5 · Lucy
Hannah calls me as I walk onto Three Crows Lane from the main road, almost home.
“Hey, whatcha doing?” she asks. She moved here before school started this year from Mitchell, South Dakota, home of the World’s Only Corn Palace, and has a mellow SoDak twang.
The walk from town has been warm, the air thick with rain and humidity. I’m out of breath.
“Just getting home,” I say.
“Did you see Ben today?” She smacks her lips. “Mwah, mwah!”
We’ve become friends during the school year, and I’ve tried and tried to explain about Ben without explaining too much. But she won’t give up. I don’t answer.
“So that’s a yes, then. Was he wearing that gray ringer T-shirt? He looks so totally hot in that. Well, in anything, really, although I’d rather see him without a shirt.”
“God, Hannah,” I say. “Stop already.”
“Whatever. We both know you’re totally in love with him, Lucille. Give in to your feelings.”
If only it were that easy.
If only she would stop saying things like that.
“Whatever,” she says again. “You were supposed to call me when you were done babysitting. Remember? Movie night.”
“Oh. Sorry, long day. Too many distractions.”
“I’ll bet. What time should I pick you up? The movie starts in, like, forty-five minutes. Are you ready or what?”
“I’m almost home. Give me fifteen minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you out front.”
I’m surprised to see Dad’s truck in the driveway. He’s been pulling a lot of weekend shifts at the plant. The driveway splits off to the right to our neighbors’ house, the Clarks’, and next to their old brown Buick is a car I’ve never seen before. A silver Volvo—sleek, urban, out of place.
“Dad?” I call as I open the front door, but there’s no answer. I run up the stairs and pull a fresh T-shirt and skirt from a laundry basket on the floor and take a quick shower, not bothering to wash my hair. There isn’t time to blow-dry it so it won’t frizz. I twist it into a messy bun and secure it with a clip.
As I sort through a porcelain dish of earrings to find a matching pair, I nearly tip over the framed photo next to it—a picture Ben took of Trixie and me at Canal Park in Duluth last summer, laughing and squinting into the sun, the Aerial Lift Bridge behind us.
I touch my fingers to the photo.
Both of those girls are gone.
Tucked into the corner of the frame is the memorial card from her funeral. I pick it up and open it to the George Bernard Shaw quote inside: Life is no “brief candle” for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible.
It was the first quote Trixie wrote in our Book of Quotes, followed by song lyrics and movie quotes and funny things we said—her handwriting large and loopy, mine small, careful.
I walk downstairs and step out onto the deck, looking for my dad. He’s in the backyard, down the hill at our lakeside patio with the Clarks and two people I don’t know—a tall woman in a flowing peasant skirt and a boy who’s even taller.
Dad sees me, waves, and starts up the hill, motioning for me to come down. I meet him halfway.
“Where’ve you been? Come meet the Stanfords.”
“Who are the Stanfords?”
“The renters.”
“The renters?”
“Yeah, Betty and Ron are spending the summer in Canada at their daughter’s, remember? And they’re renting out their house.”
“Oh, right.” I remember Betty mentioning something about that the last time she brought over a plate of cookies. Ron and Betty are like an extra set of grandparents. Betty loves her baked goods and we benefit from it.
“Her son’s about your age, I think,” Dad says as we walk toward the patio.
I squint as we get closer. The boy—the cute boy—stands at the fire pit. His shaggy blond hair sticks out in several directions. He’s wearing baggy black cargo shorts and a Dr Pepper T-shirt torn at the hem. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and raises it in a wave.
Betty pulls me into a hug. Her gray-haired head comes up to about my shoulders and she always smells like cinnamon rolls. “Hello, Luce,” she says, her Canadian ooo long and bottomless. “These are the Stanfords. They’re staying at our place this summer.”
The woman in the peasant skirt reaches out her hand. Her skin is soft, and her long fingers are covered with silver and black rings. She smells earthy.
“Lucy, such a pleasure. I’m Shay and this is my son, Simon.”
Dr Pepper—Simon—grins and raises his eyebrows.
“Hey,” he says.
“Mrs. Stanford is an artist,” Ron says.
“That’s Ms. Stanford,” the woman says, “but please call me Shay.”
“So,” my dad says in a big voice, “Shay asked if it would be okay if she could work down here at the patio since there’s only the dock next door. That’s okay with you, right, Luce? Let’s take a quick tour of the yard and the lakeshore before you folks get on the road.”
Excuse me? She wants to use our patio as an art studio? Our patio, with its starburst pavers and fire pit and comfy Adirondack chairs, is where I go to escape, where I can think about Trixie and cry without anyone bothering me.
I shake my head. “Wish I could join you,” I say in a false, cheerful voice. “Hannah’s picking me up in a few minutes.”
“Well, such a pleasure to meet you.” Shay puts her hand on my arm. “I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better this summer.”
The Clarks, my dad, and Shay turn to go down to the beach, but Simon stays behind.
He’s definitely cute.
He’s staring at me.
I’m having trouble looking away, my eyes locked on his intense green ones. Why is he staring at me?
Dr Pepper smiles. “Your place is really nice.”
“Thanks . . . well, um, I should go,” I say, but I don’t move. I stand there and look up at him, and when he grins at me, I can’t help it. I smile back.
