As I near our designated meeting place, a motorcycle purrs in the distance. It grows louder and then Even, astride the Harley, comes into view. My eyes work their way up his body. His smile, as bright as the one from the day before, spreads on his lips. He isn’t wearing a helmet; it isn’t the law in New Hampshire. Our state slogan is “Live free or die.” Apparently that extends to protective bike gear, too. An image of the motorcycle not being able to support me, then Even and me spilling to the ground, our heads mashing into the pavement, flashes through my mind. I must look terrified when Even’s close enough to read my expression.

  “You all right, Shoog?” he asks.

  He’s never called me anything but Sugar before. A smile replaces whatever look I wore.

  “No need to be nervous. This thing is solid. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day. Let’s ride,” he says.

  Getting on the bike is by no means a graceful act. I have to hike up the leg of my jeans, the material puckering and pinching my thigh, in order to get my foot up and over to the other side. When on the seat, I wrap my arms securely around Even. I feel something akin to perfection. I wait to question it, dismiss it, but the loud bike drives out all thought.

  He accelerates down the road. As we pass the church, I say a silent prayer, unsure if I should ask for us to be safe or for no one to laugh at me, but then reprimand my selfishness and ask for something bigger, like world peace or—but before I can decide, we’re whipping past familiar houses, fields, and then the woods. It’s enough just to wave goodbye.

  He stops on the shoulder just before we get on the highway.

  “How are you doing back there?” he asks.

  “Never better,” I say, leaning my cheek against his back as he tears off toward the highway. The air blows through my hair and my eyes water, but I don’t care. I feel like a bird with the wind in my wings. No, like an eagle. Free. The sun has come all the way up, its rays beaming through the clouds. My chest and belly are against Even’s back, and I feel a different kind of warmth than I’ve ever known. I feel full of life.

  About halfway there, he pulls off to a rest stop. “I need a coffee,” he says. “You?”

  “Yeah, sure. I could go for a coffee.” I stay with the bike and he returns with two coffees and a donut to split. Guilt from the night before nudges me.

  “Nah. I’m good,” I say.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  I nod. Like soda, my former vehicle for caffeine in the morning, a donut would bring further attention to me and my chunky butt. I’d rather not go there this early in the day. We sit on the top of a picnic table and Even, who I notice has a small cut and a tiny purple bruise under his eye, now that he took off his sunglasses, tells me he got his dad out of jail.

  “What happened to your eye?” I ask.

  He looks at me a long moment and then shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”

  We get back on the road. By midmorning, the air smells different. Salty and cooler.

  “Nearly there,” Even hollers over the roar of the bike and the wind. The wind tickles his tousled hair.

  We move through light traffic along a street populated by fast-food joints, restaurants, quick lubes, and gas stations. Even smoothly turns down a suburban street. He points to a ranch-style house with a pair of sycamores in the front. Mums and pumpkins decorate the front entryway.

  “That’s where I grew up,” he says. “Looks like someone else lives there now.”

  The only reason we haven’t lost our house is that my grandparents paid off the mortgage long before I was born. But the state of it may soon mean it’s condemned. Then where would we go? I think about Mama, in her bed, and hope she’s all right without me there. Surely, by now, Skunk must have woken up and tended to her.

  We cruise down another street, and another, and then come to an intersection. Directly across the middle, I see it. The ocean spreads wide and blue, the exact color of Even’s eyes. I gasp.

  He turns his head to reveal the corner of a smile. “What do you think?” he asks.

  The sea is almost too much to take in. Bumps form on the horizon in long corduroy-like lines, each one getting nearer until it crests then drops in a skirt of white foam. And they only get bigger, and louder, the closer we get. The salty air clings to my skin; it won’t wash off for a while.

  “It’s amazing,” I say. “And so big. Vast. I can’t see where it ends.” There aren’t enough words in my head to say how it makes me feel, so I linger there, bathing in the enormity. It makes me feel small and yet like all things are possible.

