The Summer of Moonlight Secrets Page 3

  “Oh!” I hand the little bit I’ve done to her, determined to pay more attention. “You’re really good at this. How long have you been knitting?”

  Her eyes fastened to the needles, she goes, “I don’t know, a long time. My grandma taught me.” She hands my scarf back to me, which is about two inches long now. “She wanted me to have something to do, since I stay indoors a lot.” She picks up her needles. “I have allergies.”

  “Allergies!” I drop another stitch. Putting my knitting in my lap, I glance at her. She doesn’t look like she has a disease or anything. Well, maybe she is kind of slim and sort of pale, but I expect that’s from being indoors all the time. “That’s terrible!”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not bad. My parents are like experts when it comes to medicine, pollen counts, and allergens. When I was little, my mom kept my stuffed animals in bags.”

  “Bags?” They wouldn’t have been able to breathe. Sure, I know they don’t need to, but when you’re little, you think they do. That’s why you also feed them.

  “To keep the dust off.” She looks at me. “But none of my stuff is in bags now. I mainly get stuck indoors a lot.”

  I think about that and nod. “You’ll be stuck indoors anyway,” I say. “This is the rainy season.” When she looks confused, I explain. “There’re two seasons in Florida: hot, and hot and rainy.” Then I say dramatically, “You’re in the jungle now!”

  She takes her eyes off her knitting and looks at me wide-eyed.

  I like a good audience. “Yes,” I hiss. “Alligators! Fire ants! Lizards!” Melanie sometimes hangs lizards by their jaws from her earlobes, trying to gross me out. It works.

  “What about monkeys?” she asks. “Monkeys live in the jungle.”

  “Monkeys!” I nod. “But not here. In Silver Springs. They made the Tarzan movies there a long time ago and the monkeys escaped. Now they’re all wild, living in the treetops.”

  “Wow!”

  Of course this makes me like her more. I like anyone who appreciates what I’ve got to say. Plus, look how nice she is, sharing her good yarn with me and everything.

  “Welcome to Florida,” I say with a big smile, then quote the slogan: “The rules are different here.”

  9

  Chase

  Guests Prohibited. Yeah, right. I step over the cord and keep going. The way I see it, I have full rein now that I’m stuck with this stupid cast. It took me so long to get dressed today that Dad offered to zip up my shorts. No way, I said. I can do it myself. He hung around until after lunch, but then he had to interview the guy at the bungee jumping place.

  Third floor looks the same as before, except someone skinny is walking down the hall. Ha! It’s that girl who yelled at me—Allie Jo, I think her name is. That’s what I think I heard when everyone was buzzing around me and my broken arm. I slip real quiet into the first room, lean toward the doorway, and moan like a ghost.

  She gasps. Aw, man, too funny.

  I wait a few seconds, then, “Woo-oo-ooo, woo-oo-ooo!”

  Silence. I’m cracking myself up. I give her a minute, then lean out again. “Woo-oo—”

  “Gotcha!” She whirls around the door frame and we bonk heads.

  “OW!” I rub my head. Better than letting her know she scared me.

  “Oh, my gosh, are you okay?” She holds both hands by her mouth. After I nod, she straightens up. “You need to get off this floor. You’re not allowed to be here.” She leans back into the hallway and scans it nervously.

  The corner of my lip pulls up and I stand back from her. “If I can’t be up here, you can’t be up here.”

  “I live here,” she says like she owns the place.

  “So do I.” I lift my chin. “For the summer anyway.”

  She opens her mouth, clamps it shut, and crosses her arms. In a loud, booming voice, she shouts, “You can’t be sneaking around up here!” Then she does another quick scan of the hallway.

  “Why’re you barking at me?” I yell. “Why do you keep looking down the hall?”

  Her head gives a sudden jerk. I make a move to cut through the doorway, but she tries to block me.

  I grin. Then I fake left and bolt right.

  “Hey!”

  She pounds down the hall after me, but I’ve got a big head start. I turn around and jog backward. “Come on! Catch me!”

