Page 128 of Pick-Up
“Nope.”
“Yellow?”
“Nope.”
“Good at balancing stuff on your head?”
“Nope.”
We may be here for a while.
The kids are perfectly happy with our plans. I am more dubious. After all, they are off to play pirates with friends on the jungle gym, draw scenes with chalk on the asphalt, take a single sip of hot apple cider before realizing they hate it again. Maybe they will make leaf collages. Maybe they’ll eat Rice Krispies Treats imbedded withcandy corn and topped with autumnal sprinkles. Maybe, afterward, I’ll be lazy and order pizza for dinner.
But I am nervous. And excited. But mostly nervous. Because I don’t know what it will be like to be with Ethan here. We haven’t been at school together since our cotton candy shift, and no labels have been established since he came to my house. Will we hang out or play it cool? Will I spend my time pretending not to scan the surroundings for him while I chat with other parents? And, then, when I do inevitably spot him, will I pretend I don’t see him until he sees me? Will I look without looking? Long to stop longing?
It has been five days since he appeared in my doorway, then pressed me up against my door. Five days since he handed me conch shells and I jumped his bones.
It left me wanting more. I am still envisioning how we might’ve desecrated the couch if pick-up hadn’t come so soon.
In those five days, Peter sent me and the editor the raw footage for theEscapadevideo content. I watched clips and sections and thought it was good. I watched as Ethan and I, as silhouettes, walked to the farthest point of the sand spit, then I stopped it before I watched myself fall.
I am not the better for the last five days. I am not less hooked on Demon Dad. I am replaying every second of my time on the island, pretending I am mining it for intel but really basking in its joy. How long can I ride this wave?
When I am supposed to be cooking dinner, playing Clue, watchingClue, doing work, in my mind, I flash to me and Ethan getting carried away en route from the outdoor shower to my villa room. My hand against his stomach. His rough against my hip. Our towels askew in all directions.
I have almost been able to push worry for my mother out of my head for a minute, worry for my dwindling bank account. As we near the school gate, I see Celeste waiting just inside. She waves. Looks pale. Jamie is still playing mountain man. I haven’t seen her all week,except in passing. She has hired a sitter to help with pick-up. But I know enough to know he’s not back.
Nettie, Bart and I head up the steps to the schoolyard. Inside, a few of the usual VIMs are sitting at a folding table with the school administrator standing beside them. Yes,thatschool administrator. A toy soldier.
They sure do love a folding table. Red Vest. Green Vest.Kaitlin.
Has he told her? If so, I think I would know. Ethan and I have been texting nonstop since he showed up at my house and changed the way I see my furniture forever. In fact, he has planned what he is calling our “non-first-date date” for tomorrow night. (We still do not agree about whether we had a date at Citrine.) And he is being secretive about where he’s taking me.
I haven’t been so excited about something for ages.
At the sight of Kaitlin, I bristle, inwardly. She has always creeped me out a bit. The intensity behind her hawkish eyes, especially when she talks about our shared past. But now I push those thoughts aside. She’s just another mom. Another divorced mom, making it through the day.
I stop in front of Green Vest, a hand resting on each of my kids’ shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
She opens her mouth to speak, but Kaitlin cuts in.
“Continue down this way to make space for others, please.”
We do as we are told.
“Hi,” I say again.
“Hello,” Kaitlin says. She doesn’t smile. Except her eyes. There’s some amusement there.
“We’d like three entry tickets and two activity wristbands, please.” I pull out my debit card.
She looks up at me, not down at the roll of red tickets. Her hands don’t move. She is wearing a purple knit hat with a pom-pom on top. Her scarf is a match. There’s nothing wrong with either. In fact, they look expensive. Pretty. Cashmere. But they are a set. Her blondhighlighted hair sticks out the bottom, blown out. She doesn’t look like she grew up here. She never did. Never quite fit.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she says.
It takes a moment for me to absorb this. “Wait, what?”
