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.
Ayla steps toward me, arms open, her flip-flops slapping the weathered boards beneath her feet.
I let her hug me. “You’re right. It does suck.”
I don’t know whether it’s the hug or the confession, but my chest expands. For the first time in three years, there’s a fullness in my abdomen, like someone just released a vise on my lungs. And I’m sucking in deep lungsful of air and wondering why Dr. Wellesley or Mom or some other adult didn’t think to remind me to breathe years ago.