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I park my car and cut off the engine, then slide down the notification bar on my phone.
1 new email from: [email protected]
Like the Hoover Dam bursting, an adrenaline rush erupts through my body, making every inch of me feel alive. I open the email and read the message, blinking several times because all those tears that always seem to be lingering on the edge of my eyelids cloud my vision.
Dear Rocki and Elijah,
Hey there, favorites. As I sit here and reflect on who I am as a person, what makes me tick, what makes me feel happy and fulfilled, I almost immediately land on the lake.
For as long as I can remember, my family spent summers, Memorial Days, Thanksgiving weekends — okay, basically every holiday except Christmas — out on Lake Peyton in my parents’ kick-ass boat. Sitting on the back of the boat, my feet dangling in the water and Mom floating in front of me, clapping her hands for me to jump into her arms — that’s actually my first memory.
There’s something magical about floating on the dark blue water, letting the sun warm your skin and the sounds of nature fill your soul. The way the wind blows through your hair, making it hella messy, but still kind of sexy once you get old enough to realize that beach hair is the best — well, that’s also magical.
I love the lake and I love cruising on the boat. Rocki, please tell Elijah all about that time we went skiing and ran out of gas and had to flag down those drunk college dudes to get my dad from the shore. Tell him the other stories, too, okay?
And here’s your adventure. Head out to the marina this Saturday, pack a lunch and take out the boat. The password is 21581, my parents’ wedding anniversary, and the boat will already be gassed up, because I’ve arranged this.
My parents won’t know because they don’t ever go out on the boat anymore. It’ll be just between us, capisce?
Have fun.
I love you and miss you both,
Sasha
Chapter Eight
There’s no way in hell I’m going to steal Mr. Cade’s boat. That thing is like a second child to him, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar baby that he l
oves almost as much as he loves his human family. Besides, I’m not even sure how to take the thing even if I do stoop so low as to commit grand theft auto (or whatever you call it when it’s a boat).
He’d let Sasha and me drive it quite a few times, but that was once we were out of the dock and out in the open lake with nothing around us but water. Steering the thing around all the other boats docked in the marina? Starting it up, making sure all the gauges are correct and the engine isn’t going to, like, overheat or something? Not. Happening.
I can’t do this. It’s the very first thing Sasha’s asking me to do for her brother and I’m going to have to back out.
Maybe I’ll just meet him there and tell him. He should understand, right?
But sitting on a bench at the marina, simply describing what it was like all those summers out on the lake with Sasha’s family — that’s not going to cut it.
For the millionth time, I wonder why I can’t just tell the Cades about Elijah. Surely, they’d understand; they’d probably offer to take us out on the boat themselves. I throw my head back and look at the gray upholstered roof in my car.
Sasha, you’re barely gone and I’m already letting you down.
It’s been five days since I met Elijah in the cemetery and, not for the first time, I’m kicking myself for not getting his phone number or something. Shouldn’t we be able to talk? If anyone could understand the pain I’m in, it would be Elijah.
I’m toweling off my hair when I get an idea so freaking obvious that I curse out loud for not having thought of it sooner. The email was addressed to both of us. That means …
Still standing stark naked in my bedroom, I grab my phone and pull up the email. In the header information, right there in all its pixelated glory, are two email addresses. Mine and [email protected]
Sasha helped me make my email address when I got my first cell phone back in sixth grade. We were idiot kids, and I chose the handle rockibobocki, and I never bothered changing it. Elijah’s simple, straightforward email address just fits him. After only one meeting, I know he’s the kind of guy who can be trusted. He’s serious — he’ll totally understand why we can’t steal a boat on Saturday. Finally, I have a way to tell him.
I stare at his email address for two days.
Too bad I never get the guts to message him.
***
When the final bell rings on Friday, I nearly jump out of my skin. My eighth-period U.S. history class has a substitute teacher, so she’d put on a film for us to watch about the civil war. I’ve been distracted all week as it is, but a boring film playing too loudly in a darkened classroom was enough to send me into a catatonic state.
