Since You've Been Gone

5 SHARE SOME SECRETS IN THE DARK

I sat inside my car at the Hartfield drive-in and looked around, wishing I knew what, exactly, was involved in casing a joint. The heist movies I’d seen hadn’t really been very specific. Luckily, though, it wasn’t like this place was unknown to me. Sloane had introduced me to it after she’d only been in town for a month. I had never been to a drive-in before, but I’d loved it after the first movie—the big screen set up at one end of a field, the cars parked in slightly crooked rows, the speakers you could hang over the window of your car, the way they always played double features.

We went a few times every summer, the first year with my parents dropping us off, sitting on beach towels or blankets in front of the screen. But last summer, I’d driven us, and we’d been able to park with everyone else.

I let out a long breath, hoping that I didn’t seem suspicious, and that I looked like I was just there, like everyone else, to see a Hitchcock double feature of North by Northwest and The Lady Vanishes, and not to commit my first crime.

Number three had been a question mark since I first read the list. It wasn’t so much the stealing itself, but figuring out what to steal. But when, driving home from the gas station, I’d passed a billboard for the drive-in, I’d remembered a promise I’d made to Sloane two years earlier, and just like that, I’d known what it had to be.

JULY

Two Years Earlier

“The usual?” Sloane asked, and I nodded.

“Definitely.” Sloane and I had only seen a handful of movies together so far, but we already worked out our routine, snack-wise. She was the one who had introduced me to the concept of shaking M&M’s into the bag of buttered, salted popcorn and using Twizzlers as straws for Diet Coke. I had, in turn, gotten her hooked on the sour gummy candy that I never liked to see a movie without.

We pooled our cash as we made our way up to the concession stand, a tiny building that looked like it had been there forever, and when Sloane reached the front of the line, I took a step back to let her order. “Large popcorn,” she said as I looked around the stand. There were vintage posters on the walls and framed pictures of the drive-in throughout the years. “M&M’s, Twizzlers, two Diet Cokes.” The guy behind the counter nodded and grabbed a bag for our popcorn, and I was happy to see that it looked like a fresh batch had just been made. I was about to remind Sloane to get extra butter when she grabbed my arm and pointed to a sign resting on one of the concession stand shelves, half tucked behind a display of Hartfield Drive-In T-shirts and mugs. “Look.”

It was a small sign, the kind you put magnetized letters on, the kind I associated with bowling alley snack menus. But this one, instead of telling you how much the hot dogs were, read

SLOANE

LOVES

FERRIS

I just stared at it for a moment until I realized that it was a reference to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I didn’t understand what it was doing behind the concession stand, but it had a very cool, vintage look to it. “Neat,” I said as I reached for my phone. “Want me to take a picture?”

Someone else brought our snacks around to the side of the cash register, and Sloane paid without taking her eyes off the sign. “Is that for sale?” she asked as she handed our change over to me. I was in charge of the money when we were together. Sloane wasn’t absentminded, but she seemed to have trouble to hanging on to money and was always finding bills in the pockets of her dresses and shorts, which she then treated as something to be celebrated, and would insist on buying both of us the biggest, most extravagant blended coffee drinks that Stanwich Coffee could make.

“Is what for sale?” the guy asked, already looking behind us to the next person in line, who was sighing loudly.

“The sign,” she said, pointing to it. “The Sloane sign.”

The guy looked at Sloane like she was crazy. “No,” he said. “It’s been here since the eighties.”

“Are you sure it’s not for sale?” she asked, giving him a big smile. But the guy seemed immune to this and let out a barking laugh.

“I’m sure,” he said. “First time I’ve been asked that in twenty years, though. Next!”

Sloane’s shoulders slumped and we headed back to our blanket. “Think I should have offered him something for it?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure it would be helpful to point out that, after we’d bought the snacks, we had a grand total of $1.35 between us. “I’m not sure it would have made a difference.”

“But it might have . . . ,” Sloane said, glancing back toward the concession stand. It was getting dark; there were fireflies beginning to wink off and on in the grass, but the sign, and the letters that formed her name, were still visible, catching the fading light and reflecting it back. She turned to me, and I could see her normal cheerfulness had returned. “Promise you’ll help me get it,” she said, leaning forward. “This is my new life goal.” I laughed at that, and Sloane smiled too, but she didn’t take her eyes from mine. “Promise, Em?”

