All the Pretty Things

by Emily Arsenault

  I nodded. I knew that. Liam had quit the day before I left for North Carolina. I stared at the ice cream she was patting onto the cone. I wasn’t hungry anymore. It was crazy that Morgan would fill in for a lifeguard. Whose idea was that? Chris hired most of the Fabuland employees and made the schedules, but Carla Price, the WaterWays manager, hired and supervised the lifeguards. But whoever had asked Morgan to fill in, why on earth had she said yes?

  Drea held the cone out and watched me for a few moments before taking it back quickly. “Oh! I’m sorry. I totally forgot to ask if you wanted sprinkles.”

  I wasn’t sure how many people knew what a bad swimmer Morgan was, since she hid it well. I also wasn’t sure who I could talk to about any of this without getting Morgan in trouble.

  “Ivy?” Drea prompted, after a few more seconds of silence.

  “Umm…no thanks,” I said, and held out my hand as she passed me the cone.

  Wandering slowly in the direction of the lifeguard chair, I licked the ice cream noncommittally.

  A young guy whose name I didn’t know was sitting in the chair looking tanned and smiley and confident. I wasn’t sure what insight I thought I’d gain by simply gazing up at that chair.

  I kept walking, and I’d just tossed the ice cream—barely half eaten—in the trash, when I saw Tim Malloy. He was on a ladder outside the WaterWays shower and bathroom, spackling a hole in the building’s outer wall.

  “Tim?” I said softly as I approached him, not wanting to surprise a guy on a ladder.

  He craned his neck slowly. “Oh. Ivy.”

  “Can you come down a second, or do you want to talk from up there?”

  Tim’s mouth went slack, as if he was really thinking about this. I had to admit he was cute. His dark hair was boyish, with a little cowlick sprouting up on top, but he also had casual, masculine stubble. I wondered how calculated the growth was, because unlike Ben, Tim otherwise seemed very clean cut. His jeans were snug, his black T-shirt snugger—just short of looking like he’d bought the wrong size. And just perfect for showing off his biceps.

  “You got a message from your dad or something?” he asked.

  “No. I wanted to talk to you about…” I hesitated. “About a couple of things.”

  Tim scratched at his stubbly cheek and then descended the ladder. He put his spackling knife and bucket on the grass and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “How’s Morgan?” he asked.

  “She’s okay,” I said, hesitating to convey much because I wasn’t sure if he deserved to know anything.

  “Is she home, or…?”

  I didn’t know what to make of his gaze, which seemed to shift to one side as he asked the question. Tim’s eyes had always had a kind of googly look to them, like the eyes you glue on felt or construction-paper animals in elementary school. Sometimes they made him look goofy. Sometimes they made him look like he was secretly laughing at everything. But either way, he was still a whole lot easier to talk to than his fierce-eyed sister.

  “I don’t know. Probably. Listen, Tim. I’m so sorry about Ethan. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the funeral.”

  “Thanks.” Tim nodded, looking away.

  “And I’m just wondering…would you mind talking about Ethan with me, a little bit? I mean, if you don’t feel like it, I understand. But…”

  Tim repositioned his hands, hooking his thumbs under his armpits. “Like…what about him?”

  “Well…I know this will sound weird….You know the paperweight he won before he died?”

  “Yeah. I know about that.” Tim’s lower lip quivered a little as he formed his next sentence. “He showed it to me. It was pretty cool.”

  “He showed it to you…but he didn’t give it to you?” I asked.

  “No.” Tim rubbed the corner of one eye, then the other, getting a tiny streak of spackle on his cheek as he did it. “Actually, I wonder what happened to it.”

  Something about his slightly spackled face disarmed me a little.

  “Morgan found it,” I said quietly. “The day she found him.”

  “She did?” Tim stared at me. “Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “There was a lot going on that day, sounds like.” I hesitated. “Would you, um, want it back?”

  Tim thought about this, then shrugged. “I don’t think it matters now. We have other things to remember him by.”

