our collective breath, but it turns out to be some other sort of creature, a raccoon, maybe, something low to the ground that scuttles along out of sight. Miah settles in and we wait and watch some more. I’m aware of everything, my body on alert, my skin at attention. The night air, the soft but scratchy feel of his shirt on my skin, the way the shirt envelops me and smells like him. The sand under my legs, the sand surrounding my feet as I bury them in the beach. The smell of salt water and the sound of the waves reaching for us, pulling back, reaching for us, pulling back. The bright of the moon and the stars and the fact that there are more of them here than I’ve ever seen, even in Ohio farm country. I am memorizing all of it, taking it into me, where I will keep it forever and be able to bring it out again someday, long from now, when I am far, far away from this island. That summer boy, what was his name? I might not remember, but I won’t ever forget waiting with him on the sand for the turtles to come.
Suddenly, he stands and extends a hand. And I don’t want to go, but I let him pull me up because it had to happen sometime. I follow him around the dunes and down the path, away from the beach. I want to go back and sit there till dawn, not talking, not touching, but together.
At the tree line, he turns and looks at me, traces the line of my jaw and chin with a single finger. It happens swiftly. His mouth is on mine, and he’s pulling me in or maybe I’m pulling him in. Whichever way it happens, we kiss and kiss. When we finally break apart, he says, “Wow.” Just like before, only not like before.
“Wow,” I repeat.
“Wow,” he says again.
DAY 6
The next day, I sit inside the general store and make my weekly phone call to my dad. The last time I talked to him was in the guest room at my grandparents’ house in Atlanta. I asked to go home early, back to Mary Grove, and he said no. I imagine all the things I want to say to him now. Mom isn’t sleeping. I hear her at night because I’m not sleeping either. We’re just in Addy’s house not sleeping, waiting for you to change your mind and tell us to come home.
But our conversation goes like this:
“How’s the island?”
“Fine.”
“Is it hot?”
“Yes.”
“How’s Dandelion adapting?”
“Okay.”
(Many awkward pauses in here.)
“Bradbury wants to say hi.”
And then I hear Bradbury panting into the phone, and all of a sudden I need to hang up or I will splinter into a thousand pieces. But first I say, “Bradbury, I want you to listen to me. I’ll come back for you. I promise. Don’t think we left because we don’t love you.”
Now Dad is on again and we talk about nothing of consequence for a minute or two more—he mentions some movie he just went to see and tells me about the marathon he’s training for, and finally he says, “I love you, Clew.”
It takes everything I have to say, “I love you too.” And I do. It would be so much easier if I didn’t.
* * *
—
That evening, everyone on the island descends on the inn for what they call a low-country boil, which is potatoes, corn, sausage, and shrimp boiled up in this giant outdoor cooker. While my mom mingles with the adults, I find Jared serving food. As he fills my plate, he says, “So the note I delivered. Did it live up to all your hopes and dreams?”
“Some of them.”
He grins, and I can’t help it: I grin too. And even though I’m younger than he is, I feel older-sisterish. I say, “What about you? Are you dating anyone?”
“I wish.”
“What about Wednesday?”
“I’m not really her type.” For some reason this sounds weighted, but then Wednesday appears, as if we conjured her, and says to me, “Hey, Mainlander.”
I tell them I’ll see them later for the fireworks, and find a spot on the grass near my mom. I eat silently while she talks with a trio of older women, all with sweet Southern accents. The photographer stands nearby, his back to us, and I think, I dare you to come over here. He doesn’t. Afterward I meet Jared, Wednesday, Emory, and the other