  “Straight on until you hit Europe,” Even says. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  The tide is out, revealing polished rocks and long strands of seaweed. We trek through the sand. Wind whips at my hair and I feel wild with potential. I shiver.

  “Chilly?” Even asks.

  I nod.

  “It’s always cooler by the sea, the breeze,” he says. “I think it’s refreshing. It’s like the air itself is alive.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. Insta-warmth. We continue to the water’s edge. When a wave comes in, I put my hand in the foam. It’s freezing. Even takes a seat in the sand. After watching the waves rolling in and tickling my feet, I join him.

  He continues to observe the waves, so I do the same. Even sighs and then reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. I flush pink.

  “I told you I had something else to show you,” he says. He weighs a small blue book in his hands. “This. These are my life plans.”

  I give him a curious look.

  “When my mom was pregnant with me, she kept a journal.” He lets the pages slip open to show a woman’s cursive writing looping along the slim blue lines. He thumbs the inner cover, where the name Tansy is written in the same script.

  “She wrote about her hopes and dreams. And the future. I guess that, sometimes, pregnant women do that. They get all introspective. She wrote about herself, but also what she hoped for us.” Even swallows before continuing, “When she was born, she had a twin, but that baby died. Growing up here, on the Atlantic, she dreamed of visiting its twin, the Pacific Ocean, and maybe rediscovering that missing part of herself. She wrote about how she wanted us—her sons, I was a twin, too—to go there together someday.” Even looks out to the water, gathering himself. I get the sense he’s never shared this with anyone.

  “When she went into labor, the other baby, my twin, died. And so did she. She had some complications, and when the doctor announced they’d lost the other baby, I think she gave up.” Even’s voice sounds thin, but then when he continues it steadily regains its usual strength. “But I won’t. I’m going to get out there to the Pacific. I have her ashes.” Then Even’s voice cracks.

  We watch the waves a moment, the sun dancing off the Atlantic.

  “I’m so sorry. That’s sad, but beautiful, too. You’ll get there.” While I speak, the fissures in his composure disappear.

  “I was so mad when we had to move inland, when I had to leave here. Even though she and I never met, to me, this ocean was, no, is my mom. And the Pacific is like, all that we both lost, even my dad. I lost him when we lost her. I know it was hard, but people who knew him said the grief changed him. He didn’t try, not even for me. I’m hoping in some strange way by making it out there, I’ll be able to put myself back together. Or something.”

  I know just what he means, but am so moved and surprised by how deeply I relate, I let the ocean speak for me as it crests, crashes, and then tinkles on the pebbles and shells as the water washes back out. I think about my father and Mama. I think about how all my life it’s felt like something is missing or broken inside me, too.

  All is quiet except for the rush of the waves. I feel awake because of the breeze and bright sunlight, but tired, as if the water’s ebb and flow hums to me like a lullaby.

  “I think that’s a good plan,” I say simply.

  “It’s the only one I’ve got.” Then he smiles. “Here, let me show you.” Even flips past his mother’s writing and I see his own, angular, in black ink.

  “My first stop, New York City. I’ve always wanted to go there. Be a tourist for a day, y’know? Ever been?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I’ve been to Vermont and Massachusetts, once. That’s the extent of my world travel.” Even laughs lightheartedly.

  “That about sums it up for me, too,” Even says. “So New York and then Washington, D.C.—pay homage to our country’s forefathers, wave hello to the president, and then zip on down to the Carolinas. I’ve heard the beaches there are beautiful. Then I’m going to drive through the Smoky Mountains and on into Graceland.” Even has tidily written directions, mileage, gas estimates, and his pit stops or points of interest, along with a couple of campsites, on each of the pages corresponding to the destinations.

  “You’ve really thought this through,” I say.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this for as long as I can remember. Since I learned my mom’s story, I’ve felt like part of me is missing, like I’m being called home. A home before this home or something. Maybe just a place away”—he clears his throat—“safe from Nash’s rage. Then, when we moved, I said, The hell with it, I’m going. So where was I, Graceland?” he says with unshakable conviction.

