Summer of Lost and Found (6 page)

I almost picked a Hatteras beach because that's where Lila said that the lost colonists might've gone, and I wanted to see what it was like there. If it was the sort of place that people would want to disappear to, and if it was the sort of place where it would be hard to be found. But then I read an article about wild horses on the beach at Corolla, which changed my mind.

As I was carefully highlighting a square around a minigolf listing, my phone rattled on the nightstand. I dropped the highlighter, getting a streak of yellow onto the one white part of the comforter, and grabbed my phone.

A mystery and a beach! I am most jealous. Reminds me of this, from
The Tempest:
“Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices.” Delight in the sweet airs on the beach this weekend, and be not afeard exploring such a special island. I can't wait to hear all about it. I'll look into the Dare family stuff. Miss you.

I texted back as fast as my fingers could type:
Then come join us! Where are you?
I knew he was by his phone; his message had just come in. But he didn't reply, even though I stayed up for an hour, waiting to see if he would.

•  •  •

The next day Mom coated us both in a lifetime supply of SPF 85 and dutifully drove over the bridge and up to Corolla. The barrier island looked so long and skinny on the map that I expected to be able to see the beach from everywhere, but it was full of grass and tall trees—live oaks and crape myrtles, according to Mom—and marshy areas like on Roanoke and the mainland. Driving through the town called Duck, I saw a sign for a doughnut shop.

“Mom?” I started.

“Say no more.” She flipped the blinker on and turned into the parking lot. Minutes later, we found ourselves at a wooden picnic table, eating the freshest doughnuts I'd ever tasted in my life. They put the chain doughnut shop on our corner in New York to shame.

“This,” Mom said, licking lemon glaze off her fingers, “is heaven.”

Stuffed, we headed to the beach, and even Mom had to admit that it was pretty gorgeous. Miles of powdery white sand, fringed with beach grass and something my mom identified as sea oats. The mugginess disappeared once you crossed over the dunes, where the sea breeze and sun combined to create the perfect temperature. The water was clear and foamy, with waves great for swimming: Big enough that it was fun to dive under them, but not so big that it was scary. Of course we were at a spot with a lifeguard, just in case.

I ran back to Mom, shaking the water off me like a dog. She didn't flinch as the droplets hit her sunglasses and mottled her sun hat. “You should swim! Dip in your toes, at least.”

“Sometimes I forget that sitting on a beach and reading can be an excellent way to spend time,” she said, ignoring my suggestion.

“You should tell Dad that.” I stretched out next to her on my towel.

Mom was quiet for a minute, smoothing the cover of her book. Finally, she said, “I know you miss him, and he misses you, too. I'm sure when we get back . . .” But as she trailed off, she didn't sound sure at all.

“What exactly
is
his project? Is there a reason why it takes him ages to respond to texts now? Have you talked to him on the phone since we left?” I'm not stupid. Jade's family might be perfect, but plenty of my other friends have divorced parents. I know what leads up to that. Sometimes it's a parent who totally flakes out and disappears.

“I don't want you to think he's ignoring you, sprout.” Mom rubbed her temples. “He's actually . . . well, he went to London.”

I almost dropped my soda. “I knew it! His passport was gone.” I remembered another hushed phone call, one I'd overheard our first night in the cottage, when I'd walked past Mom's room on my way to use the creepy clawfoot tub.
“England! How exactly does that fit in the budget?”
 I'd thought she was talking to my aunt again, who's always going on crazy trips. But maybe Mom had been talking to Dad. If so, how in the world wouldn't she have known beforehand that he was jetting off to another
country
? “For how long?”

Mom sighed and gazed at the waves, which reminded me of those colonists. Staring out into the sea, waiting for somebody to reappear. I wonder if the moms in the lost colony had to explain to their kids why they were left alone on a mosquito-rich island to fend for themselves while the head guy sailed back to Europe. They probably made a lot of exasperated sighs too.

“It's kind of up in the air, for now.” Mom looked like she was about to say something more—her mouth was opening and closing slightly, like a fish's. But then she pressed her lips shut again.

