out of his pocket. Cree hears the metallic rattle of a spray paint can being shaken.
Cree dashes to the boat and grabs Ren’s arm. He tries to jerk the can out of Ren’s hand. But Ren’s got him by the wrist, turning Cree’s arm, burning the skin.
“You should be thanking me for taking the time to ornament her.”
“Fuck no,” Cree says.
“I’ll just come back another time. Make my mark.”
“No, you won’t,” Cree says. “This boat belonged to my pops and he’s dead. Everyone knows that a captain comes back to haunt his ship. So I’m hoping you won’t dare tagging here.”
Ren lets go and steps back. “Your daddy’s boat?” he says.
“It’s mine now,” Cree says. “I explained that.”
“Sure,” Ren says. “Sure. It’s cool.”
Cree hops on the boat and looks down at Ren. “You been following me of late?”
“Why would I do something like that?” Ren says. Then he climbs through the fence and exits the lot. Cree glances over to the alley, trying to follow Ren’s path down the street. But the kid vanishes, like he’d never been there at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T his is how you get ready for the vigil. These are the socks you choose—good luck green, the ones you wore when you were chosen for the lead in the school play in eighth grade. Then you remember the last time you wore them you had a fight with June. You wear red socks. This is the necklace you choose, the St. Christopher medallion instead of the gold cross from your confirmation because St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers and will bring June home.
The toilet paper tears jaggedly, so you tear it again until you are left with a straight line. You make sure the hand towels are hung symmetrically on the rack—something you’ve never done before. You’ve never even thought about the hand towels in the bathroom. The bathmat is flush to the tub. You place an even number of guest soaps in the soap dish. You turn them right side up.
You watch yourself getting ready, calculating the orchestra of small events that will set in motion the larger event. Everything is loaded with significance—the first song on the radio in the morning, June’s celebrity crush on the cover of a weekly magazine, the music blaring from a passing car. You are conscious of each of your actions, how you place books on your desk, the way you close the curtains, the arrangement of pillows on your bed, how your shoes line up in your closet. Nothing is left to chance. Details are magic.
Suddenly you do everything in order—size order, numerical order, alphabetical order. You dress from left to right, left shoe first, watch before rings, left arm in left sleeve. If you make a mistake you do it again. All your actions have a consequence, an equal and opposite reaction. If you exercise control, if you organize the world, things will fall into place, June will return.
Choose magic symbols that you write in the steam in mirrors, on the tile in the shower, on the varnish on the kitchen table. Choose sacred objects—ones that meant something to both you and June—that you carry everywhere, that you place next to your bed at night, even under the pillow. Pick secret words you chant under your breath, that you incant until you fall asleep.
Val checks her appearance in the mirror, then leans forward and kisses the glass, leaving a ChapStick smudge. This is June’s good luck gesture, her ritual before leaving any room on the way to an important event.
The city has shaken off the heat wave by the time the vigil for June takes place at the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary a week after Val’s rescue. It’s a Sunday and the congregation has decided to devote their traditional service to June. Across the street from the park, the people from the Houses are holding their summer reunion—a daylong festival of music and barbecue.
Coffey Park is buzzing—every square of grass claimed by a different family. Old-school hip-hop is being pumped from two
Cree dashes to the boat and grabs Ren’s arm. He tries to jerk the can out of Ren’s hand. But Ren’s got him by the wrist, turning Cree’s arm, burning the skin.
“You should be thanking me for taking the time to ornament her.”
“Fuck no,” Cree says.
“I’ll just come back another time. Make my mark.”
“No, you won’t,” Cree says. “This boat belonged to my pops and he’s dead. Everyone knows that a captain comes back to haunt his ship. So I’m hoping you won’t dare tagging here.”
Ren lets go and steps back. “Your daddy’s boat?” he says.
“It’s mine now,” Cree says. “I explained that.”
“Sure,” Ren says. “Sure. It’s cool.”
Cree hops on the boat and looks down at Ren. “You been following me of late?”
“Why would I do something like that?” Ren says. Then he climbs through the fence and exits the lot. Cree glances over to the alley, trying to follow Ren’s path down the street. But the kid vanishes, like he’d never been there at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T his is how you get ready for the vigil. These are the socks you choose—good luck green, the ones you wore when you were chosen for the lead in the school play in eighth grade. Then you remember the last time you wore them you had a fight with June. You wear red socks. This is the necklace you choose, the St. Christopher medallion instead of the gold cross from your confirmation because St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers and will bring June home.
The toilet paper tears jaggedly, so you tear it again until you are left with a straight line. You make sure the hand towels are hung symmetrically on the rack—something you’ve never done before. You’ve never even thought about the hand towels in the bathroom. The bathmat is flush to the tub. You place an even number of guest soaps in the soap dish. You turn them right side up.
You watch yourself getting ready, calculating the orchestra of small events that will set in motion the larger event. Everything is loaded with significance—the first song on the radio in the morning, June’s celebrity crush on the cover of a weekly magazine, the music blaring from a passing car. You are conscious of each of your actions, how you place books on your desk, the way you close the curtains, the arrangement of pillows on your bed, how your shoes line up in your closet. Nothing is left to chance. Details are magic.
Suddenly you do everything in order—size order, numerical order, alphabetical order. You dress from left to right, left shoe first, watch before rings, left arm in left sleeve. If you make a mistake you do it again. All your actions have a consequence, an equal and opposite reaction. If you exercise control, if you organize the world, things will fall into place, June will return.
Choose magic symbols that you write in the steam in mirrors, on the tile in the shower, on the varnish on the kitchen table. Choose sacred objects—ones that meant something to both you and June—that you carry everywhere, that you place next to your bed at night, even under the pillow. Pick secret words you chant under your breath, that you incant until you fall asleep.
Val checks her appearance in the mirror, then leans forward and kisses the glass, leaving a ChapStick smudge. This is June’s good luck gesture, her ritual before leaving any room on the way to an important event.
The city has shaken off the heat wave by the time the vigil for June takes place at the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary a week after Val’s rescue. It’s a Sunday and the congregation has decided to devote their traditional service to June. Across the street from the park, the people from the Houses are holding their summer reunion—a daylong festival of music and barbecue.
Coffey Park is buzzing—every square of grass claimed by a different family. Old-school hip-hop is being pumped from two
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