chocolate and several Iron Chef reruns are about the extent of my culinary knowledge. Boxed cakes are pretty much my limit. “I know you’re probably used to fancier stuff,” I say, grabbing the Funfetti mix from one of the bags. “But you’re in America now, and this is how we birthday.”

  Alexander examines the ingredients listed on the box. “I’m slightly surprised that it’s not Pop-Tart-flavored . . . or possibly mixed with ranch dressing? What is ranch dressing, exactly?”

  “Delicious,” Elliot says. “That’s really all you need to know.”

  I grease a cake tin, pour the cake mix into a metal bowl, and add the eggs, melted butter, and milk; Hana and Elliot begin draping a few streamers in the living room, talking about their Oscar Mayer Wienermobile adventures and the band Phish and Elliot’s Eagle Scout project, so it’s just Alexander and me alone in the kitchen.

  “How often do you cook?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “As often as I eat.”

  “And that doesn’t get boring?”

  “Well, look at it this way: does learning about the ocean ever get boring for you?”

  It surprises me—that he knows me that well. “No, I guess not.”

  “It’s the same thing. It’s a . . . sense of wonder, I suppose. My parents’ generation—most people want to be known for, say, sautéing well. Or for knife skills. But then you see things like desserts that float. Balloons made completely of sugar. And you think: that is what I want to do, for the rest of my life. Make things that are like art—like art you can eat. Taking simple foods and seeing them in a new way.”

  This is, by far, the most he’s said to me at once. He didn’t stumble. He barely even blinked.

  “So you don’t want to work at one of your parents’ restaurants?” I ask.

  He pauses. “They make traditional Greek food, things you can get at any other Greek restaurant, any place in the world. They do it well, yes. But food should be more than a production line. It should be an experience, a memory. Like, what’s a summer food you loved when you were a kid?”

  The answer comes automatically. “Firecracker Popsicles.”

  “Why?”

  Because that was Dylan’s favorite—and mine, too. We’d eat them before running over and over again through the sprinkler, the scent of freshly cut grass beneath our bare feet. “They remind me of . . . being happy.”

  Maybe that’s a bit too honest, because Alexander considers this for a long, long moment as I pop the cake in the oven.

  “Dolmáthes,” he finally says. “Rice-stuffed grape leaves, when the leaves are fresh picked. My yaya used to make them every summer. That’s what reminds me of being happy, and I . . . I just want to cook food that makes people feel like that.” His cheeks flush a little,
like he’s embarrassed. Like he’s shared too much.

  “Maybe . . .” I venture. “Maybe you can make them for me sometime. You know, if that’s okay.”

  Alexander smiles. “Yes. Yes, that’s quite okay.”

  In the living room, Elliot and Hana have arranged the streamers in a very streamer-y fashion, dripping down from the light fixtures, lamps, and mantel. Elliot pulls up a thread of the Fifty Funniest YouTube videos of all time, so we watch “Dramatic Cupcake Dog—Revelation,” “Zombie Kid Likes Turtles,” and a host of Jetpack fails until the kitchen timer beeps.

  After the cake cools, we sing “Happy Birthday,” and he takes an extraordinarily long time to make his wish before blowing out the candles.

  “My lamb,” Theia says, “any longer, and it will be your next birthday.”

  All in all, I think it’s a success.

  Later, as Hana and Elliot head off in the minivan, Alexander says he’ll walk me home. We do impressions of the zombie turtle kid all through the woods, a few wet snowflakes dropping in tiny blobs, and when we approach my porch, the moonlight casts jagged shadows on the front garden. A sprinkling of bright stars dots the sky.

  “Thanks again for the birthday cake,” he says, rubbing his gloves together for warmth. “The Funfetti was . . . uh . . . colorful.”

  “How did you not like Funfetti?”

  “It’s so . . . sweet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I guess my taste buds are still adjusting to ‘American.’” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. I imagine his fingers beneath those gloves—perpetually blue-tipped. “Right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”