Chapter 8

The school day is over, and Trisha gets into her boyfriend Jake’s car. After saying goodbye to me, Amber leaves in the little Honda her parents gave her for senior year, and I unlock my new bike from the rack, pull my bag strap over my head and onto my shoulder, let my long hair down, and put on my helmet—the main condition I promised Dad I would follow when getting around this way.

I have a driver’s license too, but the weather is good right now, and after a long day, physical activity is exactly what I want. I love being alone with my thoughts and the road, pedaling down the hill in the morning and back up again later. Besides, Dad has the day off today, so he might need our car.

He might. But will he?

When am I going to learn to answer myself honestly? When am I going to accept reality completely?

Dad’s wife owns an expensive Lexus, and she always lets him drive when he’s with her. It’s just that sometimes I still want to think he and I are still a little team, on the same side, capable of handling anything.

I know it’s selfish and wrong. And I should have outgrown the idea that Dad belongs only to me a long time ago. After all, he has already done more for me in his life than any other person ever has, and of course he deserves the right to be happy. He belonged to his only daughter for too long, trying to make up for the attention her mother never gave her, for that to go on forever. Then one day, five years ago, it all ended easily enough when he met my future stepmother, Patricia Harding.

It was summer, late August, and the afternoon sun lit up the beach and the waterfront behind the boardwalk, crowded with people and full of bright tents and rides.

That year, the police department had offered Dad a job in North Carolina, and the two of us had only recently moved from Illinois to a town called Sandfield Rock. We moved into a small house with a green lawn and bought a new car.

On Dad’s very first day off, we went to the town fair, and I remember the moment so clearly: we were riding the Ferris wheel, and I couldn’t get enough of the wide ocean below us, so I kept begging Dad to go around one more time. And one more. Up high, the wind caught my long red hair, and the joy of it—the sight of the horizon spread out before me, the foamy crests of the waves, the blue sky with pinkish breaks in it, and the seagulls gliding through it—made my heart leap and stole my breath.

At a booth run by an old, sharp-eyed Native American man who kept spouting proverb after proverb, we bought Dad a peace pipe even though he never smoked, and for me, beaded bracelets and a leather headband wrapped in an embroidered strip, with two bird feathers sticking up at my temple—one white and one red.

I put the headband on right away and went wandering through the fair like that, practically bouncing with every step and smiling with pure pleasure. At the air hockey tables, I battled some boy I didn’t know for a prize, and after winning a yellow plush Minion, I got so excited I kissed my opponent on the cheek and went with Dad to watch the pig races.

It was loud there, and I had to cover my ears. The piglets squealed and ran in every possible direction, but it was interesting and fun. I felt brave and fearless, because I didn’t know anyone in town and no one knew me. Dad and I had just lost five dollars, eaten fried pickles, and followed them up with sweet doughnuts. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. And when I heard the fair loudspeaker announce a smile contest for girls ages ten to fifteen, competing for the title of Sandfield Rock’s Sunniest Smile, I immediately wanted to see it.

I don’t know what possessed me to take part. Probably the general mood of the fair pushed me along. I simply raised my hand and shouted my name. Then, with the other contestants, I climbed onto the platform, went up to the long board with round cutouts for faces, and at the command of the carnival barker hosting the contest, stuck my face into the special opening. I smiled at the idle gawkers and spectators as widely as I possibly could. For real, exactly the way I felt.

At first the host counted off seconds, and then he started counting minutes. One minute, then two, then three… Big deal. I had come to a new town and a new life, I loved everything here like crazy, and I kept smiling at Dad and everyone around me, waving my hands over the top of the board.

The redheaded Simba inside me was happy. More than happy.

Only later did I notice that almost all the girls in that contest were dressed up and carefully styled. And they definitely didn’t have feathers in their hair. How was I supposed to know Kate would be there, or that I would snatch the win away from her?

The girl next to me had blond hair curled into ringlets, a pretty dress, and tears in her eyes. When the spectators announced the winner and a souvenir medal was placed around my neck, she suddenly called me a nasty name and burst into tears. She shouted that I wasn’t supposed to be here, that I was awful, couldn’t everyone see that? And everyone around us went quiet.

It happened out of nowhere, but honestly, it looked funny and strange. We weren’t little kids anymore. Awful? I don’t know about that. I was wearing a plaid shirt tied in a knot at my waist, denim shorts, and sneakers. At the pig pen, I had tried to jump around and cheer on my piglet, who kept running everywhere except toward the finish line, and I’d scraped my knees on the wooden fence. But do a couple of little scratches and feathers in your hair really make a person awful?

Nonsense. I proudly adjusted the big medal around my neck and smiled at the stranger. I didn’t want to be offended by a girl acting like a spoiled princess, because we were at a fair. And everyone knows that’s what fairs are for: having fun.

“I’ll always be above the ocean, and I’ll always be better than you!” I don’t know why I said that. Most likely, I meant the way I felt. “I can give you the medal if it’ll make you happy.”

Her mom was there too, and she asked her daughter to apologize. But the girl only stamped her foot and ran off, calling me a stupid redheaded upstart all over again.

What a strange girl. I shrugged, and soon forgot about her. Dad and I headed for the rides, where I got to hold a live golden eagle on my arm and take a picture of Dad hugging a giant pumpkin with my brand-new camera.

By evening, I had completely forgotten about the stranger. Dad and I were watering the lawn in front of our house and spraying each other with the hose. The heat was unbearable, and our air conditioners hadn’t been installed yet, when the spoiled girl from the fair and her mother appeared on our doorstep.