“They’re nice,” Ali says. “Are they relatives?”
“Family friends,” I reply. I haven’t yet told him the truth, and I’m not about to have that conversation standing here on the porch. I hear a car engine start from somewhere nearby, and my heart nearly stops when I see the black Range Rover pull down the Fords’ driveway, but a quick glance shows only Mr. Ford in the driver’s seat. I step off the porch and toward Ali’s Jeep. I glance at the Taste of India decal on the side, and suddenly I want to get as far away from Helena as possible. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Ali replies, then ambles over to the passenger door and opens it for me. He grins that same dopey grin I’d been staring at for years, and whatever sour feelings I had are gone.
“I was thinking Jim Shaw’s,” Ali says as he kicks the Jeep into gear, and we go bouncing down the gravel drive.
“On a Friday night?” It’s already five fifteen, and by the time we get all the way back there, it’ll be close to six, with traffic. Jim Shaw’s is a popular spot, and notoriously does not take reservations. On a Friday night, you can sit for hours on the hard benches outside the restaurant waiting for your table to be called. I’ve only been twice for Lainey’s birthday, and both times we showed up right at 5:00 P.M., when the place opens, so we were the first in the door.
Ali flashes me a grin and navigates off the island with the help of the GPS on his phone. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says, and he’s so confident, I figure he must have some kind of plan or secret trick or in with the hostess.
He doesn’t.
We arrive to find the parking lot completely full, and we have to park at the strip mall across the road. I can already see the line of people waiting, couples chatting or staring at their phones, kids running around while their parents try desperately to keep them entertained during the wait. I hold out one last shred of hope as Ali, who says nothing about the crowd, directs us past the line and to the hostess stand.
“Two, please,” he says. He gives his name, and the hostess picks up her wax pencil, adding us to the end of what looks like a very long list.
“Probably an hour and a half,” she says, reaching up to tighten her ponytail.
I turn to Ali, ready to strategize another plan. There’s an Italian place nearby that I’ve heard good things about, an old meatball-and-red-sauce place that’s supposed to be cheap but yummy. I have no interest in waiting an hour and a half to eat Jim Shaw’s menu of fried miscellany.
But Ali just nods and heads back out the door, holding it for me as I follow him wordlessly to an empty spot on a bench at the far end of the restaurant, practically in the parking lot.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?” I ask. My stomach grumbles, and I realize that I haven’t eaten a thing since lunch, and in between I took a tennis lesson and a swim. I need food now, not an hour and a half from now.
“That’s not a bad wait for a Friday night,” Ali replies, leaning his head back against the pink stucco of the restaurant’s exterior.
I can barely suppress a huff of frustration, but then I remind myself that at least I’m here with Ali. I mean, a few weeks ago I would have done backflips at the prospect of sitting on a bench with him, an open stretch of time to talk and connect and, I don’t know, fall madly in love.
But the conversation doesn’t come. We sit there, both of us people watching, neither saying a word. It’s brutal. And I realize that I’ve never spent time alone with Ali before, not outside of the four walls of Southwest High. Every time we’ve been together, we’ve always been in a big, rowdy crowd, with lots of voices and jokes to fill any space there might be.
“How’s your summer going?” Ali asks after what feels like an eternity, but a quick glance at my phone tells me it has only been four minutes. Four minutes. Crap, I’m going to have to eat my own arm before we get in there.
“It’s good,” I reply, almost as a reflex. I comb through the past couple of weeks, trying to find something safe to tell Ali about, something that doesn’t reveal my tragic new foster kid situation, but all I can think of is Spencer on the tennis court, that first night and today, and the sound of his racket on a tennis ball and the sharp exhale of air that came with the connection. It sends a chill up my spine before I’m brought back to the restaurant by the hostess calling out a name—not ours. “Oh, uh, I’m working at a day camp on Helena. As a counselor.”
“That’s cool,” Ali says. “I’m working at the restaurant.”
