Authors: Melissa Walker
The road was fun to drive, too—lots of valleys and views.
“Do things look different from the driver’s seat?” asked Ethan as we dipped down a hill. I could see cows in a field ahead, and I remembered coming out here on a field trip in first grade. Amanda and I got to give a bottle to a newborn calf.
“They do,” I said. “I feel like I’m actively involved in the landscape, rather than just watching it go by.”
And I realized as I said it that that’s what being with Ethan felt like. Like I wasn’t watching and waiting for something to happen, for someone to notice me, for life to come my way. I was participating in life. I was making decisions.
“No song game today?” asked Ethan, teasing me.
I had my iPod plugged into the radio jack, but we were listening to a Bon Iver album straight through.
“We could put on one of your playlists,” I said, kind of excited about the idea of listening to his playlist
with
him.
“No fair,” he said. “Then all the songs are how I feel about you, and none are how you feel about me.”
Right then, I felt the day going from exciting but ordinary birthday to the possibility of
more
. But more what? It wasn’t like when we went to the movies, where we nervously laughed and brushed hands and flirted, or even when I sat on the couch watching Spike Lee and let his hand touch mine. This felt bigger.
I considered turning back, saying I only had the car for an hour, making up an excuse about having to meet Amanda later. I thought about reminding him of his girlfriend, bringing up the conversation we had at Razzy’s again.
But it almost felt like we were driving in our own world—like we were inside a snow globe—and there was music and sunlight and smiles and laughter floating in the air. And it was all self-contained in a beautiful bubble filled with glittering water that made things seem a little unreal, a little dream-like and hazy. I’m sure the Bon Iver album helped.
It was amazing to be with Ethan this way. I didn’t want to break the spell.
I shifted into third gear as we went down a steep hill, and I pushed the rest of the world from my mind.
“I love that you can drive stick,” said Ethan. “It’s hot.”
I smiled at him, and he put his hand over mine on the shifter. I didn’t move my hand until I had to shift back into fourth when the road leveled out. We kept talking this way, and the farther we got from town, the more it felt like
we
were the couple, not he and Amanda.
There was a pause in conversation as Ethan clicked through the iPod, looking for a playlist after the album ended. He landed on “Beautiful Girl,” and we listened to it in silence together. I hoped he couldn’t see that I had goose bumps.
We drove until we got to the dirt road, which was about forty miles from the turn we took. Aaron and Amanda drove out here for one of our scavenger hunts—“dust from the dirt part of Rural Route 102” was on the list, and even though Aaron wanted to just pick up any dirt and pass it off as
the
dirt, Amanda didn’t like to cheat.
“He said no one would know where the dirt was from,” she’d told me later.
“No one would have,” I’d said. “You guys could have won.” My team with Renee had just beaten Amanda and Aaron that night, 42 to 41.
“I would have known,” she’d said, sure that I would understand. “It wouldn’t have felt like winning.”
I slowed the car and looked out the window at the dirt road.
“What’s past this?” asked Ethan.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“We should definitely find out.” He smiled at me in a way that made my heart buckle. I thought he might kiss me later, when we stopped driving. And I wanted him to, so badly.
At first the dirt road continued just like normal 102, past farmland and the occasional trailer. But then, as we rounded a slight bend, we came to a dead end. There was a road turning to the right, but it was blocked by an orange construction sign.
“Should we drive past it?” I asked. I was sure I could maneuver Mom’s Honda around the edge of the sign, and I didn’t want to turn back. I felt like turning back would be a big wind-down of this fantasy day with Ethan.
Not yet
, I thought.
“Maybe we can just park and check out the fields,” said Ethan. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s around.”
“Okay,” I said. I was sad to leave the playlist behind—I was worried the car was my snow globe and it would shatter without us being in this small space filled with music and sunlight.
It turned out, though, that the snow globe was bigger than I’d imagined. We high-stepped through grass that hadn’t been mowed all spring, where blue and yellow wildflowers were growing. When we found a shady spot near a lone tree in the middle of the field, Ethan smoothed out some grass and said, “Let’s sit.”