“Sure,” I said, easily. “We’ll do what we have to. We’ll come here every weekend and wear him down.”

Sloane grinned and grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Awesome,” she said. “We have a plan.”

So I would steal the sign for her. We’d never been able to get anyone to sell it to us, so this was the only option—and this way, I would get to cross something off the list and keep my promise to her, all at the same time. It was a perfect solution—unless, of course, I got arrested while trying to pull it off.

I didn’t get in the concessions line right away, but circled around it, double-checking that the sign was still there. Luckily, it was off to the side where people picked up their food, not where they ordered it. So concession workers were dropping things off, then hurrying away to get other people’s orders. I mentally walked through the mechanics of this, and I realized that I could make it look like I was just reaching for my order, grab the sign, and drop it into my bag. If someone caught me, I could just pretend it had fallen in and I hadn’t even noticed. I had brought my largest purse with me for this very reason, the better to conceal the evidence.

It wasn’t the best plan, but at least it was a plan. I let out a breath and got in the line that was quickly filling up, feeling like everyone around me could tell what I was about to do.

“Emily?”

I felt my stomach plunge as I looked behind me and saw Frank, standing a few people back in line, with a surprised look on his face, raising one hand in a wave. I gave him a small smile in return, but then turned around to face the concession stand again, not caring if this seemed incredibly rude. What was Frank Porter doing at the drive-in?

“Hey.”

I turned and saw that Frank had joined me in the line. He took a step closer to me and said in a low voice, “Mind if I jump the line?” He glanced behind him, at the older couple who were pursing their lips in disapproval, and said, too loudly, “Thank you for saving my place in line, Emily!”

I really wished he’d stop saying my name in front of potential witnesses. “You shouldn’t—” I said, glancing ahead to the counter, and wishing that the line wasn’t moving quite so fast. “I just . . .” I tried to get my head around how to explain that he couldn’t wait in line with me because I was about to steal something. Even though he knew about the list, and this wouldn’t seem quite so random, I didn’t want to have to go into an explanation with everyone in the line able to hear me talk about it. Also, what if Frank was still with me when I had to try and take it, and he tried to stop me? Or he got in trouble too?

“Crazy running into you here,” Frank said, shaking his head. “This place is awesome. Have you ever been before?”

“Yeah,” I murmured, feeling my heart racing ever faster in my chest, getting closer and closer to what I was pretty sure was a panic attack. The front of the line was just three people away, and I hadn’t been able to get rid of Frank or properly psych myself up to commit my first crime. “A lot.”

“I’m only here because of Collins,” Frank went on, apparently thinking we were just having a nice conversation, not realizing that I was on the verge of an aneurysm. “He’s got a thing for the girl who runs the projection booth. But now that I’m here, it’s really—”

“You know what,” I said, stepping out of line. “I actually . . . forgot something. So you order, and I’ll get the thing I forgot, and, um . . . see you around, okay?” I stepped out of the line and walked in the direction of my car. I glanced back to see Frank looking at me, his brow furrowed, but then he stepped to the front of the line to order, and I went to the back of the line, which now seemed impossibly long. I was no longer sure if I’d even have enough time to do this before the concessions break was over.

I let out a breath and tried to get my thoughts in order. I could still do this. I just had to focus. The line moved forward quicker than I expected, and I realized, my stomach clenching, that there was only one other person in front of me, an older lady who was having trouble deciding between the Sno-Caps and the Junior Mints. I looked at the sign, then down into my huge, waiting bag.

“Next!” I looked ahead and saw that behind the counter was a concession worker I hadn’t seen before, a guy who looked college-aged and bored—which was pretty much perfect.

“Hi,” I said, stepping forward, hearing that my voice sounded about twice as high as normal. I didn’t make eye contact with the guy as I said, “Small popcorn with butter and a Diet Coke.”

“Eight even,” the guy said, and I handed the cash I had ready over to him as the register drawer slid open with a ding! “Pickup’s to your left. Next!”

I stepped to the side, letting my bag fall open slightly as I tried to look nonchalant. I pretended to yawn and stretched my arm out for the sign, my fingers just brushing the edge of it. I stretched farther out, almost off-balance, heart pounding, nearly grabbing it—

“Small popcorn and a Diet Coke.” A girl had stepped up with my snacks, and I was so startled by this that I felt myself pitching forward, just barely catching myself before face-planting onto the counter. The sign wobbled and tipped forward, and the girl grabbed it, looking from the sign and then back to me with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I . . . ,” I started. I could feel the sweat beading on my upper lip and my heart wasn’t pounding hard any longer, it now seemed to be pumping a lot slower than usual, which struck me as a bad sign. “I just . . .”