  But she’s not laughing. Her face looks panicked. When she catches up to me, I swear she’s blinking back tears. Way to go, Chase.

  This is how you can sometimes apologize: don’t actually say you’re sorry; just act like everything’s normal and keep talking even if the other person ignores you. It works. They usually get tired of being mad at you.

  “What are you doing up here anyway?” I ask her.

  If looks could kill, I’d be under a headstone.

  I gesture with my cast. “You want to sign it?” Everyone likes to sign casts.

  Except maybe her. Gamma rays emit from her eyes. She purses her lips.

  “Come on,” I say. “I can’t go around with just D-A-D.”

  She smirks. “What about M-O-M?”

  I don’t let that break my stride as we head down the stairs. “M-O-M isn’t H-E-R-E,” I say. Then I quickly add, “She’s visiting some other people.”

  We step around the banister to the front desk and she rings the bell. Ding, ding, ding.

  The sandy-haired guy steps out from the office, his face expectant until he sees Allie Jo. He puts his hands on the desk and raises an eyebrow.

  “Hey, Clay!” she says. “Got any markers?”

  Clay cracks a lopsided smile, opens a drawer, and hands her a box. “What are you up to now?” he asks.

  “I’m signing his cast,” she says, rooting through the box.

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” he says, and he glances at me. “I skateboard down at the park. Some wicked rails down there. But if you’re looking for something really exciting, you should try skiboarding.”

  The marker squeaks over my cast as Allie Jo signs it.

  “Not this summer,” I say with true regret.

  Allie Jo stands back. “All done!”

  I look down. “Pink!” Allie Jo Jackson in huge bubble gum pink letters. I could throttle her.

  Clay laughs. “Too late, dude—that stuff’s permanent!”

  I give Allie Jo a murderous look, but she snickers, tossing the marker back in the box.

  I can’t let that pink dominate my cast. “Hey Clay, want to sign it?”

  So when we leave the front desk, my cast is looking better, and by better I mean more populated—I don’t mean pink.

  “I could just color over your signature,” I say to her. I have no idea where we’re walking to; I’m just following her. “Dudes shouldn’t wear pink.”

  “Pink is just red with white in it,” she says. “Why do boys always make such a big deal about that?”

  She stops in front of the dining room and grabs a peppermint out of a bowl. “You want one?” she asks, grabbing another before I can even nod.

  I grasp one end of the plastic with my casted fingertips, then try to twist it open with my other hand. After a few seconds, Allie Jo takes it from me, opens it, and hands me the unwrapped candy.

  I hate feeling helpless. “Thanks.”

  She shrugs and skips ahead of me, turning into a dark corridor with some stairs. As she goes up, I stand at the bottom. I can’t see all the way up, but I can sure smell the mildew.

  She turns around at the first landing. “You know how to play rummy?”

  “Yeah.” Everyone knows how to play rummy.

  “Well, come on then.”

  Ha! Looks like I’m not prohibited after all.

  10

  Allie Jo

  “Oh, my gosh!” Chase says when I lead him into the nanny quarters.

  I brought him up the service stairs because I didn’t think he’d manage the secret nanny staircase on account of it being so narrow. Besides, I don’t know if I want to
give away all my secrets.

  As we pass down the hallway, the flutter of wings beats over our heads.

  “Duck!” Chase yells, and we both drop as a bird swoops over our heads and floats down the hall.

  “No—seagull,” I say.

  He pinches his eyebrows together; then he gets it. “Ha, ha.”

  I’ve got a better one. “If a gull from the sea is a seagull, what is a gull from the bay?”

  He falls for it. “A baygull.”

  “Right! A bagel.”

  He shakes his head.

  As I lead him into the garden room, a squirrel skitters out the window and down the long jacaranda branch. A black swallowtail flits right past Chase’s nose and I watch his gaze follow it to the vines along the ceiling.

  “This place is wild!” he says.

  “Yup.” If I was wearing suspenders, I’d snap them. “That vine’s called kudzu,” I tell him. “It grows a foot a day—that’s half an inch every hour.”

