Then I spot a plant growing beside the porch—a fern—which reminds me of the friend I had to leave behind.
“Tell me again why you hate Fern.”
Crickets chirp in the bushes beside the porch as Mom thinks of her response. “I don’t hate Fern,” she says. “It’s just that your world has gotten smaller and smaller since you started hanging around her.”
“My world is smaller because after Dad left you moved us to a place where I don’t know anyone.”
She doesn’t have an answer for this, so she lets the crickets speak for her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says finally. “I’m afraid you’re a butterfly who’s gone back into her cocoon.”
Something in her voice makes me sad, and I feel terrible for making her feel sad. She folds her laptop and goes inside.
I sit in the dark with the crickets and think of how happy Mom would be to hear about Summer, how different she is from Fern, how she’s apparently bent on pursuing excitement and adventure. If tomorrow is as good as today was, I might just end up telling Mom about her.
3
THE NEXT MORNING at ten, I’m standing in my swimsuit on the square of sidewalk that says Ignore Alien Orders. I put on my mermaid swimsuit without thinking about it, and only realized I had it on when I looked in the mirror. I’ve been here on the sidewalk for ten minutes, wondering what ignore alien orders really means. It’s hard to be ten minutes early to someplace ten steps from the door—or maybe twenty steps—but here I am, and here I’ve been.
Then I see Summer, half a block ahead, turning onto the sidewalk and running my way, grinning.
“Ignore alien orders!” she shouts.
I watch her for a moment, then look across the street to the house she said was the home of someone called the Big Kahuna. I’m not really interested in the Big Kahuna or his bungalow, or why nobody has stolen the surfboard leaning against the front porch, but it seems weird to be watching Summer all the way up the block, so I don’t. Finally she arrives.
“Hey, Betty!” she says, lifting her sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head. “Are you ready to hit the beach?”
“Do I look ready?” It sounds sort of sarcastic, but I’m genuinely wondering if I look appropriately dressed and otherwise prepared for this horrifying excursion.
“Well, the black high-tops are cute, but we should probably get you some flip-flops if you don’t have any.”
“Okay.”
“And you know I love the punk-rock corpse-doll look, but your makeup is gonna wash off in the surf.”
“The surf?”
She doesn’t seem to hear me, or notice my worried tone.
“I brought some things for you!” She reaches into a canvas bag. “Stand right where you’re standing and don’t move!”
First she hands me a sunblock stick.
“Wipe this all over your face. Especially your nose!”
While I’m doing this she moves around me, spraying me with a bottle of Total Eclipse SPF 144 sunscreen until I’m shiny with it.
She takes a gauzy wrap out of the bag and drapes it over my shoulders, and finally a floppy straw hat and dark sunglasses, which she attaches to my head and face. Then she steps back and looks at me. “What’s the matter?” she asks.
My shoulders sag. “It’s like you’re made for the beach, but I look like I’ve never seen the sun. Like I’ve been living underground.”
She doubles over laughing, but stands up quickly with her hand over her mouth.
“You’re so funny!” She picks up her bag. “Anyway, I always use sunscreen. Ready?”
I don’t answer, but as she steps toward Ocean Park Boulevard, I follow.
When we get to the corner, we can see all the way down the boulevard past the houses and shops, between the hotels, to the sea.
“It’s glassy today,” she says.
“Oh.” I’m clueless as to what she means by glassy. She seems to have her own vocabulary.
“I wish we were surfing.” She stops and turns to me. “What day are you staying until?”
“We leave on July thirty-first. That’s my birthday.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was supposed to be born a week later and be named Augustina. But I came early and they named me Juillet.”
“No way! I was named for being born on the summer solstice.”
“Really?”
“Yep! I turned thirteen just a couple weeks ago.” She smiles, then turns again toward our destination. “Anyway, you staying until the end of the month gives us plenty of time for you to learn to surf.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to ruin the beginning of a friendship with a refusal I can make later.
Then I remember that learning to surf is one of the things I wrote on the list of goals.
The sidewalk descends, and my feet slow as we approach the next street. I come to a stop. “Is there another way we can go?”
Summer looks at me, then at the path ahead. “Why?”
I push my sunglasses up my nose. I’m glad they’re hiding my eyes.
“There’s a mystical adviser at the mall that me and my friend Fern like to go to. She gives us a discounted rate on palm readings and debris divinations.”
“Debris divinations?”
“That’s where you show her what’s at the bottom of your pocket or backpack and she tells you your future. And she said that she saw my morbid essence shrouded in the number between two and four.”
Summer looks confused. “I’m sorry, who said this?”
“Mistress Scarfia, Portender of the Obscure. She has a kiosk in front of Softee’s Soft Pretzels at Lakeshore Mall.” I kick at a pebble. It skips down the sidewalk, down the hill. “She said the number between two and four would be my ruin. I know it sounds silly. I don’t really believe it, but ever since she said it I’ve been afraid of that number.”
“The number three?”
I nod and look up at the number on the street sign. Even though Mistress Scarfia may just be a phony in purple scarves and beaded necklaces, Mom and Dad and I were a family of between two and four, and now we are two.
“How did you get through to Main Street before?”
I shrug. “My mom is good at distracting me. She’s used to me.”
Summer reaches up to put her hands on my shoulders. “Well, I wanna get used to you too.” She looks around again. I know she’s picturing the map in her mind, trying to imagine a way around this street with this number. I’ve seen Mom do it.
Then she turns back to me, smiling. “I could duct-tape you to my skateboard and roll you down the hill?”
I don’t smile, even though it’s kinda funny, because it’s more embarrassing than funny.
“How about,” she begins, “you close your eyes? Then I’ll hold your hand and lead you across.”
I’ve come this far. I close my eyes and extend my arm. Her warm hand closes on mine. It’s smaller than Dad’s, but at least it’s here. Dad’s big hands are in Switzerland with his ridiculous girlfriend, Genevieve, probably feeding her strawberries dipped in chocolate from a silver platter.