Nantucket Blue

Fifteen





I COULDN’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT. My nerves were jangling from almost being hit by that Navigator. There was a fluttery, unsettling lightness in my body that made me want to hug myself just to feel my own weight. The pillow was too squishy and the sheets were scratchy against my skin. I tried counting the roses on the wallpaper, but I couldn’t get past ten without my mind wandering back to Jules or Jay.

Earlier that day, I’d bought a chutney-and-cheddar sandwich from Something Natural, a place Gavin said was the best on the island. The thing was so huge it was like two sandwiches, and I’d only been able to eat a quarter of it, saving the rest for later. That sandwich seemed like the best thing in the world around 2 a.m., when my stomach remembered about lunch and dinner and was demanding both. I walked quietly into the dark kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which Gavin kept gleaming and clean. Where was my sandwich? My perfect, delicious sandwich, full of such odd flavors I almost couldn’t believe I liked it. I’d put it right here, I thought, touching the empty shelf as if the sandwich were only momentarily invisible. I opened the crisper and the meats-and-cheeses drawer, mystified in the cold breath of the refrigerator.

Behind me, the floor creaked, though softer than when Liz was marching around the kitchen—almost as if it were bending under the weight of cat or a child. It creaked again, even more softly, as if it weren’t really being stepped on but moved over. Oh my god. I heard breathing. I froze, my feet nailed to the floor. A cool, silvery sweat lined my body. I don’t believe in ghosts, I told myself as I stared ahead. But the chords of my neck were as stiff as cables. My heart was thwacking. I let go of the fridge door and told my feet to move. My eyes shifted to the kitchen door, which had swung shut behind me on my way in, and I wondered if my lead arms would be able to push it open as I took my first giant step toward it.

“Hey, didn’t mean to scare you,” said a voice.

I flung my hand on the light switch, an act of bravery worthy of getting my picture in the paper. My other hand rested on my jumping heart. I turned to see a guy with messy brown hair, a crooked smile, and a wrinkled shirt sitting at the kitchen table. His back was to me, and he was twisted around in his seat, chewing. A pair of crutches leaned against the table.

“I’m George Gust,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked too old for college but too young to be a dad. “Are you staying here, too?”

“I work here.” I leaned against the wall and took deep breaths. “Sorry, I thought you were a ghost.”

“Is this place haunted?” he asked, completely serious.

“Supposedly. I don’t believe it, though.”

He raised an eyebrow, like, Sure you don’t. “Well, I apologize again. I thought at first you were sleepwalking, and you know how they say you should never wake up a sleepwalker? Anyway, my bad.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Cricket Thompson,” I said, taking his hand and catching a full view of his plate. “And you’re eating my sandwich.”