I sat down, legs stretched out in front of me, and he lay next to me, his elbow propped under his arm and his face turned in my direction. He handed me a tiny cluster of wildflowers that he’d picked along the way—I hadn’t even seen him do it.
“Thanks,” I said shyly. It felt like some old-fashioned courting ritual, us sitting under a shady tree in the middle of a farmer’s field.
I got nervous then.
“Did Amanda ever tell you about how in first grade we came out somewhere near here and met baby cows? We even got to give one of them a bottle, and it was so cute and—”
Ethan put his hand on my thigh. I stopped talking.
Then he whispered, “Clementine.” It was a sigh. I knew nothing was going to follow it. He wasn’t starting a sentence, he was just saying my name. He said it reverently, like he liked the sound of it in his mouth.
I lay down next to him, careful not to touch him, though he kept his hand on my leg. It felt like we were the only two people in the world at this moment. We lay there for hours, until we were in the sun after the shade had changed its position, and we just talked. It was easy. It was
Ethan
. We compared the nerdiest things we’d ever seen: I once witnessed this kid Ron Jenson typing “Sent from my iPhone” into an e-mail on his laptop.
“He does
not
have an iPhone,” I said.
Ethan countered that in his old town he knew someone who refused to use a mouse—ever.
“He knows all the key commands and proclaims that anyone who uses a mouse is a total caveman,” he said.
I laughed, but insisted that Ron’s fake iPhone was worse.
“Agreed,” said Ethan.
It was just so
normal
. Like we were together. It felt like the rightest thing I’d ever known. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
“More cheese!” shouts Olive.
We’re dumping a whole pack of shredded cheddar on top of the burrito-like casserole dish Mom’s making.
I’ve been force-recruited into helping with dinner tonight, because Mom decided it was time for me to “snap out of it,” at least for the evening. After this morning with James, I feel sunkissed and confused. I went out on the dinghy expecting a couple hours of small talk and jokes, but then talking to James made me think of Ethan. How messed up is that?
Dad has been alternating between reading the newspaper he picked up at the dock deli yesterday and laughing at me, Mom, and Olive in the kitchen, surrounded by empty cans.
“It takes all three of my girls to make one
Man, Can, Plan
dish,” he says, smiling.
Mom reaches over and bats him on the head with her oven mitt.
He stands and puts his hands on his hips, pretending to be mad, but then he just picks her up into a hug and twirls her around. I roll my eyes at Olive, and she does the same back to me.
“You guys are cheesier than this,” says Olive, and she points at the layer of cheddar we just added to the bean casserole dish.
“Just showing you guys how true romance is done,” says Dad, setting Mom down gently and giving her a kiss on the mouth.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s so romantic being in a forty-two-foot space with your two kids and eating your weight in canned beans.”
“You’re looking at it all wrong, Clem,” says Mom, taking my hand and guiding me to the port window, practically dancing. She points outside. “What do you see?”
The dark waves are lapping against the boat, and there are sparkling lights on the shoreline in the distance. It looks ordinary and extraordinary all at once. We’re on a boat, spending summer on the water. But I’m also bored half the time, and if I’m not bored I’m sad.
When I don’t say anything, she asks, “See the water out there?”
“I’m not blind,” I say.
“It’s blue and cold and wonderful, and it’s gently rocking us as we make a family dinner,” she says.
“Are you about to break out in song?” I ask.
“No,” she says, putting her arm around me and turning me back to face Dad and Olive in the kitchen. “I just want you to see out there, where it’s blue and wild and full of adventure. And then I want you to see in here, where there’s a warm yellow glow and your family is making dinner and your mom and dad are dancing and your little sister is hoping that you’ll throw a smile her way. This is the good stuff, Clem.”
“Now that the Hallmark commercial is over, can we put that dish in the oven already so dinner will be ready by bedtime?” I ask.
I understand what Mom is trying to do, but I’m so not in the mood.
I start heading to my room, but Dad stops me.
