Eventually, Mike and I make our way home together in silence.
We stop in front of my house, and a wave of relief rushes over me as I spot Grandma Jane’s bright blue car in the driveway.
“Something smells good,” Mike says, sniffing the air dramatically.
“Yeah.” I smile. “My grandma’s the best cook.”
Mike looks at me. “You going to be OK, Parker?”
“Yeah, I think I just need to cool off in the air-conditioning for a bit.”
Before Mike can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the humid air. “Share the road!” Thumpthumpthump. . .
Mike and I spin around just in time to see Mr. Brown sprinting past us at top speed. He’s wearing red running shorts that hit just above his knees, exposing a pair of tanned and toned legs that seem too young to be attached to his body. He skids to a halt a few feet away from us, launching into a series of lunges as if they were no big deal.
I squint and stare at the all-too-familiar Florida-shaped scar, which for whatever reason is no longer covered by a bandage. I’m much closer to it now than I was this morning and am able to make out the little curves and edges, along with the series of small brown freckles that form a Little Dipper on the upper left of his calf.
“Brown is destroying those lunges,” Mike says in awe.
“My dad was always practicing those,” I say, feeling dizzy again.
“I remember.”
I kind of like that he remembers.
“I can’t get over this guy,” Mike adds, still looking at Mr. Brown, who begins bouncing from side to side and shaking out his arms like a boxer before a big fight. “You think he got new meds or something? How is he doing that?”
Something feels wrong. The familiarity seems wrong. The scar, the freckles, the quick feet, the slightly out-turned toes, and tan legs. It makes my head hurt. I blink and stare, blink and stare. Finally, I unzip my backpack, digging around until I find the beach photo from this morning. I thrust it in front of Mike. “Look.”
Mike laughs and says, “Nice shark bathing suit, Mr. Parker,” and then he suddenly stops smiling. His brown eyes widen. He lifts his hat brim off his forehead and takes the picture from my hand. I watch him look from the photo to Mr. Brown, and back again. He gasps, “Is that?”
“Yes.”
“But it can’t—”
“I know. But look, it is.”
“There has to be a logical explanation for this,” Mike breathes.
I brace myself against the pavement. “There is an explanation,” I tell him, taking back the picture. “It just isn’t logical.”
CHAPTER 5
“There she is!” Grandma Jane cries as I fall through the front door. “My special girl. Come, come, drop that heavy backpack. I made your favorite chicken potpie.”
I throw my arms around her despite how sweaty I am, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender and rosemary, courtesy of the homemade oils that she always dabs on her wrinkled skin and runs through her mane of gray hair.
Billy pushes his wet nose against my legs, waiting for his own greeting. “Is Mom home?” I ask as I bend down to scratch his neck.
“Sorry, dear. She got called in, so you’ll have to make do with little old me.” She smiles at Billy. “Well, me and sweet Billy boy.” She pats his head and nods over to the kitchen. “Come on, honey. Let’s eat before it gets cold. I’ve had it rewarming in the oven.”
Just the scent of Grandma Jane’s chicken potpie is enough to erase everything else about today. I collapse into my chair and watch Grandma Jane dance around the room, her many bracelets and crystal necklaces clinking as she moves. I notice a candle burning on the counter. Grandma Jane makes those, too, and she dries her own herbs, which she insists on hanging in our kitchen window. For what, I’m not sure, but she never seems to use them for cooking. I think these things used to annoy Mom, but now the house feels warmer when Grandma Jane is here, even just in spirit.
She pulls the pie out of the oven, the crust golden brown, oozing with creamy goodness. My stomach growls as she slices into it and sets down a giant piece in front of me.
“Bon appétit!” she says merrily, joining me across the table.
I take a bite and swoon. “Best. Ever,” I tell her.
She laughs, delighted. “Eat up. There’s plenty more where that came from.” She tosses a piece of the crust to Billy, whose eyes light up in a way that I haven’t seen since Dad was alive.
Grandma Jane turns back to me and smiles. “So fill me in. Tell me about school. Track. All the things.”
“I have a big meet coming up against Bedford.”
“That so? I’ll start making my glitter signs, then.” Her face turns serious. “Speaking of track, what happened today? Your mother got a call from the coach, so she asked me to come check on you. Something about you fainting?”
I freeze mid-bite. “I didn’t faint.” I feel the weight of her gaze and add, “I just got dizzy.”
“From the heat, or something else?”
“The heat,” I lie. “Definitely the heat.”
“You’re drinking enough water, right?” She narrows her eyes. “Do I have to talk to that coach? Is he not giving you breaks?”
“He gives us breaks,” I insist. “I guess I just should have drunk a little bit more.”
She reaches across the table and brushes my hair away from my eyes. I feel safe in this moment, like I can trust my grandma with anything.
“Can I ask you something?”
She looks at me. “Anything, dear.”
“What happened that day you went to Ms. Bea’s house?”
Grandma Jane pulls back slightly, making a face. “Why do you want to talk about her?”
I shrug. “I just never really see anyone else going over there. You must have been special.”
At this she grins. “Darn right. And don’t you forget it.”
“So what happened? What was she like? What was her house like?”
Grandma Jane scrunches up her face and fingers the green crystal hanging from her neck. “Her house is tasteless, just like her.”
“But what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” she says, shrugging. “She’s weird, is all.”
“Weird how?”
“Oh, you know—obsessed with youth. Obsessed with being young. Kept asking me all of these questions about ‘Wouldn’t you like to be younger?’ and ‘Don’t you wish your body could have a tune-up?’ I could tell right away she just invited me over to sell me something. Probably some of those overpriced creams from her shop. Lord only knows.”
I can feel my mouth hanging open, desperate for more. “Did she ever say what she wanted?”
“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out,” she says. “I tell you, your daddy was right! Something is off about Bea and the rest of those people.” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing the rest of the conversation. “Now, I don’t want to waste our time talking about those old bores. What do you say we slice another piece and I can tell you about how I wrecked everyone at bridge last week?”