Girl Out of Water(42)

My phone beeps. I slip it out of my bag. Another text from Emery of Nash sleeping on one of the park benches. Hopefully he didn’t do anything too ridiculous to wear himself out. “Crap,” I tell Lincoln. “It’s almost four. We should probably get going.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “Think you’ve got enough energy in you to skate back?”

“Do I have any other choice?” I ask.

“Nope.” He grins.

“Then I guess I do.” I smile. “In fact, I think I have enough energy to race you there.”

? ? ?

By the time we get to the skate park, we’re sticky with sweat. The park is almost empty, since most kids have gone home for dinner. I focus on a somewhat surprising sight—Emery and Austin sitting next to each other on a bench, sharing a pair of earbuds.

They look peculiar yet perfect together—Emery in her bright summer dress and sandals and Austin in his black and chains and Vans. Their heads are bent toward each other as they laugh and talk without pause.

“Huh,” I say.

Lincoln also watches them. “Being a ladies’ man is in the Puk genetic code.”

“You’re both adopted.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Nature. Nurture. Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe.”

Before we can continue to stare at Emery and Austin, Parker and Nash rush over in an excited fury. Nash jumps off his board and flings himself at me, almost toppling me to the ground with a colossal hug.

“Whoa there!” I catch him and hug him back. “Is everything okay? What’s this affection for?”

“Nothing.” He wipes his hands on his shorts. “You’re sticky.”

“Guess what?” Parker asks.

“What?”

“Austin taught us how to noseslide!” He looks down at his skateboard. “Do you want to see?”

“I definitely want to see. Go on and show me before we head home.”

Parker and Nash high five each other, and then Nash waves at Austin. “Come watch!” With the whole earbud/Emery situation, Austin must not hear him, so Nash starts to call again.

“Hey, how about you just show me and Lincoln? Private viewing, okay?”

Nash shrugs his shoulders. “Okay.”

“What’s a noseslide?” I whisper to Lincoln as we join the boys by a long, empty bench.

“I’ll teach you if you want.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe next time.”

We stand next to each other, watching as the boys prepare for their trick by doing a few calisthenics that look straight out of an ’80s workout video. Lincoln’s right shoulder brushes against mine. We watch the boys grind across the bench with just the nose of their boards, the rattling wood against metal, and I pretend not to notice—but a million percent notice—as the tips of Lincoln’s fingers graze against mine.





Nine


It rains for the first three days of July. Fat droplets hail down, beating the house without reprieve, the sun hidden beneath thick, gray clouds. My mom once showed up in a storm like this, breezing through the front door, past our shocked faces, oblivious as she dripped water onto the wooden floors. Sometimes, during a particularly loud clap of thunder, I think I hear the doorbell, and my stomach clenches as I picture her on the stoop, soaking wet and with a smile I’ll be too angry to return. Or even worse, sometimes I imagine the same thing, but I return the smile.

I wonder if she really meant it when she said she’d visit this summer, or if the thought flitted through her mind, as temporary as the water dripping down the living room windows. I try to imagine her here as a teenager, grieving the death of her mom, watching rain pour down through this exact view. Why was she so determined to leave this house, her family?

Back home, rainy days equal TV marathons with my best friends. We splay out on couches and binge watch the latest season of our favorite show. Here, rainy days equal being stuck inside with three kids, my foot constantly jiggling up and down from excess energy.

“Want to play?” Parker asks. I look away from the window to where he’s on the floor playing a video game. I’m lying on the couch, intermittently watching the rain and thumbing through my favorite parts of a Detective Dana novel, trying to find the section where she breaks her own suspect out of jail to solve a murder.

Emery is in her room, where she’s spent the past few days. I check on her every few hours and am usually greeted with a blank face and an “I’m fine” or a “No, I’m not hungry” or a “No, I don’t know where Nash hid all the batteries from the remotes and smoke detectors.”

She says she’s fine. But she still won’t talk about what happened with her friends. I told myself I’d tell Aunt Jackie about the situation if Emery hadn’t cracked by now, but the problem is there technically isn’t a situation. She’s not crying. She’s not trying to harm herself. There aren’t any bullying threats in the mail (or on any of her social media accounts, at least not publicly, and yes, I stalked her online to check). I want to protect her, but I also don’t want to blow the situation out of proportion or betray her trust if it’s unnecessary. So I’ll give it a couple more days. A couple more days can’t hurt, right?

I shake my head at Parker. “No video games for me. What about Nash?” As I ask the question, I look around the room and discover why it’s been so quiet. Nash isn’t here. “Parker, where is your—”