future.
No wonder I’m so paranoid about busboys. It’s stress.
Next thing I knew, Mr. Havershaw was looming over me, firing off dumb questions and bad breath. And I was giving my good-girl answers: “Thirteen years old … straight A’s, except for math … what I really want to do with my life is be a doctor or a lawyer … yes, foliage season would be a great time to visit Phelps …”
I would rather die than go to your school, was what I really wanted to say. And while I’m at it, I’ll TELL you what I want to do with my life — dive into the bay and swim. Away from this party, away from you, until I disappear into those clouds on the horizon, and I’ll soar upward on the mist and build a castle, no adults allowed, and I’ll only invite people like me who want to enjoy life, enjoy BEING A KID, like Grandpa Childers says, so why don’t you just get out of here, go and interview the psycho busboy.
Who, at that moment, was coming out of the kitchen. Trayless, dodging and weaving among the guests.
“Rachel?” Mr. Havershaw was saying.
Pay attention.
“Uh … what?”
I spotted Grandpa Childers. He was alone at the buffet table. In a corner.
The busboy was heading toward him.
Fast.
He was pulling something out of his pocket.
A knife.
Wooden handle. Folded-up blade.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I didn’t even wait for Mr. Havershaw’s response. I was running across the room. Knocking hors d’oeuvres from people’s hands.
Get there. Get there now.
Grandpa Childers turned. Faced the boy.
His smile vanished. His face went pale.
And I screamed.
The knife.
The fool.
2
“S TOP HIM! H E HAS A KNIFE!”
I barreled through the crowd. A waiter crossed into my path, then jumped out of my way with a cry of surprise.
The busboy’s back was toward me. I grabbed his shoulder and he spun around.
I could see the knife up close now. Still sheathed in his palm.
Both he and Grandpa Childers were staring at me, startled.
So was everyone else in the room.
“It’s all right, Rachel,” Grandpa Childers said gently. “It’s mine. This young man found it on the beach. He’s returning it to me.”
“Re-returning?”
Grandpa Childers took the knife from the busboy’s hand and held it toward me. The initials CC were carved on the handle.
“Oh,” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Rachel, you dork.
I couldn’t look him in the eye.
I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Unfortunately, they were all looking at me.
The whole party.
Including Dad and Mom and Mr. Havershaw.
That’s it, Rachel. Kiss the Phelps School good-bye.
Maybe a reform school for you instead.
I slunk away.
Mr. Havershaw’s relaxed smile had gone tight. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “It was his. Grandpa Childers’s. The knife. I thought — you know …”
“Yes,” said Mr. Havershaw. “Well, um, it was good to meet you, Rachel. You have a wonderful family.”
“I can’t figure out how YOU fit in, though.” Come on, say it!
“Thanks,” I replied.
As he left, I felt two pairs of eyes impaling me from either side.
The Wrath of Mom and Dad.
They didn’t have to say anything. I heard the message loud and clear. I’d heard it a million times before.
Lazy. Good-for-nothing. Immature.
So much potential. So little ambition.
Stand up straight.
Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.
Try. Because there are a thousand others who are trying, just waiting to step ahead of you.
I turned the other way, hoping to find a friendlier face. Grandpa Childers’s.
But he was still talking to the busboy. So I headed out to the dock.
I took a deep breath and tried to exhale the humiliation. The air was cool for a mid-July day
The cruise skipper, Captain Neil, was heading up the gangplank. “Fifteen minutes until we sail!”
I walked along the wooden dock, away from the crowd. My stiff shoes clonked loudly. I wanted to take them off. Maybe throw them at someone.
The yacht blocked my view of the bay. If you ask me, it
No wonder I’m so paranoid about busboys. It’s stress.
Next thing I knew, Mr. Havershaw was looming over me, firing off dumb questions and bad breath. And I was giving my good-girl answers: “Thirteen years old … straight A’s, except for math … what I really want to do with my life is be a doctor or a lawyer … yes, foliage season would be a great time to visit Phelps …”
I would rather die than go to your school, was what I really wanted to say. And while I’m at it, I’ll TELL you what I want to do with my life — dive into the bay and swim. Away from this party, away from you, until I disappear into those clouds on the horizon, and I’ll soar upward on the mist and build a castle, no adults allowed, and I’ll only invite people like me who want to enjoy life, enjoy BEING A KID, like Grandpa Childers says, so why don’t you just get out of here, go and interview the psycho busboy.
Who, at that moment, was coming out of the kitchen. Trayless, dodging and weaving among the guests.
“Rachel?” Mr. Havershaw was saying.
Pay attention.
“Uh … what?”
I spotted Grandpa Childers. He was alone at the buffet table. In a corner.
The busboy was heading toward him.
Fast.
He was pulling something out of his pocket.
A knife.
Wooden handle. Folded-up blade.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I didn’t even wait for Mr. Havershaw’s response. I was running across the room. Knocking hors d’oeuvres from people’s hands.
Get there. Get there now.
Grandpa Childers turned. Faced the boy.
His smile vanished. His face went pale.
And I screamed.
The knife.
The fool.
2
“S TOP HIM! H E HAS A KNIFE!”
I barreled through the crowd. A waiter crossed into my path, then jumped out of my way with a cry of surprise.
The busboy’s back was toward me. I grabbed his shoulder and he spun around.
I could see the knife up close now. Still sheathed in his palm.
Both he and Grandpa Childers were staring at me, startled.
So was everyone else in the room.
“It’s all right, Rachel,” Grandpa Childers said gently. “It’s mine. This young man found it on the beach. He’s returning it to me.”
“Re-returning?”
Grandpa Childers took the knife from the busboy’s hand and held it toward me. The initials CC were carved on the handle.
“Oh,” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Rachel, you dork.
I couldn’t look him in the eye.
I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Unfortunately, they were all looking at me.
The whole party.
Including Dad and Mom and Mr. Havershaw.
That’s it, Rachel. Kiss the Phelps School good-bye.
Maybe a reform school for you instead.
I slunk away.
Mr. Havershaw’s relaxed smile had gone tight. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “It was his. Grandpa Childers’s. The knife. I thought — you know …”
“Yes,” said Mr. Havershaw. “Well, um, it was good to meet you, Rachel. You have a wonderful family.”
“I can’t figure out how YOU fit in, though.” Come on, say it!
“Thanks,” I replied.
As he left, I felt two pairs of eyes impaling me from either side.
The Wrath of Mom and Dad.
They didn’t have to say anything. I heard the message loud and clear. I’d heard it a million times before.
Lazy. Good-for-nothing. Immature.
So much potential. So little ambition.
Stand up straight.
Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.
Try. Because there are a thousand others who are trying, just waiting to step ahead of you.
I turned the other way, hoping to find a friendlier face. Grandpa Childers’s.
But he was still talking to the busboy. So I headed out to the dock.
I took a deep breath and tried to exhale the humiliation. The air was cool for a mid-July day
The cruise skipper, Captain Neil, was heading up the gangplank. “Fifteen minutes until we sail!”
I walked along the wooden dock, away from the crowd. My stiff shoes clonked loudly. I wanted to take them off. Maybe throw them at someone.
The yacht blocked my view of the bay. If you ask me, it
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