  “And what exactly is Graceland?” I ask, imagining some kind of theme park version of heaven or at least some kind of place of worship. Safe.

  Even turns the page to a photograph of Elvis Presley glued onto the paper and says, “Graceland is the home to the one and only king of rock and roll.”

  “I see.”

  “It was his estate. He was my mom’s favorite singer. I guess her mom’s favorite, too. Legend has it that my grandma met him after a concert or something. Then I’m going to head south to the Big Easy. New Orleans. Here, look,” he says, flipping to the back of the book and pulling out an accordion-style map glued onto a page near the back. He traces his finger from a star in New Hampshire next to the words You are not here, then down all the way to the Gulf Coast. “After that, I’m going to visit my aunt in Texas. She’s got a sense of humor as big as the whole state. Next stop, New Mexico. I want to see the pueblos. And, finally, on into California, where I plan to drive straight to the ocean. I’ll go through LA, but I’d really like to drive all the way up the coast. Big Sur seems like the perfect place—”

  I know he means to part with his mom’s ashes. “That sounds like an epic road trip,” I say.

  He nods.

  “When do you set sail?”

  Even laughs. “Right after I receive my diploma, I’m outta town.”

  For a moment, I feel stung. What about us? Our friendship? Then I see that this is his dream, something he’s planned for longer than we’ve known each other and that has probably buoyed him through long winters, long nights, and the move inland.

  “Well, I’ll miss you,” I say. But I don’t think he hears me because just then a flock of seagulls screeches overhead, drowning out even the waves.

  “My dad calls those flying rats,” Even says.

  “What about your dad? What does he think?” I ask.

  “Who cares?” He shakes the words out of his mouth. “I don’t really mean that, but he doesn’t care. He’s wanted me gone since the day he brought me home without his wife. My grandparents took turns taking care of me when I was really little. He’s never given two shits.”

  “Sorry, Even,” I say, because, truly, I know how it feels. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the wrinkled and folded old photograph of my dad.

  “This is my dad. I’ve never known him either. He’s somewhere out there, I think,” I say, looking toward the ocean. The world’s a bigger place than Johnson Regional High School, Od Town, and the bitterness within the walls of my house.

  “You and I, we go together just like peanut butter and jelly, huh?” Even says, shifting the mood to a lighter one. “How about we get some lunch?”

  We walk back to the promenade. After Even checks on his bike, he leads me to the fish-and-chips place with a perfect view of the ocean he’d raved about.

  “The food is almost as good as the scenery,” he says when we sit at a picnic table.

  Even buys me lunch. For once, aside from eating in the cafeteria with him, I chew and savor, instead of gobble and glug my food. Eating with him is a different experience than normal mealtimes. Not that I really have normal mealtimes. Sometimes it seems like I eat around the clock, but with Even something else replaces that endless hunger, a kind of fullness I can’t define. Warmth, maybe. Companionship. Perhaps it isn’t so much what is present as it is what’s missing: guilt, shame, ridicule, Mama alternatingly urging me to stuff my face and telling me how fat and worthless I am. I take a deep breath. I dare not say it aloud, lest I jinx myself, but I feel something bordering on good.

  We walk up and down the sidewalk. Looking into store windows, I see beachwear that will never fit me, and notice many shops have closed for the season. A couple passes by on the sidewalk, foolishly in love, fawning over each other, arm-in-arm. I pause midstep, seeing a warped version of my future self, walking next to Even, garnering double takes and whispers coupled with quiet laughter when they think that tiresome question: Why is it that tall, skinny guys often end up with obese women? I don’t want to be that woman, the subject of ridicule, but I nearly am—minus the couple part, I think, embarrassed.

  Even wrests me from these shadowed thoughts. “Come on,” he says, leading me back out toward the beach.

  “There are never too many this time of year,” he says, looking down at the ground.

  “Huh? Too many what?”

  “Hang on. I’ll find one.”

