83

I had a ton of texts and tweets. Most of them random. Sam was working at his mom’s office that summer. Last week he texted:

Dr. Mom nice. Real mom evil. I continue observing subject to ascertain mysterious transition between office and home

Taylor sent me a long text yesterday:

Hi Briggs. Hope u get this in time. Em Ash & me r coming to SH tomorrow for the day. North Beach. Nishesh can’t come. Love to c u. Come to North Beach or txt me ur address so I can c u

I had just sent a quick text back—I’ll stop down at NB tomorrow afternoon, look for me by vball courts—when I smelled perfumy soap and heard a voice, two inches from my ear, ask, “You busy?” I bolted out of my chair, slamming my knees on the underside of the desk on my way.

“Oh, man!”

I ran both hands over my head and squeezed the back of my neck.

“Sorry,” Abigail said, laughing a little.

“Man.” I tried to catch my breath and laugh too. It came out as this weird wheeze.

“I seem to have startled you,” she said, amused.

“You think?”

“You know, if I were a serial killer, you’d be dead by now.”

“You’d have to get past Mrs. B.”

“Maybe she and I are a team,” she said, her eyes brightening at the thought. “She lures the victims here by promising them a job at the beach. Then I befriend them and—” She grabbed her neck and made a gurgling sound.

“This is completely creeping me out.”

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s sit outside,” she said, walking onto the balcony without waiting for me to say okay. It was getting darker, and we turned the lights off to see the few faint stars that were just popping out.

Abigail sat and stretched her long legs out onto the railing. I didn’t get quite as comfortable. You know, in case she really was a serial killer and I needed to run.

“Sorry about earlier,” she said.

“No, when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to apologize for getting upset.”

“No problem,” I said as she crossed her legs at her ankles and tipped her head back against the chair.

“So why were you in the hospital?” I asked.

“I don’t want to talk about that, either.”

“Well, that’s where you and I are different.” I shot her a good Briggs Henry Smile. “Eating disorder?”

“Excuse me?” She sat up, put her feet on the floor.

“You are pretty thin.”

“So all skinny girls have eating disorders?”

“I’m just guessing here, since you won’t say.”

“I do not have an eating disorder,” she said, stretching her legs to the railing again. “And if you do guess it, I will personally give you a million dollars.”

“Do you have a million dollars?” It was fun to give her back her own words.

“No, and I have no plans to become a millionaire, either, so it’ll have to be in installments.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and said, “Not everyone is motivated by money, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easy to say when you have it,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s still true.”

“Well, maybe I’ll say the same thing after I make my first million.”

“What happens if you don’t make it?”

“Failure is not an option,” I said, and was about to get comfortable—feet on the railing—when she said, “That’s ridiculous. Failure’s always an option.”

“Not if you work hard enough.”

“Even then,” she said. “Failure means you’re either doing something wrong or you’re just not good at it and need to be doing something else. Or maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at the sky. “Please tell me you’re not the kind of guy who believes the platitudes you read on bumper stickers.”

“Platitudes?” I tried to tease but didn’t know if I sounded convincing.

“It’s a word.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, no. I just think if you work hard enough—most of the time—you’re going to succeed.”

“‘Most of the time’ being the operative phrase.”

“Yeah,” I said, and thought for a minute. I must have made a seriously strange face, because Abigail looked over at me and asked, “What?”

“I was just wondering what my dad would say to that.”

“What would he say?”

“That I’m wrong. And that you are too.” I ran my hand over my head. “It would be an argument.”

“Tell him to argue with me,” she said. “I won’t lose.”

“You speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.”

“What happened?”

She exhaled a long, slow breath that dropped her shoulders a little.

“Life threw me a curveball,” she said.

“Funny you should say that.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” I said, and told her about baseball and my graduation speech.

“What position did you play?” she asked.

“Nice try,” I said, calling her out for trying to change the subject. She rolled her eyes a little. “You were saying something about being in the hospital.”

“I think I’ve said enough about it.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes. Small white lights on distant yachts flickered near the horizon and traveled slowly toward the channel.

Finally I leaned over and asked, “Mono? Was it mono? ’Cause if it was mono, I’m in big trouble after last night.”

She smiled, spontaneously it seemed. Too fast to keep her lips closed.

“It wasn’t mono,” she said.

“Broken foot?”

“No.”

“Leg?”

“No.”

“Wrist?”

“No.”

“Coccyx?”

“Coccyx?” she asked.

“It’s a word,” I said.

“No.”

“How about that weird gluten allergy?”

“No,” she said again, and stood up and straddled her legs over mine and sat on my lap and kissed me, and I laughed.

“I’m only doing this so you’ll shut up,” she said through a smile.

“Then I’m never going to shut up.”

She held my face in her hands. I held her hips. Her back. I pulled her closer. She arched her neck, and I kissed that. We locked eyes a second. I slid my hand around the back of her head. She grabbed my shirt with both hands, and my mouth found hers. She gently pulled at my lips with her teeth. We wanted more. We were tender—soft lips brushing against each other. We were demanding—mouths and bodies pressed closer and closer until we lost our breath and found it again.

And then she stopped. I placed my hand against her cheek, and she smiled, and held my wrist, and kissed my palm and said in a way that almost sounded sad, “I need to run.”

“Not yet,” I said, but she stood.

“I have to.” She squeezed my hand and said, “Do me a favor and don’t ask why.”

“Okay,” I said, like it was a question that I hoped she’d answer. But she didn’t. She just hurried inside and left.

Like Grandma Ruth, she didn’t say good-bye.

Minutes passed. Or hours. I remained on the deck, legs on the railing, head tipped back against the chair. And I thought, if Abigail was a serial killer, kissing and then leaving must be her weapon of choice.