Out of Place Read online

  Dedication

  To Ella, Olivia, and Aven

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  July

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  September

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  October

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  April

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  41.342807, -70.743469. That’s where I live in numbers.

  Every place on this earth has an address in numbers. It’s so people who don’t speak the same language can tell each other where they live. So they can find each other anywhere in the world. But that doesn’t make any sense, because how would they even ask the question in the first place? How could someone who speaks Chinese ask someone who speaks French where they live and expect an answer?

  “Just drop it please, Cove,” says Mom when I try and explain how the whole idea is flawed. That’s my name. Cove. Cove Bernstein.

  “No, it’s cool,” says her boyfriend. His name is Sean, and he’s the reason we’re even having this conversation. Because if Sean’s allowed to come to breakfast without a shirt on, then I’m allowed to ask why he has long numbers tattooed up and down his arm. Sean tells me that the numbers represent all the important places he’s been in his life.

  He goes down his arm saying the names. Bali. India. Thailand. Hawaii.

  Sean has been a lot of places.

  I have only been here. On this island. Martha’s Vineyard.

  Sean does not have the numbers for Martha’s Vineyard on his arm. I think that’s one reason why Mom slams her bowl into the sink and says, “Can we please stop talking about numbers.”

  But I have one more question.

  “Why didn’t you just use the real names? That way people would know where you’ve been.”

  Sean shrugs his bare shoulders and leans back in his chair so that he’s balancing on the two rear legs. It’s weird to see him sitting in our kitchen chairs, the way his large body covers the entire wood frame so he looks like a genie floating on air. I’m used to seeing Mom sitting in those chairs, or my best friend, Nina. They both like to crisscross their legs on the seat, only Mom sits up very straight and rests her hands in her lap. Nina kind of slumps over and twists her long hair.

  But both Mom and Nina take up the right amount of space on the chair. Not like Sean. Although Sean does answer my question, which is not something Mom always does. “I just like keeping some things to myself,” he says. “If people know where you’ve been, they start thinking they can predict where you’ll go next.”

  Last night I heard Mom yelling at Sean. She called him stupid and naive and irresponsible. But this morning at breakfast, I decide that Sean’s actually pretty smart. He knows about patterns. How things can fit together and become something new, something totally different from what they used to be when they were all alone. When they were just individual pieces.

  I think Sean would understand why I did what I did.

  I think he would get it.

  For a second I almost tell him.

  But I can’t tell anyone.

  Not yet.

  “I am the sky,” says Mom as we wait behind a line of cars trying to pull into the Artists Market dirt parking lot. “I am the sky and this traffic is the rain. Remember that, Cove. You are the sky. Whatever is happening is just the weather. It will pass.”

  “I know,” I say. Mom is always saying things like that. Whenever something bad happens, she pretends like it’s not actually happening. The bad thing is just a passing rainstorm or a star shooting through the night sky. Sometimes I try to think the way she does, but it never works.

  When something bad happens, it gets stuck inside me. Like when we got our yearbooks at the end of school and I found out that Hunter Gilford put bunny ears over my head in the class picture. I try to imagine that Hunter’s grinning face is being taken away on the back of a stinking garbage truck and dumped into the island trash heap underneath a pile of rotting vegetables. But then I remember that every single person at my school has a copy of the picture, that Sophie and Amelia even circled the bunny ears in black Sharpie because they thought it was so funny, and his face comes right back. Hunter’s happy grin lands in my brain, and there’s nothing I can do to make it leave.

  I look out our truck window. It’s hot and dry today, which means that the Artists Market where Mom sells her inspirational quotes is going to be crowded with people stopping by on their way to the beach. They’ll be wearing big sunglasses and carrying plastic cups of iced coffee that will leave wet circles on Mom’s table. Mom will smile and act like those wet circles are no big deal, like they’re just raindrops falling from the sky. But she’ll wipe them up as soon as the people walk away. Maybe that’s what Mom should really be saying about bad things. That you have to wipe them away or else they leave marks.

  We finally get through the traffic, and Mom drives our truck onto the grass so that we can unload. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day, getting to pull our truck into the special area that’s reserved for outdoor artists. The ground is bumpy underneath our tires, and I unbuckle my seat belt since we’re not on a real road. Sometimes, if we hit a bump at just the right speed, my entire body lifts off the seat and I feel like I’m floating. I feel it deep in my stomach, like maybe I’ll keep going up, up, up.

