ALLISON
The Pilot gas station at Parkins Plaza was all decked out and ready for Thanksgiving. The front of the store was plastered with paper turkey signs offering Gobble It Up Deals on Coke and cigarettes, and while the attendant was filling up my tank with gas, I went inside to grab some snacks.
It was snowing something fierce. The storm that had been predicted was coming on strong, and I was excited about staying in Opal Beach to witness it. Snow at the beach is something to behold. I’ve always loved the randomness of weather—the heat wave in the middle of January, the snow squall in early June. Or the hailstorms where drops froze during the updraft and bounced around like popcorn, growing to the size of acorns before plummeting to the ground to dent car hoods or smash gutters. But squalls at sea were particularly special. When frenzied, airy large snowflakes mixed in with the cold coastal wind, it made you realize you were part of something larger and more mysterious than you. The sand and the snow became one, a virtual whiteout of whistling air currents and bitter ice crystals. If you stood out in the middle of it, you’d feel like a thousand tiny little knives were stabbing your face. It was absolutely brilliant.
But my opinion must not have been very popular, for the town seemed even more deserted than usual. The cashier behind the counter barely looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. I thought I had the place to myself, but as I rounded the corner, I nearly ran into a girl standing next to a display of candy bars, her back to me. Her long, wavy, dirty-blonde hair swayed down her back. She seemed lost, carrying a woven droopy bag whose bottom dragged on the floor as she moved, worn silver-and-pink high-top sneakers squeaking softly on the worn tile floor. Her thin legs were clad in leggings, and she wore a coat much too light for the weather.
Maureen.
My heart stampeded like a herd of buffalo. The girl stopped again in the middle of the aisle, slightly hunched. I saw the lift and fall of her breath, saw a small circular burn hole, the size of a cigarette, on the back upper arm of her coat. Before I could catch myself, I reached a hand out. I was close enough now to smell her, a light floral scent that reminded me of something—of somewhere—though I couldn’t quite place it. I tapped her on the shoulder, amazed when it was solid, when my hand didn’t just pass through her, icy cold. When she didn’t disappear.
“Maureen,” I said, almost whispering it, the name curling over my tongue like a secret.
When she turned, I immediately realized my mistake. Her face was small, overwhelmed by large round glasses, the kind that had been nerdy when I was in middle school but were back in style now. Bright blue earbuds trailed down to a battered cell phone cradled in her hand, and I could hear the tinny sounds of a rock song vibrating through them.
“Well, look who it is. Opal Beach’s most famous resident.”
I jumped, whirling around to find Dolores, holding a giant bag of Doritos and a bottle of medicine. She was looking at me funny, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed the young girl wander away, the echoes of her music following her.
Dolores held up the bottle, rolling her eyes. “Dad caught a cold, of course. Right before I’m leaving, too. I think it’s his passive-aggressive way of saying I shouldn’t go visit my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to shake the image of Maureen out of my head. What was wrong with me? I was seeing ghosts now.
Dolores jabbed a finger in my shoulder. “Dude! You are, like, literally the talk of the town right now. I mean, for someone who wanted to be all anonymous and get away from things, you’re, like, right in the middle of it.”
“In the middle of what?” I asked, inwardly cringing at her comment.
“Do you know how many people are talking about this? I was on Reddit last night, and there’s a whole thread of people speculating about what’s going on. Wacky shit, too. Drug raid. Financial ruin. One person did chime in, though, and mentioned the girl...”
“Mabel,” I groaned.
Dolores made a face. “Yeah, right. As if Mabel even knows what Reddit is. I don’t even think she uses Facebook except to post the houses she’s sold. And even that she screws up.” Dolores shook her head. “No, not Mabel. But don’t worry, she’s got everything else covered. You’re like her favorite new topic.”
“Great,” I said. “Just what I need.” The clerk was watching us now, her magazine forgotten.
“Holy crow, though.” Dolores’s voice lowered. “But seriously, are you guys nuts? Taking on the Bishops?”
“I’m not really taking on... I mean, it’s just—I think it’s fine.”
“Yeah, fine. That’s what Tammy said, too.” Dolores shifted her groceries in her arms, her scarf slipping off one shoulder to reveal those tattoos, and I was reminded of the way she used her whole body to slam the derby girls to the floor. “She won’t tell me anything. I think she’s mad because I wouldn’t help her. But I’m worried about her. She’s not been the same since...well, I told you this kind of thing gets her worked up.”
I glanced over at the clerk, who had moved from her station behind the counter closer to us to straighten a rack of sunglasses. Dolores sensed what was going on. She strode to the counter and paid for her stuff while I waited by the door. If the clerk wanted to ask us anything—and I was sure she did—to her credit she kept her mouth shut. But I felt her eyes on us as we left.
“Look,” I said. “I can fill you in sometime, okay? It’s just—complicated right now, I guess. And you know, with the way word spreads around here, we have to keep stuff close.”
Dolores’s eyes widened. “Well, I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, you know.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” I remembered the entire derby team winking and nudging me. The Weather Girl. Dolores, I suspected, was even worse than Mabel when it came to gossip. She’d have the whole story spread around by sunrise. “I’ll stop by the gallery after the holiday. Sound good?”
Just then the headlights of a car blinded us as it pulled in by one of the gas station pumps. From the side, I could see clearly who was in the driver’s seat. Clay Bishop. He looked over, and for a moment I thought he might get out to confront us, but instead he just drove away from the pump, disappearing toward downtown.
Dolores turned to me, awe spreading over her face. “You see?” she said. “You’ve really started something.”