The Other Side of Blue by Valerie O. Patterson Page B

Howard has a dog? Mother has never mentioned that. Neither has Howard, and he’s never brought one around in Maine. Mother doesn’t even like dogs. I wonder where it is now. Maybe in Atlanta with Kammi’s mother. I can hear Howard saying it. “Kammi needs a dog. With the breakup, this is just the thing. I’ll miss Old Pete or whatever his name is, but it’s for Kammi. Nothing’s too good for Kammi.” Howard doesn’t really talk that way—his voice is way too business-school to sound so breathless—but I can
imagine him almost saying it like that. Getting rid of the dog and making it sound like he’s doing it for Kammi, when he’s really doing it for Mother. Has Kammi’s mother figured that out?
    The disc thuds at my side, spewing sand onto my skirt. I squint into the sun. “Hey, watch it.”
    I fling the Frisbee away, and the wind picks it up, arcs it toward the sun and down, straight for Mayur. Figures.
    The boy closest to me, I think it’s Loco, laughs. He thinks I meant to aim for Mayur. I shake my head.
    The relay continues. Every two times around the circle of boys, one of them shoots the Frisbee straight for Kammi. She catches it and passes it to her right, in a straight line, from the hip. Straight to Saco, who doesn’t seem to notice he’s the favored one. He slams the Frisbee on to another boy, hard enough that it makes a whizzing sound.
    The sun edges down the sky. Unlike Maine, where the light lingers past dusk, even in the winter, here the sun is out and then it’s just gone, as if someone pulls down a shade at the end of the day.
    When it’s dark, the servants stoke the fires. Three bonfires line the beach like search flares, just like the night they found Dad. I stare into the flames and watch the embers catch the breeze and float heavenward.
    The servants roast hot dogs and sausages on one of the bonfires. Mrs. Bindas waves us to the tent with the food.
“Such an American custom,” she says. “We thought you’d like it. Hot dogs and potato crisps, just like your Fourth of July, Independence Day, yes?” Mrs. Bindas asks as we all collect plates and napkins and move through the line. She says crisps instead of chips. Plates full, Kammi and I follow the boys to their fire, leaving the adults to gather around their own.
    Kammi sits beside me on a driftwood log the boys dragged up from the beach. She acts unsure, as if she may not want to. She presses her knees together and sits tall.
    The boys devour their hot dogs. They run crusts of buns along the rims of the plates, scooping up any mustard or hot dog juice. They go back for seconds. Kammi holds her bun in both hands, careful not to let the hot dog slip out or the mustard run down her fingers. One of the older boys, Klaus, throws a chip at Mayur, who ducks and tosses an empty soda bottle back. Mayur misses, but Klaus doesn’t even flinch.
    â€œHave you been to Mount Christoffel?” Kammi asks Saco.
    Mayur is the one who answers. “Yes,” he says, and shrugs. “When the cousins come, we always hike there. Don’t we?” The other boys all nod, looking at each other.
    â€œIs it very high?”
    â€œNo, not so high.” He looks at Kammi, her feet planted close together in the sand. “If you’re used to hiking.”
    Ha. Mayur talks about hiking like he talks about swimming. Kammi one-upped him last time, about the swim team,
but this time she doesn’t take him on. Maybe she thinks that since the boys outnumber her, Mayur won’t be so easy to defeat. Or maybe she doesn’t want to insult Saco.
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    Mrs. Bindas makes her way over, carrying a basket of marshmallows. She hands it to Mayur, along with a trash bag for our used plates, and gives him thin sticks to use for roasting. “Another American custom. We thought this might be fun.”
    After his mother leaves, Mayur rips open the bag of marshmallows.