Bea sits on her bed, her English homework open in her lap, but trying to hear the conversation next door. Dinner was awful. There’s rarely confrontation in this family. She has realized, in comparison, that her parents argued a good bit. Sometimes they tried to hide it from her, but the flat was so small that she could hear everything. She has often wondered whether Mr. and Mrs. G ever fight. She’s never heard them. Once she asked Gerald: Don’t your parents ever yell? Don’t they disagree about anything? No, Gerald had said, surprised. They pretty much always get along. It’s me and William who fight.
For the first year or so she was here, she thought they were perfect. But then she began to notice the little things, the way they ignore each other or the way they look at each other from time to time. Like at dinner tonight when Mrs. G excused William from the table. There was a fury in that look that she gave Mr. G that reminded Bea of her own mother, but she’s rarely seen Mrs. G like that. And Mr. G didn’t respond. If her mother looked at her father like that, he would have exploded.
William should have told her about his plan. She could have told him the best way to handle it, even though she knows that Mr. and Mrs. G would never let him stay. What was he thinking, bringing a big thing like that up at dinner, with all of them there? It’s not that he’s selfish, exactly, but he rarely thinks things through. No wonder everyone responded as they did. He should know that nothing good could ever come from making a big announcement at the dinner table. Dinner is Mr. G’s domain. He likes to control the dinner conversation, to hear about everyone’s day, to make plans. She’s relieved that they won’t let him stay here, though. What would Maine be like without him? Gerald is fine and all, full of ideas and always a comfort, but William’s the one at the center. He’s the one who makes things happen.
Bea hears Mrs. G leave William’s room. She waits five minutes and then knocks on his wall in the code Gerald developed in Maine. Three sets of double knocks to ask whether she could come in. A pause and then an answer: one knock. She pushes open the door to his room, where he’s sitting on his bed, eating his dinner. I know, he says. Don’t say it. It was a stupid idea. No, she replies, sitting in his desk chair, twirling round and round, it’s not a stupid idea. But you should have never brought it up in that way. And besides, I thought you loved Maine. I do, he says. But don’t you ever feel, Bea—and here he sits up and leans toward her and she stops spinning to listen to him—that we’re wasting time? That we’re just waiting for something to happen? I want to do something important, something that matters. Swimming to town, fishing, picking blueberries. Doesn’t it seem wrong when there’s a war on?
Bea nods and looks down. She loves that William confides in her. But she’s the one who ought to be doing more, the one who shouldn’t be enjoying herself. A day can pass now without her thinking about her parents. She feels sick when she remembers where they are, what they are doing. Even with the rations, the war feels so far away. Why didn’t you tell me? she asks, twirling again, refusing to meet his gaze, looking instead at the pictures of Bobby Doerr and Ted Williams plastered on his walls. They’re all going to Opening Day next week. Why didn’t you let me know you were even thinking about this? He shrugs. It was just a thing Nelson and I came up with the other day at his house. Right after we figured out the number of days until we can enlist. I’ve got—he checks a piece of paper on his bedside table—1,198 days. He’s got 193 fewer: 1,005 days.
Bea looks at him. His cheeks are flushed and he looks distraught. She can never stay angry for long. That’s forever, William, she says. Really. You need to find something else to think about, something that you can do now. Let’s make some plans for the summer. I heard your mother talking to you about mowing lawns in town. I can help you with that, we can do it together. No way, he says, throwing his pillow at her. You’re a girl. And finally he’s almost smiling. She loves that look, the look that reminds her of the day they met.