The last thing she expected to hear was Birdie’s name.
“Birdie?” Grace repeats back, like the girl’s words were a mistake. “How do you ...” she stammers, feeling half drunk. “What do you ...”
“I know.” Cece’s defenses slowly lift as it dawns on her that Grace isn’t an immediate threat. “Funny, right?” She smiles. “It’s a not-so-common nickname for Elizabeth. It’s what my mom’s gone by for years.”
Grace blinks and everything clears.
Elizabeth Grace Porter. Birdie, to those who knew her best. To Grace, just ... Mom.
“So let me get this straight,” Cece continues, not realizing the gravity of what she’s just said. “Do you know her or something?” She lifts a slender arm, her wrist wrapped up in a dozen friendship bracelets, and flips a section of golden hair from the left to the right side of her face. “You feel familiar.” She gives Grace a quick once-over. “You seem like someone she’d befriend.”
Nearby, an elementary-aged girl smacks a mallet at a Whac-A-Mole game. The machine erupts in a jingle, every light on it flashing. She might as well have used her rubber weapon and pummeled Grace square in her chest.
How is she supposed to respond? Does she know Birdie? Of course. She knows every detail of her, the same way she imagines the sun’s likely memorized every square inch of the sky. The sound of her voice. The bright smell of her Clinique perfume. The exact dimensions of the heart-shaped sunspot on her hand.
“Wait. Exactlyhowold are you?” Grace poses, still absorbing all the details of their conversation. She takes a fast look at the girl’s neck—no nameplate yet—then recalls her earlier comment. “You must be in middle school, right?” She calculates some fast mental math. “Which would make you about—”
“Thirteen,” she announces, a sense of pride lifting her words. She straightens her posture, like she’s trying to look a touch older. “Or, at least, I will be this week.”
Thirteen. A teenager. The first real chapter in no longer being a mere kid.
“That’s basically why I’m here.” She sets her smoothie cup on the floor, then resumes searching in her bag. A moment later, she holds up a woven coin purse like a prize. “I knew I had it!” She pulls a candy wrapper from its side, unfazed. “Now it’s only a matter of how many coins I have.” She unzips it, invites a pile of loose change to cascade into her palm. “Cool.” She takes a quick tally. “That should be plenty.”
She bends down and begins to feed quarters into a metal slot. The Skee-Ball machine blares to life—bells, lights, contained electronic anarchy—then spits out a dozen brown balls. Cece tugs away her crossbody, dropping it in a heap on the dirty carpet, then lifts a ball.
“I used to love this game,” Grace says, remembering the sounds of it in a partial daze.
“Well, good.” Cece squares off her shoulders. “Then prepare to watch the absolute best!”
Cece bounces on her heels and positions herself in an athletic stance. While she does, Grace watches her, sifting through her memories and trying to remember if this exact scene ever happened. Skee-Ball. A middle-aged stranger. Nothing specific comes to mind. On this island, everything feels like a moment you might have lived once—some other year, some other version of you, some other time.
“Ugh!” Cece exclaims as her first ball misses the hundred-point target by a mile. “That was a terrible shot!” She shifts her weight, tosses another one down the smooth lane. A ten-pointer. Total waste. “It’s fine,” she states, mostly to herself, as if she’s forgotten Grace is standing nearby. “You’ve done this before. Just concentrate.” She stretches an arm over her torso, like a runner preparing for a long and important race. “You can totally do this again.”
“You seem really determined,” Grace states, trying to recall the feeling of being so young and of wanting something so arbitrary so very badly.
“Yeah, well, you would be, too, if you were me.” Cece looks away from her game, points up at an electronic board, and pinches the air. “I wasthisclose to beating the high score yesterday.”
“Maybe you will today?” Grace gently offers.
“I’d better.” Cece feeds more coins into the machine. “I’m running out of time to do it.”
“Because you’re leaving?” Grace tries, not clear on her urgency.
“No,” she says, like it’s the most obvious answer on the planet. She tosses another ball—gutter shot. “Because after this week, I’mdonewith kid games for good.”
Grace’s chest pulls tight at the certitude in her voice. Slowly, the memory begins to coalesce. Not the exact scene, but the feeling of it.
“Why are you done with kid games?” Grace asks her anyway, even though she knows the answer. She watches Cece wind back up, her whole body so focused and serious. “Especially this one. You love it.” Cece gives her a look. Grace stops, backpedals. “At least, it seems like you do.”
Cece takes another shot. This time, the ball swoops and drops right into the fifty-point slot.
“Because I’m not a kid anymore.” Her tone is firm and a touch rehearsed. “What Iamis a person—an almost-teenager—who’sin love.”
The declaration pulls Grace back—hard—into a place in her mind she’s not sure she’s ready to face. She watches Cece with a strange pang of recognition.She wants proof,Grace realizes.That she hasn’t outgrown who she used to be. That she’s still good at something she loves before she lets it go.
“At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is,” Cece continues, her tone softening. She doesn’t look away from the game. “Love, I mean.” She grabs another brown ball, tosses it down the smooth lane. “Ray,” she adds, nearly under her breath. “He’s a friend. From down here.” Her lips break into a grin. “This trip, though, it feels ... different.”
Grace’s heart flutters and drops as recollections of that summer week rise in her mind. The first time he reached for her hand. The first almost-kiss, his cheeks pink when he missed his mark. The way she felt like she was finding someone—something—important outside of her, while also discovering a new part of herself at the same time.