“Cool.” This I knew. And then that line of conversation ends. “What else are you up to this summer?”
“Studying for the SAT. I’m in that prep class at the library. It’s so boring, but Lainey is in there with me, so it’s not too bad. We have a good time. I’m helping her with the vocab, and she’s schooling me on the math. I’d be lost without her.”
I bite my lip, feeling that same prickle of annoyance I felt at the beach when Ali mentioned spending time with Lainey. And I’m comforted by it, because it’s the first tug of my crush I’ve felt since he picked me up.
“That’s cool,” I say, painfully aware of the fact that we’re skirting close to rendering the word cool completely meaningless.
“Yeah.”
And then the silence descends between us again. The hostess calls out four more tables, none of them ours. A time check shows another six minutes ticked off the clock, and my stomach growls.
“So what do you usually order?” I ask. We’ve been sitting outside long enough that I’m starting to sweat, and I need to distract myself from the creeping trickle rolling down into my bra.
“Fried shrimp. Always the fried shrimp. So good,” he replies. Seriously? It’s Florida. Fried shrimp is fried shrimp, and it’s on nearly every menu in town. What cosmic thing could they possibly be doing to their fried shrimp in there to warrant an hour-and-a-half wait outside in the heat?
But we wait. And wait and wait and wait. I swear I feel every single minute of that wait, and when the hostess finally pops her head out the door and calls, “Ali, party of two,” I leap up from the bench as if electrocuted. Maybe once we’re inside at a table, sitting across from each other like a proper date, we can get over this conversational hump. Maybe it’s the heat and starvation causing our brains to atrophy.
But it doesn’t happen. Oh, we talk, sure, about the menu first, until we order. And then we trade stories about Southwest, anecdotes about the more ridiculous teachers or students. Even that feels like we’re standing in a dark room, both reaching out, hoping eventually we’ll grab hands. When the food comes, we dive in, and I wonder if he feels as thankful as I do to have a reason not to talk (or even try to). By the end of the date, it feels like I’m having dinner with someone I’ve never even met before, and someone I probably won’t ever call again. Ali places his credit card down on the check and waves away my offer to split it. It’s the only indication that what we’re doing is an actual date.
By the time we get out to the parking lot, I’m ready to get back to Helena and also text Lainey and debrief about this date that’s felt like a low-speed car accident: not enough to ding your insurance, but still not very fun. This has been the romantic equivalent of a fender bender.
Ali stops at the passenger door, unlocking it and opening it for me, the move of a gentleman, but it doesn’t spark anything for me. I place my Styrofoam leftover box on the floorboard and turn to climb in when I notice that Ali is still standing there. We’re beneath a streetlight, and for a moment I see him as I did back in the parking lot of Southwest High, when he shyly asked me to go out with him. Just us. My stomach flips for the first time all night, and though small, the movement feels like full-on fireworks.
Ali leans in, like he’s going in for a kiss, and my first thought is why? What about this evening said that we’d be ending in a kiss? Still, I’m willing to go along with it, because I’ve spent way too much time these last few years wondering what it would be like to kiss Ali. I lean in, carefully lowering my e
yes so that I appear what I think might be bashful or sexy. I tilt my head, but I miscalculate, and suddenly my forehead catches his chin with a heavy thud.
I jerk back and see his arms out and realize right away what’s gone wrong. Ali wasn’t leaning in for a kiss, he was going for a friendly hug. He was probably going to give me one of those backslaps dudes do when they want to make abundantly clear to themselves and anyone else in a six-mile radius that they’re just friends. Because of course that’s what we are, after this lukewarm approximation of a date. Turns out years of fantasy can give you a hell of a lot more stomach flips than the real thing. Because while in my head Ali and I were on fire, in real life, there are no sparks at all.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I’m not sure if it’s for the head bonk or the fact that this evening was such a big womp womp.
“It’s okay,” he replies. He rubs his chin, where there’s a small red mark, which must match the sore spot on my forehead, and also the embarrassment I can feel rapidly creeping up my neck and over my ears before trailing into my cheeks.
