The Summer of Lost Wishes (8 page)

I refuse to think about it right now.

“I’ll have to introduce you to Natalie,”
Rooks says. “She won’t want to talk about your house or who was
going to live there or anything else that could possibly link back
to the accident. She’s cool. You’ll like her.”

I can only hope he’s right. Once he’s gone,
I need a friend or two to keep me sane, although more than
anything, I’d prefer to just keep Rooks around.

After almost two hours of treasure hunts,
fake sword fights, and a massive loop around the bay, The Dragon’s
Jewel docks right back where we started. My legs feel heavy when I
try to stand. Rooks says it’s normal to have ‘sea legs’ after being
out on a boat, but this definitely isn’t for me.

Hector stands at the edge of the dock where
the girl took our tickets earlier.

“So did you just come to make fun of me or
were you planning on hanging out?” he asks, eyeing Rooks.

“Totally here just to make fun of you,”
Rooks says. He cracks up laughing, though, so he isn’t very
convincing. “You off work now?”

Hector nods. “Just gotta get out of this
damn thing,” he says, tugging on the vest of his pirate costume.
“Meet me at the Surf Bar?”

Rooks says we’ll see him there before we
head back up to the pier at Moonlight Harbor. But my mind isn’t on
the boat or my sea legs or this surf bar place. I’m still back on
The Dragon’s Jewel, listening to the announcer talk about Shark
Island. We didn’t get close enough to really see anything in
detail, but the lighthouse remains, sprouting from the end of the
rocks, like a rocket that’s waiting for takeoff.

Everything about Shark Island was eerie,
like never-ending gray clouds that absorb all happiness the moment
you sail under them. No one spoke. The kids stopped giggling and
running around. It was mesmerizing yet terrifying. It only made me
wonder even more about the accident and why anyone would be crazy
enough to sail out there. None of it makes any sense.

“You okay?” Rooks asks. He stops in the
middle of the crowd and stares at me, as if he’s unable to walk
until I answer.

I nod my head, but that isn’t good enough
for him.

“Are you sure? You’ve been really quiet,” he
says. “Was it…the location?”

I nod again but also give a half-shrug so it
doesn’t seem like I’m totally fixated and obsessed. But I’m sure he
already knows that I am. I basically live and breathe the Shark
Island tragedy and these letters and my new house.

“Just a little creeped out,” I tell him.
“Where are we going next?”

He tells me that the name of the place is
literally Surf Bar, which is probably the most uncreative thing
I’ve heard since I got to this coastal town. I fasten my seatbelt
once I’m in Rooks’ truck, but I don’t drop my bag to the floor.
Instead, I keep it in my lap, arms around it, like it needs extra
safe-keeping.

Like most things in Coral Sands, the little
seafoam green building known as Surf Bar is close to downtown, just
a few more blocks over from the souvenir shops and boating tours.
The sign is hand-painted but looks weathered and worn. A few
bicycles are propped up against the side of the building, and most
of the cars are parked out in a lot of sand. Rooks pulls into the
closest open spot and parks his truck.

“It’s not exactly high-end,” he says,
motioning around the sandy mess of a makeshift parking lot.

This reminds me of the kind of places where
my friends and I would hang out back home. We’d find an open field
and park everyone’s cars and trucks in a circle, tailgates down,
music blaring. This is about as close as I’ll get to an open field
here.

“You know, I kind of like it,” I say. I grab
my bag out of his truck, because I don’t dare leave the evidence
from the wall alone, and I follow him to the entrance.

“See, I knew you were going to be cool,”
Rooks says, holding the door open for me.

Surf Bar might just be my favorite place in
Coral Sands, and I’ve barely even stepped inside. The interior
walls are the same seafoam green color as the outside, but it’s
unique in a way that’s reminiscent of my Delilah. An actual cow
skull hangs on the wall, next to a chalkboard version of a
surfboard with today’s specials written on it.

The counter at the bar is shaped like a
surfboard as well. Twinkle lights hang around the room, and bright
pink barstools are perched in front of the surfboard bar. It’s like
a watercolor canvas of originality with a splash of hippie vibes.
Music plays softly in the background – some kind of ukulele sound –
and people lounge around talking and laughing while sipping on
fruity drinks. It’s just beachy bliss, and I love it.