“I just want to grab the e-reader,” I say.
“As long as you read it out here,” says Dad.
“Fine.”
I get the e-reader and sit down at the end of the couch. Olive pushes in next to me and looks up at my face while I’m trying to read.
“I’m trying to read.”
“Can you braid me?” she asks.
This is how she always asks me to fix her hair, even if she means two ponytails or just a brushing—she always says “braid me.”
She holds up the brush in her hand.
“A real braid, please,” she says.
“Your hair’s too short,” I say, not looking up from the novel.
“Not for a little one,” she says. “Pleeeeease, Clem?”
I sigh and put my reading aside. Then I take Olive’s shoulders and turn her around so her back is to me. I collect three short pieces of hair and make a tiny braid.
“There,” I say. “You’ve got a braid.”
I’m reaching for the reader when she says, “More, please.”
I sigh and start again, taking three more short pieces and turning them into a second braid, then repeating. By the time dinner’s ready, my little sister has near dreadlocks. But she looks insane instead of cool. She runs to the mirror in her room, though, and comes out smiling like I’ve just made her ready for the red carpet.
“I love it,” she says, and she puts her arms around me. “I look like a rock star.”
“One of the crazy ones,” I say, patting her back.
“Those are the best kind,” she says as she pulls out of the hug, and I can’t help but smile at her unique, secure sense of who she is. She’d probably wear those braids outside if Mom let her.
We sit down to dinner, and I feel okay for a little while. Olive shakes her head around, showing off her wild braids, and Mom and Dad talk about the rest of our route and how we’ll be able to go swimming soon when we get to a spot where the currents aren’t so strong.
Dinner ends up tasting decent, and Olive says it’s because of the cheese we added. Mom admits that she doesn’t love cooking, even though she volunteered for the position, and she looks at me pointedly.
“I don’t want to cook,” I say, pulling four pudding cups out of the mini fridge for dessert.
I sit back down and pull the seal off my pudding. Then I lick the top.
“I think it would be a nice thing to do,” says Dad. “Maybe you could relieve Mom every other night.”
“It would be a nice thing to do,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”
“What
do
you want to do, Clem?” asks Olive, sticking her spoon into her pudding cup so it stands straight up. She looks at me, and her crazy braids make her seem angry.
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to get any further into this conversation, which suddenly feels too charged.
“Well, you’re already doing that every day,” says Mom.
She’s smiling, but she’s not happy.
“Why are you all on my case?” I ask.
Mom and Dad look at each other, and Olive keeps staring at me, her eyes hard. She hasn’t even started eating her pudding, and I know chocolate-vanilla swirl is her favorite.
I give her bug eyes back to let her know that I don’t appreciate the staring.
“You’re not Clem anymore,” she says quietly. Then she takes her spoon and starts eating slowly.
“What?” I ask her.
“You’ve changed,” she says, pronouncing “changed” like it’s a distasteful word not fit for her mouth.
I stand up and throw my crumpled napkin on the table.
“Olive, you don’t even understand what happened to me this year,” I say, trying to fight back tears. I can’t believe my little sister is getting to me like this, but I feel like I’m about to explode.
“I know what happened,” she says. “Something with Amanda.”
“Oh, I’m glad you have such in-depth understanding of the situation,” I snap.
“Does it matter?” asks Olive. “What’s happening now is that you’re like a big dark piece of thunder over our whole summer when you’re supposed to be fun. You’re supposed to be
Clem
!”
“Thunder is a
sound
!” I shout back at her.
I look at Mom and Dad, but they’re just quietly eating pudding like they’re watching this scene on TV or something, like I’m their evening entertainment.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I ask Dad.
“She’s right,” he says.
“Oh, well, I guess I’ll just change my mood and my entire emotional being to accommodate you guys,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, that’s it, I’ll just flip the happy switch and forget about the fact that I’m a terrible, deceptive person who has no friends and who doesn’t deserve a minute of happiness this summer!”
By the end of my shout, my voice has gone high and started to crack. I didn’t expect this.