I glance at my watch, all showy, since I know exactly what time it is. “We should probably get going. There might be traffic, and I don’t want to miss curfew.”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies, and there’s no resistance in his voice, no sense that he’s going to try to save this. We both know what’s here. Or what’s not.
Ali lowers the windows and cranks the stereo for the drive home, and I find myself actually bopping along to his ’80s stadium-rock playlist. I would have thought crashing and burning so spectacularly with Ali would send me crawling under the covers, or worse, hiding under the bed, coaxed out only by Lainey and several pints of the expensive ice cream. But for some reason I feel okay. And when we pull onto the gravel drive of Kris’s house, well ahead of my curfew, I turn to Ali and give him a genuine smile, perhaps the first one since this ill-fated night began.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and I mean it, because now I know. Now I don’t have to wonder. Now I have one less thing to miss.
“Yeah, sorry about, well—” he starts, sputtering, grasping for words.
“I know. But hey, we’ll hang out sometime, okay?”
And there’s his big dopey grin again, the one that used to feel like a match to a bonfire in my insides. Only now it just feels nice. “Totally. See you around, Ritzy.”
“Bye, Ali,” I say, and jump out of the car. I take the porch steps in one leap and am in the door with enough momentum to hopefully get me all the way to my room with minimal conversation.
“You’re home early,” Kris says. She’s curled up in one of the big leather chairs in the living room, maybe waiting for me. “Bad night?”
I turn and shrug. “Eh. Not a bad night, just not a particularly good one.”
And before she can ask any more questions, I take the stairs two at a time up to my room. As soon as the door is closed behind me, I pull out my phone and text Lainey.
Ritzy: Swing and a miss. But it’s all good. We’re friends.
Then I fall back on my bed, the smell of deep-fat fryer wafting off every part of me. I reach for the end of my braid and sniff it. Ugh, I smell like a carnival. Thanks, Jim Shaw’s.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Lainey: Sorry, dude. Sucks. But hey, gimme a call when you can, k?
Lainey and I have texted, but we haven’t actually talked since the beach. And I really want to call her and have a true WTF moment over this date. But right now, all I can think about is showering the last stench of the evening off me. So instead I type back, will do, then stuff my phone under my pillow and head for the shower.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After my date with Ali, it becomes shockingly easy to forget about my old life back in Jacksonville. It helps that the next two weeks are nonstop madness at work, getting ready for the Fourth of July events at the club. Apparently, the Island Club takes the Fourth of July seriously, with an all-day cookout and party, culminating in a private fireworks show from a barge parked out in the ocean.
And so, on the afternoon of the holiday, I find myself standing in the clubhouse while a miniature Abraham Lincoln attempts to break-dance with a tiny Mark Twain while Eleanor Roosevelt beatboxes.
“Guys, don’t mess up your costumes, okay?” I say, glancing at my watch. I need this show to be over, because for a person who has produced a show comprised of a group of elementary schoolers singing a collection of American standards, I’m a bundle of nerves. From the detail on some of these costumes, I have a feeling the parents are expecting a level of harmony I just can’t promise.
Ryan comes tearing into the clubhouse with just minutes to spare. He’s in a wet suit, a Styrofoam boogie board tucked under his arm, a comically large bite taken out of one end.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Abel asks. He’s dressed in a shockingly detailed and expensive-looking miniaturized George Washington costume. The only hat tip to this being a kids’ camp show and not, you know, Broadway, is the wig made of cotton balls.
“I’m Bethany Hamilton!” Ryan replies, his voice dripping with duh!
Abel wrinkles his nose. “Who?”
Ryan alternately waves his arm and his boogie board. “She’s the surfer who got her arm bit off by the shark.”
“You’re a girl?” Abel starts guffawing, swiping at Otis, who’s either dressed as a Supreme Court justice or a priest. His black robes could go either way.