“Did you get that arm cramp again?” Suddenly, there was Frank, stepping up next to me. He slid his arm around my shoulders, and this was so startling that any excuse I might have been forming left my head entirely. “She gets those sometimes. Don’t you?”

“I do,” I said, nodding, trying to look as innocent as I could manage. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Don’t forget your snacks,” Frank said, giving my shoulder a squeeze, keeping a trustworthy, class-president smile on his face. I picked them up and we both smiled brightly at the girl, who was watching us with a suspicious expression. She went to put the sign back, but then hesitated and moved it to the highest shelf of the concession counter, right behind the popcorn popper, meaning that it was basically now impossible to get.

Frank and I walked away, and when we’d gone almost back to the cars and it appeared the concessions police weren’t going to give chase, I felt myself start to breathe again. I took a long drink of my soda, and it wasn’t until I’d finished that I realized Frank still had his arm around me. He must have noticed this at the same time, because he dropped his arm and took a step away.

“So,” I said, still a little surprised that he had been able to see just when I needed him. “Um, how did you—”

“I have never seen anyone look so suspicious,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Ever. I figured I should probably stay close, just in case.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down at the ground. Even though rationally I knew that not being good at stealing was actually a positive thing, and not something to be ashamed of, it didn’t currently change how I was feeling—like I’d just failed.

“So . . . uh, why were you trying to rob the concession stand?” Frank asked, sounding baffled.

“It’s for the list,” I said, raising one shoulder in a shrug. “Number three.”

Frank glanced back at the sign, and I saw him reading Sloane’s name, putting it together. He nodded and started to say something just as the loudspeakers crackled to life, announcing the movie’s start in sixty seconds and the closing of the concession stand.

“I should go,” I said. I knew that I should probably thank him for helping me, and that if he hadn’t, I might be in serious trouble. But it really is humiliating to fail at something and then need to be rescued, even if that thing is committing a crime. I gave him a small smile and then headed to my own car, glancing over my shoulder to see Frank walking away as well.

I’d intended to make a getaway after grabbing the sign and not stay for the second movie. But it was clear as I got into my car that I wasn’t going anywhere—the people in the rows behind me had pretty much boxed me in, and everyone was watching the movie, and I had a feeling that nobody was going to be happy to move if I tried to get out. So I put my drink into the cupholder and pushed my seat back, settling in. As I did so, I wondered if I was the only person at the whole drive-in who was watching the movie alone.

APRIL

Two months earlier

“How much did you offer this time?” I asked, as Sloane came back to the car, without the sign but holding an armful of our snacks.

“A hundred,” she said with a sigh. “And they still wouldn’t take it. I swear, at this rate, I’m going to need to bribe one of the employees.”

“Or you could start working there,” I suggested, as I took the popcorn from her and grabbed a handful off the top. “And get hired under a fake name. And it could be an inside job.”

Sloane grinned at me. “I like the way you’re thinking,” she said. “What name?”

I thought about it, just enjoying the game. We were there to see a double feature of Clueless and Troop Beverly Hills, which meant that there were almost no guys in attendance at all. It seemed to be moms and daughters and groups of friends, like us. Since Sam had arrived on the scene, it felt like it had been a long time since just Sloane and I had hung out, and I’d been looking forward to this for weeks. “Alicia,” I said, after thinking it over. “Alicia Paramount.”

Sloane threw her head back and laughed. “I love it,” she said. “I’ll apply next week.”

I started to walk around to the back of the Volvo. Once I’d gotten my license and we didn’t have to watch on the grass any longer, we’d figured out the ideal movie-watching routine—my car turned around backward, the hatchback open, and both of us in the back, lying on pillows and blankets that would inevitably smell like popcorn for days afterward. “Coming?” I asked, when I realized that she was still standing outside the car, looking around.

“Yeah,” she said, following behind me. But she didn’t get into the back, just stood outside it, craning her neck like she was looking for something, fiddling with her keys—including the personalized SLOANE mini license plate keychain I’d special-ordered for her birthday—which was what she did when she was nervous.

