The Summer of Moonlight Secrets Page 8

  That shiver again. Her touch. Questions crowd my mind: What happened? Did someone get hurt?

  As if she could read my mind, she says, “No one was hurt. Things just … changed. I can never go home now.”

  I wait, but she doesn’t say anything else.

  30

  Chase

  “Isn’t that wild about Tara?” I ask, licking the chocolate ice cream as it melts. Allie Jo and I are sitting on a little porch in back of the hotel’s ice cream place; we’re taking a break from the brass. Some pigeons strut around, no doubt waiting on the bread Allie’s brought in a bag.

  “Yeah,” she says, eating ice cream from a cup. Her advantage: she can eat it slowly. My advantage: I can eat with one hand. She takes a spoonful, swallows, and looks at me. “Have you ever thought about running away?”

  I was seven years old. We’d spent the whole week in school making stuff for Mother’s Day. “Bring in your mom’s picture,” Mrs. Harris, my first-grade teacher, had said, “and we’ll paste it on the pots.”

  I raised my hand. “What if you don’t have a mom?”

  Her face collapsed. I didn’t know it then, but of course all the teachers knew about that; she’d just forgotten. Rushing to my desk, she put her hand on my shoulder and bent down to my level. “You can bring in a picture of your dad,” she said cheerfully.

  “Dads don’t want flowers!” I knocked the pot off my desk. If it had been clay, it would’ve broken into a million pieces.

  She picked up the plastic pot and said, “He’ll love it.” Then she clapped her hands at some other boys who were fooling around.

  The tissue paper was dumb, only girl colors—mint green, soft pink, baby blue. I took some sheets of green, darkened them with a marker, and carefully cut the edges into three pointy shapes. A black pipe cleaner served as the stem.

  Mrs. Harris waded through our desks, making admiring noises. “Roses,” “daffodils,” “daisies,” my classmates answered brightly when she asked about their cotton candy flowers.

  Then she arrived at my desk. “Chase!” She did not sound pleased. “You were supposed to make flowers. What is that?”

  I looked around the room at their stupid flowers. “Poison ivy,” I said.

  A few kids laughed. I squinted my eyes at them and made them shut up.

  “No,” she said, lifting my perfectly made plant from the desk. “You need to follow instructions.” After putting my poison ivy in her closet, she came back to me with pink, yellow, and blue tissue paper. “Even dads like pretty things.”

  On the way home, I threw it into a creek.

  “Yeah,” I say to Allie Jo now. “I’ve thought about running away before.”

  She’s down to the bottom scoop in her cup. She plays with her spoon, then looks at me. “Did you ever do it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to leave my dad alone.”

  She seems to think about that as we finish our ice cream. She grabs the bag of bread, hands me a few slices, and we start tossing shreds out. The pigeons flock in, the bigger ones pushing out the smaller ones.

  Leaning forward on her rocking chair, Allie Jo asks, “Why do you think Tara ran away?”

  “I don’t know.” I don’t know why people run away.

  A fat pigeon with angry eyes waddles closer. He looks like a general. I give him a piece of crust. Pigeons have pink legs. No wonder he’s so mad.

  “How come birds fly south for the winter?” she asks in a singsong voice.

  I groan. “Okay, how come?”

  She throws out a handful of bread, trying to reach the smaller birds in back. “Because it’s too far to walk.”

  I drop my head, shake it, then look at her. “Allie Jo, we need to get you some new material.”

  31

  Allie Jo

  Instead of having us finish the brass, Dad sets a box of flyers for Taste of Hope on the desk and asks me to deliver it to Mrs. Brimble. “Here you go,” he says, handing me some money. I count it and see he’s given enough for both Chase and me to ride the bus and get lemonades.

  But Chase doesn’t want to ride the bus. That’s how I end up on his skateboard while he carries the box.

  Why, oh, why did I agree to a skateboarding lesson?

  “I can’t do this!” I yell.

  “Yes, you can!” he hollers back.

