“Since when do you watch the news?” Avery asked.
“Only since it involves my best friend!” Emma sat down and got settled again with a magazine. “Do you think any of them have had sex? And like forgotten?”
“That would be such a waste,” Avery said. “I mean, to finally decide to do that and get it out of the way and then not know?”
“Seriously,” Emma said.
And Avery sat wondering about Lucas. And Scarlett. But she mostly tried to push the idea of it out of her mind. They were only a year older than her, and tons of kids waited longer than that. She grabbed Emma’s magazine and said, “All right, lady. Let’s hear this audition song of yours.”
“Now? Here?”
“All the world’s a stage, my dear.”
Emma pulled her tank dress on over her swimsuit and stood by the pool steps and sang “When I Grow Up” from Matilda the Musical, which everyone had wanted to be the school play, but it wasn’t allowed for some annoying rights reason. Emma was pretty much nailing it, and Avery was suddenly very grateful for her sunglasses because it was a weirdly sad song about how things will be better when you’re grown up and, frankly, she wasn’t so sure. She felt herself bloating with emotion and willed it back down.
Cheers erupted from a distance when Emma was done. Avery got up and joined her looking out toward the bay, where a small motor-boat was passing. A bunch of older guys holding beers whooped and clapped.
“Can we come over?” one of them screamed.
“Oh my god,” Emma said.
Avery cupped her hands by her mouth and shouted back, “Losers!”
Emma pinched her arm. “Why do you have to be like that?”
“Because I am,” Avery said.
A pirate tour boat was next to pass—larger, farther out in the water. It was painted black and flew a skull-and-crossbones flag. Avery had never been on a pirate boat and thought that if she’d had a brother longer, she would have.
Someone with a too-loud microphone said, “Land ho, mateys!”
“You’re going to break up with Sam, aren’t you?” Emma said.
Avery said, “Afraid so.”
They went back to magazines, and Avery got her phone out and went to Amazon and eBay, and there appeared to be no copies of The Leaving for sale . . . anywhere.
Or, wait, one, but it was in Wisconsin and cost thirty-five dollars and how long would it even take to receive it? And where the hell were her flip-flops? And why did he have to grab the book like that? Why hadn’t he asked her to go up to the house to talk to Ryan with him? She’d been the one to find it.
How could a book that sounded inspired by The Leaving have been written before The Leaving?
She ordered the copy in Wisconsin—even sprang for expedited shipping. She’d figure out the connection, and she’d go to Lucas with it and he’d realize how amazing she was. Together they’d figure out where Max was. The thought of it made her heart tangle and flip like tumbleweed. She imagined it rolling down the street and plunging softly into the canal where manatees sometimes came to stay warm.
Scarlett
Brushing her hair, Scarlett felt the weight of it dragging her down and suddenly very badly wanted a haircut.
Who had been cutting her hair all these years?
Maybe it wasn’t actually the clothes that were wrong?
Maybe it was the hair?
She hunted for scissors and then went into the bathroom. Using a comb, she wet her hair a little, then she pulled half a head full over her left shoulder and chopped off four inches in jagged cuts.
XSnip.
X
Snip.X
Xxxxxxxxxxx
XSnip.
xxxxxxXX
X
XClumps . . .
Falling and feathering to the floor.
When she went to do the other side, she realized, of course, that she couldn’t, so she went to find her mother and presented the scissors. “I need help.”
Looking horrified, Tammy said, “What on earth . . . ?” then stopped herself with a disappointed huff. “Come. Sit.”
They’d had an argument.
Scarlett had declined an invitation to go meet some of Tammy’s friends tonight at the Abduction Group gathering. Since then, their interactions had been limited to short exchanges every time Scarlett came out of the bathroom.
Anything?
No.
Anything?
No.
So this was progress.
Tammy put her scissors down and ran her hands through Scarlett’s hair, fluffing it up some. “Best I can do,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She turned and grabbed a magazine and a glass of lemonade she’d already poured and said, “I’ll be out back. Back to the grind tomorrow so better get some sun.”
Yes.
Better do that.
Now Scarlett waited on the front steps, studying the front yard for ghosts of her childhood self. She tried to conjure an apparition of herself blowing bubbles or skipping rope, but couldn’t.