Famous in a Small Town(32)
“You and her don’t look like each other,” Lizzie insisted. “So you’re not real sisters.”
“We are!”
“Not real ones. You have to say step. She’s your stepsister.”
I shook my head vehemently. I knew at that point that our family was built differently than other people’s—the events had happened out of order but put us together the same way, which was what counted the most. Ciara was my sister. I knew that at my core.
I told her as we walked home that day, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice, eyes turned down to the ground as we made our way through our neighborhood.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Ciara replied.
“But—”
“She’s wrong,” she said firmly, and I believed her.
When I finally looked over at August, in the booth at Bygones, there was a softness to his expression that I wasn’t prepared for. I turned back to the books, pulled one out at random. It was a paperback called Summer Burn, with a man and a woman silhouetted on the cover, their foreheads touching.
I ended up getting the book, after we had passed through the remaining booths, since I felt bad coming in without buying anything. Supporting local business and all that. It put me out two dollars, which I could manage, if Brit sponsored her own french fries this week.
I read August part of the description as we stood at the front, waiting for the cashier. “‘Will Declan escape unscathed, or will Summer consume him?’”
“You’ll have to let me know,” August said.
“Oh, Summer is ten out of ten gonna consume him. But I’ll keep you posted.”
The cashier emerged from one of the aisles, an older lady.
“You should’ve rung the bell!” she said brightly, heading behind the counter. She smiled at me and then looked at August.
“Back already?”
He looked sheepish. “Yeah, just … having a look.”
“That’s how you find the deals. You gotta keep coming back around. The inventory’s always changing!”
She rang up my book, and we headed outside.
“You’ve been there before?”
“Maybe,” he said, and looked embarrassed. “I just … was trying to sell some leftover stuff. From back home. Just”—he shrugged—“make some extra money or whatever.”
I thought about the money in Creepy Cookie and wondered if he was thinking about it too.
We headed down Main Street. “My mom used to take me and my sister to garage sales all the time when we were kids,” I said after a pause. “Like on Saturday mornings and stuff, we’d drive for miles to find a good sale. Ciara called it ‘treasure hunting.’ It always felt like an adventure.”
“Do you still go?”
I nodded. “Sometimes.”
It was quiet for a moment. “That place felt kind of like treasure hunting,” he said, gesturing back to Bygones.
He was right—it did.
* * *
On Friday, we went bowling.
“I have to warn you, I’m an incredible bowler,” August said. “Like, truly, staggeringly talented.”
He bowled an impressive five gutter balls in a row.
“Is that what you mean by staggeringly talented?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m the best worst bowler in the world. Try to find a worse bowler than me.”
* * *
According to the song, on Saturday we were meant to go to the covered bridge and tell each other things we’ve never said out loud before: what’s in my heart, and yours …
So we went and stood on the bridge, looking out at the creek below, which was really more of a ditch, all dried out in the summer heat.
“So,” August said. “What are we supposed to do?”
I recited the lyric for him.
“Is it two separate things?” he mused. “Stuff we’ve never said out loud and stuff that’s in our heart, or stuff in our hearts that we’ve never said out loud?”
“Mmm … up to interpretation, I guess?”
“Okay, alternate third interpretation, stuff that we’ve never said out loud that happens to be in both of our hearts?” He blinked. “How am I supposed to know what’s in your heart?”
“We’re each speaking for our own hearts, I think.”
“She should’ve been more clear. Lyrically.”
“Do you want to keep analyzing this, or do you want to do what the song says?”
“Hey, this song is your bible, not mine.”
“It’s not my bible.”
“It’s your town’s bible.”
“Are we going to do this or not?”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Ummmm …” Silence. “Maybe you go first.”
I paused. Something in my heart that I’ve never said out loud before.
I thought of band and work and the library. I thought of The College Collective.
“I don’t want to go away,” I said. “For school. Like … part of me wishes I could just stay here forever. But … if I know it’ll make me a better person, then I’ll leave. And I feel like it will. Or, like, I hope it will, at least.”