  I’m riding the skateboard down the main boulevard. It’s just a little bit of a hill, but, believe me, that’s enough. Every crack and every stone in the sidewalk tries to bump me off, which they almost do, but even though I’m wobbling, I’m still on.

  Finally, the ground levels out and I hop off.

  “What are you doing?” Chase asks. He’s not out of breath even though he’s been jogging this whole time. A sheen of sweat covers his face, but if anything, he seems like he’s got more energy, not less.

  “I’m getting off,” I say. “There’s no more hill.”

  Chase grins. “You can’t depend on hills for skateboarding. You have to make your own motion.” He hands the box to me, hops on the board, and pushes a few times with his foot; he’s gliding. It looks so easy when he does it. Then he pops the board up, grabs it, and looks back at me. “See?”

  He waits while I catch up to him. The bus passes us, blowing hot exhaust on me. I watch all those air-conditioned seats breeze by.

  Boy, am I glad I’ve got that money. A tall glass of lemonade is what I’m after. “Are you supposed to be riding that skateboard?” I ask.

  “I’m not riding it,” he says. “I’m just showing you stuff.” He takes the box back. “Try again.”

  Sighing, I plant my right foot squarely on the board and pump with my left. Surprisingly, skateboarding over level ground is easier than riding down the hill. I think it has something to do with control.

  “Doing good!” Chase yells behind me.

  This is all right. Better than walking, for two reasons: number one, it’s faster; number two, I’m making my own breeze by sailing on the board.

  When we get up to the intersection, I put my foot down to stop, but my flip-flop curls under and I scrape my toes on the concrete. I stumble and fall off—visions of getting run over hit me—and the board skitters off the curb and gets stuck in a grate. Someone pounds their car horn at me while making the turn. It sounds like, Dummy! You’re a dummy!

  “Idiots,” Chase says as he catches up to me. “You all right?”

  My knee and ankle are scratched up, but there’s only a little bit of blood. Now I can understand how he got hurt. “I’m kinda done with this,” I say. “Besides, Brimble’s is right there.”

  He glances across the street, and I grin, knowing I’m saved.

  A chain of bells tinkles as we open Brimble’s door. Ah, air-conditioning. The bells are really Christmas décor; so are the white lights lining most roofs and porches downtown. It’s part of what gives this place so much character.

  “Hello, Allie Jo.” Old Mrs. Brimble comes out from her sitting area. She’s got a TV back there and a couple of comfy chairs. “You have something for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hand her the box with stuff for the festival.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met you before, young man.” Her eyes twinkle at Chase.

  He cocks a smile and looks at her through his hair, which he flips out of his eyes.

  “I’m Chase,” he says, extending his hand across the counter.

  “Oh, well”—Mrs. Brimble stretches her own hand and shakes his—“aren’t you something?”

  Chase laughs and looks down at his feet before looking up. “Thank you,” he says.

  I tell her we want two ice-cold lemonades, but before I can pay, Chase pulls some bills from his pocket and puts the change in the tip jar.

  “Well!” Mrs. Brimble says; then, in a stage whisper, “I like your young man!”

  “What? He’s not my—”

  “It’s okay, honey. You enjoy those lemonades!”
Her eyes sparkle like she knows something.

  I frown as I turn away from the counter, but Chase smirks.

  “It’s not funny,” I say. “She thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “That’s why it’s funny,” Chase says.

  He starts for a table, but I head for the door. “Let’s sit outside,” I say. I don’t want any more of Mrs. Brimble’s lovey-dovey talk. The bells tinkle after us.

  We sit on white rockers and sip our lemonade. Fans spin lazily over our heads. One thing about Mrs. Brimble—she’s a hard worker. None of her tables or chairs are sticky, and that’s a challenge when you’re running an ice-cream store.

  A few cars pass through the light as it changes. People, mostly ladies, stroll along the sidewalk with fancy boutique bags.

  “Uh-oh.” I shrink into my rocker.

  “What?” Chase leans forward. “What?”

