“I have something special for you, Charlotte,” Dad said, tilting his head in the direction of the back door. I followed him through the house and onto the deck. Wood planks creaked beneath my feet with each step. “I can teach you how to use it this summer,” he said, holding up a digital camera that barely fit in my hands.
“That sounds good. But it’s okay if you can’t,” I told him, anticipating how plans with Dad had a tendency to change.
He cleared his throat in a way that made me stand a bit straighter. “It’s going to be different here, okay? I promised your mom it would be. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but if my face showed any doubt, he didn’t seem to notice. “The most important thing about photography is the light.” He nudged my feet toward the edge of the deck and stood behind me, lifting the viewfinder up to my face. “If you only know light, you know most of it. And the shutter button. You have to hold it to focus, but first…”
He was going on about aperture size and framing my shot as I tilted the camera a little, searching for the angle where the setting sun didn’t blow out the trees and houses but instead coated the world in an ethereal honey, when those boys appeared on the back porch seemingly out of nowhere. The one with the nearly shaved head waved at me in the viewfinder.
I took a picture of him without thinking, enjoying the satisfying click under my finger. Even though I didn’t know the boy and probably wouldn’t remember him whenever we moved on, it felt good to preserve that wave while it was meant for me. Magic. Like capturing a fairy in a jar.
“Do you guys live here now?” the other boy shouted from behind him.
“Yeah,” I shouted back, because we did, and maybe itwouldbe different this time.
“Good,” the first boy said. “That’s Petey.” He pointed at his friend. “And I’m Ethan.”
“Here two minutes, and you’re already attracting the neighborhood boys,” Dad cut in. I lowered my camera, feeling my face get hot. “I’m just messing with you kids. Why don’t you two come in where there’s air-conditioning and meet the girls. I’m about to put some hot dogs on the grill.”
The boy in the hockey jersey opened his mouth to say something but the shorter one, Ethan, spoke first. “Thank you, sir,” he answered. Then both boys crossed the lawn, wordlessly following me into the house and then in the direction of my new bedroom.
They watched me closely as though it was my space and they were waiting to see how they fit. I sat in the beanbag chair, pretending I always sat there like that.
They took this as their cue to plop themselves onto the lowertrundle mattress. The room looked cramped with all of us in it. Somehow, in the ten minutes I’d been outside with Dad, Laurel had already managed to scatter clothes on every surface. Chipped teal paint peeked out beneath the explosion of skinny jeans, PINK sweats, and distressed band tees from concerts we hadn’t attended. The curling iron Laurel used to achieve her perfect Serena van der Woodsen waves was already plugged in and staking a claim on the space in front of the single mirror. It wasn’t turned on, though. Of that, I was mostly sure.
“Apparently”—Laurel swung herself inside the room, clutching the door frame for support, like her entrance was part of a dance—“ ‘Minnesota Derek’ cooks. Oh!” she blurted, eyeing the two strangers I’d collected from the backyard like they were the toads I’d hidden in the closet of our Florida house when I was nine. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my jeggings?” she asked, leveling an accusatory glare at Petey and yanking the denim-looking fabric out from under his leg.
Laurel was fifteen, and though she’d also never had a boyfriend, she was comfortable around boys in a way I, at thirteen, was not. She could be funny and enchanting and not at all affected by the way their throats looked different when they swallowed. I felt edgy around boys, like I was on one of those talent shows with a panel of judges, paralyzed by the pressure to impress as sweat collected on my upper lip.
“Is Derek your dad?” Petey asked Laurel, ignoring her jeggings-related inquiry.
Laurel was calling our dad “Derek” as a form of rebellion, but as Mom cared about it way more than Dad seemed to, she’d likely be switching strategies soon.
“Dad invited Ethan and Petey in for hot dogs,” I said, answering both of their questions.
“Is that your camera?” Ethan asked, and I grinned proudly. He smiled at me like it impressed him. For a second, I felt guilty, but his expression was so warm and soft. The longer I looked at him, the more my insides felt like a microwave mug cake.
“Can I put some music on?” Ethan asked, pointing to an alarm clock sitting in the center of the bed. I unraveled the cord and wiped the docking station clean with my sleeve before plugging it into the outlet near my feet. Immediately, it came to life, glowing, beeping, and angrily blinking “12:00 AM” at us until Ethan silenced it by pressing his iPod into the docking station. He selected a playlist called “happier stuff,” which was a lot of newer indie folk music like Bon Iver and the Decemberists, with the occasional appearance of men my dad listened to, like Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen. None of it was markedly joyful, and since there wasn’t a playlist called “sadder stuff,” I assumed that the rest of his music collection was deeply depressing.
They asked us where we’d moved from and other new-kid trivia. Laurel and I asked about Petey’s and Ethan’s ages and hobbies. Petey was older than Ethan and starting high school but still a grade below Laurel. Ethan liked music and playing street hockey, but Petey took hockey much more seriously. His dad was the coach of his summer league.
“I wanna play in the NHL,” Petey told us. “I’m applying to a boarding school up north, and if I get in, my coaches will be actual former NHL players. It’s gonna be sick.” He didn’t sound boastful or like he was trying to impress us. He was sharing something essential about himself. Even so, Laurel did look a little bit impressed.
“Do you wanna go see something cool?” Ethan asked us.
“Yes!” Laurel agreed on instinct, just as I responded, “What do you mean?”
“I thought we were eating hot dogs,” I added, to take a bit of the sting out of the fact that I didnotwant to go to a second location with a couple of boys I’d just met, even if they were starting to grow on me.
“I can’t. I can’t eat hot dog buns or anything the buns might’ve touched. Bread makes me sick.”
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I asked.
“Yeah, bro. Why didn’t you?” Petey swiveled his head toward Ethan like this was a familiar disagreement between the two of them.
He shrugged. “I’m fine. I didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“We can climb out the window,” Laurel suggested, like it wouldn’t be at all alarming for our parents to find the bedroom empty when they popped back in with a plate of hot dogs and potato salad.
