from New York?”
“Um, he’s kind of more than ‘the guy from New York’!” I said. “He’s like the best filmmaker ever. Or he was, anyway …”
“Yeah, decades ago.” Will shrugged.
“Yeah, that’s when he was at his best!” I insisted. “You know, ‘especially the early, funny ones’?”
Will looked at me blankly, and I smiled and rolled my eyes. So much for us having an instant private joke.
“That was a line from
Stardust Memories
,” I told Will. “You
have
to rent it sometime.”
“Well, if I
have
to,” Will said, teasing me. Then he glanced over his shoulder at his bike.
“So,” he added casually, “do you and Allison Porchnik want to go for a ride?”
I looked down at my toes so he wouldn’t see how hard I was beaming. Who cared about private jokes? I was about to go on my second date with Will Cooper.
I t had been a long time since I’d ridden the entire nine miles of Highway 80. I usually was too busy getting from point A to point B to just tool around for the pleasure of it.
But it was fun listening to Will’s amazed exclamations as we skimmed down the endless stretch of asphalt. On our right was a prairie of swamp grass, emerald green and practically vibrating with cicadas, frogs, and dragonflies. On our left was the ocean, shooting flashes of gold at us every time the sun hit a wave.
With Will beside me, I slowed down, and not just because his red bike was a heavy clunker. The traffic was sleepy and we rode side by side, with me playing tour guide.
“We could go to the lighthouse at the south end of the island,” I said. “That’s what the chamber of commerce would have us do.”
“Ah yes, the lighthouse from all the T-shirts and mugs and mouse pads?” Will said. “I’ve been there already with my mom and her
Let’s Go
book.”
“Dune Island’s got a travel book?” I gasped.
“Um, no,” Will said with a laugh. “It’s more like three pages
in
a travel book. But they’re a really packed three pages!”
I laughed.
“Well, does the travel book mention our water tower on the west side?” I asked. “Because I think it’s a much better view than the lighthouse. If you ask me, the swamp is a little more interesting from that high up. Every time you go up there, the tidal pools are in different places. They make a picture.”
“Of what?” Will asked, lazily looping his bike back and forth across the highway.
“I usually see Van Gogh,” I said. “You know, all those swirls and swoops like in
Starry Night
? Most people just see Jesus.”
“Seriously? Like the people who see him in cinnamon buns and water stains on the wall?”
“Will,” I said gently, “Remember, you’re in the South now. There’s a
lot
of Jesus down here.”
“Believe me,” Will said. “I can tell just by talking to you.”
“What?!” I sputtered. “I don’t have a Southern accent. My family is from up North.”
“Um, I hate to break it you …”
Will lifted one hand off his handlebars to give me a helpless shrug.
“Okay!” I admitted. “So I say ‘y’all.’ I suppose that sounds pretty Southern. But come on. ‘You guys’?! That just sounds so … wrong.”
“Yeah,” Will agreed, “if you have a Southern accent.”
I coasted for a moment, staring at the glinty ocean.
“Well, that’s kind of a big bummer.” I sighed.
“Why?” Will asked.
“Because everyone thinks that people with Southern accents are dumb,” I complained. “Even
presidents
are totally mocked for their Southern accents.”
“Well, you’re not dumb,” Will said. “Anybody who talked to you for more than two minutes would know that.”
It took my breath away, it really did. Will said these things to me so matter-of-factly, as if he wasn’t giving me the most lovely compliment but simply stating the obvious that anybody could see.
He didn’t know that, up until then, nobody else had.
“And besides,” Will added, “I like your accent.”
See what I mean?
“My
“Um, he’s kind of more than ‘the guy from New York’!” I said. “He’s like the best filmmaker ever. Or he was, anyway …”
“Yeah, decades ago.” Will shrugged.
“Yeah, that’s when he was at his best!” I insisted. “You know, ‘especially the early, funny ones’?”
Will looked at me blankly, and I smiled and rolled my eyes. So much for us having an instant private joke.
“That was a line from
Stardust Memories
,” I told Will. “You
have
to rent it sometime.”
“Well, if I
have
to,” Will said, teasing me. Then he glanced over his shoulder at his bike.
“So,” he added casually, “do you and Allison Porchnik want to go for a ride?”
I looked down at my toes so he wouldn’t see how hard I was beaming. Who cared about private jokes? I was about to go on my second date with Will Cooper.
I t had been a long time since I’d ridden the entire nine miles of Highway 80. I usually was too busy getting from point A to point B to just tool around for the pleasure of it.
But it was fun listening to Will’s amazed exclamations as we skimmed down the endless stretch of asphalt. On our right was a prairie of swamp grass, emerald green and practically vibrating with cicadas, frogs, and dragonflies. On our left was the ocean, shooting flashes of gold at us every time the sun hit a wave.
With Will beside me, I slowed down, and not just because his red bike was a heavy clunker. The traffic was sleepy and we rode side by side, with me playing tour guide.
“We could go to the lighthouse at the south end of the island,” I said. “That’s what the chamber of commerce would have us do.”
“Ah yes, the lighthouse from all the T-shirts and mugs and mouse pads?” Will said. “I’ve been there already with my mom and her
Let’s Go
book.”
“Dune Island’s got a travel book?” I gasped.
“Um, no,” Will said with a laugh. “It’s more like three pages
in
a travel book. But they’re a really packed three pages!”
I laughed.
“Well, does the travel book mention our water tower on the west side?” I asked. “Because I think it’s a much better view than the lighthouse. If you ask me, the swamp is a little more interesting from that high up. Every time you go up there, the tidal pools are in different places. They make a picture.”
“Of what?” Will asked, lazily looping his bike back and forth across the highway.
“I usually see Van Gogh,” I said. “You know, all those swirls and swoops like in
Starry Night
? Most people just see Jesus.”
“Seriously? Like the people who see him in cinnamon buns and water stains on the wall?”
“Will,” I said gently, “Remember, you’re in the South now. There’s a
lot
of Jesus down here.”
“Believe me,” Will said. “I can tell just by talking to you.”
“What?!” I sputtered. “I don’t have a Southern accent. My family is from up North.”
“Um, I hate to break it you …”
Will lifted one hand off his handlebars to give me a helpless shrug.
“Okay!” I admitted. “So I say ‘y’all.’ I suppose that sounds pretty Southern. But come on. ‘You guys’?! That just sounds so … wrong.”
“Yeah,” Will agreed, “if you have a Southern accent.”
I coasted for a moment, staring at the glinty ocean.
“Well, that’s kind of a big bummer.” I sighed.
“Why?” Will asked.
“Because everyone thinks that people with Southern accents are dumb,” I complained. “Even
presidents
are totally mocked for their Southern accents.”
“Well, you’re not dumb,” Will said. “Anybody who talked to you for more than two minutes would know that.”
It took my breath away, it really did. Will said these things to me so matter-of-factly, as if he wasn’t giving me the most lovely compliment but simply stating the obvious that anybody could see.
He didn’t know that, up until then, nobody else had.
“And besides,” Will added, “I like your accent.”
See what I mean?
“My
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