  He opens his mouth real big and crunches his eyebrows down. “No way!”

  “Yes way!” I say, pushing a tendril away from me. “That’s why we don’t leave dogs sleeping in the yard overnight. The kudzu would have them covered and tied up by morning. You don’t believe me, just look out your window when you’re driving. You’ll see all kinds of things under that kudzu now that you know about it.” I look off to the side. “Yessir, the vine that ate the South.”

  “Whoa,” he murmurs.

  As I mentioned before, I do like an appreciative audience. But when I turn to him, I see it isn’t my story he’s reacting to; it’s my collection.

  Whenever I find something worth keeping, I bring it up here and add it to my collection. Stuff that looks expensive I turn in to Lost and Found, which Clay keeps in a box under the front desk, but even that stuff gets passed on after thirty days, and I get first pick. You wouldn’t believe what people leave behind: wedding rings, cameras, shoes …

  “A tape recorder!” Chase exclaims. He bends down and grabs it. “Let’s record something.”

  “No!” I swipe it away from him and sit on the carpet. “It’s already got something recorded on it.”

  This tape recorder sat in Lost and Found for two months before Clay let me have it. It belonged to a girl. I know this because the cassette inside is marked Isabelle, April 1983—four years ago. It’s kind of like a diary, and she sings nursery rhymes on it too. Sometimes, I sit up here and listen to Isabelle. If she ever came back, we’d probably be best friends because I already know everything about her.

  “Listen.” I press the Play button.

  Isabelle’s voice comes out loud and clear:

  My body lies over the ocean,

  My body lies over the sea.

  My body lies over the ocean,

  Oh, bring back my body to me.

  “That’s supposed to be Bonnie, not body!” Chase says.

  “Shh!” Gosh, you can tell by listening that Isabelle was only about five or six when she made this tape. It’s okay if she gets a word wrong.

  Bring back,

  Bring back,

  Oh, bring back my body to me-ee-ee.

  Bring back,

  Bring back,

  Oh, bring back my body to me.

  I click off the tape recorder and glance at him. “There’s a lot more,” I say, but I can tell he’s not that interested in Isabelle.

  That’s okay. I know that she went to Disney World and wished she could spend the night in the Swiss Family Treehouse. Her baby sister, Cassie, giggled a lot. One time, Isabelle put the microphone right by Cassie’s mouth and Cassie laughed and laughed. I grin every time I get to that part. And sometimes she recorded her older sister, Karen—a teenager.

  But boys don’t care about sisters and secrets.

  I push the tape recorder back and get the cards out. I beat Chase at two hands of rummy; then he gets lucky and plays a set of queens, a set of threes, four-five-six of hearts, and discards a card. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I’d accuse him of cheating.

  Then I do a card trick, a cool one where I make his card come to the top.

  “How’d you do that?” His face is one big question mark.

  I just smile and put the cards back into the box.

  11

  Chase

  Dad and I are watching a video he rented called Teen Wolf. It’s about this high school guy who’s an okay basketball player until he turns into a werewolf—then he’s suddenly the most popular guy on campus. And his dad’s a werewolf too. But his mom’s dead.

  I’d rather have a dead mother than one who ran off. If your mom’s dead, people feel sorry for you and the other moms treat you like an adopted son. But if they know your mom up and left, all they do is get really fake and pry for information: Where does she live? Do you see her often? What does she do for a living?

  Why? I want to ask. Are you planning to run off too? I just want them to shut up. And besides, I don’t know where she is. The last picture of her with me, I’m toddling away and she’s laughing, grabbing me by the back of my diaper.

  Yeah, a dead mother would be better.

  Scott, the teen wolf, is getting ready for the final game of the season when a big snore rumbles from the other hotel bed. I toss a pillow, hitting Dad in the stomach.

  He springs up. “Huh? What?” Dazed and confused.

  “Can’t hear the TV,” I say. “You sound like a train.”

  Dad smirks. “I’m kinda hungry.”