“Carter!” Hector shouts out, waving at us
from a corner table.

I follow Rooks to the back table and sit
next to him, diagonal to Hector. Rooks is quick to be the good
host, asking if I’d like anything, but between the sea legs and
twisty knots in my stomach from Shark Island, I don’t think I could
stomach anything right now.

“So, what brings you back to Coral Sands?”
Hector asks over his bottle of what he probably wishes was an
actual beer and not root beer. “Is it your dad’s ‘two weeks of
summer’ or whatever?”

Rooks shakes his head. “I’m here all summer,
actually,” he says. “Mom’s still chasing biker guys, and I don’t
exactly suck up to them like she wants me to. So Dad’s been forced
to take me in for the next few months.”

Hector glances at me, but he doesn’t say
anything. I feel like I’m under some magic spell where everyone is
aware of my presence, but I’m still invisible, so they all linger
awkwardly wondering if it’s safe to speak or if I’m standing close
by.

“I’m glad you’re here, man,” Hector says. He
picks up his bottle but doesn’t sip. “I’ve gotta have someone to
hang out with to get a break from all this fifty-year anniversary
bullshit. Natalie’s mom is going overboard with the memorial plans,
and Nat’s right there in the middle of it. If I have to help plan
one more party or ask Abuela if we can borrow tables from her
restaurant, I may seriously flip my shit.”

All of the beachy bliss I felt when I
stepped into the Surf Bar has evaporated with the ocean air
outside. I get it – Hector doesn’t like the tragedy. Hector’s
girlfriend’s family is linked to a victim. He probably hears about
it all the time. But does this mean I’m automatically disliked by
association?

“I’m sorry,” Hector says, catching my gaze.
“I don’t mean to be an ass about it. I know you’re living in the
Calloways’ house now, so this is probably weird. It’s just, Nat’s
mom is the mayor, and she’s the niece of Eileen Baker, so whenever
I’m at Nat’s house, it’s never-ending talk about memorial services
and candlelight vigils. Sometimes, I just want to hang out and not
have it in my face.”

I shake my head and shrug it away. “It’s
cool,” I lie. “I don’t want to be known as the girl who moved into
the Calloway Cottage. It’s just a house.”

“Tell you what,” Hector says. He chugs some
of the root beer and places the bottle back on the table. Then he
leans forward on his elbows. “The county fair is this weekend. It’s
not special or anything, but Nat wants to get away from her mom for
a night, so we’re going. You guys should meet us there. We can hang
out and not talk about the fifty-year anniversary.”

I’m hesitant, but it’s mostly due to the
fact that this guy hasn’t been very friendly since I met him this
morning. Still, it wouldn’t be so bad to meet his girlfriend or
anyone else we may bump into at the fair. I’d rather not be
one-hundred percent new when school starts this fall. I’d rather
not be alone either.

“Sounds great,” I say.

It’s dark when Rooks pulls his truck into my
driveway. Mom’s new floors should be nice and settled by now. She
bursts out of the front door before Rooks even has a chance to turn
off his headlights.

“Finally,” Mom says with a frustrated sigh.
“When I said to make yourself scarce for the day, I didn’t think
you’d actually be gone all day.”

She clicks down the front steps toward us.
Even at this hour, after the sun is down and she’s spent all day in
her heels, she clicks just like she would at eight o’clock in the
morning. She’s like a motion sensor light, always on, even when she
should be off, as if the slightest movement brings her back to life
constantly.

I close the truck door. “Do you like the new
floors?” I ask.

She nods but doesn’t smile. If I recall
correctly, she sent me out with the wolf. She can’t possibly be
mad. If you send your daughter into the woods, don’t be surprised
if she comes home with the full moon.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Davenport,” Rooks says from
behind me. “It’s my fault for keeping her out.”

Mom waves away his apology with her
hand.

“It’s okay. We just need your help,” she
says, immediately back in business mode. “Your dad needs you to
follow us over to the hardware store. They’re waiting for us, and
I’m sure they’re ready to shut down and go home, so we need to
hurry.”

