That nursery rhyme claims little boys are made of snips and snails and puppy-dog tails, but Flor is certain her brother is ninety-nine percent dirt. Lately he spends all his time with a summer kid named Benjamin, and their main activity must be rolling on the ground. Usually Thomas follows Flor everywhere, so this development is a relief. Except for how disgustingly filthy he is.
Thomas’s other new thing is whistling. This is an improvement over when he said everything in what he claimed was Martian, and definitely better than when his answer to any question was “It’s complicated.”
Did you brush your teeth? “It’s complicated.”
Why is your shirt inside out? “It’s complicated.”
Have you seen Dad’s fishing pole? “It’s . . .”
You get the idea.
At least when he’s whistling, he’s not talking.
Today when Flor gets home from swimming, she hears him in the bathroom, whistling softly and steadily. Carrying a tune doesn’t figure in. They only have one bathroom, and Flor needs a shower. When she knocks, a two-part rising whistle answers her.
“It’s me,” she says. “Come out. Time’s up.”
Now it’s one long loud note, like a policeman stopping traffic.
“This is ridiculous.” She tries the doorknob. Locked. “I refuse to communicate in whistles.”
The toilet flushes. The sink runs for several centuries. Yet when Thomas opens the door, his face and hands are grubby as ever. A mystery. He saunters down the hall, hands in pockets, a pudgy six-year-old whistling machine.
After her shower, Flor peers into the steamy mirror. She’s diligent with the sunscreen, and pale as a cauliflower. Because she’s small for her age, with dark hair like her mother and fair skin like her father, people who don’t know her well often ask if she feels all right. Whenever they visit Mama’s family in Toledo, Lita forces her to eat fried liver. Lita’s convinced Flor has poor blood and sends her home with big jars of iron pills. All Mama’s side of the family has beautiful caramel-colored skin and glossy dark hair. It’s how Cecilia looks, and Thomas too. But not Flor.
Sylvie says she is unique. This is Sylvie-speak for ugly duckling.
Mama’s in the kitchen, making dinner. She can peel and chop while gazing out the window, though this makes everyone else nervous. Chop chop, those carrots are goners. Whoosh, they cascade into the pot. She dries her hands, cocks a look at Flor.
“Fetch the comb and brush,” she says.
Nothing. That’s what Flor loves more than Mama French braiding her hair. Usually when Mama pays her particular, undivided attention, it’s to scold her for being so stubborn, or flipping her lip, or teasing poor little Thomas. But when she’s braiding Flor’s hair, lifting the strands and twining them smooth, Mama’s strong fingers do the talking.
You are my girl. My one and only Flor.
No one else pronounces her name that exact way, stretching it into two emerald-green syllables, making Flor see a vine twisting up a wall, white flowers like stars. It’s the way her name is meant to sound.
Just as Mama finishes, Cecilia walks in. Flor’s big sister sails straight to the refrigerator.
“And where have you been all afternoon?” Mama’s not really angry. Trouble? Cecilia never causes it, never gets into it.
Cecilia selects a single radish. She takes it to the sink, washes it like it’s about to have surgery, and takes a bite. Who eats a radish in more than one bite? A sister who’s on a diet, though she will never admit it.
“You were at the library again,” Mama accuses. “Don’t think you can fool me.”
Mama frets Cecilia doesn’t have enough friends, and this is true, though it’s not Cele’s fault. Besides Perry Pinch IV, the island school has four other high schoolers, and none of them even remotely qualifies as a good, let alone perfect, friend. Once upon a time, Cele and Flor played together. They invented so many excellent games! Town—that was their best. Good old Town. Let it be said that Flor was not the one to put an end to that.
“I’m getting a head start on chemistry.” Cecilia nibbles her radish. “Considering Mrs. Plum probably doesn’t know a molecule from a mole, and I’ll mainly have to teach myself.”
“But,” begins Flor, and her big sister shoots her the death ray. The words The library isn’t open today vaporize.
“It’s a whole month till school. ¡Dios mío!” scolds Mama. “Plenty of time to study!”
Cecilia circles her arms around their mother, rests her chin on Mama’s shoulder. She’s always been prettier than Flor, but lately? Her dark eyes are bright, her hair shiny as a waterfall. A person would think she was in love, and she probably would be, if she lived anywhere else. Moonpenny has everything a person could dream of, Dad always says. Of course, he doesn’t dream of having a boyfriend.
“Whoever heard of a mother discouraging her kid from studying?” Cele says. “You’re loca! My mamacita loca.”
Over Mama’s shoulder, she smiles at Flor. Lately, Cecilia has become a real smile miser, so this is a surprise. It should make Flor suspicious. Instead, her foolish mouth votes to smile back.
Dad’s late for dinner, highly unusual. He is a police officer. The police officer. He drives a beat-up SUV with a mail-order clip-on light and carries a gun he’s never once shot, except at the targets behind the VFW. In summer, Dad’s job is fishing water snakes out of nervous ladies’ rain barrels and tipsy tourists out of the lake. Winters, he checks on closed-up cottages, settles late-night arguments at the Cockeyed Gull. Now and then Thomas wishes for a big car chase or a wild shoot-out, like on TV, but Thomas is only six, plus a boy, so what can you expect.
Flor is grateful their father’s job isn’t dangerous. And she’s proud of him. Everyone on the island likes Dad, except when they don’t, and that’s always because they did something they shouldn’t have and got caught. Getting caught is guaranteed, on Moonpenny.
Today he’s gone out to check on old Violet Tinkiss, who lives alone. Dad makes sure Violet and her two-legged dog, Minnie, have food and her roof’s not leaking too bad.
