Second Star

8

The car seems to remember how to get to Kensington. It’s dusk when I pull into the lookout. I told my parents I might be late tonight. I even said that I might sleep over at Fiona’s, though for days I’ve been screening her calls, answering noncommittally to her texts.

I slip my sandals off as I walk into the reeds. The sand is cool beneath my feet, and just the tiniest bit damp, like it’s waiting for the tide to come in and drench everything.

When I get down to the beach, I look out to the waves for Pete, but the water is empty. The beach is empty. Where the fire burned, there’s nothing left but a pile of ash. But over the roar of the surf, shouts and cheers descend from the top of the cliffs. I spot the wooden stairs and begin to climb. All the way up this time, until I’m out of breath.

The stairs lead practically into what must be Pete’s backyard. I slide my shoes back on and walk toward an empty infinity pool overlooking the cliff. A group of boys lounge on the other side, and I gasp when one of them jumps right into the empty pool. Blinking, I realize that he’s riding a skateboard. He skates expertly down the curving sides of the pool, around the puddles leftover from last week’s rainfall, and out again. The sound of the wheels on the concrete echoes like a plane taking flight.

Suddenly, Belle is standing beside me, graceful as a tightrope walker on the edge of the pool. She gets to me so fast, I can’t help thinking that maybe she has been waiting for me.

Belle doesn’t say hello, so I don’t either. Instead I ask, “Do all of you live here?” I can’t count how many kids are milling inside and out of the sliding glass doors.

Belle shrugs. “Some of us,” she says. “Others are like you—just passing through.”

“But where did they all come from?” I don’t say what I’m thinking: Are their parents looking for them, too?

Belle shrugs again. “Mostly runaways. Foster kids, like Pete.”

“Pete’s a foster kid?” I try to picture him as a little boy, shuffled from home to home, but I can only imagine him the way he is now.

“What’d you think?” Belle says, narrowing her eyes. “That he just materialized out of thin air for your entertainment?” She stands so close that I think she might push me right over the cliffs.

I shake my head, looking beyond the empty pool to the enormous house where Pete and his friends live. There isn’t a single light coming from inside, but even in the darkness I can see that most of the paint has peeled from the wooden sides of the house, which must have been white once. The planks of wood on the porch around the empty pool are splitting; some are missing altogether.

“I just didn’t know that he was a foster kid,” I say finally.

“Of course you didn’t.” Belle lifts one foot and balances like a gymnast on a beam.

Trying to ignore her acrobatics, I ask, “Is Pete here?”

“Pete’s always around somewhere,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Why are you looking for my boyfriend?”

I can feel my spine curving as I sink into a slouch, like the wind has been knocked out of me. Boyfriend. Pete is Belle’s boyfriend. But he asked me to come back. He stood so close. He kissed me. He wouldn’t have kissed me if he had a girlfriend, right?

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to get the words out of my mouth as quickly as possible. I remember the way Pete and Belle stood beside each other on the beach; I thought they moved with the easy intimacy of a brother and a sister, but really it was the easy intimacy of a couple. I can’t tell whether the heat rising to my face is anger or shame.

Belle smiles, her teeth almost glowing in the dusky light. “Goodbye, Wendy Darling,” she says as she turns to walk away.

I don’t remember ever having told her my last name, but maybe I told Pete and he told her. What else did he tell her? Does she know I kissed him? I press my fingers into my lips. She must hate me. She has every right to.

When Belle is gone, I ignore the looks from some of the other kids and rush back down the stairs, sliding my hand over the railing even when the stairs get so steep that it’s like running down a slide face-first. I can’t believe Pete kissed me with his girlfriend just a few yards away, waiting for him in the house at the top of the cliffs. Was she worried when he didn’t come home that night? Did she know he was with me? I wonder if she yelled at him when he walked through the door the next morning; I can’t picture it. Belle seems more the strong, silent type than the type who would scream and shout.

I grip the railing to keep from falling then run across the beach and through the reeds. The tide is coming in, flooding the path and soaking my jeans, but this time, I don’t let it stop me. I want to get out of here before Pete sees me. I never want to see this place again.