“You okay?” I asked as I opened the Twizzlers and pulled one out, biting both ends off and then sticking it into my Diet Coke.

“Sure,” she said. “I’m—” But she didn’t finish this, as her phone beeped with a text. She pulled it out immediately and read it, smiling down at the screen as she typed a quick response back.

“Sam?” I guessed, taking a drink through the Twizzler.

“Yeah,” she said, pocketing her phone and looking at me. There was a flush in her cheeks and I noticed how much more alive she now looked—happier, and more excited, like now things were actually happening, whereas before, they hadn’t been. “So here’s the thing,” she said talking fast. “I told Sam we were going to be here, but I wasn’t sure if he was going to come or not, but then—”

“Hey, you.” There was Sam, sliding his arms around Sloane’s waist and kissing her cheek.

“Hi,” Sloane said, smiling wide as she turned to kiss him, and I could hear the happiness in her voice so clearly. “You’re here! I wasn’t sure if you were going to show.”

“Of course I’m here,” he said easily. He slung his arm around her neck, letting his fingertips rest on her arm. “Oh, hi, Emily,” he said, as if he’d just noticed me.

“Hey, Sam,” I said, trying to sound excited to see him, like I was happy he was here, not like I was disappointed that my night with Sloane had suddenly come to a crashing halt.

“Nice straw,” he said with a short laugh, nodding at my cup with the Twizzler poking out of it. “Wow. God. I haven’t seen that since I was, like, eleven.”

“Yeah,” I said, with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s . . .” I wasn’t sure how to finish this, so I just let my voice trail away. Sam was still looking at me, raising his eyebrows like he was challenging me to finish the sentence. He gave me a pitying smile, then squeezed Sloane’s shoulder, threading his fingers through hers. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the far side of the field. “I’ve got a great spot.”

“Oh,” Sloane said, looking from me to Sam, some of the happiness fading from her expression. “I was thinking we could all watch together, maybe?”

Sam just laughed again, and I noticed, maybe for the first time, that he used his laughs to score points, like a punctuation mark, not because he found something funny. “I think Emily will be fine,” he said, looking over at me, already starting to steer Sloane away from me. “Won’t you, Em?”

There was absolutely no way to respond to this question except in the affirmative, and as I looked at Sloane’s expression, I could see this was all she wanted—she wanted to be able to keep Sam happy, to go off with him, and for me to be okay with it. “Sure,” I said, giving her a smile I didn’t quite feel, wondering for a second if she’d be able to tell the difference. “You kids go have fun.” I’d intended this to be funny, but it somehow didn’t seem funny once I’d said it, Sam just looking at me quizzically, Sloane not laughing at my jokes like she normally did.

“Uh, okay,” he said. He gave me a nod. “See you around, Em.”

“Bye,” I called as Sam started to walk away. Sloane turned back to look at me, and we had a fast and furious conversation as we mouthed our words—Are you sure? Yes! Go have fun! Call you tomorrow? Yes!

She shot me one last happy, excited smile, then turned back to Sam, already laughing at something he was saying.

I watched them go, feeling my own smile fade until it was gone. I climbed into the open back and took a sip from my soda. But the Twizzler suddenly made the soda too cloyingly sweet, and I pulled it out, replacing it with a regular straw instead. It was pretty childish, after all. I probably should have stopped doing it a while back.

I settled into the back, sticking to my side of the car even though there was no need to, trying to tell myself that things were fine, that I should be happy for Sloane. She’d met a guy she really liked, and what kind of best friend would I be if I couldn’t be excited for her? Everything would be okay. And by the time the credits rolled, I’d even started to believe it.

Since I’d had no impending crime-committing to worry about, I’d actually been able to follow The Lady Vanishes, and I’d really liked it, though I did wonder why Hitchcock was so obsessed with trains—both of these movies had seemed to feature a lot of them.

I had stayed in my car for a bit, just looking at the darkened screen. The line leaving the drive-in was always epic, bottlenecks forming at the exit, and everyone honking, even though this accomplished absolutely nothing. Sloane and I had always just hung out in the car, lying back against the pillows and finishing the last of the snacks, discussing the movies or just talking.

When the silence got to be too much, I headed out with my trash and stuffed it into one of the overflowing cans. Now that the parking lot was emptying out, I could see Frank and Collins standing by Collins’s minivan. Not feeling the need to keep humiliating myself in front of Frank—I figured that quota had pretty much been met tonight—I turned my head away and was halfway to my car when I heard Collins calling me.