  We ate supper a couple of hours ago. Nothing like stone crab; definitely better than the orange macaroni and cheese I make from the box at home.

  “I’m kinda hungry too,” I say, thinking of the dessert menu at the hotel’s dining room. Hmm, chocolate cheesecake or the Dusty Miller Sundae? The boy leaned his head, perplexed by the decision he must now make. Oh, that’s good. I’ll have to use that line in a story for school.

  Dad tosses his wallet to me. “Go get us a snack from the vending machine.”

  I’m looking for some microwave popcorn, but the second-floor vending machine’s empty, so I head on down to the first floor’s machine. Do I want regular, extra butter, or cheese?

  It’s gonna be either D2 or D3 because regular’s boring, I think, when a girl’s voice pops up behind me.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  I turn around. Huge, blue eyes. That’s the first thing I notice. Then her blond hair. Pink lips.

  I smile and stare like a doofus, forgetting to speak.

  She smiles. “Do you mind if I just get something? I already know what I want.”

  “Go ahead” are the witty words I say. I move to the side—what a bonehead—and watch as she presses D2.

  Thump! She grabs it, says thanks over her shoulder, and bounces down the hall.

  Hey, what’s your name? I’m getting popcorn too! Movie night, huh? All the things I could have said now roll into my brain. Oh, well. I hit D2 and head back up to the room.

  When I get there, the credits are rolling.

  “Oh!” Dad holds up the remote. “Want me to rewind? I wasn’t paying attention.”

  I rattle off the plastic and stick our popcorn in the microwave. “Let me guess—he makes the winning shot, defeats his enemy, and gets the girl.” The kernels begin to pop.

  “More or less,” Dad says.

  Rat-a-tat-tat. The kernels fire off, bursting in the bag.

  “Rewind,” I say. Blue eyes and blond hair. I settle in for a happy ending.

  12

  Allie Jo

  The next morning, I catch a glimpse of someone tall with long, black hair at the back of the dining room. Half jumping out of my seat, I knock into the table, then watch as one of our cooks opens the door to the kitchen, his long, black hair swinging in a ponytail.

  “What?” Mom asks, holding her coffee cup in two hands. We’re just finishing our breakfast.

  I sink into my chair. “Nothing,” I say. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

  Mom su
ddenly sits straighter. “There’s someone you know!”

  I twist in my seat. “Sophie!” I call out across the dining room. She’s with her parents. I wave them over.

  “Allie Jo!” Mom sets her cup down. “Don’t yell—you’ll disturb the other guests.”

  A bunch of old ladies take up three tables and I can spot the hearing aids from here. The only other guests are a couple with a baby in a high chair, and the baby’s making a lot more noise than I am.

  “Hello, Becky!” Mrs. Duran greets Mom. Then she turns to me. “And how are you today, Allie Jo?”

  She has kind blue eyes with crinkles at the sides.

  I smile at her. “I’m fine.” I like her because she’s Sophie’s mom and I like Sophie.

  Mom invites them to join us; then the fathers start to make a big production of pulling tables together, since we’re at a four-top.

  “No, no!” I say, and quickly get up, grabbing my plate and fork. “I’m done.”

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Duran asks.

  The moment they sit down, they’ll talk about Oh, this weather! and Did you see those gas prices? and other boring stuff, like on the news. “Yes, I’m sure,” I say.

  “Can I come with you?” Sophie asks in a rush.

  “Honey,” Mrs. Duran says, “you haven’t eaten.”

  Sophie makes a face and touches her middle. “I have a stomachache.”

  They decide that Sophie will meet them in their room at eleven thirty to go to a museum. Until then, Mrs. Duran says, “Have a good time!” She pulls Sophie in for a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Mo-om!” Sophie steals a quick glance at me.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “My mom does the same thing.”

  Sophie smiles. “I’m almost a teenager, you know.”

  “Me too!” I’ll be thirteen in one year and seven and a half months.

  As we pass the kitchen, I push open the swinging door and spot Chef. “Got any tuna fish?”

  He hands me a little to-go container already filled. “Enjoy,” he says.