Page 28 of Catch the Sun

Every day over the next few weeks, Ella walks three miles into town after school, clad in a black beanie and her orange backpack, only to return hours later looking exhausted, defeated, and burned out. She’s hardly spoken a word to me since the bonfire, but I heard from McKay—who heard from Brynn—that she’s been picking up résumés and applying for jobs.

Today, I’ve attempted to make her trek into town somewhat more palatable.

Why?

Still undetermined.

Maybe I’m reminiscing about the little girl I used to know and wondering if she’s still in there somewhere. Or maybe I’ve faced so many challenges in life that I’ve become prone to seeking them out. Ella is a puzzle. She’s a jigsaw with missing pieces, and the more time I spend with her, the more I feel like I’m finding new fragments. Is she still that girl with the megawatt smile and infectious laugh who found joy in books and butterflies? Or have life’s hardships snuffed out her light?

I’ve gotten glimmers.

And that leads me to believe the old Ella hasn’t faded entirely.

I’m pulling weeds from the vegetable garden in the front yard when I catch her stepping out her screen door and onto the cedar porch. The porch takes up the whole length of the house, which is made up of plain taupe siding and darkshutters. It’s a ranch-style home like mine, only it’s in much better shape. Our house is half-built, partially finished, and full of angry ghosts.

Ella’s sneakers clap along the wooden planks as she jogs down the four steps that lead to a patchy front lawn. I pretend to be absorbed in weed-pulling and dirt-sifting, but my chin lifts as my gaze trails her from underneath my Grizzlies ball cap. She doesn’t notice anything at first, too focused on the clouds hovering in a meltwater-blue sky as both hands grip the straps of her book bag.

Then she falters, doing a double take. She comes to an abrupt stop, her head canting right, and she just stands there, still as a pillar, her back to me. The moment she swivels around, I duck my head and return my attention to the garden bed. My heartbeat kicks up when I hear gravel crunch beneath the soles of her shoes. Shoes that are now headed in my direction.

“Max.”

I feign indifference, not bothering to glance up. “Hey, Ella.”

“Do you know who put that bicycle on my property?”

I hide my smile, swiping the back of my forearm across my mouth to erase the beads of sweat as I fall back on my haunches. “No. Probably Chevy.”

Ella turns to stare across the way at Chevy’s property strewn with mechanical chaos. Old cars, in varying stages of disrepair, are scattered across the lot, the bodies faded and weather-beaten. Engines are disemboweled, with tires stacked in leaning towers, and tables are cluttered with tools and grease stains. She frowns thoughtfully before panning her gaze back to me. I stare up at her, wiping my hands down the front of my dirt-dappled cargo pants.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “That was really nice of him.”

“He’s a good guy,” I say, nodding my agreement. “Not everyone in this town is out to make your life miserable.”

We hold our stare and I hope she catches my hidden meaning.

I’ll admit, her abrupt departure from the bonfire left me feeling a bit…stung. I thought I had high walls, but if I have walls, Ella has concrete fortresses, complete with a drawbridge and a moat teeming with metaphorical monsters to keep people at bay.

And that’s oddly compelling.

She clears her throat, tugging her beanie farther down her forehead. Herfingernails are painted a sun-kissed orange, contrasting with her rain-cloud personality. “Yeah. I guess.” Kicking at some loose stones, she begins to back away. “Well, tell him I said thank you…if you see him before I do.”

“Sure. Will do.”

She turns toward her yard, where the bicycle is leaning against the wood railing of her front porch. It’s ruby red, freshly cleaned with air-filled tires, and perfectly functional. It’s been buried in our one-car garage for years, so I figured someone could get some use out of it.

As she trudges back toward the house with a slew of book-bag key chains shimmying behind her, I draw to a stand and call out to her. “Ella.”

She pauses, peering at me over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“We could, uh…” I scratch the back of my neck, unsure of what I even want to say. But I want to say something. “We could catch a movie tomorrow if you want.”

Her stare is blank and unblinking, almost as if she has no idea what movies are.

“At the movie theater. You know, that establishment off Richter Avenue that has the giant projectors and smells like buttered popcorn and—”

“I know what movies are.” She looks completely unamused. “I’m busy. Sorry.”

“Maybe another time.”

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