The Moon and More(30)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“She’s not like that with everyone. It’s just that that the people here . . .” He trailed off suddenly. I took another couple of steps, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. I turned back.

“The people here what?”

He swallowed. “They’re not what she’s used to.”

We were at my car now, facing each other over the roof. “Meaning, they’re ignorant and stupid?”

“No. They just take her demeanor personally. And it’s not personal.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“No offense, Emaline, but you haven’t exactly put out the welcome mat for her either.”

“I don’t even know her,” I said.

“Exactly. Which has not stopped you from assuming a lot, and none of it good. She’s not the only one who’s stereotyping here.”

Hearing this, I felt that strange mix of annoyance and shame. Like when you hear something you don’t want to be true, but have a feeling probably is. I kind of had to give Theo credit for pointing it out. He wasn’t so easy to read, after all.

“This is my home,” I told him now. “I’m protective of it.”

“And Ivy’s my boss and my mentor,” he said. “Even if she could use some etiquette lessons. Okay?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”

“Thanks.”

I opened up my door and got in, and he did the same on his side. As I started the engine and pulled out of the fish house lot, neither of us spoke. I was wondering if it was going to be weird from then on, when Theo said, “Can I ask you what I hope is a not-insulting, not-personal question?”

“When you preface it like that,” I replied, “I don’t know how I could say no.”

He smiled, then pointed at my right hand, which was resting on the gearshift. “I’ve seen those bracelets a lot lately. On you, your sister the other day, the guys who helped us move in. Are they a local thing?”

I looked down at the thin braided piece I was wearing. It was studded with red beads and a single scallop shell, and was frayed so badly in places it would take hardly a tug to break it free. The other one I’d been wearing since about Valentine’s Day had just broken off the week before.

“Yeah,” I said. “You could say that.”

“Local as in private,” he replied, confirming. “Off limits?”

“No.” I put on my blinker. “Just sad.”

*   *   *

It was just about fully dark when we pulled into Gert’s Surf Shop, a small combination tackle/convenience/gift shop that was one of the last surviving businesses in North Reddemane. Open twenty-four hours, it was a landmark I always looked for on my way back from Cape Frost. That was the biggest town on the island, where we traveled to go to the (admittedly still small) mall and a wider variety of restaurants, among other things. It was thirty miles from Colby, and the only way to get there was to take a two-lane highway with nothing much to look at but beach on one side and sound on the other. North Reddemane, and the always-on light at Gert’s, broke up the monotony of the ride back, always letting me know I was that much closer to home.

“Gert’s,” Theo said, as we got out of the car. “Short for Gertrude?”

“Nope.”

I walked over to the door and pulled it open. Bells overhead jangled. Inside, it smelled of burnt coffee, as always. Behind the counter, a heavyset man sat watching a portable TV, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Hi, Mr. Gertmann,” I said as we walked past him, and he nodded at me, then turned his attention back to the small screen. Unlike the Gas/Gro and just about every other convenience store I knew, the lighting was dim, the aisles narrow. Gert’s sold a little bit of everything: tackle supplies, groceries (mostly canned, many expired), beer (stocked regularly, unlike the groceries), and touristy crap like visors, beach chairs, and sunscreen. As we walked past an old Coca-Cola cooler stocked with glass bottles, I heard Theo let out a low whistle.

“Wow, check it out,” he said. He reached out, touching the pocked metal of the machine. “This is seriously vintage. I know a place in Brooklyn that would pay a fortune for it.”

“I doubt it’s for sale,” I said. “If it’s like everything else, it’s been here for generations.”

“Family business, huh?”

“Since the turn of the last century.” I nodded towards a back door. “It’s only about ten steps to their house from here. See?”

Sure enough, visible through the screen was the white clapboard of the Gertmanns’ place. Just like most every night, a light was on in the living room. In one window, a girl sat, head bent, working on something at a table.

I went over to a nearby cooler, taking out a water. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I moved, making a sound like a moan. “You want anything?”

Theo shook his head and I let the door drop shut and started up to the counter. Mr. Gertmann looked up at me as I put the water down. “How’s your mom, Emaline?”

“She’s good. How’s Rachel doing?”

He punched a couple of buttons on the register. Behind him, on the TV, a row of army tanks was rolling down a road. “About the same.”

I nodded, quiet, as I slid two bills across to him. While he made change, I said, “My friend here is filming a documentary about Colby. You know, the history and all of the area. We were wondering if maybe he could shoot a little bit of footage of the store?”

I felt Theo’s surprise as I said this, since I’d not mentioned anything about it to him. “Don’t see why not,” Mr. Gertmann said, handing me my change. “We’re not exactly busy right now.”

I looked at Theo, who was already taking out his camera. “Thanks so much,” he said, turning it on. “This will really provide some great local color, a sense of the staying power of local businesses, and . . .”

He trailed off as Mr. Gertmann turned back to the TV screen, clearly more interested in whatever he was watching than the living history around him. I gave Theo an encouraging look, and he set off towards the Coke cooler. As he began to film it, I pulled over the small ceramic dish that sat right by the register, a sign taped to it. HANDMADE BRACELETS, it read. $7. TWO FOR $12. Inside the dish were about six bracelets similar to mine, woven from thin rope and dotted with beads and shells. As I picked through them, I could hear Theo walking around, the floor making its wheezings beneath him.