“Emma!” he yelled, and then I saw Frank lean over and say something to him, and Collins nodded. “Emily!” he called, finally getting my name right. “Come here!” I just waved at him and continued over to my car, hoping that he would buy that I hadn’t heard him. “No,” Collins shouted, louder than ever, now incorporating large hand movements, pointing at me, then at him, and miming walking. “Come over here!” People were starting to turn and look, and I knew there was really no way I could keep pretending.

I let out a long breath and headed over to them. Frank and Collins were having what looked like an intense discussion that stopped abruptly when I reached the minivan. “Hello,” Collins said, giving me a theatrical wink. “Don’t you look lovely tonight. It would have been a fetching ensemble for a mugshot.”

I could feel myself blush and looked over at Frank, who glared at Collins, who didn’t seem to notice. I knew that I probably couldn’t be mad at Frank for telling him. If the situation had been reversed and I’d been here with Sloane and caught Frank Porter trying to steal something, I wouldn’t even have waited until I saw her—I would have been calling her on the walk to the car. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” Collins went on, smiling wisely at me. “Sometime, when the moment is right, remind me to tell you the story of my time in Disney jail.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “Spoiler alert—not the happiest place on earth.”

I just blinked at Collins. Had he called me over here so that he could make fun of me? I crossed my arms over my chest, and looked back at my car, wishing I hadn’t stopped, just kept on walking. I would have been halfway home by now.

“Matt,” Frank said. His voice was serious, and this—calling Collins by his real name—seemed to focus him.

“Right!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Okay. So I have managed to make plans with the lovely Miss Gwen for tonight,” Collins said, and I noticed for the first time that a dark-haired girl was leaning against a sedan a few cars away, smoking a cigarette and talking on her phone.

“Oh,” I said, remembering what Frank had said about Collins liking the projectionist. “Um, good for you.”

“Why thank you.” He straightened his neon-green polo and smoothed down his hair. Now that I’d seen him a few times this summer, I was beginning to understand that this was his summer uniform—a slightly too-tight bright-colored polo shirt, shorts, and beaten-up flip-flops, making him somehow always look like he’d just gotten off a poorly maintained boat. He smiled at me. “My charms, they’re hard to resist.”

“Dude, she’s using you for a ride to this party,” Frank said, shaking his head.

“I believe you mean she invited me to this party,” Collins corrected. “And asked if I could drive her. Which, being a gentleman, I agreed to do.”

Frank just sighed and looked down at the ground.

“Mike!” the projectionist yelled, stepping on her cigarette and lowering her phone. “Are we going, or what?”

“Coming,” Collins yelled, not seeming to care she’d gotten his name wrong. “Anyway,” he said, turning back to us, all business. “Emily.  You can drive Porter home, right? Don’t you guys live near each other?”

“Oh,” I said, looking over at Frank, finally understanding why I’d been summoned. “Sure. No problem.”

I had barely gotten the words out before Collins grinned, slapped Frank on the back, and clicked open the sliding minivan door with a flourish, motioning for Gwen to come over. She ignored the sliding door, got into the passenger side, still carrying on another conversation, and Collins got into the van through the side. The van peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, leaving Frank and me alone.

“Sorry about this,” Frank said, as we walked toward my Volvo, now one of the few cars left on the field.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I owe you anyway.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” he said. I unlocked the car and, when we were both inside, started the engine and headed toward the exit. I tightened my hands on the wheel, then released them, trying to figure out how to thank him for what he’d done for me. “Frank,” I started, then I looked over to see that he was staring down at his phone.

“What?” he asked, looking over at me. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to get Lissa all night. I haven’t been able to reach her, so I’m just going to shoot her a text. . . .”

“Right, of course,” I said, looking back toward the road. “Sorry.”

The faint tapping on his keypad filled the car, and I didn’t want to turn on my iPod and disturb him—not to mention the fact that I also didn’t want him to make fun of my music. Even when the texting sounds stopped, Frank was just looking down at the phone, like he was waiting for a response, and I wasn’t sure it was the right moment to interrupt him. By the time I’d reached his house, though, he’d put the phone away, and I couldn’t help but notice that I hadn’t heard the cheerful beep sound that would have meant Frank had gotten a reply back.

“Thanks, Emily,” Frank said as I pulled in the driveway.