Seriously? She just completely overlooked
the metaphorical sticks in my hair from rolling around in the woods
with wild animals. For what? Cans of paint and new doorknobs? I
exhale a sigh, trying my best not to let my frustrations erupt from
the surface. I’ll be so relieved when this house is done because
it’s turned my mom into a crazy interior design monster.

She rushes back inside to grab her keys. My
beach bag never even has a chance to leave my shoulder as I stake
my claim over Rooks’ passenger seat again. These letters are
burning a hole in my bag, longing to be read, just like an
expensive pair of new jeans is begging to be bought and worn.

I drop the bag into the floorboard of Rooks’
truck. “So much for reading,” I say.

“Maybe we can make this quick,” Rooks says,
as if it’s a consolation. “Grab whatever they need, haul it back,
and then you can give your mom some kind of line about being
exhausted after your exhilarating day with me.”

“Exhilarating?” I ask. “If I referred to our
day as exhilarating, she would never leave us alone together.”

As we drive back through the downtown
streetlights, toward the hardware store, I see a banner spread
across one of the restaurants’ windows. Fifty-Year Celebration of
Life Ceremony is all I can read before the light turns green.

“Do you think this is a waste of time?” I
ask, turning toward Rooks. “The letters, I mean. It’s been half a
century, and no one has solved the big Shark Island mystery.
Finding a few letters in a wall of an old house isn’t going to
reveal everything.”

His face glows yellow as he halts at the
light. He looks at me, but it’s too dark to read his face. “Piper,
no one’s lived in that house in fifty years,” he says. “No one had
a chance to find those letters. Maybe they were just waiting to be
discovered. Maybe this half-century anniversary is when all is
meant to be revealed, you know?”

He turns on his signal to pull into the
building on our left. The dimly lit parking lot is empty.

“You think they said the hell with my mom?”
I ask.

Rooks laughs. “There’s a light on,” he says.
“If they think she’ll be good for business, they’ll accommodate
her. I mean, she’s Coral Sands’ new eye for design, right?”

And he’s right. The owner rushes to the door
to unlock it and allow my mom and Mr. Carter to come inside. Rooks
and I trudge behind, less than thrilled about picking up more
supplies for my house.

A few minutes later, I help Mom put the
paint cans and smaller bags into the trunk of her car while Mr.
Carter and Rooks do the heavy lifting and hauling. Mom better pay
them well for all they’ve done to help her. I vote she take them
out for an expensive dinner too. They’re not even a third of the
way done with the work, and they’ve already put more time into the
Calloway Cottage than Mom has. She shows me paint swatches of
different neutral shades that she’s debating using for the living
room while Rooks and his dad load the last items into the beds of
their trucks.

“You riding back with me?” Rooks calls
out.

“Sure,” I say.

I wait for Mom to intervene and insist that
I ride with her instead so we can talk about which paint matches
the new floors best. But she doesn’t. She just tells us to go
around to the back door off of the kitchen so we don’t scuff her
floors.

The streetlight doesn’t give much attention
to the backyard. A mild orange glow falls hazily over the yard, but
I still have to use my cell phone as a light source to find my keys
in my purse. Rooks leads the way through the grass.

“Piper, I don’t think you need your keys,”
he says. He stops halfway across the yard, reaches over, and grabs
my arm. Then he steps closer to me. “We need to go get my dad.”

I glance up to question him, but even in the
sliver of light, I see why. The glass window pane on the back door
is completely shattered. The door itself is cracked open. My heart
pounds, echoing in my ears. It thuds in my throat, like it may
rupture out of my chest and explode any second.

“C’mon,” Rooks says, tugging on my arm.

The dark isn’t much of a factor anymore. We
rush back through the grass and around the house, just quickly
enough to stop my mom from entering through the front door. Rooks
tells his dad about the back door while Mom calls the police
station in a semi-calm panic. Mr. Carter doesn’t wait for law
enforcement to arrive, though. He takes it upon himself to search
the house.

In the two minutes it takes him to search
upstairs and in the closets, I stand in the driveway with Mom and
Rooks listening to my heart thud rapidly.

“Whoever it was didn’t stick around,” Mr.
Carter says, as he exits onto the front porch. “Doesn’t really look
like they took anything either. You ladies will have to look around
to make sure, but aside from a few extra holes in the closet wall,
I didn’t see any damage.”