Frustrated but not wanting to fight, I pushed myself up and walked to the water. Turning around, I watched my mom pick her book up again and start reading. But I noticed, as I doodled in the wet sand with the straw from my soda, that she didn't turn a page for a really long time.

We left at sunset, tanned and tired from the salt and the heat. On the drive, I announced where we were going the next day. “It was a tough call between the Elizabethan Gardens and the Festival Park, but the park won.” To be honest, it wasn't that close of a call, but I thought she'd like hearing that I was interested in a place with plants.

We got a late start on Sunday morning, and it wasn't until early afternoon that we'd cleaned up breakfast dishes and gotten out of PJs. The Festival Park was right across the sound from the Manteo waterfront, so Mom suggested we try out the two rusty old bikes in the carport. We pedaled down Budleigh Street, headed left at the stop sign, then took a right at the inn to cross the cute bridge to the park. Mom didn't have to do her breathing exercises to bike over it because it was so tiny. A bunch of boys, a little older than me, were hooting and hollering as they jumped over the railing to the water below—and my mom didn't even tell them to be careful.

Somehow I hadn't gotten the right idea from the guidebook, and I'd been expecting an amusement park: roller coasters, cotton candy, et cetera. This “Festival Park” was more of a historic site, kind of like Colonial Williamsburg. Dad dragged us to that when I was in third grade, when he was writing a Revolutionary War story. We kept joking that he should get a job as one of the reenactors in order to “write what you know,” but he didn't find the idea of becoming a blacksmith very funny. He did buy a fancy quill in the gift shop and attempt to write longhand with it for a while, though, to “get inside his characters' heads.” I wore a tricorn hat around the apartment for encouragement.

We locked up the bikes and walked into the visitor center. While Mom paid our admission, I wandered around, looking at the brochures and letting the air-conditioning dry the sweat I'd worked up biking over.

Mom stuck an admission sticker on the strap of my tank top. “These will get us into the museum, the American Indian village, the settlement site, and on the sailing ship
Elizabeth II
. Today and tomorrow—so if you're bored while I'm working, you can come back.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Let's head over to the ship.” It would be cooler by the water. The ship was one of those old, wooden, brightly painted vessels, and some costumed guys were busy unfurling the sails as we boarded.

I stopped short. “Oh wait, you hate boats.”

“Not landlocked ones like this,” she said. “It's okay.”

“Ahoy, there!” A teenage boy in a billowy shirt squinted at us from across the deck. “Welcome aboard the
Elizabeth II 
!”

“Ahoy!” Mom enthusiastically waved back, and I cringed.

Another guy came up from behind us. “Aye, two lassies, and in time to help swab the decks!” He winked at me, and I blushed. Luckily, a bunch of hyperactive little kids ran out from belowdecks and started chasing one another in circles around him.

“I'm too old for swabbing, methinks.” Mom grinned at the guy. Her dorky enthusiasm made me want to walk the plank. “But I'd love to check out the astrolabe.”

“I'll see you above deck,” I said, hurrying toward the stern. I leaned over the edge of the boat, staring at the murky water below. I turned around to face the rest of the park. Trees hid most of the structures in the settlement site, although I could see the tip of a roof and a red-and-white flag. A pier stretched over the grasses and into the water. One boy, older than me, stood at the end of it. He stared at the ship—was he watching me? I blushed and looked away. It was silly to think that. But when I sneaked another glance, he was still looking in my direction. He raised a hand for a tentative wave. I squinted for a closer look—he was wearing some of the colonial clothes. Maybe he was one of the reenactors? I waved back at him. A huge smile overtook his face.

“Nell? Whom are you waving at?”

I dropped my hand to my side. “Wasn't waving, just swatting a mosquito.”

Mom came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Did you know they actually take this ship out on the ocean?” The boy moved back into the dense trees, probably onto the footpath.

“Seriously? That's pretty neat.”

A big group of tourists was waiting to climb on board. “Are you ready to disembark? I'd love to see the museum,” Mom said. I looked at my mother, with her cargo shorts and frizzy hair and slightly too-large T-shirt. I wanted to go see the settlement, and maybe say hello to that boy. With a pang of guilt, I realized that I'd rather not try to talk to him with my mom there. Also because the settlement featured a set of armor for visitors to try, and I just knew my mom would force me to put it all on.