“Sure,” I said. “It was no—” Whatever I was about to say was lost, though, as I took in the view of Frank’s house at night for the first time. The whole house was dark, but I could see that it was right on the water, something I hadn’t been able to tell before from the road. Moonlight was shining down on the house and reflecting off its chrome and glass surfaces, seeming to light the whole thing up from the inside. “Are you right on the beach?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. After a tiny pause, he added, “You want to see it?”

“Oh,” I said, sitting back in my seat a little. I suddenly worried that I’d seemed too interested, and that he felt like he had to invite me in out of politeness. “No, that’s okay. Plus, it looks like your parents are asleep.”

“Nope,” Frank said, and it sounded like he was trying to keep his voice light. I noticed this, and wondered when I’d started to be able to tell the difference. “Not home.”

“Oh.” I glanced at the clock on my iPod—the clock on my dashboard was forever stuck at 8:19. It was almost midnight, so this surprised me, but I certainly wasn’t going to comment on it.

“Yeah,” Frank said with a shrug. “My dad’s in Darien, working on a house, and my mom has a decorating project in the city. And they’re not supposed to be in the house together anyway, because . . .” He glanced at me, and suddenly I remembered his parents, red-faced and screaming at each other, Frank’s expression as he listened to it. “So that’s why nobody’s there,” Frank said in a quieter voice, and I suddenly understood what he was saying. That he was staying here alone. And even though my parents were still physically in our house, I knew what it was like to come home and have nobody be worried about you, or asking you about your day. All the stuff you can’t wait to get away from, until it’s not there anymore, and then you miss it like crazy.

“I’ll come in,” I said, surprising myself—and Frank, by the look of it. “Just for a little bit.”  With any other guy, I might have been worried there was some sort of ulterior motive—asking me in, late at night, to an empty house. But that wasn’t even anything I considered with Frank—long-term boyfriend and all-around good guy—except to realize it wasn’t an issue.

“Great,” Frank said, giving me a surprised, happy smile. “Let’s go.” I followed him around to the side door he’d gone in before. When he opened the door, a loud, persistent chime started, until Frank entered a code into a keypad I hadn’t even noticed by the door. The beeping stopped and Frank moved forward, turning on lights as he went, and I followed, but then stopped short, looking around, really seeing his house for the first time, my jaw falling open.

It was beautiful. There were many other words for it, whole reams of adjectives, but at first glance, that was all I could come up with. The downstairs was open-plan, which meant I could see the entire bottom floor, the TV room blending into the study, which then became the dining area, and then an open-plan kitchen and breakfast nook. The house was light and airy, with high ceilings and lots and lots of windows, everything done in grays and blues and whites. Everything just fit together. There were tiny groupings of objects, arranged just so. I saw, on a bookshelf right by the front door, a big vase filled with long feathers. Which was arresting enough, but on the shelf above it, there was a medium vase filled with medium-size feathers. And at the top shelf was a tiny vase filled with the smallest feathers I’d ever seen. There was stuff like that, little details and perfect touches, everywhere I looked, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to just stand there and take it all in.

“Emily?” Frank called, and I realized he had crossed the room and was standing by a glass door built into an entire wall of windows, all of which looked out onto the sand and the water.

“Yeah,” I said, tearing myself away from the décor, knowing that there was a ton of stuff I wasn’t catching. Frank opened the door, and we stepped out onto a wide wooden deck that looked out to the water, with four steps that led down to the sand. The only time I’d ever been to the beach at night was for the Fourth of July fireworks, when there were tons of people and everyone jockeying for space. But this stretch of moonlit beach was empty, and I realized that Frank and I would have the whole thing to ourselves.

I trailed Frank down the stairs and stepped onto the sand, then immediately kicked my flip-flops off so that I could feel it on my bare feet. I saw Frank do the same, pulling off his sneakers and then lining them up neatly by the deck’s steps.

I walked toward the water, to where the sand got soft and more pliable, but where my feet would still be dry. There was just something about the beach at night. It was so quiet, without anyone else yelling or playing Frisbee or blasting their music.  And maybe because of this, the sound of the water—even though we didn’t even have real waves—seemed that much louder.  And then there was the moon. It was huge tonight, in a sky that was filled with stars that reflected down on the surface of the water.