  His words made me feel like a terrible person for even asking him these things. Tim seemed to notice my unease.

  “Look, should we sit down for a second?” he asked.

  “Like, on the grass?” I said.

  “Just…just so we can really talk. Does your dad expect you to be somewhere right now?”

  “Probably,” I said, but sat down in the grass anyway. “I’m…I’m asking some things because Morgan…”

  I trailed off. Because Morgan what?

  “Morgan asked you to?” Tim asked, sitting across from me but leaving a respectful distance between us. “I know you guys are, like, best friends.”

  Tim yanked a stem of plantain weed out of the ground. I kind of wanted to ask him if he knew why his sister had backed out of her shift the night Ethan died, but thought that might be cruel. Plus he might tell her I had asked.

  “Do you know why Ethan was saying that was the only time he could ride the roller coaster?” I asked instead.

  Tim’s face collapsed. His mouth turned down almost despairingly. He stripped the plantain weed of its seeds, scattering them into the grass. It seemed to me he was trying to focus on the weed so I wouldn’t notice his eyes turning glassy.

  “Umm,” he said as I watched his neck and ears turn a painful pink. “No.”

  “But you’ve heard that he was saying that?” I said softly.

  Tim nodded. There were tears welling up in his eyes. I felt like I’d just swallowed a large stone. I was almost certainly an asshole for asking these questions.

  But I had one more thing I really needed to ask him. An easier question, considering.

  I opened my backpack and pulled out the tape recorder.

  “Do you recognize this?” I asked him, depositing it on the grass between us.

  He looked relieved that I’d changed the subject. He shook his head. “No.”

  “It’s not yours?” I said quietly.

  “No. Why? What’s the deal?”

  “I thought maybe it was yours. Someone lost it, and Chris thought I should ask you.”

  “No. Is it an old-school kind of phone, or what?”

  “Uh…no. Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

  Tim started to stand up. “Did you want to ask me anything else? Because Chris wants me to have these holes patched up today. We’re painting the outside walls of the changing rooms tonight, so they’ll be dry by morning when we reopen.”

  “Right, no, go ahead,” I said, and watched him climb the ladder again. Then he stood there, spackle knife poised against the wall but motionless until I walked away. I wondered, among other things, whether Tim knew there was maybe something between his sister and Chris. But I hadn’t felt I could throw that into the already uncomfortable conversation.

  I could see why my dad had never made Tim a ride operator. He wasn’t good under pressure. Which also made him a terrible liar. When I asked him why Ethan said he couldn’t ride the Laser Coaster on another day, it seemed pretty clear Tim was struggling to act like he didn’t know the answer.

  But on the other hand, that meant he probably wasn’t lying about the other stuff.

  I couldn’t wait to see Morgan tomorrow, out of the hospital and back at home. We’d clear up this whole lifeguard thing, first of all. If she let me, I’d test the waters on the mysterious “guy trouble” front too. I hadn’t entirely ruled Tim out yet, although he seemed like a pretty nice guy.

&nbs
p; And I wanted to tell her that Reggie and Katy were next on my list—and see if she had anyone else to add. And of course I’d see what she thought about the possible connection between Chris and Winnie, and if it mattered. We’d probably put our heads together like we always had, and figure out who and what we should ask next.

  TWELVE

  Can I come by this morning? Figured I’d bring some Boston cream and jellies from the Main Street shop. Your mom want anything?

  I’d awoken that morning knowing exactly what I’d text Morgan. This was a situation that called for doughnuts. I guess I am my father’s daughter. I believe in the cheering power of pastry.

  And it appeared Morgan still did too.

  Sure! Mom would go for a large coffee, pls and thx! She had late shift and is napping so I’m not gonna ask her about doughnuts now. Not much for carbs lately.

  I was so thrilled Morgan had written back and to get an upbeat response that I was dressed in seconds, slid my feet into a pair of flip-flops, and drove straight to the Main Street Dynasty shop like a cruller-loving bat out of hell.