“Oh, like George Washington’s so tough. Did he fight off a shark?” Ryan shoots back, and the boys somehow look chastened.
“I like your costume, Ryan,” Violet says as she sweeps by in white pantsuit and pearls, a teeny-tiny Hillary Clinton. Ryan smiles at her, and as soon as she’s passed, he sticks his tongue out at Abel and Otis.
“I wanted to be the greatest one-armed American I could think of,” Ryan says. “Until me, of course. I’m gonna be awesome.”
I ruffle his hair. “You already are, bud. Now go get in line. We’re headed down to the stage any minute now.”
Ryan dashes off to the end of the line, where he proceeds to grin at Violet. Ah, young love.
A whistle turns all the heads to the front, where Annie is standing, clipboard in hand. “All righty, guys, it’s time. Just remember to smile, okay?” She presses her fingers into the corner of her mouth, showing them how to do it like a proper stage mom. And then we file out, me bringing up the rear to make sure we don’t lose any great Americans on the way to our performance.
The stage, which is basically just a platform about six inches off the ground, has been positioned near the first hole of the golf course. The kids stomp up, taking their places in two lines, just like we practiced. The audience is made up mostly of parents and the white-haired contingent of club members who find tiny children singing “America the Beautiful” endlessly cute. Though it’s hard to make out too many faces amid the endless flapping of American flag fans. Whoever decided to put on an outdoor play at 5:00 P.M. in July was cracked. I’m headed toward the front, where I’ll cue them for each of their songs, when I see Spencer standing at the back of the rows of chairs.
“So is this thing gonna be worth the price of admission?” he asks.
“Well, that depends. How much was your ticket?”
“It was free.”
“Then buckle up for a fantastic show,” I reply.
“Oh, and you can thank me later,” Spencer says.
“For?”
“I talked Ryan into being Bethany Hamilton post-healing, a costume that includes a whole hell of a lot less fake blood.”
I have a moment of envisioning red paint splattering his fellow great Americans and the first couple rows of parents, then give Spencer a whispered “Bless you.”
I take my place near the corner of the stage, sitting cross-legged in the grass. I give the crowd one last glance before I kick off the show, and that’s when I see them. Kris and Pete are sitting among the eager parents, grinning like I’m the one who’s
about to perform. When Kris sees me, she gives me a wave and mouths, “Break a leg.” I can’t believe they came. I mentioned the show a couple of times in the course of answering the How was work today? question, but I never expected them to show up.
I turn back to my charges and signal Celia, who kicks off the festivities. All kids will get a chance to step up to the microphone and introduce themselves to the crowd as their character. Celia, dressed as a turn-of-the-century suffragette, complete with VOTES FOR WOMEN sash, tells the crowd about Alice Paul, complete with lisp. Then she steps back, and I raise my hands like a conductor. Their eyes are glued on me, so I take the moment to mime a great big smile, and then they launch into “America the Beautiful.” And so it goes, from Amelia Earhart to Buzz Aldrin to John F. Kennedy, from “God Bless America” to “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” the show buzzes along at a breakneck pace. Ryan scores a round of applause with his enthusiastic endorsement of one-armed surfing. Charlie’s beard slips during his lines about Abraham Lincoln, prompting muffled laughter from the audience. And the crowd only winces slightly when the kids screech through the national anthem, hitting the high notes in only the way a bunch of tone-deaf elementary school students can. By the time it’s over, my legs have fallen asleep from sitting in the grass, and I’m drenched in sweat.
“Two thumbs way up,” Spencer says, offering a hand to pull me up from the ground.
“Oh my god, thank god that’s done,” Annie says, having made her way through the crowd from the back, where she’d been working the sound system. “I’m going to sit in the sauna until my eyeballs fall out of my head.”
And before I can say anything, she’s gone. Our job is done, after all, with the parents gathering their kids to move them along to the next part of the day, which likely involves the pool and a metric ton of sugar.
“That was great!” Kris says after making her way to the front of the stage. “The kids were adorable!”
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