She walks around, avoiding imaginary furniture and admiring the finished wood that lies under about six coats of paint. I decide to leave and she doesnât even notice. Outside, I see Arthur looking around the overgrown yard with the same stupid expression on his face as there is on Aunt Guinâs. I head to the beach.
Chapter Thirteen
I arrive at the water as the sun slowly slips behind the bushes that stand watch at the top of the sand dunes about a kilometer away from the house. I head toward them. The beach behind the house is flat white sand, and it doesnât take long for my shoes to fill. I could go back and get the sandals that Iâm sure Aunt Guin packed for me, but instead I just remove my shoes and socks. The sand feels hot but pleasant, massaging my feet with every step.
The disappearing sun turns the sky blood orange and promotes the sand to gold dust. Without the sunâs heat, the sand becomes cool under my feet. I climb to the top of the dunes like a queen in her treasury room.
Near the top I sit to rest and admire the lake, now golden as well. Itâs hard to distinguish where the sand ends and the water begins. I push myself down into the dune, which is as formfitting as a giant beanbag chair.
From my perch, the house looks lonely and embarrassed. Its windows grab the colors of the sunset and hold them to distract from the peeling paint and overgrown garden, but the brilliant colors do little to improve it. The house looks like a vagrant with a marigold in his lapel.
Maybe it can talk. Maybe I just wasnât listening hard enough. Or maybe Iâm losing my mind. I stare at the house, and I listen harder and harder. When I have a clear picture in my head, I close my eyes to try and heighten my other senses.
âTell me what you want, talk to me. Speak, speak, tell me how you feel.â
âBanzai!â The word blasts out over the dunes, echoing off the water. I spring up and open my eyes, and something hits me from behind, snapping my head forward.
âBanzaiâ turns into âaggghhâ and then âouchâ as a boy goes tumbling over me and rolls down the dune. He digs his feet in and comes to a sliding stop about three-quarters of the way down. He shakes the sand out of his long, dirty-blond hair. At least I think itâs dirty-blond, but maybe itâs just blond and dirty. His face has sand stuck to it, but I can make out some freckles and sparkling green eyes.
âCool,â he says before looking up the hill to see what tripped him, which is how he finds me, still rubbing my head.
âOh, sorry. I didnât know you were there.â
âWell, I was,â I tell him, which is a dumb thing to say.
âYeah, I can see that now,â he says, which is pretty much the only thing you can say back. âI really am sorry. Are you okay?â
âAside from the whiplash, you mean?â I snap. âWhat were you doing?â
âJust jumping off the top of the dune.â
âWhy?â
âTo see how far I could jump.â
âSounds like loads of fun,â I say.
âYou should try it! You just run as fast as you can and when you get to the edge, you jump. Youâre airborne for a few seconds, and then you slide into the sand. That is, of course, as long as you donât trip over someone. Then it gets a bit more complicated.â
âSo kicking a stranger in the head isnât usually part of it?â
âNo, thatâs an added bonus.â
He smiles. Through reflex alone, I smile back.
âNameâs Connor,â he says, climbing the dune and sticking his hand out as if heâs been waiting a long time to meet me.
âIâm J,â I say and put out my hand so as not to be rude. He shakes it firmly before plopping down at my side.
âYouâre not from âround here, are you?â
âUnfortunately, no.â
He nods and looks confused. Perhaps heâs unfamiliar with
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