  I practically skipped into the shop. I didn’t recognize the young guy running the register—probably since I never worked there on weekday mornings. He seemed kind of low energy, nodding sleepily as I listed the doughnuts I wanted.

  While he gathered my order, I thought of the days when Dad was still here almost every day. Sometimes, when I was little, he’d wear a chef’s hat with his business shirt and tie and entertain the customers. When someone would ask for a Danish, he’d sing “Eat Me, I’m a Danish,” which was apparently a song from the ’80s parodying a popular song called “Rock Me, Amadeus.” At least that’s what Dad told us. Often I’d wonder if he made that up. Sometimes he’d flex and kiss his biceps after filling a dozen-doughnut box, as if it had been taxing work. I don’t think anyone thought it was especially funny, although a few years ago he used to have one employee, a sweet college student named Penny, who would always giggle politely whenever he did it. Which would, unfortunately, motivate him to do it repeatedly.

  “Enjoy,” the register guy said as he handed me my order.

  I opened my wallet. “What’s the total?”

  He shook his head. “Come on. I know who you are, Ivy. You came in with your dad last year. And your picture’s on his desk in the back.”

  “But I didn’t come in here to get something for free.”

  He shot me a bored look. “Well then, consider it your lucky day.”

  I wondered what had happened to Penny, who had left Doughnut Dynasty abruptly. She was way more polite than this guy. In any case, I murmured a thank you and shuffled out of the shop, wishing he hadn’t used the word lucky. I rarely felt that was the right word for my situation, but people applied it to me all the time.

  Delicately placing the white pastry bag on the passenger seat, I slid open my phone to text Morgan. It seemed disingenuous to present my visit as a pastry party and then ambush her with difficult questions. I needed to give her a little bit of a heads-up.

  On my way with doughnuts! By the way, someone was telling me you were working the lifeguard chair when I was away? I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding but wanted to talk to you about it so I can help. Be there soon with a hug. xo

  I drove to Morgan’s neighborhood, wondering if her improved mood meant she’d changed her mind about leaving Danville. And considering whether it would be too pushy to bring this up today. As I parked in the driveway of her mom’s little Cape house, I noticed that their dog was out on her run in the front yard. Stinkangel was very old, a mix of mutt and bichon frise, with yellowing white fur, a freakishly long tongue, and creepy brown gunk around her eyes.

  Her name used to be Lily. But she was constantly rolling around in the yard, scratching her back in slow motion, front and back legs splayed out in a way that apparently reminded Morgan’s mom of someone making a snow angel. Over time that morphed into “Stinkangel.”

  I petted Stinkangel as I passed her, making a mental note to wash my hands before touching any of the doughnuts. True to her name, Stinkangel stank.

  I rang the doorbell. Stinkangel panted loudly at my side as I waited. After a minute, I rang the bell again. It was almost a minute more before Morgan’s mom opened the door, her hair in a drooping, slept-in ponytail. The tight half smile on her face immediately gave me a bad feeling.

  “Hi, Ms. Hodson,” I said. Morgan had trained me long ago to use her mother’s maiden name.

  “Ivy, honey.” Morgan’s mom drew in a long breath. “Thanks for coming. I’m so sorry, but Morgan’s not feeling up for visitors.”

  “Really?” I said, looking down at the doughnuts Morgan had seemed so happy to hear about earlier.

  Morgan’s mom stepped out of the house, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a long nightshirt with jeans underneath.

  “She just told me she’s not feeling well enough, sweetie. I wish I could have you in, but I don’t want to push it.”

  “She and I were just texting,” I insisted. “She wanted me to bring these.”

  Morgan’s mom patted my shoulder gently, then nudged me forward, off the front steps and a few paces down the front walk.

  “Listen, Ivy,” she said in a low voice. “Morgan may be trying to act like everything’s fine, even like everything’s back to normal. And we all hope that will be the case soon. God, I wish it more than anyone. But these past couple of weeks have been a lot to take in.”

  “But she really did seem fine, though,” I said, knowing I was pushing my luck.