“Did you say I could get in with this sticker tomorrow, too?”

“Yup, and that's a good thing because we won't have time to see everything today. Are you having fun?” Mom asked, with a hopeful smile.

“Mm-hmm. Let's go to the museum now.” We clambered off the ship and onto the dock.

“Wonderful. I could use an hour of air-conditioning, before I melt. ‘Oh, what a world, what a world.' ” Mom grinned at me. I knew I'd made the right call in terms of not venturing near that boy with my
Wizard of Oz–
quoting mom in tow.

But as we walked toward the museum, I kept sneaking glances in the direction of the settlement area, to see if maybe he was still over there. Jade always talks about eye contact—most of her “relationships” so far have consisted of her staring at the boys she likes. She insists that she has amazing eye contact with them and it means that they like her back.
I
think it means that they probably think she has a major staring problem. But I started to understand what she was saying. There was something about the way in which that boy and I looked at each other; it wasn't how you accidentally catch someone's eye on the subway and then quickly glance away. It sounds super cheesy, but I felt like we made a connection. It made me want to talk to him, to see if we actually had. Or if the heat had simply melted my brain.

Mom left early the next morning to spend quality time with her vine. As soon as the Jeep pulled out of the carport, I grabbed my bag and pedaled off on my bike, even though the park was close enough that I could have walked. This time, I went straight to the settlement village. I was nervous, but I kept thinking about Jade and Sofia hanging out with tennis boys, while I spent my whole summer with my mom and a grapevine. If I talked to the reenactor boy even just once, I could go home and tell Jade that I'd had more than eye contact. She and Sofia would be impressed.

A grinning man in Elizabethan work clothes approached me as soon as I stepped onto the woodchips. “Care to try on a suit of armor, sweet maid?”

“No, thanks. Just looking around.” I slipped past him and headed behind the blacksmith's building.
Maybe I was foolish not to say hello to that boy yesterday. Maybe he doesn't work every day, and I missed my chance.
I walked the whole perimeter of the settlement, but I didn't see him anywhere. As I was leaving for the American Indian village, though, I heard a voice behind me.

“Good morrow.”

I whirled around. It was him—same faded white colonial shirt, slightly baggy pants, and worn-out buckle shoes. His hair was dark brown and a little long and unkempt—the kind of style my mom would call a “mop.” His blue eyes, staring at me both shyly and intently, were the brightest I'd ever seen. His voice had the slightest hint of an accent, or maybe it was the fact that he had said an old word like “morrow” throwing me off.

“Hi,” I replied. “I mean, good
morrow
to you.” I curtsied, and immediately after, I started to blush. The curtsy happened without thinking. The armor guy looked over at me funny, and internally I cringed. Already I could picture myself telling Jade that I had a chance to talk to a boy on Roanoke, but I blew it by acting like a weirdo.

But the boy laughed. “Aye, a most mannerly lass!” Relief.

When I saw him the day before, I thought he was older, maybe even in high school. Whatever age you have to be in North Carolina to get a summer work permit. Now that I was standing next to him, he looked a lot closer in age to me. He was only an inch or two taller than me, and thin in a way that didn't make him scrawny but did make his pale cheekbones stick out. I know I'm too young to work, so why was he at the park, sweating in colonial garb, in the middle of the summer? “Aren't you kind of young to work here?” I asked. “No offense.”

Something flashed across his eyes, a seriousness that I wasn't used to seeing in someone my age. “None taken. I am certes—I mean, certainly—young.” He blushed. “It's tough to stop speaking like a colonist.” I admired his commitment to attempting period language. If my dad didn't text me Shakespeare all the time, I'd have been lost with all the olde talk. The boy pointed to a woman leaning against one of the settlement buildings, in the shade of the thatched roof. She was wearing a heavy woolen dress in a drab charcoal color, one so long I couldn't see her feet on the ground, and her hair was pinned back in a severe bun. Her eyes, the same bright blue as the boy's, were forlorn. I guess I would be sad too, if I had to wear that kind of an outfit every day during a North Carolina summer. “Anyway, my mother's over there. She barely lets me out of her sight.” She looked pretty young to be his mom.