Girl Out of Water(30)

“You don’t know them. People I hang out with at the park. From school and stuff.”

“All girls?”

“Yes, Mom.” She says it teasingly with a grin, but the word unsettles me. Maybe because of my conversation with Aunt Jackie. I knew my mom left home young, but I never got many details. Looking around Emery’s room now, crowded with her own things, I wonder if…

“Hey, Emery?” I ask.

“What?”

“Do you know…um, was this your mom’s room when she was a kid?”

She doesn’t seem to notice the tension in my voice as she keeps sorting clothes. “Nope, oldest kid gets the biggest room. It was your mom’s. Do you like this top?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, but I’m not looking at the top. I’m looking at the closet’s door frame and wondering if the notches in it were made to mark my mom’s height, wondering what color the room was painted when she lived here, wondering how her furniture was arranged.

Emery continues, “Yeah, so the trip is all girls because Charlie’s dad doesn’t want any boys there. He’s, like, super uptight. Are you allowed to have boys sleep over?”

Boys? Sleeping over? Emery now has my full attention. “Um, not really,” I say, having a flash of this one night Eric stayed over until four in the morning watching movies while Dad was fast asleep. Eric was dating someone then, so he was just my best friend Eric. But now, looking back, I remember my flushed skin as we wrestled for the remote on the couch, my racing heart when we decided to share a blanket because both of us were too wiped from the wrestling to get up and grab a second one. I guess I liked him before I knew I liked him. And now because of almost two thousand miles of separation, I’m losing my chance to explore those feelings.

Eric has had a few girlfriends over the years. Has he met a long-stay tourist to hang out and hook up with? Is that why our texting has gotten awkward? It’s not like I expect him to wait around for me, and I’m not sure I even want him to, but the thought leaves me unsettled. Eric is one of my best friends. When I get home I still want my best friend.

As I lean back, I notice a CD case on Emery’s desk. “What’s this?” I ask, grateful for a distraction. The label says it’s a Beatles’ Abbey Road CD, but the cover art is from a different point of view. All four Beatles are in black and white and sitting on top of a building, looking down at the famous Abbey Road instead of walking across it.

“Nothing.” With flushed cheeks, Emery crosses the room and plucks the CD from my hands.

“Did you make it?” I ask. Her walls are plastered with pictures and posters and album designs. “Did you make all of these? They’re awesome.” They really are. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I’d kill to be able to make stuff like this. Sometimes Tess sketches the ocean and portraits of us out in the surf. Her hand flies across the page like it’s controlled by magic. The most I’ve ever been able to draw is inside the lines of a coloring book.

Emery sits down in her desk chair and toys with the CD case. Finally, she mumbles, “It’s kind of silly. I know.”

“Silly?” I ask. “It’s awesome. How’d you make them?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I mess around with Photoshop and stuff. For fun. But it’d be cool if I could do it for a job one day or something.” She gets up and returns to her packing. “I have a blog where I post them. People like them, I guess. They request their favorite albums and everything.”

“I’d love to see it,” I say.

She turns to me, eyeing me as if trying to see if I’m kidding. Maybe someone made fun of her at some point. People can be assholes for no reason. Or without realizing it. I know I’ve had my moments.

“Okay, maybe.” She continues to fold clothing. “I can make one for you, if you want.”

“I would be honored. They’re great. Seriously.”

She doesn’t respond again, but when she turns to put the stack of clothing in her duffel bag, I spot the most natural smile on her face I’ve seen all summer.





Seven


There has to be a limit to how many times one can fall on one’s ass in the same day. And I have to be really close to reaching that limit. “Try again!” Parker insists as I get up from the ground, rubbing my tender backside.

“Why?” I groan.

“Because you have to beat Lincoln.”

I laugh, loud and short. I’m supposed to meet Lincoln at the park today for our challenge, and the stark truth is that I have a zero percent chance of skating better than him. I’ve looked into the average skills a skater acquires after seven years of skateboarding, and I’ve barely learned the tip of that iceberg. And yet, I’m still trying. Who knows? Maybe some skateboarding deity will come down to Earth and bestow me with killer talent.

“Come on,” Nash says. “Try it one more time. You almost had it, I swear. Here, I’ll show you again.”

I don’t get embarrassed easily, but watching my nine-year-old cousin breeze through a trick that has me on my ass every ten seconds isn’t easy on the ego. I watch for the millionth time as Nash skates down the driveway, kicks his board into the air so that it spins in a full circle, and then lands on it. The trick is called a kickflip. Apparently it’s easy. Apparently anyone who skates can do it. Apparently I’m a double-right-footed failure.