“She’ll be along,” Indira said. “She’s probably running late.”
“I know she’s running late,” Fox said. “She needs to hurry up. She’s the only one who will carry this ponderous bucket.”
(Uh, ponderous wasmychoice of word.)
As Bobby took the bucket from Fox, he said, “The Paranormal Paddle is about to start. She’ll catch up to us.”
We made our way north along the boardwalk, toward the bay where the Swift River emptied into the ocean. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea too, and I have to admit, I didn’tlovehaving a million people jostling me and breathing down my neck and bumping my candy bucket (which, yes, you’re allowed to participate in trunk-or-treat as an adult if you don’t have any children, because you can’t steal their candy, and also if Keme won’t share with you). But in spite of the crowd, I was okay. Ish. I mean, I knew most of these people. I was friends with most of these people. (If you could call almost getting T-boned by Bliss Wilson’s behemoth of a Suburban being friends. Which, apparently, you could, because she’d just tooted the horn and given me a finger wave and kept driving.) Plus, it helped to have Bobby there, his hand finding the small of my back to steer me. (It was like having a personal navigation system, and it was amazing—especially the time I almost went, um, rump-over-teakettle into a pothole.)
The festivities continued along the boardwalk, with rows of vendor tents. Some of the tents were businesses—Mr. Li was selling his watercolors, and Brad Newsum (of Newsum Decorative Rock) was chatting with a middle-aged couple about a landscaping project. But others were more community oriented. The hiking group that Bobby and I occasionallyaccompanied had a table. And Hastings High was selling tickets to their Homecoming dance, which—confusingly—was being held on Halloween. (I noticed Keme refused to glance over, and I also noticed the teens around the display gawking at him like he was an animal in a zoo.) There was a jump-rope academy (yes, it’s a real thing, and yes, I almost got winged by several overenthusiastic jump-ropers), and the Loaves and Fishes food bank (several kids were donating their candy), and a booth for the Confederated Tribes (they were handing out king-size candy bars, which meant they were being swarmed by miniature Batmans). The Hastings Rock Community Church was having a jumble sale, and Arcadia College was handing out flash drives and pens and those weirdly specific sticky notes that I always take but then never use. (Who needs one that has a twelve-month calendar printed onevery sticky note?)
That was when Fox kicked me.
I knew it was Fox because I felt the goggles, and when I swung around—with half an idea to give them a bonk with that stupid cauldron—I stopped at the silent demand on their face. I opened my mouth to ask what they wanted. And then I realized Indira was staring at me too. Her eyes flicked to the Arcadia College tent and then back to me, pleading.
It was kind of like the reverse ofThe Grinch. My heart shrank three sizes. Or maybe ten. I dry-swallowed. Then, somehow it wasn’t dry, and I choked on my own spit, and Bobby patted me on the back so enthusiastically that Fox’s stupid cauldron whanged me in the thigh. (Whanged is a word, right?)
See, I knew what Fox and Indira wanted. We—the adults—had been talking about it on and off since July.Worrying aboutit might be a better way to phrase it. Or maybefretting.
Bobby thumped me between the shoulder blades again, and I made anack-ing sound, and I fended off his attempts to continue being earnestly helpful by squawking, “I’m fine.”
Everyone was looking at us, by the way. Mr. Li had stopped explaining something about one of his watercolors. A tiny girl in a dragon costume was clutching her tail, staring at me like I might expire on the spot. Emma Goldman, who was in her seventies and had a Mary Poppins-style purse full of whatever you might need, had stopped her stick-weaving class long enough to peer at me and, apparently, decide I would live before she went back to whatever she was saying. (Slightly disappointing, actually, because she always had these really tasty cough drops in that bag.)
A prickling flush climbed my face as I gave an all-purpose wave to let everyone know things were okay, and our little group started moving again. As we were drawing even with the Arcadia College tent, I channeled my inner thespian, got myself into character—I was playing the role of Befuddled Writer #1—and said with what I hoped was believable-sounding surprise, “Oh! Look! Arcadia College.”
Fox made a tiny, despairing sound. Indira looked like she wanted to cover her eyes. Bobby cocked his head at me, possibly wondering if I needed to be taken to a padded room.
Keme, though, glared.
It was about a five on the Keme scale, which meant: casual annoyance directed at me for being, apparently, the weirdest person he’d ever met.
“I loved college,” I said.
No one said anything to that.
“What about you, Bobby?” I asked. “Did you love college?”
The penny had dropped; I could see it in Bobby’s expression. All he said, though, was “Yeah, college was great. Lots of work. Lots of fun.”
“Arcadia’s campus is so nice.”
And this, at least, was true. The campus was gorgeous, actually—thickly wooded, carefully landscaped, with buildingsthat looked like they’d always been part of that semi-wild space. I’d visited a few times to meet with some of the creative writing faculty, and somehow—against all common sense and good reason—they’d trusted me with a half-semester introduction to composition class that, in theory, I should have been preparing for. In fact, that sounded like such a responsible, sensible, safe thing to do that I wondered if I could convince Bobby to take me home. Right now.
Indira was still giving me that look, though—with a hint of get-on-with-it that hadn’t been there before—so I said, “Do you want to see what they’re handing out? I bet they have information for prospective students.”
This time, the glare was a seven—terrifying.
Words bubbled out of me. “If, that is, you know, you’re thinking about, like, considering, even just the possibility—”
And no one was going to help me. Bobby looked like he wanted to thump me on the back again.
I was like a drowning man grabbing for something—anything—to keep him afloat. The question drifted past, and I asked, “What are you going to do after you graduate?”
Keme’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. The glare went down to a four—I thought of this one as “self-soothing rage”—and he shrugged. “Get a job.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that. He kept walking, and the rest of us, left flat-footed, scrambled to catch up.
“Have you ever thought about college?” Fox asked. “Or a vocational school?”
