wasn’t any more time to wonder about Garland, because I had to see about Triple. I ran and I ran and I pulled in air and pushed it out and tried to ignore how breathing felt like swallowing a sack of knives.
The sweet honeysuckle gate let me through, and a clap of thunder shattered the sky right when I reached the other side. The rain didn’t stretch to there—the treetops were the only thing above, and they kept things nice and safe and still.
Except then there was Triple, all alone on the banks of the creek and at the other end of my broken promise. He kneeled over Peter, who was about as still as the rock he was sitting on. I tried to calm my nerves and my brain and not scare either one of them by getting too close too quick, but Triple must have heard me.
“We’re busy.” He didn’t look up.
And then that storm did roll in, through my words and out my soul. “Triple, that dumb turtle is slow as molasses ’cause he’s supposed to be, and a championship day for a turtle involves swimming, sunbathing, and probably a good handful of worms.” I threw a rock as hard as I could, right into the shallow part so it splashed all of us—Triple and Peter and me. Even Twang was there, balanced on a rock, just waiting for his turn again.
I don’t think even Betsy Plogger would have done that. It wasn’t a real good way to say sorry.
Triple stared at me and I stared right back. If his arms had been any longer than seven years, I bet he would have pushed me in. Instead, he did something worse. He ignored me. He looked down at Peter and got back to business like I wasn’t even there.
“Triple—” I hoped he could hear the tone in my voice that said I am here and I am sorry and I love you very much.
But nothing.
“Look, I’m so sorry. I should have been here earlier, ’cause I said I would be. And I’m just—”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “You said that already.”
It had taken a whole bunch of years for choppy water to create the curves on those rocks we stood on, but it took only a morning to dig a deep rut between the two of us.
And then, because June had done it to me first, I thought the mama thing to do would be to hug him, to squeeze him good whether he wanted it or not. Peter and Twang were between me and the rock closest to Triple, but with Garland’s Grill and living on a moving vehicle, navigating tricky spaces was usually something I did real good.
Triple still wouldn’t look at me, so I took the biggest leap I could without a running start. And I misjudged the length of my legs by about a summer or two, so rather than landing on the rock with my feet, I landed on it with my face.
My chin smacked it, and for a split second I saw sunglasses and stars and pies and birds, but once those birds fluttered away and the pain moved in, I was wet and cold and hurting. But Triple, he was there. He stuck out his skinny arm and dragged me from the shallow water to the slippery shore.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I was somewhere between whispering and wailing, and somehow the rain had pierced through the trees and poured on everything, not caring what it touched.
“Derby, you’re bleeding!” Triple yelled.
What I’d thought was rain wasn’t, and my sleeve streaked red after I ran it across my chin. I opened and closed my jaw to be sure it was still screwed on tight, which made Triple gasp like it would crack clean off.
“I’m all right. It’s okay, Triple.” I pulled him down next to me. He stuck Peter in his lap, Peter, who seemed to like the pitter-patter of the rain.
Grit and sand burned inside the cut the creek had given me. The muddy water was all I had to wash it out with, but Garland had taught me about getting things done. So I did, and we were quiet for a bit.
“Peter’s a good turtle,” I said after a while, and when I did, he crawled from Triple’s lap to mine.
“Even if he’s not, Charlie still hasn’t shown her face down here yet. She might be all out of practice,” said Triple.
“Or turtles,” I said. Triple laughed a little at that but not all the way, so I could tell he wasn’t finished with being mad. “Marcus can help us feed him real good too,” I continued. “We won’t tell Charlie that the best turtles have this newfangled vegetaaaarian diet.”
And so we sat there on a wet rock underneath a wetter rain. And when our conversation and the rain dried up, we figured it was time to go back to the Rambler and maybe do the onions.
Triple stood up with Peter in his hands. “Do you have Twang?”
“Don’t you have Twang?” I asked.
I’d been too worried about a broken promise and a scraped-up chin, overgrown weeds and Garland in the nosebleeds. All of those things had blinded me from keeping safe the very thing that Triple loved most.
I think we both saw it at the same time—down where the creek opened up into the river, past where Garland said we were allowed to wade. Twang’s papertowel tube bobbed in and under the creek’s current, mad like the storm. I must have kicked Twang when my feet flew out from under me. Anyone else would have thought it was garbage, but Triple and I watched his heart and soul and what used to be our mama’s sandals float away right downstream.
“You wrecked everything,” Triple said, so quiet it sounded like the wind blew his words.
And then he tucked Peter under his arm and walked away, up to the honeysuckle and Queen Anne’s lace, alone.