  I’m about to ask what, when he dashes over to a spot in the sand where the incoming waves washed a large hash of debris in, including yards of seaweed. I step closer while he roots through rocks and shells.

  “Hmmm,” he says. “Let’s go a little further.”

  We near a breakwater, but before we get too much closer he says, “Aha!”

  The sun hovers above the trees at our backs, toward the west, as if it isn’t ready, just yet, to settle in for the night. Even takes a seat in the sand again and pulls me down to his side. I still haven’t gotten used to his touch. Each time I feel his warm hand on mine, with mechanic’s grease under his nails, I get a thrill I never thought I’d have. The kind of feeling made for TV or reserved for girls like Hillary.

  “See this?” Even holds out a shell smoothed into the shape of a heart by the tumbling sea. “It’s for you. A shell like this one, beautiful to begin with, can get cracked and slivered, and then time, the tides, maybe even the wind, tumble and toss it, and it becomes something new, a perfect version of itself.”

  He tucks the shell into my hand. I can’t ignore the fizzy feeling when our fingers touch. His grin, I can tell, is just for me.

  “You’ve got it. From that smile, to your careful listening, to your courage.” He smirks and gathers my hair, whipping in the wind, out of my face, letting his fingers loop it by my shoulder. “You’re a beautiful person, Shoog. Don’t let anyone, not even the people you think you’re supposed to trust, tell you different.”

  I grasp at his words, hoping to memorize them so that, like a ship, they’ll carry me to safer shores. He places the shell in my hand, and I know I will never forget. At least not entirely.

  We remain there for a while longer, the setting sun casting sparkles on the peaks of the waves and everywhere in between. Suddenly a bittersweet feeling of joy, and a sense that it’s fleeting, winds its way into the moment. Mama’s coarse words, “Life’s a bitch and then you die,” echo in my head once again. I don’t want to believe she’s right.

  “What do you think happens after you die?” I ask, out of the blue, surprising myself.

  “I don’t know. I think your body dies, but I’m sure my mother is still with me,” says Even. “Always.”

  “Heaven?” I ask.

  “Maybe.”

  “Angels?”

  “Sure,” he says, winking at me and pulling me toward him. We hug, shoulder-to-shoulder. “But that doesn’t matter right now, because we are very much alive.” He gets up to his feet and pulls me along behind him, whooping loudly, daring the incoming water to splash him. I chase after him and our laughter carries on in the wind.

  Chapter Nine

  On Sunday, Mama launches into a tirade, going on about me being gone the day before. I’m sure the whole neighborhood can hear. Mama lets me really have it when I deliver a fresh bag of chips after I return from church, where I sat quietly next to Fat Henry before my weekly trip to Od Town. I accidentally get close enough for her to grab me by the hair, and she hollers directly into my ear.

  “Don’t you dare ever leave me again, you hear me, you little bitch?” she says, and when she lets go, she shoves me across the room. I fall into a shelf that once housed curios and family photos, and is now a hodgepodge of junk and empty bottles, packs of cigarettes, and forgotten books. The side of my head that hit the shelf throbs and the side that didn’t sears where she pulled my hair.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I mutter.

  “You better be. I hear you’ve been running around with some boy. There ain’t no one that likes you, Sugar. You’re too ugly, too fat, and too stupid. I had better not find out about you going anywhere with him again. You hear?”

  I heard her, but my friendship with Even is too precious to let go of. She can’t even get up and out of bed; she’s not taking away the one good thing in my life. She can’t. I tumble out of Mama’s room and into the hall. I reach into my pocket for the heart-shaped shell, running my fingers and thumb over its smooth surface.

  Skunk pounds down the stairs, wearing what Granddad would have called a “shit-eating grin.”

  “I heard Mama let you have it,” he says, laughing. “I know you’ve been with that Elven kid. Or whatever that twit’s name is. I don’t know why he’s hanging around with you. Probably wants to get you knocked up so he can have an Eleven Junior. Dirty fuck.”