I’m running out of time—if I procrastinate much longer he’s going to give me crap about forcinghimto get up early when I’m not even going to show up on time. Or maybe he won’t. Does our truce require us to be civil at all times? More than that, are we going to be friendly now? Or are we simply stopping the pranks? I really wish we’d outlined more specifics on how this whole thing works. It’s not that I can’t be nice to Asher—I’m not a monster, I think I could be nice to anyone. I just wantexpectations.
When I finally walk into the kitchen at 6:32, Asher is sitting at one of the red stools at the breakfast bar, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth from a little glass jar. The kind my grandma makes strawberry jam in. He meets my eyes and nods toward the mug sitting in front of the chair next to him. I press my lips together. I mean for it to be a smile, but it’s like my face doesn’t know how to do that when looking at Asher. I’m pretty sure it looks more like a grimace, or like I’m constipated or something. It’s not great, is what I’m saying. Trying again would be even weirder, so I don’t.
Shake it off, Sidney. Just treat him like a normal person. A normal person who filled your yogurt cups with sour cream last summer, and froze your bathing suit once, but is now making you coffee.
I go to the refrigerator to dig for fruit and yogurt—that is hopefullynotsour cream—and notice the top shelf is lined with pretty little jars like the one Asher is eating. They’re stuffed with oatmeal. Some of them have strawberries, and others have swirls of gold and brown—honey and maple syrup, probably—and nuts. “Your mom makes these for you?” I say, picking up one of the little jars and examining it more closely.
“Am I twelve?” He shakes his head, and it reminds me of hisdad. Like he’s scolding himself. “Sorry. No, I make them. Feel free,” he says, jerking his chin toward me and my little glass jar.Apparently I’m not the only one struggling to adjust.
I put the jar back, then hesitate and pick it up again.It’s just oatmeal.
This kitchen has four times as many drawers as our last one, and after I make three unsuccessful attempts at locating the silverware, Asher silently points his spoon at the one directly behind him. I open it and grab a spoon, wondering when breakfast became such a stressful time for me. I try again for a smile, and this time my mouth makes what I’m pretty sure is a C+ effort. There’s no teeth, but definitely a clear improvement in my performance.
I sit down at my mug of coffee, thankful that we’re sitting side by side and not across from each other. We’re eating in complete silence, our awkwardness accompanied by the scrape of spoons, the soft setting down of our mugs, the squeak of our stools as we fidget and shift.
Our walk to the boat is as quiet as our breakfast, and by the time we reach it I feel like screaming just to crack the silence. Is this his way of messing with me, without actually messing with me? Seeing how long he can go before I crack and say something first? No, surely not. The truce washisidea, after all. But I think of his silence at breakfast, how he didn’t say anything until I did. We’re always quiet, though. I’m not sure if Iwanta change, or if I’m just expecting one.
At the boat, Asher steps on and holds out a hand for me. I look at it like it’s covered in acid, and my eyes dart to him. He’s holding back a smile, and when I finally take his hand, whatever hold he had on himself snaps. While I sit in my usual seat at the bow, he sits in front of the little engine, shaking with laughter. His face is pinked with the exertion of trying to hold it back.
What iswrongwith him?Apparently this truce is driving usbotha little mad.
He’s barely composed himself when he tells me, “Tomorrow night we’re going to scout at Five Pines.” We finish our swim, walk silently back to the house, and carefully avoid each other the rest of the day.
DAY 12
Asher
You’d think a truce would mean Sidney and I could just act like normal people. The kind who can sit around and talk about normal things, like how to prank their former landlord. You would be wrong. Less than forty-eight hours into our truce, it’s become very clear that we don’tknowhow to act like normal people. We know how to annoy and avoid. And how to ride in a car in total silence. So I guess we’re going to wing our first night at Nadine’s.
We’ve only been out of the Five Pines houses for a few days, but already it feels like we don’t belong here. Lake House A and B are dark—lights off, blinds drawn. There are no cars at either house. Even the air smells different—like it’s missing the soft tang of fish that usually wafts out of the little hut next to Nadine’s house, where the dads clean their catch. After Sidney weaponized that smell, I can’t say I miss it.
“Creepy,” Sidney says from behind me. Her eyes are fixed on the tall blue elf that peers at us from beside a little bush, with a red hat slumped on his head. I’ve always thought Nadine’s statue collection was the weirdest thing ever. I swear their eyes follow you, like creepy little concrete Mona Lisas. And it’s not just gnomes, it’s frogs and dragons, and there’s even a red brontosaurus statue. Abrontosaurus.There were a few here when I first came, tucked in around the tiny cabins that used to sit in a row here, but since the house went up last summer they seem to be multiplying exponentially.
Sidney shakes her head in mock disgust, and I want to laugh, but I don’t. We’re behind Nadine’s house, in the strip of trees that runs along the driveway and separates her property from the next. It isn’t the time or place to be amused by Sidney, truce or not. We parked down the road, at The Little Store, which had been closed for hours by the time we arrived, and then we walked the half-mile to Five Pines.
“What do we do now?” Sidney whispers.
“We scout.”
“Okay…” Her voice is sarcastic. “And what exactly does that entail? You know, for those of us who aren’t expert-level lurkers.”
“As ifyou’dqualify,” I scoff. “All hail Sidney, Queen of the Lurkers,” I mutter. Why can’t she just talk to me like a normal person?
“Whatever.” She takes a step ahead of me and I grab her arm, but she shakes away roughly.
“Sidney,” I whisper-yell as her dark form struts off ahead of me, moving from the cover of the trees to the driveway. She bends down next to the house, and plucks a gray—almost blue—elephant statue out of the red mulch. It has yellow swirls painted across its bulging stomach, and ruby-red gems forming a little triangle that dips from the top of its head down its trunk. It’s one of the most normalthingsin Nadine’s collection, cozied up next to what looks like a praying mantis statue. Sidney smiles triumphantly as she hoists it into her arms and cradles it—just as a light flicks on overhead, bathing her in bright white light. Motion lights.That’sthe kind of thing we’re supposed to be scouting.
Shit.
Sidney
When I was a kid, I was a big believer in the T-Rex method of hiding. You know, the wholeDon’t move and they won’t see youapproach. My mom loves to tell stories about how she’d catch four-year-old me doing something, and I’d freeze in place, convinced that I was invisible if I could just stay still. Apparently my parents thought it was so hilarious that they played along, and I was eight before I fully grasped that this was actually the worst method of hiding ever. But ten years later it’s still my first instinct when the light flashes on. I’m as still as the stone statue in my hands as the halo of light floods down around me.
Asher whispers my name so loudly he might as well just be talking. “Move.” Then louder. “Sidney,move.” And louder. “Run.”
The word snaps me out of it and I start sprinting across the yard like someone’s just fired a starting pistol. Asher takes off after me, and I can hear his feet padding on the grass behind me. The elephant is cradled under my arm like a football as we hit the sidewalk next to Lake House B, both of us on the same side for once, and it’s not until I hit the stairs and am barreling downward, toward the water, that I realize this probably wasn’t what Asher had in mind. I should have runtowardthe car, not away from it.
Where the stairs descend past the row of dense bushes, I come to a stop, practically throwing myself onto the ground beside them. Asher is two seconds behind me, and we’re lying on our stomachs behind the bushes, in a row: Asher, me, and the elephant—I’m going to call her Edith—next to me. If we had rifles we’d look like something straight out of a WWII movie. Well, except for the elephant.