  “Don’t look at them,” I say. “But see those three girls coming? They’re from my school.”

  Chase looks confused. “So? Don’t you want to say hi to them?”

  Jennifer, Heather, and Lori—the top girls in school. “I can’t say hi to them—they’re the popular people.”

  He shakes his head like I’m the one confused. So I say, “They kick my backpack and one of them slapped my shoulder because I sat in the bus seat she was saving. I didn’t even know she was saving it.”

  They’re getting closer. Too late to run back in; I turn my head to Chase. “Pretend like we’re talking, okay?” I put my lemonade down. I don’t want to be sucking on a straw when they pass.

  “I hate people like that,” Chase says.

  My whole body tenses. “They might hear you!”

  Then he laughs like I’ve just told the funniest joke he ever heard in the whole world. He flashes his eyebrows at me, and then I realize he wants me to laugh too, so I do. Except I make my laugh not as loud as his, since I am the one who supposedly told the joke.

  “Hi, Allie Jo,” Jennifer says. She’s talking to me? They stop dead in front of us. Jennifer smiles like she’s in a toothpaste commercial.

  I narrow my eyes. “Hi.”

  “Who’s your friend?” She turns her Medusa eyes on me.

  I hate giving information to the enemy. I mutter, “Chase.”

  Her face becomes as sunny as a daisy and she turns it, probably trying to show her best side—not that she even has one—and says, “Hi, Chase!”

  “H’lo.” He acts polite but NOT INTERESTED.

  Then she starts talking, sweet like syrup, as if she and I have always been friends.

  Heather and Lori get in on it too, all How’s your summer? and What have you been up to? like they’ve never snickered behind my back.

  “You should invite us up sometime,” Jennifer says. She looks directly at Chase. He tosses the hair out of his eyes, and I swear, those girls practically melt.

  “Well, I—”

  “We have to go now.” Jennifer links arms with Heather and Lori, and they fall into each other, giggling as they walk away. Jennifer looks over her shoulder at Chase, probably knowing how her long, blond hair spills just right over her bare shoulder. “See you later.”

  He nods at her, which sends her into titters, and they disappear around the corner.

  I cross my arms and slam back into my rocker. “I hate them! They’re so fake.”

  “Who cares about them?” Chase asks.

  “Not me,” I say. And I don’t. What bothers me is the way Jennifer acts like she’s got a big secret over us mere mortals.

  Mrs. Brimble comes out holding a glass of iced tea. “You wouldn’t mind if an old lady joins you, would you, now?”

  We laugh.

  “You’re not an old lady!” Well, she is, but still, I would rather be sitting with an old lady than be put down by a bunch of stuck-up girls.

  She sets herself down beside us. “You’re not from here, are you?” she asks Chase.

  I watch him as he gives his carefully worded answers about his family. His face does not give him away at all, like he’s had lots of practice lying about his mom. Though when he looks back at me, his eyes glitter with the truth.

  32

  Chase

  Allie Jo and I sit on the backseat of the city bus. Everyone knows the best ride is in the back—you get all the bumps. “Thanks for not saying anything about my mom.”

  She nods. “How do bees get to school?” she asks. “On the school buzz.” When I don’t laugh, she looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. Then she asks, “What’s it like not having a mom?”

  I take a big breath and sigh. “I don’t know.” How would I? Nothing to compare it with. “It’s kind of an empty house, you know. I’m alone a lot.”

  She acts like she knows what I’m talking about. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t have a lot of friends; I said I don’t have a mother.”

  Good going, Chase. I can see the hurt in Allie Jo’s eyes.

  “Why did the turkey cross the road?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  “He didn’t,” I say. “He was too chicken.”

  “Ha, ha,” she says.

  I elbow her. “C’mon, you know you’ll be telling that one later.”

  She goes, “I do have friends, you know. Just not a whole bunch. And definitely not those girls we saw.”

  “That’s why you wanted to ride the bus, right? You didn’t want those girls to see you. You’re hiding.”

