I WALKED BACK TO ISOBEL’S house. For once I didn’t feel like running.
I was trying to think of whether or not I’d ever known anyone named Maia. I was trying to remember everything I knew about cameras and photography. I was trying to commit the sound of her voice to my memory—the way her southern accent only came out on certain words.
It was nearly dark by the time I got there, and Isobel was sitting on the porch steps.
“I was about to send out a search party,” she said as I strolled up the driveway. “Good run?”
“Yeah, actually. Really good.” I sat down next to her, and she handed me a bottled water that she must’ve brought out a while ago because the condensation had turned the label soggy.
“Just make sure you’re pacing yourself,” she warned.
“I know.” I sighed, feeling my good mood already slipping away. “Really. Can you please not look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . the way they look at me,” I answered. Like all you see when you look at me is that day, I thought. Like all you can think is that if Coleton hadn’t stepped in when he did, it could’ve been worse. Coleton never looked at me the same after that day. He started to look at me like my parents did, like they were afraid for me, like maybe they were a little afraid of me. But I didn’t say any of that to Isobel. I shook my head, didn’t want to get into it. “Never mind,” I mumbled.
She made this weird growling sound in the back of her throat and rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that. Your mother always does that. It drives me crazy. Just say it.”
“You know what I mean,” I told her, not quite raising my voice, like my father. “Like I’m all fragile and defenseless.”
“Who said that? I know you’re not fragile and defenseless! You’re the strongest person I know. I’m speaking from a strictly medical standpoint—you have to be careful of your ankle, and especially your back. Just don’t push yourself too hard.” She paused, staring at me, unflinching. “All right?”
“Yeah, all right,” I relented. “I know.”
She leaned into my side and knocked my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, by the way,” she told me, and I could feel the storm cloud that had been quickly closing in on me retreating again.
“Me too.”
“I think this’ll be good for you. And your mom and dad, too. You just need to relax, have some fun. You know, be a kid. And they need . . . I don’t know, some perspective on the whole situation.”
I laughed. “Tell me about it.”
“Life goes by fast. A year from now you’ll be heading off to college, then after that you’re in the real world. You’ll never get this time back.”
“Why can’t my parents see it that way?”
“Because they’re your parents.”
We sat in silence, listening to the chorus of croaking frogs and buzzing insects that were congregating in the shadows all around us. Every few seconds a firefly would light up, then disappear. We didn’t have fireflies where I lived. We didn’t have this strange chirping of nocturnal creatures. We didn’t have the wide-open skies. We didn’t have old abandoned burned-out houses. And we didn’t have people like Maia. I decided right then that these differences were good things; they meant that I was living, not wasting any more time.
I cleared my throat so I’d sound more casual when I asked, “Hey, what’s Bargain Mart?”
“A store in town. Sort of a one-stop shop; they have a little bit of everything.” I could feel her side-eyeing me, her speech slowing down slightly, dragging out the word, “Why?”
I shrugged like it was nothing. “Just wondering.” But when I turned and saw her smiling at me, I knew she wasn’t going to let me off the hook. “What?” I asked.
“You met Maia.”
I opened my mouth, about to deny it, but she’d see right through me. “Okay, how could you possibly know that?”
“I could just tell—I know you better than you think.” It was true how well she knew me. She knew me better than anyone else, even Coleton. “Well, that and I happen to know that Maia works at Bargain Mart. That, and I saw her riding by on her bike right before you got home.” She laughed, then added, pointing at me, “And then there’s that goofy grin on your face.”
“We had one conversation.”
“Okay, fine,” she said, holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“She just seems . . . different,” I added voluntarily. “I don’t know, interesting.”
Isobel didn’t say anything for a few seconds; she was looking off to the side like she was considering something. “You know, I think you two might get along if you can actually get to know each other.”
“Okay,” was all I said. And I tried really hard not to smile in my goofy, telltale way that apparently lets everyone know what I’m thinking.
“Okay,” she repeated. And with that, she stood up and went inside.
I walked around to the back of the house. I was pretending to stretch, while I looked out across the field at the blue house. There weren’t any lights on, except for the barn. Its double doors were open halfway, and yellow light spilled out like paint onto the grass. I lunged into the shadows when I saw the shape of her walk past the door.
Maybe I really was a creep.
• • •
I had been standing outside Bargain Mart for several minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go in, when this guy exited through the sliding glass doors that kept sending blasts of cold air in my direction every time they opened and closed. He glanced at me as he passed, and immediately did a double take.
He backed up, reversing his steps so he was in front of me. I stood up straighter, wiped the sweat from my hands on my shorts. I could feel my mind churning, trying to anticipate which way this was about to go. He was really tall, like basketball-player tall, and appeared to be around my age, with his hair all slicked back with too much gel.
“Matt, right?” he said slowly, squinting at me.
