Five

After school, on the way home, Edgar noticed Shay Sinclair walking through town.

OK, fine. He was following her.

She was a good distance in front of him, strolling casually down the opposite side of the street, saying hello to all the shop owners as she passed. They all smiled back, each of them greeting her warmly. Some even called her by her name.

As she reached town center, she came upon a little girl who was sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the grass, fretting over a giant mess of kite string. The girl, about six or seven years old, wore a blue ribbon in her hair. Her mother sat nearby rocking a baby carriage and waved at Shay as she approached.

The little girl folded her arms and huffed at the mess of string.

“Hello, Liz’beth,” said Shay. “What have you got there?”

“A mess,” moaned the girl, who lifted the string to Shay for help.

Shay smiled and dropped to her knees, gathering it up. As Edgar lingered behind a light pole, totally not trying to be creepy, but probably appearing so anyway, he listened to Shay’s soft laugh carry on the breeze. He ran a nervous hand through his sandy brown hair and knew it was now or never. Mustering up his courage, he finally moved out from behind the pole and walked over to them.

“Hi there. I’m Edgar,” he said to the little girl, holding his arms out toward the kite. “Can I try?”

Shay looked up and smiled. She blocked the sun from her eyes with a forearm and studied him for a long, lingering moment.

“Sure,” she said, her eyes squinty. “You can try.”

The little girl giggled again, looking up at Edgar.

He kneeled down and took the jumbled mess of string from Shay’s arms. Then, combing through the knots, he began to work. He tied a loop around the spool to prevent more unwinding and massaged one clump of string through a gap in the tangles.

“I used to work for my uncle at Gulf Shores,” he explained through pursed, unmoving lips. He closed an eye to study a particular tangle. “He had a fishing charter and we went out every Saturday.” Edgar navigated the spool through a tricky loop, then allowed it to dangle free for a moment so that gravity could do its work.

“The biggest part of my job,” he continued thoughtfully, “was untangling lines for stupid tourists who drank more beer than caught fish.”

The girls giggled.

Suddenly, the ball of string fell free as the spool danced and spun in the air before the little girl’s eyes, like a wound-up yoyo. She leapt to her feet and squealed, snatching the kite from Shay’s lap and running off across the square.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she shouted, as the kite bounced violently behind her on the grass.

“Whoa, little girl,” muttered Shay to Edgar. “Bet that kite doesn’t last the day?”

“Yeah,” Edgar laughed, who stood and reached out a hand to her to help her up.

Shay smiled, clasped her hand in his, and pulled herself up. For a moment, as they stood face to face, he totally forgot to let her hand go. It was the most wonderful, electrifying thing he’d ever touched in his life.

“Pretty nifty lying back there in Van Rossum’s class,” she said, turning toward the south of town. He released her and cursed himself for being an idiot, and together they walked for a while. “I was beginning to feel sorry for you for a minute, with that stuff about your dad.”

“Yeah, well, Weedy and his goons have been on my ass ever since I got here. I had to do something.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what they do.”

Together the two walked up the road to the edge of town, and as they did, she asked about his life back in Alabama. He talked about his old fishing job and the heat, and how the last month was the rainiest month they’d ever had.

“Bon Secour was the name of my hometown,” he explained. “It’s way different than this place.”

“Yeah? Different how?”

“Well, for starters, it has beaches and bays and an ocean. The beach is . . . man, I really miss it. It’s packed with fine, white sand and has a gentle surf that’s good for boarding.” Edgar paused. “The fishing is great, and it’s warm all the time. Southern people are known for being very nice, too, you know.”

Shay studied him.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to get back home,” he said softly, studying the mountains to the west. “To help my family get back home, you know.”

“Oh Edguh,” she teased, suddenly poking him on the shoulder. “Edguh with ya Suuuthen accent n’all! Y’all’l fit in round he-ah, ‘ventually!”

“Ugh,” Edgar muttered, slapping a hand to his face. He smiled at her and shook his head. “Never do that again. That’s the worst Southern accent I’ve ever heard.”

She giggled. “Where,” she asked, smiling wide as she poked him again, “is your ‘Bass Pro Shops’ lunchbox from earlier? I don’t see it with you.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” Edgar replied, sheepishly. “Well, lunchboxes are for kids, and Bass Pro Shops lunchboxes, in particular, are for chicken-brain-eating, redneck hicks, didn’t you know?”

“Oh, are they?” she laughed. “Well, just to let you know, my dad took me once to a Bass Pro Shops in Calgary and you know what happened? Later that afternoon, I caught a twenty-two-inch brownie.”

“You caught . . . what?”

“A brown trout,” she explained.

Amazing. Shay Sinclair knows how to fish. Can she get any hotter?

When they arrived at her street, she pointed to her house, which was as big as a governor’s mansion. Maybe even bigger.

“That’s mine,” she said, sort of embarrassed. The house was truly gigantic. Shay, it appeared, was super rich.

“Dang . . . That’s somethin’ alright.”

She turned, blushing. “Hey, I’ve been wanting to thank you for helping me beat that jerk Weedy yesterday in Nitro Streak. It was awesome.”

Edgar shrugged. “Well, you could’ve beat him by yourself, you know. You’re a much better driver than he is. Just don’t pick the Miata, even though you like it. Never pick a convertible in that game. Bad wind resistance, you know.”

“Yeah?” she asked playfully, nudging him with a shoulder. “So which one should I choose?”

“You should always pick the Nissan 370Z, if you want to win.”

“But isn’t that your car, Edgar?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you can have it, if we ever play again.” Edgar smiled shyly, hoping his flirtation tactics weren’t too obvious.

“Goodbye, Edgar,” Shay said, turning toward her driveway.

“Goodbye,” he said, entranced as he watched her. Her long, flowing brown hair dusted the top of her jeans as she ascended the porch steps. Her small, narrow waist and shapely legs made her look older, more mature. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

On the walk home through the hills of Mount Lanier, Edgar almost seemed to float on air.

Maybe this place won’t suck so much, after all.