  Her mouth opens and an expression crosses her face before she switches on an angry look. Too late; I already saw it—the look of truth.

  “You shouldn’t be bothered by them. Why do you even care?”

  “Because they’re popular.” Her eyes bug out, like this means something.

  The bus stops and picks up two dudes wearing skullcaps and black T-shirts. Warm air whooshes in when the door closes after them. They pass us; one dude nods at me after seeing my skateboard.

  “Those girls probably pick their noses when no one’s looking and breathe in each other’s farts.” I crack up. Boogers and butts usually work, but farts are always funny. Allie Jo must be picturing it too because she starts laughing.

  “Hey,” she says, “are you coming to Taste of Hope? Sophie will be there.”

  “Sophie’s going?”

  She smiles. “She’s helping me pass out samples.” Then she slaps her leg. “You should help too! It’s really fun and there’re all kinds of food, which you get for free of course, and some places even give stuff out like little flashlights or key chains and—”

  “Yeah, yeah! I’ll come.” It sounds like fun. Besides, “Does Sophie like me?” Oh, dude. You totally blabbed. I try to play it cool, shift my skateboard and stuff. I steal a glance at Allie Jo.

  “I can’t tell you,” she says, doing that lip-scrunching thing girls do. “I never tell secrets.”

  I nod and don’t say another word, but if she can’t tell me, that means only one thing—Sophie does like me! A weird sensation floods my chest and I suddenly feel like I do when I’m flying off a ramp.

  I feel so good, it doesn’t even bother me when we get off at the hotel and Allie Jo’s mom walks off the porch and gives her a hug. It doesn’t bother me at all.

  33

  Allie Jo

  “You mind if I sit on the veranda?” I ask Mom and Dad after supper.

  Mom looks at me oddly. “This is getting to be a regular habit with you. What’s so interesting out there?”

  My heart quickens. “Nothing! It’s just relaxing, you know, moon, stars, that sort of thing.” I lick my lips real quick. “So can I go?”

  Mom scrapes a plate; Dad clears the milk. “Yes, go ahead,” Mom says.

  I give them both quick pecks and dash away before they can change their minds.

  I hope I see Tara tonight. I can’t stop thinking about her. Neither can Chase.

  Throughout the day, we’d pieced together what we
knew about her: she was from Ireland or Scotland but grew up in America; she has friends at wherever she’s from; something bad happened; no one was hurt, but whatever happened, she ran away and now she can’t go back home.

  “And what about how she talks,” Chase pointed out.

  I love her accent and the lilt of her voice.

  But Chase went on to say it wasn’t just her accent. “It’s the way she talks, like all sophisticated.”

  True, but I like that too. I think it makes her sound wise and knowing. She doesn’t speak like a normal teenager, but I guess that’s because she isn’t from around here.

  I told him my stepmother theory on why Tara was running away and how that could explain why she has only one outfit.

  He shook his head slowly, then snapped to. “It means she ran away suddenly, like not planning it.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Yes! Whatever happened, she had to get away right then.” But for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything so bad that someone would have to run away with just the clothes on her back.

  I’m still wondering as I close the suite door behind me, leaving Mom and Dad behind. I steal into the service tower, slip outside, and sit by the springs. Crickets and frogs murmur into the night air.

  Taking a deep breath, I lean back and let it out slowly.

  I wonder what it’s like to be a runaway.

  The springhead bubbles and I kick the water. Images of Tara coming out of the springs flit through my mind: Tara slicing through the water that first afternoon I saw her, and later, Tara emerging from the moonlit springs.

  Clouds pass over the moon.

  I rise slowly. My toes curl over the edge of the dock. Then I jump.

  I plunge into the ice-cold water, bubbles and movement swirling around me. My whole system is in shock. When my toes feel the pebbly bottom, I push off underwater, toward the depths of the springhead. I expect to glide like Tara, but my clothes billow and catch water, weighing me down. Strands of algae curl around my foot. I shriek underwater, losing important oxygen.