He came upon the ball, no one close to him, and made easy careful contact. Black white black white black white. She wished that she could hold tight to her brother’s ankle and ride along with him as he ran.
“Benny,” she said again.
She looked over at her mother, who was trying to focus on the game, but her eyes kept wandering to Ellie across the packs of boys in white and blue. Ellie waved to her, smiling. She turned over on her back again and listened to the cheering of the smattering of parents as her brother scored.
Her whole body felt heavy. The walk had been exhausting. She usually liked to lie and stare, walk slowly, watching lights, when she was stoned. And now she was paying for the extreme exertion of her walk. She thought she’d sleep forever, settle slowly into the damp grass.
There was a blank then. She heard pounding, feet against grass and ground, whistles blowing, boys yelling to one another, her brother’s name, she thought, more than once. She held the grass and smelled it. She slept and drifted in and out.
“El,” she heard. The game was over; she saw feet walk past her, sandals, sneakers, a pair of large black steel toes with matching heels. She saw her brother’s cleats and the socks that reached up high to cover his shin guards. They were royal blue with a bright white stripe around the top. She wanted to touch the hairs popping up over the socks with the bottom of her chin and then her cheeks and then her forehead. She wanted to burrow her head back in the grass and go to sleep.
She felt a little nauseous, bleary. “Yeah,” she said.
“Elinor,” said her mother. She leaned over and pulled Ellie up by her arm.
Ellie stared at her. She felt a blank space where the words to answer might have come from.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s wrong with you?” her mother hissed, half worried, half angry, all not sure what to do.
“Nothing,” Ellie said. She turned to Ben. “You win?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was quiet.
Maybe she’d ask him to carry her home, to let her climb up onto his back and wrap her arms over his shoulders, to lay her whole self against him and rest. “Congrats,” she said.
Her mother shook her head. She handed the cooler of snacks to Ben, who repositioned his soccer bag across his chest, over one shoulder, and took the cooler with both hands. The last bits of ice and water swished and clunked inside.
Her mom took hold of Ellie. She brought her face up close. “What’s wrong with you?” she said.
Mommy. She wanted to sit her down and crawl into her lap and never leave her. She wanted to tell her she was sorry for everything, sorry that she’d turned out to be the girl that she’d turned out to be.
“Nothing,” said Ellie. It came out slower than the first time. She dragged out the vowels. It might have been the only word she knew.
“El, listen,” her brother says. “Call her, okay? Call her and tell her everything is wonderful. Tell her the kid’s a brat, but you’re making it work. You’re so happy to be near the water. Annie’s great. Whatever. Just let her think that you’re okay. And then just be okay, all right? You’re a mile from the beach and all you have to do is play with a five-year-old all day. Life’s just really not that hard. Just don’t fuck this up.”
Ellie’s quiet, tearing a piece of paper into tiny thumb-sized pieces, then rolling them into tight balls with her fingers on her desk.
Ellie knows nearly from the beginning the mistake she’s made, not knowing enough, pretending, flirting with the boy behind the desk in the collared shirt and hat, the sunglasses resting on its brim, with the red face and small flakes of skin peeling off his nose, so that he would let her take one of the sailboats out without his help. She has to sign a waiver and pretends she’s Jack’s mom, another thing the boy allows himself to be convinced is true. His eyes wander down Ellie, from her forehead to her feet. She wears cutoff shorts and a beige tank top. She has on her black bikini underneath. He says he’ll take her through a quick refresher, but she doesn’t want him to come with them. She thinks if she can show Jack this he’ll warm to her, maybe, finally. If he likes her, it will prove something sure.
Ellie hasn’t cleared this trip with Annie. It’s only her third day alone with Jack. Annie’s starting to get ready for the fall rush and Jeffrey’s patients have begun to come back from their summer camps. The seasonals and tourists have begun to filter in. The only other time besides the bookstore, Jack alternated between silent petulance in his room with his bugs and asking to call his mother. But they’ve spent this morning discussing different sailing tactics. Jack has made a list about lines and gibes, sheets, mainsails, jibs, and tacks.
He lit up at the mention of their maybe going sailing. Ellie was trying to convince him of her knowledge, telling him stories of sailing with her mom when she was small. It’s been years now, but she remembers the water in her eyes and the burn of lines between her fingers.
Jack’s small arms quiver in her grasp as she slips the life jacket over his shoulders and snaps him in. “Nor?” he says.
“We’re good,” she says. “Don’t worry.” Without thinking, she kisses him — the first time that she’s done this — on the top of his head. He smiles and Ellie feels that she’s accomplished something great.
The sail flops as she uncovers it and pulls the lines. Her arms reach up, one and then the other, full fists pulling down, old metal ratcheting up and up, as sweat trickles slowly between her shoulder blades. The sail jerks into place and fills a moment with a rush of wind; Jack sits quietly near the boat’s front, hands holding both sides of his life jacket, his eyes steady on the sail. The red-faced boy comes out, hat off and sunglasses pulled down, and helps to push them from the dock. Ellie holds the tiller straight and then slowly turns it — the weight of it sluicing through the water is exactly as it was when she was small.
They drift slowly from the dock out toward the channel. They tack once, and though it’s certainly imperfect, and Jack squeals in fear as the boat dips and lifts, they right themselves and his knuckles eventually hold less tightly to his side of the boat. For a second, Ellie feels full with her own competence. A gust hits them once and the boat dips, water splashing at them, and Jack’s body lurches forward, his face almost falling on the metal wheel that controls the centerboard. But Ellie stays steady, loosening the sail until it luffs and the boat sits flat again. Her forearms and her hands burn with the weight of holding the tiller and the sail.
Usually, her mom would steer. Her mom would hold the mainsail too and El and Ben would split turns loosening and pulling in the jib. But she’s settled into the feel of both the line that tightens the mainsail and the tiller working in her hands at the same time. It’s almost less frightening, being in control. She smiles over at Jack, as he seems to settle in his seat, watching the thin red telltales fly back straight against the sail.
They hit a little enclave on the other side of the inlet; the wind is light and they practice turning, catching puffs of wind and moving swiftly for small stretches, then letting the sail luff again and trailing their hands in the water as they drift. Jack begins to shout instructions to her as she lets the wind catch in the sail again. They’ve been researching all morning, and he remembers all the proper terms. She calls out to warn him each time she tacks. He calls back in response. She lets him hold the tiller briefly, then they watch together as the sail fills and the boat heels hard with a strong puff that Ellie’s seen headed toward them, picking up speed, Jack holding tight to her.