I expected that this would be it—I’d seen that Frank’s house was, in fact, on the water, and now I’d leave and go home. But as I turned back, I saw Frank sitting on the sand looking out at the water, his legs extended in front of him. I hesitated for only a moment before I sat down as well, not too close to him, pulling my knees up and hugging them. “I like your backyard,” I said, and Frank smiled.

“Well, I should enjoy it while I can,” he said, picking up a handful of sand and letting it fall through his fingers. I sensed there was more to come, so I just looked at him, waiting, trying to be as patient with him as he’d been with me. “My parents are getting a divorce,” he said. He let the rest of the sand fall and brushed his hands off. “That’s what you saw the other morning.” I could see the hunch in his shoulders. “It’s gotten pretty messy.”

I felt myself draw in a breath. It was what I’d guessed, given the screaming fight that I’d witnessed. “I’m really sorry, Frank.”

He nodded and looked over at me, and it felt like in that moment, I was getting to see the real Frank Porter, like he was finally letting his walls down a little, not putting a good face on things. “Yeah,” he said, giving a short, unhappy laugh. “They work together, so they’re keeping it quiet, so they don’t lose any jobs. But they’re having trouble dividing assets, so they’re not supposed to be in the house together without their lawyers present.” His mouth was set in a sad, straight line, and though he was trying to sound like this wasn’t bothering him, he wasn’t really pulling it off.

“So,” I said, leaning a little closer to him, trying to understand this, “I mean, who’s living here with you?”

“Well, they’re trading off,” he said. “In theory. It seems to be easier for them to just stay near their other projects.”

I nodded and looked down at the sand, smoothing out a patch of it, over and over again. Even though my parents weren’t paying any attention to me or Beckett, they were still there. And I knew if I needed them, I could shake them out of their writing stupor.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m here for the summer. I usually go to a program at Princeton. And I was going to go back again, but neither one could agree on who should pay for it, so . . .” He shrugged and gave me an attempt at a smile.

Even as I started to form the question, I knew I wouldn’t have asked him if it hadn’t been dark and I couldn’t have looked down at the sand instead of at him. “Is your—I mean, is Lissa at the Princeton program?” It was what I’d been wondering since Frank had been trying to get in touch with her on the drive here. It had reminded me that, in all the times I’d seen Frank this summer, he’d never been with his girlfriend.

Frank nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “We didn’t think she should have to miss out just because I couldn’t go.” I waited for there to be more, but Frank just looked out to the water, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded like he was trying his best to be upbeat. “Anyway, Collins got me the job at IndoorXtreme, and here I am. It wasn’t the summer I was expecting, that’s for sure,” he said. But then he smiled, a small smile, but a real one this time. “But it’s turning out better than I imagined.” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, just tonight, I might have saved someone from getting arrested.”

I smiled. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Frank waved this off. “All in a day’s work.”

“Does the offer still stand?” I asked, not knowing that I was going to, just blurting it out. “To help me with the list, I mean?”

“Of course,” Frank said, turning to me. “Actually,” he said with a smile, “I kind of already started.”

I laughed, and knew that I really shouldn’t have been surprised by this. “Of course you did.”

“So,” he said, and in his voice, I could hear Frank Porter, class president, beginning an assembly.  “I’ve made a list of all the Jamies at our school, and divided them by gender, and—”

“Actually,” I said, feeling myself start to smile as I leaned back on my hands, “that one’s taken care of.” Frank raised his eyebrows, and I extended my legs out in front of me, settling in for the story. “Okay, so the other night . . .”

I told Frank the story about delivering pizzas, and chickening out, but then going back to the gas station, remembering what he’d told me about the guy’s name, and then we somehow moved on to other things. Before I knew it, the conversation was just flowing without me having to try and guide it, or be aware of its every twist and turn. I was no longer thinking about what I should say.  I was just going with it, letting the conversation unfold.

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” He just stared at me. “It’s on the list because you’re afraid of horses?”

“Yep.”

Frank just tilted his head to the side, like he was trying to figure this out. “So, uh,” he said after a moment. “Would these be, like, regular horses? Or possessed demon horses?”

“Regular horses,” I admitted as Frank looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I don’t really know why.”

“Well, for me it’s heights,” he said, shaking his head. Then he looked at me and I could see him start to blush a little. “As you probably saw the other day. My dad took me on a site visit when I was three, and I remember looking down and just freaking out. It’s one of my earliest memories, and it involves sheer terror. And I tried to get over it last year, when we flew to Montreal for an academic decathlon . . .”

