PENNY’S DROPPING Cheerios into a glass of milk, then fishing them out, one at a time, with a spoon. Droplets of milk splash on the kitchen table as she retrieves the pieces of soggy cereal, then puts them into her mouth. Josh, at the stove with his back to her, is prodding a frying pan of sizzling eggs with a spatula. Both are wearing bathing suits, flip-flops, and Bexter Academy T-shirts. Exactly what I’m wearing. If someone didn’t know better, we look like a prep school prof’s family cozily summering at our second home on the Cape. Another proof appearances can be deceiving.
No one’s noticed me yet. Somehow, I’m intimidated by this entrance. Am I part of the group? Do I sidle up beside Josh, wrap one arm around him and take over the eggs?
Or am I company? Which means I casually announce my arrival to both of them, as if last night never happened and tonight won’t either.
“Over easy? Or sunny-side up?” Josh says, turning to Penny. His spatula is dripping butter onto the stove top, then onto the linoleum floor. I notice his arms are getting nicely tan and his hair still looks like morning. He sees me, and smiles as if he’s seen his best friend. “Oh, good morning, sweets,” he says, with a private wink that makes me weak in the knees. Then, all business, he points to me with the buttery spatula. “Just in time for eggs.”
“I only want the white parts,” Penny replies, ignoring me. “The yellows are too runny and yucky. They make my toast sticky. Which is dis-gusting.” Another Cheerio, released from arm’s length, plops into the milk.
I finesse my entrance, giving Josh a casual-looking touch on the back which I hope Penny categorizes as “pat” and Josh categorizes as “there’s more where that came from.”
I pull up a chair across from Penny. She continues to play the Cheerios game, ignoring me. I pull a spoon closer to me-it’s old-fashioned and stubby, diner style, stainless steel-and I spin it on the navy-blue tabletop. “Think I can keep this on my nose? Without holding it?” I ask. Ultra-casual. I hold the spoon by the handle and put its bowl on my nose, talking around it. “Bet you I can.”
Penny looks at me, suspicious. She pauses, but then apparently can’t resist the temptation to prove me wrong. “No way,” she says. She blows her bangs out of her eyes. “Uh-uh.”
Pushing the spoon toward her, I offer her the challenge. “Try it,” I say. “I promise it can be done.” I glance at Josh, who’s now turned down the burner under the eggs, and is watching our mano a mano. “Try it, and then I’ll show you how,” I say. “It’s cool.”
Penny takes the spoon, pursing her lips. From her wary expression, I can tell she suspects this is some kind of grown-up trap. But she wants to know the trick.
She puts the spoon on her nose. It instantly falls off. Picking it up and staring at it with deep concentration, a flare of insight crosses her face. She licks the spoon. And tries it again. And again. Each time the spoon falls with a clatter onto the kitchen linoleum.
Josh scoops up the spoon and hands it to me, challenge in his eyes. “What do you think, kidlet?” he says to Penny. “Shall we make her show us? And what if she can’t do it?”
Penny stands by her chair, hands on her little hips, her tanned legs poking put from under her oversize T-shirt. “We’ll make her…” She shifts her weight back and forth, tapping a thoughtful finger on her check. She’s apparently eager to plan my retribution. “We’ll make her…do the dishes by herself!”
“Yes!” Josh agrees, pointing to her. “Do the dishes by herself. Love it. Except however, what if she can actually do it?”
This is more perplexing. Penny shifts back and forth a few more times. “If she can do it…” she says slowly, “I’ll help her with the dishes.” She plops back into her chair, crossing her arms in front of her. “But I know she can’t do it.” Then the earth moves, as Penny directs her comments to me. “Can you?”
I put the spoon against my open mouth, cover it with my other hand, and give a puff of moist breath. I quickly paste the bowl to the end of my nose, then take my hands away. The spoon hangs, suspended. For at least two seconds. I snap it up before it falls. “Ta-da” I sing out, as Josh applauds. “The magical spoon.”
Penny’s eyes go wide, then she grins, processing what she’s just seen. She dashes around to my side of the table, snatches the spoon from my hand and hands it back to me. Demanding. “Show me,” she says. “That’s totally awesome.”
As Penny and I discuss the spoon technique, Josh brings breakfast dishes to the table. We all practice between bites of fried egg and toast. Penny’s yolk, I noticed, remains perfectly intact in the center of her plate, only a fringe of white encircling it. She comes around behind me, curious, as I show her how spoon reflections can be upside down. Putting her hand on my shoulder, she peers at her topsy-turvy self. It’s the first time she’s ever touched me.
Josh clears the table, and gives Penny a meaningful look. “Dish duty for you, kidlet,” he reminds her.
Penny looks at me, pleading. I almost melt onto the floor. “Um,” she says. “Could you help me?”
“Of course,” I say. “But how about…let’s leave ’em for now. Do the dishes when we get back from-”
“The beach!” Penny interrupts, flinging both hands into the air.
“Beach it is,” Josh agrees.
And then the phone rings.
It’s not for me. Franklin would use my cell. And if it’s for Josh, it can only be-
“Hello, Victoria,” I hear Josh answer. “No, we’re…”
“Mom!” Penny yells, and runs to scramble for the receiver. I’m left at the kitchen table, staring at my still-white legs and my unreliable future.
Fine. If they’re on their phone, I can be on my phone.
“DID HE LEAVE A MESSAGE? He just said, call him? So, did Kevin call him? Did he tell you what he said? Why would Oscar Ortega be calling our news director? Why wouldn’t he call me? Or you? Why wouldn’t Tek do the calling?” I finally wind down my barrage of questions, but Franklin is still quiet on his end of the line. I drag my toes through the sand beneath the tree swing in the back yard, trying to process his perplexing news.
“Are you finished?” Franklin says. “As I told you, you can ask me anything you wish. But as I also told you, I won’t know the answer. I don’t know any answers. All I know is I got an e-mail from the news director. In it, Kevin said he’d gotten a call from Oscar Ortega, and that I was supposed to find you, and have you call him. He probably e-mailed you, too, but I assumed you hadn’t checked or you would have called me.”
“Call Oscar Ortega? I’m supposed to call Oscar Ortega?”
“Call Kevin,” Franklin says. “Jeez, Charlotte. Why don’t you just call him instead of asking me lists of unanswerable questions?”
“But it’s Saturday,” I say. “You think Kevin’s at the station?”
“I’m closing my eyes to see if I can get any psychic vibes,” Franklin answers. “Let’s see. Is…Kevin…at the station…”
“Hush,” I say. “I’m trying to figure this out. And even if Kevin is there, Oz certainly isn’t at his office. Damn it.” I wrap my arms around the swing ropes, twisting impatiently. Josh and Penny are loading the car. I’ve got to go. But I need to call Kevin. Do I? Nothing’s going to happen today. I hope. No matter what, though, I’ve still got to fill Franklin in on my Gaylen theory.
“I have to go,” I begin. “But two things. One, you call Kevin, say where I am, and see what’s up. I’m reachable on my cell. Unless we’re at the beach. Then leave a message. There’s just nothing I can do-I’m here, he’s there. The other thing? Listen to this.” I plant my feet on the ground to stop the swing, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I was thinking about Gaylen.”
THE WASH OF THE WAVES, hypnotic and serene, almost takes me away from my reality. The sand is baked warm under my toes, and seagulls screech overhead. While Josh has gone off to get sandwiches, I’m trailing behind Penny, who’s scampering in and out of the water, pretending she’s alone. From time to time she scoops up a shell and tucks it into the already sagging patch pocket of her T-shirt. She’s soggy and sandy, and seems blissfully lost in her day.