  I always come back down, of course. Gravity and all that. But for one second it feels like I won’t. Like I’ll get to stay floating forever.

  The other outdoor artists wave as we pass. Linda, who paints enormous oil paintings of the ocean. Charleston, who makes animal sculptures out of silverware, like birds with fork prongs for wings and pigs with spoons for bellies. Joyce, who sells wool hats even though it’s summer and just looking at the thick hats makes me feel hot and itchy.

  Mom’s table is at the end of a row. I get my folding chair out of the back of the truck and put it next to her table as she arranges her quotes. Mom doesn’t sit down because she likes to maintain an aura of welcomeness so people feel comfortable coming up to her table to browse. But she lets me bring a chair. Otherwise I end up leaning my elbows on the table and that messes up the aura.

  Aura is very important to Mom, especially when she’s selling her quotes. The quotes are words that she writes in fancy cursive with a thick pen that has bristles on the end like a paintbrush. When they’re dry, she puts the quotes in painted frames. Sometimes the words Mom writes make people cry. That is a good thing, even though it sounds bad. The crying person will give Mom a long hug and buy the quote. But most people just pick the quotes up and squint their eyes a little, like they’re having trouble reading the words. They’ll check the back of the frame before putting the quote down on the table. I don’t know why they look at the back. There’s nothing there. But they always do.

  My official job is to help when Mom gets busy. I’m supposed to go back to our truck to get more quotes or count out change. But it’s hardly ever busy. So that gives me time to li
sten.

  I love summer. Everything’s so easy. This is the life.

  The sun feels divine. Simply divine.

  Which beach should we go to this afternoon? Norton Point? Long Point? Squibnocket?

  Can I please get an icy? Please? Pleeaase?

  I hear that last one a lot. That’s because Mom’s table is right next to Delphina the icy lady’s table. Even though it’s technically an artists market, Delphina’s allowed to sell her icies because everyone on the island loves Delphina. She’s round, just like the huge yellow tub that she scoops her raspberry lemonade icies from, and she has long curly hair that she wraps in colorful string.

  When I was younger, some of the summer girls would smile at me while they waited in line to get an icy. They’d say, “Ah, you’re so cute. What’s your name?” Sometimes they would pat my head, like I was a cat. I know that sounds kind of mean, but it wasn’t. It always made me smile. No one does that to me anymore. I guess that’s what happens when you get older. Or when you’re me. But the good part is, when people don’t notice me, I notice them more and more.

  The summer girls wear thin rubber flip-flops. Their toenails are painted pink and turquoise and dark blue. They wear T-shirts with words in sparkly letters. Girl Power. Dance Diva. Too Cool for School. They carry their phones in cases that have ears like a bunny. Or a panda bear. Today one is a Hello Kitty.

  I notice all the things I don’t have.

  But I do have Nina. And she doesn’t have any of those things, either. But that’s not why we’re best friends. We’re best friends because when we see each other, everything else fades away. Like now, Nina walks out of Grange Hall on the other side of the Artists Market and waves at me. She spins around a post on the covered front porch and I know just what to do. I tell Mom I’ll be right back and run through the crowds to the spinning wheel at the playground. Nina meets me there. We each grab a handle and push as hard as we can. Then we jump on, lay on our backs, and look up at the sky. The trees blur together and the clouds blur together and our bodies blur together and we spin into the same person.

  But as we spin, Nina doesn’t say anything. Not even when I tell her about the Hello Kitty phone case. I sit up because the wheel has slowed. I’m dizzy from looking up at the clouds, so at first I don’t notice. I don’t notice that she’s crying.

  “Do you know?” she asks.

  Because that’s another thing that happens when we spin—our thoughts combine so we can tell what the other person is thinking.

  So I should know why she’s crying. I always have before. But I don’t.

  That’s the first terrible thing that happens. The second terrible thing is she tells me.

  “We’re moving.”

  “What?”

