is the added factor of the boy in the forest. If things were normal, Bay would tell her Nana about him, but there never seems to be a good reason to bring it up, and after a while, Bay realizes she enjoys keeping the mystery to herself, a secret she shares with no one; a pleasant secret for once.
The first time Bay saw him, she was gazing out her bedroom window at the unusual sky, that shade of light peculiar to some August evenings when time seems temporarily stuck, feeling like she might cry, though she couldn’t imagine why, when she became aware of an odd movement among the lilacs. She leaned closer, expecting to see a bird or squirrel causing the stir, but what she saw instead made her step back.
Staring up at her from the midst of green was the pale face of a boy. Bay’s heart fluttered in a most alarming way; she wondered if it was an attack of some kind. She leaned closer to the screen, smelling the heavy scent of flowers, the grass, the aroma of citronella. Was this boy created out of her longing, the way she used to have imaginary friends when she was little? Did he really just smile, revealing dimples she could see even at this distance? Was a boy staring up at the house like this the beginning of something good, or something terrible?
Bay ran to find her Nana, who was asleep in the parlor, a dust rag in her hand. By then, Bay thought maybe she’d imagined him; after all, she used to imagine seeing people all the time when she was little. Besides, her Nana looked so old that Bay decided not to disturb her. Instead, Bay went to peer out the kitchen window. Seeing no sign of him, she walked into the backyard where the strange light had already returned to ordinary dusk. She worked up all her courage to walk over to the lilacs. There was no sign of anyone having been there, no broken branches brushed aside by reckless hands, no footprints in the dirt. The only thing unusual was how the air smelled sweet, as though the lilacs were in bloom, when in fact, they were long dead.
The next time Bay saw him was in the clear light of day. She was reaching into the basket at her feet for a sheet to hang on the line when she thought she spied him out of the corner of her eye, but as soon as she turned, he was gone.
Bay began leaving sandwiches tucked among the shoes in the garden: tahini with orange marmalade, basil and tomato with vinegar dressing (she couldn’t risk the mayonnaise, which everyone knows becomes poisonous in the sun), goat cheese with a black-olive tapenade, cheddar and mustard on a seven-grain bun. At first Nan encouraged the kitchen experimentation, but after a while, she began complaining about all the missing Tupperware. He never took the sandwiches anyway; they were blue with mold when Bay retrieved them. Annoyed that he’d wasted all that food, she decided she couldn’t risk arousing her Nana’s curiosity by tossing them in the compost bin. Bay threw them into the forest instead, something she regrets now that the yard has begun to smell sour.
After long hours of walnut-oil furniture polishing and vinegar-scented window washing, she is so miserable she thinks she almost could go back to the river, in spite of what awaits her there. Thalia doesn’t ask again, though, and Bay wonders if her Nana said something strange to her.
Bay always thought a solitary nature was something she shared with Nan. Of course other adults have friends; Bay just can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t really make sense that her Nana’s old friends, who Bay has never heard of before, are suddenly coming to visit.
“Why?” she asks Nan, who is on her hands and knees, polishing floorboards in the dining room.
“We haven’t seen each other in years. We thought now would be a good time.”
Bay nods, pretending to understand, until she thinks maybe she really does. She can’t believe that she and Thalia would lose touch for sixty years, but if that did happen, well, of course they would want to get together
The first time Bay saw him, she was gazing out her bedroom window at the unusual sky, that shade of light peculiar to some August evenings when time seems temporarily stuck, feeling like she might cry, though she couldn’t imagine why, when she became aware of an odd movement among the lilacs. She leaned closer, expecting to see a bird or squirrel causing the stir, but what she saw instead made her step back.
Staring up at her from the midst of green was the pale face of a boy. Bay’s heart fluttered in a most alarming way; she wondered if it was an attack of some kind. She leaned closer to the screen, smelling the heavy scent of flowers, the grass, the aroma of citronella. Was this boy created out of her longing, the way she used to have imaginary friends when she was little? Did he really just smile, revealing dimples she could see even at this distance? Was a boy staring up at the house like this the beginning of something good, or something terrible?
Bay ran to find her Nana, who was asleep in the parlor, a dust rag in her hand. By then, Bay thought maybe she’d imagined him; after all, she used to imagine seeing people all the time when she was little. Besides, her Nana looked so old that Bay decided not to disturb her. Instead, Bay went to peer out the kitchen window. Seeing no sign of him, she walked into the backyard where the strange light had already returned to ordinary dusk. She worked up all her courage to walk over to the lilacs. There was no sign of anyone having been there, no broken branches brushed aside by reckless hands, no footprints in the dirt. The only thing unusual was how the air smelled sweet, as though the lilacs were in bloom, when in fact, they were long dead.
The next time Bay saw him was in the clear light of day. She was reaching into the basket at her feet for a sheet to hang on the line when she thought she spied him out of the corner of her eye, but as soon as she turned, he was gone.
Bay began leaving sandwiches tucked among the shoes in the garden: tahini with orange marmalade, basil and tomato with vinegar dressing (she couldn’t risk the mayonnaise, which everyone knows becomes poisonous in the sun), goat cheese with a black-olive tapenade, cheddar and mustard on a seven-grain bun. At first Nan encouraged the kitchen experimentation, but after a while, she began complaining about all the missing Tupperware. He never took the sandwiches anyway; they were blue with mold when Bay retrieved them. Annoyed that he’d wasted all that food, she decided she couldn’t risk arousing her Nana’s curiosity by tossing them in the compost bin. Bay threw them into the forest instead, something she regrets now that the yard has begun to smell sour.
After long hours of walnut-oil furniture polishing and vinegar-scented window washing, she is so miserable she thinks she almost could go back to the river, in spite of what awaits her there. Thalia doesn’t ask again, though, and Bay wonders if her Nana said something strange to her.
Bay always thought a solitary nature was something she shared with Nan. Of course other adults have friends; Bay just can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t really make sense that her Nana’s old friends, who Bay has never heard of before, are suddenly coming to visit.
“Why?” she asks Nan, who is on her hands and knees, polishing floorboards in the dining room.
“We haven’t seen each other in years. We thought now would be a good time.”
Bay nods, pretending to understand, until she thinks maybe she really does. She can’t believe that she and Thalia would lose touch for sixty years, but if that did happen, well, of course they would want to get together
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