No way that should take this long. Mama’s fussing over her dried-up chicken frijoles when tires crunch the gravel driveway. Dad comes in and collapses into a kitchen chair. He looks terrible. Thomas sounds an alarmed whistle.
“What happened?” cries Mama. “Where were you?”
Dad is big. His dangling arms practically touch the floor.
“Accident,” he says. “Out by the neck. That fool Perry Pinch flipped his car.”
“Oh, no!” everybody cries—everybody except Cecilia, who goes statue still. “Is he all right? How did it happen? Was there another car?”
Flor remembers how she and Sylvie hollered at him to slow down. Sylvie! Poor Sylvie. She’ll die if anything happens to her brother.
“He’ll be okay,” says Dad. “Looks like he broke his arm and bruised a couple of ribs. Perry Senior is flying him over to Toledo General. The car’s totaled. He must’ve been going like a bat out of you-know-where, on that narrow, winding road.” Dad runs his hand from the back of his head to the front. His reddish-brown hair leaps to attention. “At least he didn’t have anyone with him. The passenger side was stove in.”
Cecilia starts crying, so quietly only Flor notices.
“Was he drinking?” Mama’s hands fly to her hips.
“Could be.”
“You didn’t do the test?” Mama’s voice whittles to a point.
“Now what’d be the good of that?” Dad pulls at the skin under his jaw. “Trust me, that boy has learned his lesson.”
“Just like I was saying last night! He could’ve hit someone! What if a child was in the road?”
Mama would’ve made a good lawyer or judge, the kind who throws people in jail for life. Thomas gives a here-they-go whistle and crawls under the table. The tears roll down Cecilia’s cheeks faster than she can wipe them away.
“Well, he didn’t,” says Dad. “And Perry Senior’s not likely to let him drive again anytime soon.”
“That boy needs to suffer some real consequences.”
“He’s suffering, guaranteed,” says Dad. “Cracked ribs are no joke.”
Dad never starts these arguments, so far as Flor can see. And once they get started, he tries to end them as quickly as possible. A mistake. When’s he going to realize that only makes Mama angrier? When’s Mama going to realize he is who he is?
“Smells great, Bea.” He lifts the lid from the skillet, trying to distract her. “I’m so hungry I could eat my own arm.”
“The law goes for everyone. Including the almighty Pinches.”
“There’s extenuating circumstances,” says Dad.
“If his parents won’t punish him, the law needs to step in.”
Dad carefully replaces the lid. He was born and raised here. Being the island cop is his lifelong dream come true. Taking the job to heart does not begin to cover it. Under the table, Thomas starts to whistle, then thinks better of it. Dad’s voice cracks the silence.
“If you’re saying I’m shirking my duty, Beatriz, I’d appreciate an apology.”
“What I’m saying—” Mama begins.
But now a spoon arrows through the air between them. It bounces off the refrigerator and clatters to the floor.
“I can’t believe you two are arguing over this! You’re heartless and cruel. Beyond heartless and cruel!”
Cecilia pounds up the stairs. Slam! It’s a wonder her bedroom door doesn’t fly off the hinges. In the kitchen, no one moves. Flor’s the one who makes big stinks, not Cecilia. Mama stares at nothing, then grabs a spoon and starts dishing out dinner. Creeping out from under the table, Thomas digs in, but Dad says he needs a shower, and no way can Flor eat now.
“I have to go see Sylvie,” she says, and though Mama believes skipping a family meal is a sin against God, she nods.
Flor swings into the saddle and flies down the road, Misty’s mane streaming. Up that long steep driveway, horse and girl as one. Mrs. Pinch half opens the door.
“Oh, hello, Flor.”
Her mother—that’s where Sylvie and her brother got their looks. But tonight she seems exhausted. And she smells funny, sweetness layered on top of bitterness.
“Is Sylvie . . .”
Mrs. Pinch shakes her head. She doesn’t bother to tell Flor what happened because by now, word’s out all over the island. News here travels at approximately the speed of light.
“She begged so hard to go along to the hospital, her father gave in.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Pinch will never win any warm-and-friendly contests, and right now it’s plain the one thing she wants in this world is to shut that door. But Flor sticks her foot in the crack.
“I’m glad Perry’s going to be okay,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Tell Sylvie to call me, okay?”
“It won’t be till tomorrow. If then.”
“But whenever.”
Mrs. Pinch special orders cosmetics and beauty products, flown in by Island Air. Flor thinks her anti-wrinkle cream must not be working—she looks older than last time Flor saw her. But then, Flor hasn’t seen her up close in how long? Pretty much the entire summer, since Sylvie always wants to go to Flor’s house.
“I’ll tell her,” says Mrs. Pinch.
“And tell her—”
The door shuts.
The sun’s almost down, the lake a dull shade of gray. Woodsmoke from the campground floats on the air. Why does that smell always make a person feel lonesome? When Flor pictures Sylvie in a brightly lit, scrubbed hospital, her friend seems farther away than ever. Their afternoon together feels like last year, at least.
That odd look that came into Sylvie’s eyes—it creeps back to haunt Flor. What did it mean?
Misty stumbles, snapping Flor’s head forward, and just like that, she knows. I’ve got a secret. That’s what the look said. You don’t get it.
Impossible! Transparent. Just-washed windows. That’s how she and Sylvie are to each other.
She has to stop by the side of the road to calm herself down. Clouds scud in, wrecking the sunset. Slap slap slap goes the lake, teasing and bullying the silent rocks.
Digging in the pocket of her shorts, she pulls out the fossil Sylvie set on the tip-top of their quarry castle. Flor swiped it, just before they left. Now, in the dusky light, the white fan seems to glow with its own light. She rubs it with her thumb and makes her wish again.