can’t explain why I feel so comfortable already. I have my cell phone and Nancy always makes me put Mace in my purse just in case.
“I’ll get you back by ten,” he says. His eyes seem so blue in this light.
The wind whips through the pickup and blows my hair about my face. Andrew turns up the radio even louder so the song playing oozes through my hair, the seats, and the salt water misting my cheeks. The singer croons: Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name? I’ve never heard the song before, but I like it.
As we drive toward the outer beach, the ocean flies by us. Well, scientifically that would be impossible, but it feels like that even though we’re only going around ten miles an hour. There are lots of other people down by the shore, grilling, swimming, and flying kites.
Andrew holds the steering wheel with one lazy hand and the other rests on my seat back. He seems happy. Maybe he just likes the outer beach? After all, it is a beautiful night, though unseasonably humid for June.
The roar of Andrew’s truck quiets to a growl as we approach an empty campsite. We pull into a small spot with a number 12 on a sign. We’re only a hundred feet or so away from some people at the camp next to us. The ocean stretches away as far as I can see.
“Is this our spot?” I ask.
“Yup, until I have to get you home for curfew,” he says, turning the music down.
“Curfew, huh? You’ve mentioned that a couple times,” I say. “You know, repetition is the essence of all experimentation. I mean, to ensure that the scientific hypothesis is solid, observations must repeat themselves.” Andrew beams at me, but I literally want to throw my hands over my mouth. “But sometimes in social situations it can show you’re nervous,” I grumble quickly.
“Wow, I’ll have to remember that,” he says.
As I am about to get out, I hesitate. At my feet, resting on the mat, is a navy blue cloth arm sling.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Andrew hesitates but keeps his fingers on the door handle.
“It’s not mine,” he says. “A year ago, my friends Mike and Curtis were in a car accident.” He doesn’t tell me which friend wore the sling.
He also doesn’t elaborate or make eye contact. Various embarrassing experiences have taught me that when people don’t want to talk about something or when I accidentally invade their personal space, they evade eye contact.
“So why are you repeating yourself?” I ask, moving the conversation away from the car accident. “About getting me home by ten.”
“Just haven’t had to worry about curfews in a while.”
“My parents . . . ,” I say and open the door. “They’re kind of strict.”
“But you’re eighteen. Can’t you do what you want?”
“To an extent,” I say, hoping this is a sufficient response. I make sure to meet his eyes when I say, “I’m doing what I want right now.”
“I can respect that,” he says.
Couldn’t have said it any better myself.
ELEVEN
ANDREW UNEARTHS A GRILL FROM BENEATH SOME blankets in the back of his pickup. He folds down the back hatch of the truck so I can sit. I sneak a peek at my cell phone, praying that Mom and Dad haven’t called. Nope. It’s only eight fifteen.
While Andrew lights the charcoals on a small grill, I survey the coastline. It changes every year with the storms. The Chatham break is a split in the beach where the bay and ocean meet. A small lagoon separates our beach, and in the distance, large swells crash against a sandbar.
Andrew salts the scallops and grabs some butter from a small cooler.
“So where is your sister going?” Andrew asks. “You said yourparents are having a going-away party.”
Think fast. “Um, she’s studying abroad for the fall, so my aunt, who we stay with during the summers, is throwing this huge party.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“It’s not that,” I say, jumping to the ground and kneeling down in front of the smoking grill. It sizzles each
“I’ll get you back by ten,” he says. His eyes seem so blue in this light.
The wind whips through the pickup and blows my hair about my face. Andrew turns up the radio even louder so the song playing oozes through my hair, the seats, and the salt water misting my cheeks. The singer croons: Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name? I’ve never heard the song before, but I like it.
As we drive toward the outer beach, the ocean flies by us. Well, scientifically that would be impossible, but it feels like that even though we’re only going around ten miles an hour. There are lots of other people down by the shore, grilling, swimming, and flying kites.
Andrew holds the steering wheel with one lazy hand and the other rests on my seat back. He seems happy. Maybe he just likes the outer beach? After all, it is a beautiful night, though unseasonably humid for June.
The roar of Andrew’s truck quiets to a growl as we approach an empty campsite. We pull into a small spot with a number 12 on a sign. We’re only a hundred feet or so away from some people at the camp next to us. The ocean stretches away as far as I can see.
“Is this our spot?” I ask.
“Yup, until I have to get you home for curfew,” he says, turning the music down.
“Curfew, huh? You’ve mentioned that a couple times,” I say. “You know, repetition is the essence of all experimentation. I mean, to ensure that the scientific hypothesis is solid, observations must repeat themselves.” Andrew beams at me, but I literally want to throw my hands over my mouth. “But sometimes in social situations it can show you’re nervous,” I grumble quickly.
“Wow, I’ll have to remember that,” he says.
As I am about to get out, I hesitate. At my feet, resting on the mat, is a navy blue cloth arm sling.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Andrew hesitates but keeps his fingers on the door handle.
“It’s not mine,” he says. “A year ago, my friends Mike and Curtis were in a car accident.” He doesn’t tell me which friend wore the sling.
He also doesn’t elaborate or make eye contact. Various embarrassing experiences have taught me that when people don’t want to talk about something or when I accidentally invade their personal space, they evade eye contact.
“So why are you repeating yourself?” I ask, moving the conversation away from the car accident. “About getting me home by ten.”
“Just haven’t had to worry about curfews in a while.”
“My parents . . . ,” I say and open the door. “They’re kind of strict.”
“But you’re eighteen. Can’t you do what you want?”
“To an extent,” I say, hoping this is a sufficient response. I make sure to meet his eyes when I say, “I’m doing what I want right now.”
“I can respect that,” he says.
Couldn’t have said it any better myself.
ELEVEN
ANDREW UNEARTHS A GRILL FROM BENEATH SOME blankets in the back of his pickup. He folds down the back hatch of the truck so I can sit. I sneak a peek at my cell phone, praying that Mom and Dad haven’t called. Nope. It’s only eight fifteen.
While Andrew lights the charcoals on a small grill, I survey the coastline. It changes every year with the storms. The Chatham break is a split in the beach where the bay and ocean meet. A small lagoon separates our beach, and in the distance, large swells crash against a sandbar.
Andrew salts the scallops and grabs some butter from a small cooler.
“So where is your sister going?” Andrew asks. “You said yourparents are having a going-away party.”
Think fast. “Um, she’s studying abroad for the fall, so my aunt, who we stay with during the summers, is throwing this huge party.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“It’s not that,” I say, jumping to the ground and kneeling down in front of the smoking grill. It sizzles each
Similar Books
