Girl Out of Water(31)

“See?” Nash asks, skating back toward me, his floppy brown hair sticking out of his helmet. “Easy as pie.”

“Apple pie,” Parker agrees.

“Is apple pie easier than other types of pies?” I ask.

The boys don’t laugh. They just look confused and skate back down the driveway. Guess I left my coordination and my sense of humor in Santa Cruz. “All right,” I say. “I’ll try again, but we’re heading to the park as soon as your sister gets back.”

Or never go back to the park again.

But I don’t want to be the worst cousin ever. I’ve already deprived them of the park for a week so I could practice in private, and they’ve gone along with it since I’ve let them help me practice. I’d be the ultimate asshole if I kept them away all summer.

As I’m about to step back onto my board, a minivan stops in front of our driveway. A side door opens, and Emery pops out with her duffel bag. Before I can ask how the lake was, she rushes past us into the house, eyes welling with tears, and then slams the door behind her.

“Umm…” I say.

The oblivious dad driving the van waves and then pulls away.

“Umm…” I say again.

“I think Emery’s in a bad mood,” Nash says.

“I think so too,” Parker agrees.

I nod. “I think so three.”

? ? ?

Okay, so here’s the thing—I’m supposed to be at the park to meet Lincoln for this challenge. If I don’t go, he will inevitably mock me the next time he sees me. Or worse, give me some sad, sympathetic look, like a puppy that’s about to be put down. But I also need to comfort and talk with Emery who just ran into the house with tears in her eyes.

The problem is that Emery is currently in her room, door locked, music blaring.

I knock for the tenth time. “Emery, are you okay? Please let me in. I need to know you’re okay. Emery? Come on. Answer me, please.”

No response.

I sigh and slide down the door. Hopefully it’s nothing serious. I remember overreacting at Emery’s age when Dad said I couldn’t go to the Beyoncé concert without a parent. I remember giving him the silent treatment for a week when he said I couldn’t surf on my sprained ankle. It’s probably just preteen hormonal drama, like when Marie was pissed at us because we almost missed Cassie’s dance recital. But then after a few uncomfortable junior high lunch periods, Marie realized she’d given us the wrong date for the recital in the first place.

Crap. That reminds me I need to text Cassie good luck. Her summer dance recital is tonight. Her last recital before boot camp. I’ve attended every one since middle school, but this year I’ll only be able to watch whatever shaky video someone posts online. That is, if I even go online to look. I’ve been avoiding my news feed the past few days.

“She’s fine,” Nash says. He tugs my hand. “We’re gonna be late!”

Parker and Nash don’t look too concerned. Still, worry gnaws at me each second she doesn’t respond. “Has this happened before?” I ask.

“Only like every month,” Parker says.

“Good.” I shake my head. “I mean, not good, but you know—if this happens monthly, it’s probably not anything serious, right?”

“Mom always waits until she calms down or gets hungry,” Nash says.

“How long does that usually take?” I ask.

Nash shrugs his shoulders. “Long enough for us to be late to the park.”

“If you don’t want to wait…” Parker runs off down the hall.

“What?” I ask, but he’s already disappeared into his room. A few moments later he returns with a paper clip and starts jimmying the lock.

“Parker, stop it!” Emery yells from inside her room.

I’m surprised that Parker, not Nash, is the one who picks locks. But then Parker is quiet and patient and logical, which would make him an excellent burglar—not that burglary is a career path he should consider. He’d just be good at it.

A few seconds later, the lock clicks. “I’m coming in,” I tell Emery, then open the door.

Emery sits on the bed, her eyes red-rimmed, a magazine in her lap. “Get out!” she shouts. Her voice is more choked than loud, kind of like when a dog is scared and can’t get out a full bark.

“Guys, downstairs,” I tell Parker and Nash. The boys hesitate, glancing at their sister, but listen and leave. Once they’ve thumped down the carpeted stairs, I hover by the door in a way I hope says I’m-only-invading-your-privacy-as-much-as-necessary. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Right.” I play with the hem of my tank top. “But, here’s the thing. Obviously something happened, and I need to know what it was, so I can figure out if I need to tell your mom.”

Okay, not as smooth as Dad’s communication skills but not the worst either. Crap, who am I kidding? I’m total shit at this. I should be comforting her, not threatening to tell her mom.

“Don’t,” Emery says, a sharp cut in her voice. She looks up at me from her magazine. “It’s not—it’s not a big deal. Don’t bug her with it.”

“If it’s not a big deal, then maybe tell me?”

“Look, it’s nothing.” She shoves off her covers and stands. “I’m okay, really. Let’s just go to the park so you can do your skate thing.”