  Morgan’s mom shook her head. “I don’t know what she texted exactly. But she’s doing this thing where she acts okay one minute and then the next you see that she’s not.”

  She looked like she was deciding whether to say more. “I’m so sorry you came out of your way. She just got home last night, hon. Let’s give it a few more days.”

  I glanced around the yard, noting that Stinkangel’s ever-dumbfounded expression matched my own feelings right now. I thrust the bag of doughnuts into Morgan’s mom’s hands.

  “Give her these,” I said, before adding, “Please. And do you want the coffee too?”

  “What coffee?”

  I handed her the cup of coffee Morgan had asked for. Some came out of the little hole, splattering on both of our hands. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Here’s a napkin. Tell her to text me when she’s ready.”

  “I will, honey,” Morgan’s mom called after me, but I was already halfway to my car. I couldn’t stand to show my clueless, unwanted face in Morgan’s yard for one more second.

  I jammed the key in the ignition, backed out of the driveway a little too fast, and drove straight to Fabuland as if on autopilot.

  Of course, I understood what had spooked Morgan. I doubted her mom knew it. I pictured Morgan waking her mom up only a few minutes ago, panicked, asking her to answer the door and tell me to go away. Panicked because of that text I’d written her. About her being on the lifeguard stand.

  Apparently I was the last person she wanted to talk to about that. Or about the boy who’d been giving her “trouble.” Or about who or what she was afraid of that made her so eager to abandon Danville and spend her senior year elsewhere. Or about anything at all.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dad had changed the big LED again.

  It read:

  BIG THINGS AHEAD! STAY TUNED FOR SUMMER SURPRISES!

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was glad someone in the family was feeling optimistic. After I parked in the back employee lot, I took my phone out of the cup holder and called my dad.

  “Ivy? What’s up?” he asked.

  “Dad, I’m not feeling well,” I said. “Do you think you could get someone else to cover popcorn and cotton candy today?”

  “What’s wrong?”
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  “My stomach.”

  It wasn’t entirely untrue. I couldn’t stomach another day skulking around Fabuland, trying not to look up at all the people submitting themselves to the Laser Coaster and the Starship 360, fake-smiling and deluding myself that my only real friend wasn’t slipping away from me.

  “I’ll get Chris to wrangle someone from hot dogs,” Dad offered. “I think they’re overstaffed over there, now that the promotion weenies are gone. That’ll be fine for the morning. But check back in and see if you can come in at two or so, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, hoping brevity would hide my lack of enthusiasm.

  After we’d hung up, I sat motionless for a while, staring at the two older rides stored on the grass behind the employee lot. Dad retired them both at the end of last summer when he made his plan to add more kiddie rides. He’d planned to sell the old rides to other parks but hadn’t gotten around to it. One was called the Rocketeer; the other was the Yo-Yo. Despite my fear of heights, I’d been on the Yo-Yo once with Morgan and a bunch of other girls—on a rare occasion that we couldn’t reasonably convince them we had other plans. I wasn’t really even clear on what the ride did, because I tried not to look at it as we got on. I just knew it was fast and high. Morgan sat next to me. She gripped my hand as the ride operator checked our seat belts.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “Close your eyes the whole time. Do you want me to scream the whole time so you know I’m here, or do you want me to stay quiet?”

  “Scream,” I’d said. And she did. Stupid, exaggerated screaming that was clearly designed to communicate to me that we were okay. Like Whhhhheeeee! Whooooaaaaa! Yowwwww!

  I sighed at the memory and called up my last text exchange with Morgan. After staring at it for a couple of minutes, I started to type a new text to her.

  I will still love you no matter what you decide to tell me, it said. I typed quickly, but my finger refused to send it. I wasn’t absolutely sure it was true. Not necessarily because of the thing about the lifeguard chair. That was bad, yes—but I felt like there was something else between us, something that Morgan wasn’t saying. Among other things, she seemed to shut down whenever I mentioned Winnie Malloy. Why? And how could I keep pretending to be so confident about our friendship if I didn’t know why she was keeping secrets?