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 to 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.