purple flowers, the leaves covering the shoes that contain them, and the boy’s feet are bare.
Bay raises her hand. She doesn’t expect a response, not really—she’s not even sure he’s not just something leftover from her little-kid imagination—but after a moment, she sees a pale wave of light, like the reflection of sun on water, or a small bird taking flight, the boy, waving. Bay spins out of her room and down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door, which she lets slam shut behind her. “Sorry,” she calls. Her Nana hates it when she slams the door.
It is a perfect summer day. The sky is cloudless blue, and the air is fresh, but the boy stands in the hostas as though rooted there, looking sorrowful.
“So, it’s true,” he says at Bay’s approach.
“What’s true?”
He shrugs.
An odd boy , Bay thinks, though she can’t figure what it is about him that makes her think so. His hair maybe, dirty blond, cut long at the front, parted on the side. He flicks his head like a sparrow at a birdbath, though it does little good; the hair continues to fall in his eyes, which are watery blue and small. The sprinkle of freckles across his face doesn’t make him look friendly, nor do his thin lips. Bay reconsiders. This, she thinks, is probably not a love story. “What’s your name?”
He hesitates, as if doing some reconsidering himself, then shrugs. “Karl.”
“So what’s up?” Bay asks, and when he only looks at her quizzically, “Are you a runaway or something?”
“Don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Who?”
He juts his chin at the house. “The old lady. Or any of her friends.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Kind of common knowledge, ain’t it?”
Bay supposes this is true. Nan hired a college boy to transport her guests from the airport. She paid Stan to come clean out the gutters, which turned out to be a massive undertaking, neglected for years. Stan said there were trees growing up there, which Bay thought an exaggeration until he started tossing down saplings. No wonder people think we’re so weird, Bay had thought, while her Nana had fretted about killing “the poor things.”
Bay didn’t know why they needed to do all this work for guests staying a single night. When Thalia sleeps over, the only preparation they make is to be sure there is toilet paper in both bathrooms. Up until this summer, Bay considered dusting a winter activity, like shoveling. In spite of the little forest produced by the gutter cleaning, Bay thinks her Nana is overdoing it.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Bay frowns at the boy. “What?”
“You’re one of them thinking girls, ain’t you? I once knew a girl kinda like you.”
Ever alert for information about anything that might be interpreted as familial reference, Bay’s heart lurches. “You did?”
“She was always figuring stuff out. She couldn’t let things alone, you know? She thought everything was, like, a problem.”
“I don’t think everything’s a problem.”
“Sure you do. You think I’m a problem.”
Bay shakes her head.
“Yeah, you do. That’s why you been leaving those weird sandwiches all over the place.”
“I thought maybe you were hungry,” Bay says, hurt by the unfavorable review.
“Well, anyhow, that ain’t why I’ve been hanging around.”
“Why are you?” Bay asks, thinking his answer will help her determine whether he is, in fact, a problem or not.
He shakes his head, as though Bay has just said something ridiculous. “I need shoes.”
Of course! How obvious! “Wait right here.” Bay is happy to have an excuse to leave. It gives her time to figure things out while she runs up the grassy slope to the house. What is it about Karl that makes her uncomfortable? Maybe he just seems strange because he’s standing barefoot in her yard, hiding in the hostas. Bay closes the screen door carefully behind her, relieved Nan isn’t in the kitchen.
When Nan gets a donation of shoes, she brings them
Bay raises her hand. She doesn’t expect a response, not really—she’s not even sure he’s not just something leftover from her little-kid imagination—but after a moment, she sees a pale wave of light, like the reflection of sun on water, or a small bird taking flight, the boy, waving. Bay spins out of her room and down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door, which she lets slam shut behind her. “Sorry,” she calls. Her Nana hates it when she slams the door.
It is a perfect summer day. The sky is cloudless blue, and the air is fresh, but the boy stands in the hostas as though rooted there, looking sorrowful.
“So, it’s true,” he says at Bay’s approach.
“What’s true?”
He shrugs.
An odd boy , Bay thinks, though she can’t figure what it is about him that makes her think so. His hair maybe, dirty blond, cut long at the front, parted on the side. He flicks his head like a sparrow at a birdbath, though it does little good; the hair continues to fall in his eyes, which are watery blue and small. The sprinkle of freckles across his face doesn’t make him look friendly, nor do his thin lips. Bay reconsiders. This, she thinks, is probably not a love story. “What’s your name?”
He hesitates, as if doing some reconsidering himself, then shrugs. “Karl.”
“So what’s up?” Bay asks, and when he only looks at her quizzically, “Are you a runaway or something?”
“Don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Who?”
He juts his chin at the house. “The old lady. Or any of her friends.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Kind of common knowledge, ain’t it?”
Bay supposes this is true. Nan hired a college boy to transport her guests from the airport. She paid Stan to come clean out the gutters, which turned out to be a massive undertaking, neglected for years. Stan said there were trees growing up there, which Bay thought an exaggeration until he started tossing down saplings. No wonder people think we’re so weird, Bay had thought, while her Nana had fretted about killing “the poor things.”
Bay didn’t know why they needed to do all this work for guests staying a single night. When Thalia sleeps over, the only preparation they make is to be sure there is toilet paper in both bathrooms. Up until this summer, Bay considered dusting a winter activity, like shoveling. In spite of the little forest produced by the gutter cleaning, Bay thinks her Nana is overdoing it.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Bay frowns at the boy. “What?”
“You’re one of them thinking girls, ain’t you? I once knew a girl kinda like you.”
Ever alert for information about anything that might be interpreted as familial reference, Bay’s heart lurches. “You did?”
“She was always figuring stuff out. She couldn’t let things alone, you know? She thought everything was, like, a problem.”
“I don’t think everything’s a problem.”
“Sure you do. You think I’m a problem.”
Bay shakes her head.
“Yeah, you do. That’s why you been leaving those weird sandwiches all over the place.”
“I thought maybe you were hungry,” Bay says, hurt by the unfavorable review.
“Well, anyhow, that ain’t why I’ve been hanging around.”
“Why are you?” Bay asks, thinking his answer will help her determine whether he is, in fact, a problem or not.
He shakes his head, as though Bay has just said something ridiculous. “I need shoes.”
Of course! How obvious! “Wait right here.” Bay is happy to have an excuse to leave. It gives her time to figure things out while she runs up the grassy slope to the house. What is it about Karl that makes her uncomfortable? Maybe he just seems strange because he’s standing barefoot in her yard, hiding in the hostas. Bay closes the screen door carefully behind her, relieved Nan isn’t in the kitchen.
When Nan gets a donation of shoes, she brings them
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