I cleared my throat, stalling to assess the situation. “What?”
“Your name’s Matt, isn’t it?” he said, but before I could answer, he asked, “Did anyone tell you about Bowman’s Friday night?”
Matt. He mistook me for someone named Matt.
“No,” I managed, through the desert in my mouth.
“This Friday. Bowman’s,” he said, nodding and grinning.
“No, I mean my name’s not Matt.”
He looked at me more closely, like he was sizing me up. I waited for that glimmer of recognition—it’s something that happens in the eyes first, something that can’t be hidden. But there was none. He simply shrugged and continued, “Well, anyway, come if you want.”
“Cool,” I said, this wave of relief washing over me. “It’s Chris, by the way,” I added, though he hadn’t asked.
“Right, Chris,” he said, as if he had suddenly remembered who I was. “Later,” he mumbled, before continuing toward the parking lot. I stood there for another minute and watched him toss his plastic bag into the back of an old pickup truck. The windows had been left rolled down, the doors unlocked—I guess this is one of those small towns where people can do that sort of thing.
I took a deep breath, blew it out slowly.
Isobel was right, I needed to relax, and maybe even have fun. That’s why I came to Carson. And that’s why I was standing outside this store.
“Fuck it,” I whispered to myself, and finally stepped through the sliding glass doors.
The store was lit with a fluorescent glow, the kind that always makes my head hurt, and it smelled like floor cleaner. It was set up like your typical big box department store. There were signs hanging from the ceiling with arrows pointing in every direction—Household Goods, Furniture, Shoes, Health & Beauty. The store hummed with a mix of dated music coming from aged speakers and the constant beeping of items being scanned at the registers.
I always hated these kinds of places; they made me feel claustrophobic. But I was on a mission. Be brave, I told myself as I wandered the mazelike aisles.
I’d circled the store twice and still hadn’t seen her—every time an employee looked at me suspiciously, I picked up an item I didn’t need. I was about to give up when I finally spotted her. She was standing at a table, folding girls’ T-shirts very slowly and unenthusiastically, not even bothering to separate out the various colors. She didn’t see me as I approached her. She didn’t even notice when I was standing directly next to her.
“Maia?” She looked up at me like I’d just woken her from a dream.
“Oh” was all she said as she stared at me.
“It’s Chris,” I offered.
“No, I—I remember.”
When she didn’t say anything else, I stupidly volunteered, “I just had to pick up a few things I forgot to bring with me.” But then we both looked down at what I was holding in my hand.
“So, you had an urgent need for erasers, shoelaces . . . and lobster claw oven mitts?” she asked, the shape of her mouth quivering slightly, like she was having trouble keeping a straight face.
I felt my cheeks getting hot as I looked down at these ridiculous items. I wondered if I was wearing one of those goofy grins again. But I decided to just go with it.
“Yeah, it was kind of an emergency,” I finally said.
She let a breath escape, not quite an actual laugh, but more like a Ha. There was something in her smile that made me wonder, for just a second, if she could tell that I’d made the trip just to see her. Because, of course, nobody forgets to pack erasers and shoelaces and oven mitts; nobody actually needs erasers and shoelaces and oven mitts.
As we stood there in the girls’ clothing department—a scene like so many of my terrible childhood moments—I saw an opportunity.
“Hey, so I just ran into some guy outside—he actually never told me his name, now that I think about it—but he invited me to a party on Friday. At Bowman’s, whoever that is?” I paused, and then asked, “You wanna go?”
“Was he about this tall?” She held her hand up above her head, exaggeratingly high. “Slicked-back hair, stupid look on his face?”
“I . . . guess so.”
“That’s Neil.” She said his name like the word tasted bad in her mouth. “Pass.” She balled up the shirt she had been folding and refolding. “I have no desire to party with helmet head Neil and the pretty people.”
“Helmet Head Neil and the Pretty People?” I repeated. “That sounds like a really bad band name.”
She did another one of those Ha laughs.
“So I take it you’re not friends with Neil?” I asked.
“ ‘Not friends’ would be an understatement.”
“Okay,” I relented, hoping I didn’t look too deflated by her decline. “Well, you’re working, so . . . I just saw you over here and wanted to say hi. So, hi.”
“Hi,” she replied, holding her hand up to wave good-bye.
I started taking small steps away from her, and as soon as I turned my back, she said “Wait. Chris?” I turned around so quickly, the sound of my name in her voice echoing in my mind. “Bowman’s isn’t a who. It’s a where. That old burned-down house. You know, where we were the other day? That’s Bowman’s.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.” I waved again, and I knew I was smiling too much, but I couldn’t help it. Once I was far enough away from her, I ditched the erasers, shoelaces, and oven mitts in some random spot in the snack aisle on my way out of the store.
Back in the station wagon, I turned up the music and took the long way home.