“It is not a good movie.” Frank and I were now walking along the water’s edge; as he’d been sifting through the sand, he’d come upon a rock and wanted to try skipping it. He also wanted to try and convince me that Space Ninja, the movie that had been playing at the multiplexes since Memorial Day, was an example of quality filmmaking.

“It is,” he insisted, and when I raised my eyebrows at him, he laughed. “Okay, maybe the fact that I saw it with Collins colored my appreciation of it. But you have to admit, it was way better than Ninja Pirate.”

I just stared at him, wondering how he’d ever gotten a reputation for being one of the smartest people in school. “How is that proving your point?”

“In a well-ordered universe,” Frank said as we looked for more stones, since the first round of skipping hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, “skipping stones would boomerang back to you, and wouldn’t just be an exercise in futility.”

“In a well-ordered universe,” I countered, “people would stick to skipping stones on lakes and not,  you know,  Long Island Sound.”

“Can I ask about Lissa?”  We had temporarily moved back to the steps after Frank had gone inside to get us both sweatshirts. “Do you miss her?”

He nodded and was silent for a moment before he said, “Yeah. I mean, we’ve never really spent this much time apart, so . . .” He shrugged. There was a long pause before he added, his voice quieter, “I think it’s harder to be the one left behind.” He looked over at me. “Do you?”

I knew he meant Sloane. “Yeah,” I said. I thought about telling him how it sometimes felt like I was only half there, without Sloane to talk to about what I was experiencing. How it felt like someone had chopped off my arm, and then for good measure taken my ID and sense of direction. How it was like I had no idea who I was, or where I was going, coupled with the fact that there was a piece of me missing that never seemed to stop hurting, never letting me forget, always reminding me I wasn’t whole. But instead, I just looked at him, somehow understanding that he knew exactly what it was like to feel these things. “I do.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” Frank said as I tried my own hand at skipping a stone. But I must have been missing some crucial component, because my stone just landed in the water and sank. “I checked with my mom. I saw Bug Juice when it was on Broadway—my first Broadway play.”

I glanced over at him, and wondered if I’d been at the theater that day, as I usually was, hanging out with the merch girls and trying to score some peanut M&M’s from concessions. I wondered what I would have thought of eleven-year-old Frank, if I would have known him back then. “It’s based on me,” I said. “Cecily is.” Frank raised his eyebrows, looking impressed, and I went on. “I mean, in the beginning. She becomes less like me as the play goes on.”

“What do you mean?” he asked as he picked up a stone, tossing it in his hand a few times, like he was testing the weight.

“She becomes . . . brave,” I finally said. “And really strong. Fearless.” I dug my toes into the sand, then added, “Plus, there’s the whole arson thing.”

“Well, that too,” Frank said, nodding. He sent his rock flying across the water, and it bounced off the surface five times before finally sinking.

I smiled. “Nicely done.”

“We’ve been friends since we were little,” Frank said. We were back to sitting on the sand, and I was writing my name with my first finger, over and over, the looping E, the hook on the y. The conversation had turned to Collins, and the likelihood of him having any success with Gwen the Projectionist (slim to none) versus the likelihood of her ditching him for another guy as soon as they arrived at the party (high). “One of those friends you can’t even remember making, you know?” I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “He was really excited I was staying in town this summer. We usually don’t get to hang out this much.”

“And plus, now he’s got a wingman,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “For all the good I’m doing him.” He shook his head, but then smiled. “He’s actually got some big camping trip planned for the two of us in August.”

“In a well-ordered universe,” I said, smoothing out my name and starting again, “camping would take place indoors.”

The conversation started to slow around the time I began to feel the coldness of the sand through my jean shorts, and Frank started to yawn. We brushed off our hands and feet but tracked sand across the deck nonetheless. As we stepped inside, I waited for it to get strange, now that I could see him clearly again—his brown eyes, his reddish hair, his freckles.

But it didn’t.

And I didn’t understand why until I’d gotten back into the car and Frank had waved at me from the door and I’d turned in the direction of home. It seemed that somewhere between the arguments about the merits of ninja movies, he’d stopped being Frank Porter, class president, unknowable person. He’d stopped being a stranger, a guy, someone I didn’t know how to talk to.  That night, in the darkness, sharing our secrets and favorite pizza-topping preferences, he’d moved closer to just being Frank—maybe, possibly, even my friend.