The Summer of Moonlight Secrets (3 page)

7

Chase

You'd think after all that, I'd get decent treatment—you know, sirens wailing, ambulance racing over curbs, medics rushing out of the ER, saying,
What've we got here?

But no. The paramedics took their time loading me on a gurney and talking about their own skateboarding days while they pressed the button for the world's slowest elevator. No siren, and we stopped at every red light. Dad couldn't even ride in the ambulance with me because we needed the car to drive back to the hotel.

I don't know how long we wait at the emergency room or even if we wait. A bunch of people talk to Dad and keep saying
Hey, buddy
to me. I'm thirteen, not five, but whatever. The doctors explain what they're going to do and I'm all like,
Yeah, yeah, yeah
, because I'm thinking,
Just do it!
They decide I don't have a concussion. Then they give me some kind of shot and I feel it going from my left arm, flowing warmly through my veins, all the way through my body, until it reaches my head.

“Doing okay, buddy?” one of the doctors asks.

When I nod, I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, kind of woozy but good. My head lolls to the side and I watch Dad ask the doctor questions. I grin. He should sit down, relax. Everything's all right. He's a good guy, just works too hard, that's all. He needs a break. Look at him, writing stuff down even now. I snicker.

They turn to me. I flash them a peace sign.

It doesn't even hurt when, a few minutes later, the doctor manipulates my right arm so that the bones meet the right way. I am floating through space. Then they wrap, wrap, wrap up my arm a few inches past my elbow with long bandages; some are wet with plaster of paris. Cool.

As the cast sets, the doctor rattles off some rules. “No lotion or powder in the cast.”

Check. No girlie stuff.

“Don't stick objects into the cast to scratch yourself.”

Check. No objects.

“Do
not
get the cast wet.”

What? I push through layers of puffy clouds. “What about swimming?”

The doctor shakes his head. “No swimming.”

I knife through the clouds. “No swimming? What about the pool?” I glance at Dad, then back to the doctor.

He shakes his head again. “No swimming at all. You'll even need to be careful in the shower. If the cast gets wet, it'll break down, or mold or fungus could grow inside.”

My mouth drops open. The clouds flit away. I turn to Dad, hoping he can help me out here. “Dad, the springs! What about snorkeling and all that?”

Dad exhales loudly and shakes his head.

“And you'll have to stay off that skateboard too. In fact, nothing with wheels,” the doctor says. “We don't want you breaking the other arm.” He gives what he probably thinks is a good-natured chuckle, then hands Dad a paper. “This goes over how to take care of the cast and what to look out for.”

The last little bit of warm feeling leaves me. I can't believe this. I'm in Florida, just an hour from the ocean, only I can't swim in it; I'm stuck in a hotel with a pool I can't use, and now I can't even skateboard. What am I supposed to do? Play shuffleboard? Oh, yeah, I can't do that either—broke my shuffleboard arm.

I'm sitting next to Dad in the Silver Bullet, the Camaro he and Mom bought before she left us. The Rusty Bullet, he should call it.
This thing's a beater, Dad. Why don't you get rid of it?
I've asked.
Nope
. He'd finger the New Hampshire Chevrolet sticker on it—that's where we lived when she was still with us.

Souvenirs are supposed to remind you of a good time you had somewhere. The Camaro is one big souvenir—it reminds Dad of good times with Mom. I have to look at photos to do that.

The seat belt's making my arm seriously uncomfortable. I unbuckle it.

“Put it back on.” Dad doesn't look at me when he says it.

“Too uncomfortable.”

“Just put it on,” he says, sounding tired. Hey, I'm the one with the injury, remember?

I fumble with my left hand, trying to snap the buckle in, but it's not a one-arm job. Then the belt gets stuck and I try retracting it, which only makes it get stuck higher. I grit my teeth and yank on the belt.

Dad jerks his head at me. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to put on the seat belt like you said!” I pull on it. No go.

He shifts hands on the steering wheel and stretches his right hand over. “Well, let me help you if you can't get it.”

“I don't need your help!” I go into crazy mode, retracting the belt and yanking it over and over again until, finally, it comes loose and I pull it down. But I still can't make the connection; the buckle keeps flopping. My lips smash together as I try and fail one more time. I breathe hard through my nose. A trickle of sweat runs down my right arm and into the cast. Great. My body goes rigid: one arm frozen into a right angle; the other arm frozen in position holding the seat belt.

Dad reaches over and holds the buckle still. I push the seat belt in and it snaps into place.

We ride in silence to the hotel.

