But none of that justifies sneaking into the park, and it wouldn’t make sense to Turtle, a man rooted in his principles.
I’m not going to insult him with a tale of woe.
“We didn’t mean any harm,” I say, looking down at my hands. An irrelevant truth at this point. “We didn’t come to cause trouble. We sat with the rays and talked. That’s it.”
He hums, a sound of contemplation. A sound of bewilderment. “You couldn’t have had a conversation elsewhere? On the beach? At a restaurant? At home?”
I lift my gaze to his. God, he looks as gutted as I feel. “Yes, of course. But the park is special to me—you know that. I love it here. I’m happiest here. I see now, though, that I made a huge mistake. I’m sorry, Turtle. I’llneverdo it again. You have my word.”
He regards me for a long moment. A bead of sweat cascades down my spine as I consider his possible responses. Finally, gently, he says, “I’m going to be very honest with you, Piper. Your word doesn’t hold weight with me anymore. You’re a hard worker and a lovely girl, and I was proud to give you an opportunity here. But I can’t disregard this breach. What you did was foolish and dangerous. It speaks to a deficit in maturity. It pains me to say this, but you are no longer part of the Marine Conservation Park’s staff.”
“But Turtle—”
“I’m sorry. You’re welcome during operating hours—you always will be—but as far as your employment goes, my decision is final.”
Losing the source of my income, the letter of recommendation I’ve been hoping for, and Turtle’s trust in me all at once...it’s too much. Mom and Dad would becrushed.
“I understand,” I say quietly, and I do. Regret feels like two strong hands wrapped tightly around my throat. This is nobody’s fault but my own. “Will you give me a chance to tell Tati? She should hear it from me.”
He nods, and I leave his office after a final apology, one that’s meant sincerely but sounds hollow.
I walk the corridor with my chin up, my shoulders back, trying—poorly, I’m sure—to project false confidence. I manage to avoid crying as I enter to the locker room to gather my things, then make a quick detour to my parents’ memorial. I’m still battling tears as I bend to touch their names, gleaming in the sun.
They’d be so sad to know what I’ve done.
I don’t fall apart until I’m through the park gate, on the sidewalk, dragging my feet toward home.
Henry
Friday morning, I email my guidance counselor and my Field Force rep to ask how a transfer would impact my post-graduationplan. Then I run six miles down the beach and six miles back, pondering the idea of staying in Sugar Bay through senior year.
Aside from the question she whispered the other night at the beach, Piper and I’ve sidestepped what I’ve been assuming was inevitable: saying goodbye at the end of this summer. It never occurred to me that I could stay. That maybe Ishouldstay. I’m pretty sure Piper hasn’t thought of me in Sugar Bay beyond August either. Now, I’m freaked about spooking her with the prospect of my looming presence.
When I get home, the apartment’s empty; Dad mentioned last night that he wanted to get to the restaurant before the lunch rush today. I shower and down a sandwich, glad for the quiet, paging through an SAT study guide while standing at the kitchen counter. I’m rinsing my plate when I hear a gritty cough, then a throaty groan coming from down the hall.
I nearly piss myself.
I turn off the water and move slowly, silently, out of the kitchen. I pass my bathroom and my bedroom—both empty—before approaching Dad’s room at the end of the hall. His door’s barely ajar. I consider finding a golf club or some other makeshift weapon, but I’m six two and can crank out seventy-five push-ups in two minutes. If there’s an intruder in the apartment, I’ll hold my own or end up with a bullet in me.
I strain to listen…breathing, ragged and irregular.
“Hello?” I call.
Another groan.
Someone’s in my dad’s room.
I close the distance to his door and shove it open.
Dad’s on his stomach on top of the bedding, arms at awkward angles like he plummeted from a high window and landed just that way. He’s wearing what he left in last night to meet Tati. His breathing is open-mouthed and noisy, a circle of drool visible on the comforter. His hair’s all over the place.
What a fucking mess.
His shoes, on the other hand, sit neatly on the floor near the foot of the bed, laces looped up and over. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. The small bathroom trash can is positioned on the floor near his head. I highly doubt he had the forethought to put it there.
“Dad!” I say sharply.
He snorts awake, rolling over with effort, dragging a hand over his pallid face. “What time is it?”