“Have fun,” he says.
“Did you know there’s no period in Dr?” I ask, still not moving.
“What?” His eyes narrow in confusion.
I point at his shirt. “Dr Pepper. No period in Dr. We learned about it in history. The period was dropped in the 1950s, but I can’t remember why.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I can feel my cheeks flame. Why do I have to be such a dork? No period in Dr Pepper. Honestly.
He’s still smiling, though, and then he says, “You know, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about leaving my friends for the summer and living up here in the middle of nowhere. Now that I’ve met you, things are definitely looking up.”
“Uhh.” Good one.
“I like you,” he says. “You’re spunky.”
No one’s ever called me spunky before.
“I really have to go. My friend’ll be here soon and—”
“I’ll keep you company while you wait,” he says.
I bite back a smile.
We walk around the front of the house and sit on the porch steps. I pull out my cell phone. Hannah should be here by now. I’ll give her five minutes before I call her to make sure she’s okay.
Simon’s sitting close, close enough that I can feel the heat from his pale arms, covered with fine blond hairs. His fingers are long, some smudged blue and black.
Why am I inspecting his fingers?
I look up. The smile hasn’t left his face. He smells good, like oil paints and something spicy, a hint of cologne.
“What are you up to tonight?” His voice is warm and friendly.
“Movie.”
“There’s a theater in town?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We may be a small town, but we do have a movie theater.”
“Thank God,” he says. “How many screens?”
“One.”
He laughs, and I like the sound of it. “Seriously?”
“The theater was built in 1919. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“Cool. What’s playing?”
I shrug. I have no idea. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s what we do on Saturday nights. “There are a couple of theaters down in Brainerd, too, if you need more variety.”
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I have a feeling I won’t be too bored this summer.”
I hear the crunch of gravel as Hannah pulls into the driveway. I stand up. “She’s here.”
He stands up, too, and whistles as Hannah parks her mom’s old Lexus in front of the garage. “Nice wheels.”
“Well, thanks for keeping me company.” I wave at him as I get into the car. He waves back.
Hannah grins at me. “Who’s the hottie?”
My cheeks go red. “Betty and Ron are renting out their house this summer.”
“To that guy?”
“Yeah, and his mom.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Simon.”
“Simon,” she says, like she’s trying it out. “Simon the Renter.”
“Simon the Renter.” I try it out, too.
“He’s cute.”
I shrug. “He’s nice.”
“Oh, girl, you are going to have fun this summer!”
Everything’s fun for Hannah. Trixie was the same way.
I’m more realistic.
“Yes,” I say, “I’m sure I’ll have lots of time to hang out with Simon the Renter when I’m not working my two jobs.”
“You never know.”
Maybe. Simon’s cute and friendly, but the best thing is that he’s not from here.
He doesn’t know about poor Lucy, the girl who lost her best friend.
“Guess what? My mom’s going on a book tour this summer, and I get to come along, and guess where we’re going? Texas!” She squeals. “Oh my God, what if I meet Tony Romo?”
I roll my eyes. Hannah’s mom, Madeleine Mills, has written twenty-six bestselling historical western romances. Twenty-six. Each one sells more than the last, probably thanks in part to covers with bare-chested cowboys and women with bosoms bursting out of their pioneer frocks.
Hannah’s bosom is pretty much bursting out of her own shirt tonight. She’s wearing a pink cowboy hat, the brim low over her forehead, a fitted cream-colored eyelet tank, tight denim mini-skirt, and her favorite boots, brown suede with fringe. She loves those boots enough that she would wear them to gym class if she could.
“Did I miss the memo to dress like a rodeo-ho?” I ask.
Hannah laughs as she rolls through a stop sign onto Main Street. Her dad competed on the professional rodeo circuit for a few years, and Hannah knows more about the sport than anyone I’ve ever met. As unlikely as it seems, Minnesota is home to dozens of rodeos every year, and she’s been trying to get me to go to one since the day we met.
“Must have. But I believe the term you’re looking for is buckle bunny, sweetheart. What do you call your ensemble? Laundry-basket chic?”
I laugh. “Exactly. How did you know?”
“Oh, I know you, Lucille. That skirt is too long. God, girl, show a little leg or something. What good is that hot gymnast bod if you don’t show it off?”
My gymnast bod isn’t as hot as it used to be. I quit the team after Trixie died. Not that there would have been the money for it anyway, not with Clay calling home and asking for money all the time on top of everything else.
Hannah pulls the Lexus into the parking lot across the street from the theater and leans forward to scan for a good spot.
“By the way,” she says, “remember Dustin, that guy from Carly’s party? He’s meeting us here.”
“Great.” I pull the mirror down and tuck a loose curl behind my ear. “You two have fun.”
“Oh, now, Lucille, don’t be a party pooper!” She opens her door and gets out of the car.
It’s been a long day. I’m tired, and I’m 99.9 percent sure that when I cross the street with Hannah to hang out with the crowd that’s gathered under the marquee of the theater, Ben will be there. It’s easy enough to try to pretend that he’s not around at school. He’s a junior; I’m a sophomore. We have different schedules. But on the weekends, it’s hard not to run into him.
But it’s not just Ben.
Ben will be there with Dana, his girlfriend.
Typical Saturday night in Halcyon Lake.