8

Allie Jo

Knit one, purl two. Or at least I thought that's what knitting would be. I loop the yarn around the needle and try to pull it back.

“Oops! You dropped a stitch.” Sophie lays her own needles down and takes the ones she's lent me.

We're sitting in the parlor next to the grand staircase that separates us from the front-desk area. I happen to think it's an excellent sitting area, good for reading, for thinking, and especially for spying on every single guest that comes to check in, but since there's not much going on today, knitting is okay too.

When Sophie and I first met yesterday, I was a little put off after Mom dragged me away from the third floor and that girl hiding in the closet. Also, I saw how pretty Sophie was. In my experience, pretty girls are usually mean, like Jennifer Jorgensen from school—that's why you have to avoid them. But the first thing Sophie said was how lucky I was to be living here, so I shucked the chip right off my shoulder and crunched it under my feet.

Sophie hands my knitting back to me. “There you go!”

Raising the needle up, I examine a few rows that weren't there before. You'd think a person might get mad, someone doing their project for them, but I'm glad. Sophie said I should start off with a scarf, and she wondered if it ever gets cold in Florida, but I said a scarf would do just fine, since I saw it was nothing but straight lines. Easy as pie.

Boy, was I wrong. You've got to have nimble fingers to knit, and Sophie's pale fingers fly with the yarn. She's making a scarf, too, but hers has patterns she knits right into it. Still, I'm happy with mine. She let me pick from her bundles of yarn, and I pulled out a ball of the most shimmery green I've ever seen.

My best friend, Melanie, doesn't knit. She likes to watch TV and go swimming, but only if there's no one else in the pool. This is on account of she's kind of what you might call—well, I don't like to say anything bad about her; she's my best friend and all—but the kids at school call her Shamu, so now you know what I'm talking about, but I didn't say it myself.

If I get really good at knitting, I'll teach Melanie how to do it when she gets back from up north. I hate that she's gone all summer. Not only is she my best friend, she's my closest friend, and I really mean that—she's the only girl from school who lives in bike-riding distance. I don't count Jennifer Jorgensen and her little followers; they don't live too far, but they think they're so big because they're one grade ahead of me. When Melanie gets back, we'll knit ourselves all kinds of fancy stuff and everyone else will be jealous.

Where'd you get that?
Jennifer Jorgensen will ask, eyeing my scarf.

I'll toss it around my neck.
It's one of kind,
I'll say, and Melanie and I will walk off airily.

“Oh, um … ,” Sophie says. “I think you dropped a couple of stitches.”

“Oh!” I hand the little bit I've done to her, determined to pay more attention. “You're really good at this. How long have you been knitting?”

Her eyes fastened to the needles, she goes, “I don't know, a long time. My grandma taught me.” She hands my scarf back to me, which is about two inches long now. “She wanted me to have something to do, since I stay indoors a lot.” She picks up her needles. “I have allergies.”

“Allergies!” I drop another stitch. Putting my knitting in my lap, I glance at her. She doesn't look like she has a disease or anything. Well, maybe she is kind of slim and sort of pale, but I expect that's from being indoors all the time. “That's terrible!”

She shakes her head. “It's not bad. My parents are like experts when it comes to medicine, pollen counts, and allergens. When I was little, my mom kept my stuffed animals in bags.”

“Bags?” They wouldn't have been able to breathe. Sure, I know they don't need to, but when you're little, you think they do. That's why you also feed them.

“To keep the dust off.” She looks at me. “But none of my stuff is in bags now. I mainly get stuck indoors a lot.”

I think about that and nod. “You'll be stuck indoors anyway,” I say. “This is the rainy season.” When she looks confused, I explain. “There're two seasons in Florida: hot, and hot and rainy.” Then I say dramatically, “You're in the jungle now!”

She takes her eyes off her knitting and looks at me wide-eyed.

I like a good audience. “Yes,” I hiss. “Alligators! Fire ants! Lizards!” Melanie sometimes hangs lizards by their jaws from her earlobes, trying to gross me out. It works.

“What about monkeys?” she asks. “Monkeys live in the jungle.”

“Monkeys!” I nod. “But not here. In Silver Springs. They made the Tarzan movies there a long time ago and the monkeys escaped. Now they're all wild, living in the treetops.”

“Wow!”

Of course this makes me like her more. I like anyone who appreciates what I've got to say. Plus, look how nice she is, sharing her good yarn with me and everything.

“Welcome to Florida,” I say with a big smile, then quote the slogan: “The rules are different here.”