Uncle Robert jerked his head in approval. “And another thing.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll be working for me this summer. Monday through Friday, nine a.m. to one at the malt shop downtown. Earning your keep, and all.”
Ethan groaned, the anger in his stomach set suddenly ablaze as he cursed his bad luck, his overreacting father, and stupid, nasty Samuel Hill. Ellison, Alabama, could rot in hell for all he cared; all he wanted was to be back in Arcadia, catching a movie with that cute girl from down the block or running at the park to train for track. Back home, the sun didn’t try quite so hard, and when the dust was disturbed, it always found its way back to the ground. He didn’t want to spend his summer in Ellison going stir crazy and bussing tables at some job that wouldn’t even land him a paycheck. He wanted to run and run and run until the worn soles of his sneakers found their way back home.
But he managed a weary smile and repeated, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Uncle Robert said. There was still something hard about the look in his eyes.
Just then, Aunt Cara stuck her head back in with a smile on her lips and a frosty bottle of Coca Cola in her hand. “Are you boys bonding?” she asked loudly. “That’s great. Well, sorry to interrupt, but Ethan, your dad’s just about to head out. Here, want a Coke?”
Ethan accepted the fizzing brown drink and followed her out the door. His father was waiting on the porch, clutching his own drink tightly in one fist. He stared at Ethan for a long moment before holding out his free hand.
“Be good, Son,” he said. Ethan’s eyes begged to go home, but his father kept his troubled gaze firmly fixed on the ground.
Ethan settled for a sigh and a quiet, “Bye, Dad.”
As his dad said good-bye to Aunt Cara and Uncle Robert, Ethan set his drink on the porch railing and made his way back to the car, where the twins sat waiting. He said good-bye to Anthony and Sadie, leaning through the open window to wave. They responded distractedly, too absorbed in a fierce game of Crazy Eights in the back seat.
“See you later,” he mumbled as he backed away from the car. His dad edged past him on his way to the driver’s side. He paused with his hand on the door handle before turning and wrapping Ethan in a stiff hug.
“This is the right decision.” The last word curved itself into a question. He pulled away and stepped into the car without another word. Starting the engine, he looked up and gave his son a conflicted glance. The look hit Ethan like a jab to the gut. This was the look his dad would give his mom when Ethan misbehaved as a child. Ethan hadn’t seen the expression cross his father’s face in years, and when he blinked, it was gone. Ethan was left weak kneed on the driveway, blinking against the sun.
His father was already putting the car into gear. The twins scrambled over each other to stick their tanned faces out the window and shriek their good-byes to Aunt Cara. They ignored their brother, who was inching back toward the house.
“See you in September!” Aunt Cara called, and Ethan waved. His father stared ahead, hands tight on the steering wheel, as they rolled out of the driveway and back onto the road. With a rev of the engine, they were gone, and Ethan was struck suddenly by all the days he had to clamber through before they returned. The dust, disturbed by the tires, rose into his mouth and clawed at his eyes. It stayed there, suspended. So did he.
Two
Ellison was silent at eight o’clock in the morning. Not even the wind could rouse itself to combat the thick summer air. Ethan trailed his uncle down the lane toward downtown. The wide dusty path curved through the trees, jutting off every now and then to reveal a driveway to another little house. Far off in the forest, bugs kept up a constant buzz. Ethan squirmed away from the bulbous flies, feeling like little insect legs were crawling up and down his body. Uncle Robert was unfazed.
It took about fifteen minutes to reach downtown—if the area could really be called that. Back in Arcadia, downtown meant six city blocks, twelve streets, two movie theaters, twenty restaurants, a hotel, and countless stores. In Ellison it was a single intersection, though the road was paved here, at least. There was a general store, a gas station, a mechanic’s shop, a post office, two small restaurants that both claimed to have the best burgers in town, and Uncle Robert’s malt shop. A little way down the road was the town hall, but according to Uncle Robert, the mayor had so little to do that the building sat empty most of the year. And that was all. Other amenities had to be brought in from the next town over, about a twenty-minute drive away.
Ethan was horrified.
He kept his head down and watched his sneakers scuff the pavement as he followed Uncle Robert. It wasn’t until they reached a small grassy area next to the post office that he finally looked up—and jarred to a halt.
In this clearing, two benches faced each other across a bubbling fountain. Next to one of them was a flagpole, its three flags hanging limp in the absence of wind. On the top, the American flag, its forty-eight stars lost in the folds. Below it, the simple, diagonal red cross of Alabama’s state flag. And at the bottom—its edges lifting in a sudden light breeze—was a pattern Ethan had seen only in history books: a red background with a dark blue X across the center that was filled with bright white stars.
Uncle Robert, a few paces ahead, noticed that Ethan was no longer following and glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. “Come on,” he snapped, but he paused when he saw the path of Ethan’s eyes.
“Uncle Robert,” Ethan said, swallowing hard. “Why is that here?”
His uncle straightened, a defensive look coming across his features. “Well, it’s an important part of our history. It’d do you well not to disrespect a cultural symbol. Now, come on.”
Ethan ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn. He forced his gaze away from the flagpole and trailed after his uncle, the sweat on his arms feeling suddenly like crawling ants. The realization was forming in the pit of his stomach that this was where his father had grown up—that he had walked these dusty streets, passed beneath that flag probably thousands of times. And still, he had sent him here.
That hot rush of anger, which had subsided overnight, boiled up again in Ethan’s chest. He clenched his fists as Uncle Robert stopped in front of a pale-green storefront and pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket.
“Here we are,” he said, pushing open the door. Ethan ducked in after him, taking a long, shaky breath. The malt shop, at least, looked like the one he and his friends frequented back home. Ethan saw the black and white checkered floors, the cold metal counter with the red spinning chairs, the jukebox against the wall. A wave of familiarity washed over him, and with it, a tide of homesickness. One day into his summer exile, and he was already nauseated with dread.
Uncle Robert went behind the counter of the small shop and flicked a switch, flooding the place with light. “So, this is it,” he said, sweeping a hand to cover the five tables complete with sweetheart chairs, a soda fountain, and the counter. “The Malt. The life of the town.”