So I pray, five times a day.
elise
The next morning, I find Mati sitting in the sand not far from where we had our spontaneous swim. He stands when he sees Bambi and me, and his face breaks into a sunrise smile, casting light over the beach.
Bambi greets him first, but only because she’s willing to run at him without inhibition. I trudge behind, laughing as she leaps onto him. He stoops down to pet her head, which is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. She noses her ball, which she’s dropped at his feet. He picks it up—either not noticing or not caring about the drool—and launches it. I’m close enough now to hear him laugh as she scampers after it.
“Your arm’s better than mine,” I say. “You’ve got yourself a friend for life.”
He wipes what I suspect is slobber on the leg of his pants. “She’s a good friend to have.”
“Truth. She’s my bestie.”
His brows knit together. “Bestie?”
“Best friend. I haven’t met anyone my age here, with the exception of you, maybe, so Bambi’s my confidant as well as my beach pal.” I don’t mention that my friend situation was iffy even before I came to Cypress Beach, lest he think I’m some sort of antisocial loser. I match the sincerity of his grin with one of my own. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Likewise. Are you starting your walk now, or finishing?”
“We’re about done.” I point to the staircase I usually use. “That’s the way I head home.”
“Me, too.”
I sense his unwillingness to put me on the spot, which is unfounded. He’s an opportunity to converse with someone born in the same decade as me—like I’d pass that up. “Let’s head toward town,” I say, tossing him a bone.
He nods, then pushes his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, light blue today, free of labels and graphics. I call my dog, and the three of us walk up the stairs. At the top, I secure Bambi’s leash and lead her to a spigot near a crop of picnic tables. She knows the drill and sits down to wait while I turn the faucet on. As soon as a stream of fresh water gushes out, she’s up and lapping.
“She’s a good dog,” Mati says.
“Almost always,” I say, recalling the way she’s repeatedly assaulted him. “Do you have a dog?”
“No. My mama doesn’t care for animals.”
“Oh. Your mother… Is she expecting you home soon?”
His shoulders lift in a shrug. “My parents are used to my disappearing.”
I’m tempted to needle him with questions—why does he disappear? where does he go? what makes his parents unconcerned?—but I don’t want to push him away by prying. Instead, I gesture to a picnic table. “Want to sit?”
He nods, turning toward the tables, letting the light catch his face. It’s a good face, strong but refined, with a sharp, stubbly jaw, a squarechin, and pronounced cheekbones. His terra-cotta gaze is warm and super expressive, worthy of endless photographs.
He empties his pockets before sitting down on the wooden bench, making a little pile of his belongings on the table. I take inventory as I claim the spot across from him: house key on a simple carabiner, slim trifold wallet, blue ballpoint pen, composition notebook—small, about the size of my hand. I notice he’s not carrying a phone, strange, because even though I’m not on the receiving end of a deluge of calls, mine’s like an extension of my body. “No phone?”
“Oh—I left it at the cottage. It’s basic, prepaid, in case of an emergency.” He saysemergencyunflaggingly, like it’s a distinct possibility rather than an abstract occurrence, and my head swims with conjecture.
I point at the little notebook in front of him. “What’s that for?”
He touches its worn cover. “I write.”
“Write what?”
He gives me a ghost of a smile, like I amuse him, but he’s not ready for me to know as much. “Notes about America and the places I’ve been. Things I want to remember. Things I want to do. Things I feel.”
“A journal,” I supply, wondering if he knows the word. “Something I have zero patience for. I take photographs of the places and people I want to remember. I want to be a photojournalist. I want to travel the world, taking pictures ofeverything.”
He nods, as if mine is a perfectly achievable dream. “Are you in school now?”
I wrinkle my nose. “One more year of high school before I escape to college—before I start myrealeducation.” Under the table, I cross my fingers and ask, “Will you be joining me at Cypress Valley High come August?”
