“What does?” I ask like a total idiot.
“Sedona!” Jada finally says with a loud guffaw, the kind you hear in cartoons but don’t expect from real people. I love her laugh. I am the lowest life form in the universe.
“Thanks,” I add as an afterthought, which I only manage after clearing my throat a few times so Jada can’t hear the tears in my voice. “You know, for sending the pictures.”
“No problem. Mitch says hi,” she adds. Mitch is her boyfriend.
“Hi back,” I say, sighing.
Oh, the fun conversation we’re having.
We chat for a few minutes. I don’t tell her anything. I don’t ask if she read my email. I don’t ask for her advice. Jada does most of the talking. Mitch is visiting from his school and will spend Saturday with her. They’re up late playing Zombie Killers IV. Tomorrow they’ll watch old horror movies, drink chocolate milkshakes, and hold hands all day. Special. We finally say goodbye.
I toss another galet, trying to make it skip like I’ve seen people do on TV, but it plunges into the water with a wet plopping sound. Maybe it only works on lakes. Seagulls screech as they circle overhead, and white sails float over the expanse of turquoise in front of me, like dots on a big blue canvas. The waves make whooshing sounds. The heat makes me feel weak and almost dizzy. My hair feels so heavy. I don’t know why I came here, except maybe because of émile’s story I had the beach on the brain. Or maybe one day I’ll really hop on a ship and sail away. Where to, I don’t know.
“Why, hello,” a cheerful voice chirps in bubbly Southern English. It belongs to someone I know and don’t really want to hear. Valerie.
I glance up at the woman, wrapped in a pink terrycloth cover-up. Phil follows, puffing and wheezing with beads of sweat on his balding head. Thankfully, I don’t see Gavin.
I stand and brush sand from my jeans.
“Mind if we join you?” Phil says. His smile is fake.
Yes, I do mind. Just keep on walking, hillbillies.
But I shake my head no, because that’s what I do. I pretend. I stay on my feet. Phil places a folding chair on the pebble-filled sand and Valerie sits with a sigh.
“Such rocky beaches, here,” she says, smiling.
Again, I move my head, this time nodding in agreement.
Then silence, except for the whisper of the waves. I scratch at an itchy spot on my head, wondering if I should turn and walk away, but then Valerie speaks.
“Hon,” she says, with that sugary voice I now hate. Phil gazes out at the white dots of sails on the water.
“My niece has a problem, too. Not like yours, but . . . anyway, she stutters. She goes to a speech pathologist,” Valerie announces, proudly, like it’s a mark of honor in your family to need speech therapy.
I stare. How do I respond to that?
Phil clears his throat. Seagulls screech. Waves whoosh. Nobody says anything else for several seconds.
Oh, the fun conversation we’re having.
“Um, I have to go,” I mumble, and immediately feel the blood rush to my face. The words were mush.
“I have a date,” I add in a rush. “Uh, I . . . don’t want to be late.” I’m glad the words came out clear enough, but why did I have to make them rhyme? Who am I, Dr. Seuss? I’m still flushed, partly from the heat but mostly from embarrassment at how stupid I always sound.
“Oh, you have a date? How nice,” Valerie says. The look on Phil’s face is one of mild perplexity. Either he didn’t understand me, or he’s shocked that someone like me could have gotten a date.
I throw them a lame, weak little wave of my hand while I turn to walk away. Valerie and Phil say goodbye with obvious relief in their voices. They won’t be forced to endure a strained, embarrassed attempt at conversation with a girl who chews up all her sounds and spits out big wads of mangled words. My tennis shoes slide around on the galets as I make a non-graceful exit, happy that at least I’m escaping Val and Phil.
Shops blur past as I meander, not in any hurry. When I walk by “La Banane,” a wonderful, sweet smell wafts over and I’m suddenly dying for another grilled banana sandwich.
The tiny place is filled with people. I join the long line. While I wait, I can listen in to what everyone else is saying, and I can practice in my head. I’ll know exactly what to say and how to say it when it’s my turn. The thought gives me just enough courage to stay.
And my words don’t have to be perfect. I listen to some British tourists laugh as they try to order in French. The woman behind the counter laughs with them, but she’s kind. She helps them and gives them their sandwiches.
I can do this.