couple of blocks east of the boardwalk and the beach. Gramps was in on the whole Silicon Valley dot-com thing, but he got out before the bust, so he didn't lose his shirt like so many others. He bought this place because he always loved Santa Feliz—I think he used to vacation here when he was a kid—but he and Gramma live in Costa Rica now, which I guess they love even more. When Dad walked out on Mom and me, they insisted that we move in.
I wasn't even in kindergarten yet, so living here is all I know. But even though we don't own the house, Mom insists we look after it like it's our own. I've learned how to do all kinds of things—from rebuilding a stone wall to replacing window panes.
In the garage, I check under the workbench and sure enough, there's some screening left over from when we redid the windows last summer. I may not know how to fix big holes in plaster—yet!—but I know how to fix the damage I did to the screen door yesterday. I grab the roll of screening and some tools and step out of the garage on my way to the backyard.
A prickle starts up at the nape of my neck and my gaze goes down the street to where a white man in a dark suit is standing in front of the Evoras' house, looking at a map. He's got one of those little Bluetooth headsets in his ear—the kind I always assume just drug dealers and people trying to look important wear—and it occurs to me that it could just as easily be some Secret Service communications device. I know. Paranoia. But he shoots me a look and hurries off as soon as he sees I've noticed him.
I watch him turn the corner and Cory's words come back to me.
Word is they're even snatching kids off the streets, or right out of their homes .
The prickle at the nape of my neck intensifies, then slowly fades away.
I stand there looking out of the garage for a few minutes, but he doesn't come back. I try to tell myself that it was nothing, but I can't remember the last time I saw somebody in a suit and tie on this street who wasn't a cop, like the detective who took my statement earlier today. The adults around here all wear golf shirts and chinos or shorts.
Finally, I head to the backyard to fix the screen door. Mom comes out and actually smiles when she sees me at work.
"I have to get back to the office for a few more hours," she says. "Will you be all right until I get back?"
"Will Steve be coming around?"
She shakes her head and gets that look in her eye that I know too well.
"I told you," she says. "Steve won't be coming around at all anymore."
"I'm sorry, Mom."
I'm not, but it's the right thing to say.
"Don't be," she says.
I walk her to the car.
"I was going to meet Desmond and Marina down by the pier when they get out of school," I say. "Is that okay?"
"Of course it is. Tell them I said hi."
I lean in her window after she gets into the car. She puts a hand on my arm before I can speak.
"Stop looking so guilty," she says. "I should have seen it coming."
I agree, but I keep my mouth shut.
"Pizza tonight?" she says. "You can invite Desmond and Marina if you want. I'll pick up an extra large."
"Sounds great."
I watch her drive off, feeling the way I always do. Sad for her. Happy for me. Guilty because I feel happy.
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
Then I think of what else is going on in my life. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
I'm sitting on a bench at the end of the pier watching the gulls when Desmond and Marina come rolling up on their skateboards. Desmond does a fancy dismount, steps on his board so that it flies up into his hand, then plonks himself down on the bench beside me. Marina does a circle around the bench before she drops down between us. I always get a kick out of how neither of them fits their image.
Desmond looks like a surfer: tall, tanned, long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing sneakers, baggy shorts and a loose T-shirt. But although he's got the surfer look, Des can't swim very well and doesn't even
I wasn't even in kindergarten yet, so living here is all I know. But even though we don't own the house, Mom insists we look after it like it's our own. I've learned how to do all kinds of things—from rebuilding a stone wall to replacing window panes.
In the garage, I check under the workbench and sure enough, there's some screening left over from when we redid the windows last summer. I may not know how to fix big holes in plaster—yet!—but I know how to fix the damage I did to the screen door yesterday. I grab the roll of screening and some tools and step out of the garage on my way to the backyard.
A prickle starts up at the nape of my neck and my gaze goes down the street to where a white man in a dark suit is standing in front of the Evoras' house, looking at a map. He's got one of those little Bluetooth headsets in his ear—the kind I always assume just drug dealers and people trying to look important wear—and it occurs to me that it could just as easily be some Secret Service communications device. I know. Paranoia. But he shoots me a look and hurries off as soon as he sees I've noticed him.
I watch him turn the corner and Cory's words come back to me.
Word is they're even snatching kids off the streets, or right out of their homes .
The prickle at the nape of my neck intensifies, then slowly fades away.
I stand there looking out of the garage for a few minutes, but he doesn't come back. I try to tell myself that it was nothing, but I can't remember the last time I saw somebody in a suit and tie on this street who wasn't a cop, like the detective who took my statement earlier today. The adults around here all wear golf shirts and chinos or shorts.
Finally, I head to the backyard to fix the screen door. Mom comes out and actually smiles when she sees me at work.
"I have to get back to the office for a few more hours," she says. "Will you be all right until I get back?"
"Will Steve be coming around?"
She shakes her head and gets that look in her eye that I know too well.
"I told you," she says. "Steve won't be coming around at all anymore."
"I'm sorry, Mom."
I'm not, but it's the right thing to say.
"Don't be," she says.
I walk her to the car.
"I was going to meet Desmond and Marina down by the pier when they get out of school," I say. "Is that okay?"
"Of course it is. Tell them I said hi."
I lean in her window after she gets into the car. She puts a hand on my arm before I can speak.
"Stop looking so guilty," she says. "I should have seen it coming."
I agree, but I keep my mouth shut.
"Pizza tonight?" she says. "You can invite Desmond and Marina if you want. I'll pick up an extra large."
"Sounds great."
I watch her drive off, feeling the way I always do. Sad for her. Happy for me. Guilty because I feel happy.
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
Then I think of what else is going on in my life. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
I'm sitting on a bench at the end of the pier watching the gulls when Desmond and Marina come rolling up on their skateboards. Desmond does a fancy dismount, steps on his board so that it flies up into his hand, then plonks himself down on the bench beside me. Marina does a circle around the bench before she drops down between us. I always get a kick out of how neither of them fits their image.
Desmond looks like a surfer: tall, tanned, long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing sneakers, baggy shorts and a loose T-shirt. But although he's got the surfer look, Des can't swim very well and doesn't even
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