Page 12 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs
“It was there, I swear. I saw it.” Rebekah stood on one of the colorful bedspreads, pointing to the bottom of the wicker dresser.
Elle and I had climbed onto the other bed when she squealed and ran, but Sutton still sat in the middle of our game of Barbie dolls, wearing a skeptical frown. “I’m sure you thought you saw something, Bekah. But I don’t even think mice live at the beach.”
I momentarily forgot my fear. “Why couldn’t mice live at the beach? Mice can live anywhere.”
“I didn’t say they couldn’t. I said they didn’t. Too many crabs and bugs and stuff. It’s not their ideal ecosystem.” Sutton was always trying to use big words and things she’d heard in school to sound smarter than the rest of us.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“There!” Rebekah wiggled her finger up and down, and we all stared at the dark crack under the drawers.
Sutton crossed her arms, nonplussed. “There’s nothing under there.”
“If you’re so sure,” Elle challenged, “ you go check it out.”
“Fine.” Sutton hopped up and used a bare foot to swipe a layer of tiny doll clothes and accessories out of the way, clearing a path to the dresser.
She bent down and peered into the void. “I don’t see anything,” she reported.
“Maybe—” The rodent shot out, and Sutton jumped at least three feet off the ground.
We screamed in unison, a shrill otherworldly sound. The mouse froze with only one back leg and its tail still hidden from view.
Seconds later, the door flew open, and my mom, Aunt Jane, and Grandmama all came running into the room.
“What happened?” My mom quickly scanned each of us for obvious injuries before her eyes fell to the rigid creature on the carpet.
My aunt let out a small noise of disgust, and my grandmother shook her head.
Mom grabbed a stray flip-flop next to the closet and crept toward the mouse. “I think it’s dead.”
She nudged the tiny gray form with the tip of the shoe and nodded in confirmation. My grandmother slipped from the room and came back with a plastic grocery bag. My aunt closed her eyes as my mom disposed of the vermin.
Rebekah sank onto the comforter and whispered in awe, “But what are the chances it would die right at that moment?”
“Did we kill it?” Sutton asked. “With our screams?”
My aunt put a hand on Sutton’s shoulder before turning to leave the scene, likely to hunt down some disinfectant for the floor. “I think so. Looks like you literally scared him to death.”
As she shuffled from the room behind my aunt, Grandmama stopped to offer some of her sage advice. “Remember this, girls. There’s no foe you can’t face when you all join forces.”
We’d recount this story for years to come, the mouse getting bigger and our collective lethal scream getting louder every time. But, no matter how small our adversary truly was that day, I was more convinced than ever that, with these girls by my side, I could take on the world.
“So, do I have to wait like everybody else for your book to be published, or do I get to read some of your poetry early?” Jude leans over in his beach chair, and I instinctively cover my paper with my arm.
“Sorry.” I adjust the towel I’ve draped over my legs, refusing to get a sunburn until family vacation week. “The idea of anyone reading any of this is kind of freaking me out right now.”
He squints at me from under his navy baseball hat, and I notice that he has a fresh smattering of freckles across his nose. “But isn’t that kind of the point of writing a book? For people to read it?”
“Well, yes.” The corner of my page flaps in the wind, and I stop to secure it.
“But that doesn’t make it any less scary.
” I roll my pen between my fingers and consider for a moment.
“I guess I probably will need another set of eyes on it at some point this summer. But I don’t think I’m quite ready yet. ”
He stretches his legs and buries his toes in the sand. “Okay. Just know I’ll be here when you are ready. And I’d be honored to be the first to tell you how good it is.”
“Thanks, Jude.” Both his offer and his confidence in me mean more than he could possibly know.
He turns a page of the book in his lap. “How are you feeling today? We can head back to the house if you want.”
“I’m good. You’ll be gone all day tomorrow; we have to make the most of our beach time.” I straighten my sunhat and try to sound nonchalant. “Gavin still coming to visit this weekend?”
“Mmhmm.” He doesn’t look up, and I’m grateful. “Should get in sometime late Thursday night. He’s golfing in a charity tournament with some friends Friday and Saturday morning, but he should be around in the evenings.”
I scribble absentmindedly in the margins of my paper. “Did you tell him I’m here?”
“Of course.” He turns another page. “He can’t wait to see you.”
There’s no logical reason this simple statement should make my heart race the way it does. But I don’t pen another word for the next hour. My thoughts are too full of blond hair, blue eyes, and memories of the night I turned sixteen.