  “We’re moving away. Off island. To New York City.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I know,” says Nina. “But we are. My dads just told me this morning. It’s the stupid paintings. Some important art guy saw them and he wants to hang them in his gallery in New York City. Dad thinks it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Papa and that we have to be there to make the most of it. That’s how they talk all of a sudden. Like moving to New York City is the most exciting thing ever and if we don’t go, the entire world will explode.”

  Nina’s papa, Toby, is a painter. He used to paint lots of things, like the Edgartown Lighthouse and the Aquinnah Cliffs. The Flying Horses Carousel in Oak Bluffs and the fishing huts in Menemsha. Normal island things, like a lot of the other painters at the Artists Market. Then Toby started to paint Nina. Not her actual self, but a combination of shapes that Toby pieces together. The shapes are different colors and textures, but somehow they combine to make Nina. Her long blond hair and pointy chin. Her wide blue eyes. That’s when Toby had to move to a bigger corner stall inside Grange Hall because people wanted to stop and talk to him. They started buying Ninas. Lots of them. And Nina’s dad, Clark, stopped working on sailboat engines at the marina and became the one who picked us up at school because Toby was busy painting.

  “You’re going to be famous,” I say.

  “But I’m going to be gone,” says Nina. “I don’t want to be gone. Will you spin me?”

  I nod. I need to move. I grab a hard metal handle and run as fast as I can. Because I can’t look at Nina’s face. Her soon-to-be-famous face.

  After the Artists Market closes, I go to Nina’s house. I need to stay close to her, like if I let her out of my sight she’ll disappear. We are lying on the floor of her bedroom surrounded by clothes. We’re supposed to be making piles. One for clothes to take to New York City, another for clothes that don’t fit anymore. Instead, we are looking at the book, even though we’ve already read it one million times. Even though we know what all the pages say.

  The book appeared on Nina’s bed at the beginning of the summer. Nina’s dads didn’t say anything about it, we just found it on her pink-and-white quilt with a Post-it note stuck to the cover that said: Let us know if you have any questions! There was a heart at the bottom so we knew Clark had written the note. It was a very bad heart. Toby’s heart would have been much better.

  There are lots of funny parts of the book. There are drawings of a girl with enormous eyes blowing brown clouds out of her mouth because she’s forgotten to brush her teeth and a girl balancing wobbly books on her head because she’s trying to walk with good posture. But those aren’t the parts we care about. We care about the other parts. The changing body parts. There’s one page in particular that Nina is obsessed with. It’s the page with the bras.

  “I would choose this one,” says Nina, pointing to a drawing of a light-blue bra with green polka dots. The bra looks like two triangles held together in the front by a tiny bow. There are other bra choices. A pink one in the shape of a tank top, only without the stomach part. A green one with ruffled trim around the edges. A white one with pink straps that cross in the back. But Nina always chooses the light-blue polka-dot bra.

  “I think that one would look good on you,” I say.

  “You really think so? Can you check me?”

  I turn to the page that comes before the bras. Along the bottom are five drawings of a girl standing in front of a bathroom mirror. She’s not wearing a shirt, which is weird, but the whole point of the drawings is to see how her body changes. In the first drawing, she has no boobs at all and her hair is wrapped up in a towel. But by the last drawing, she’s got huge boobs and her hair has grown long and flowing. The words under the drawings say that it takes five years to grow from drawing one to drawing five. But the words don’t say when the growing starts. That’s the thing about the book. It thinks it explains everything, but it leaves out all the important parts.

  Nina pulls her shirt tight and turns sideways so I can look. “What do you think?” she asks.

  Her shirt is perfectly flat the whole way down her chest. “I think you’re still at one.”

  “Are you sure? Can I see the chart again?” Nina likes charts and numbers. She likes the way things fit together—old boat engine parts that Clark brings home, school math challenges that only work when every step is correct, one-thousand-piece puzzles that she seals with glue and stacks under her bed.

  “What about me?” I ask.

  I turn sideways and pull my shirt down tight. I’m nervous, because I really want her to say I’m at one, too. Her eyes move from my shoulders, to my belly button, and back up again. I can almost feel my chest tingling, like it’s threatening to burst through at that very moment.

  “One,” she says. “Definitely one.”

  I’m so relieved that I start to laugh. Then Nina starts to laugh. I don’t know why we’re laughing, it’s just what happens when we’re together. Soon we’ll put the book back in her pile of old stuffed animals, where we keep it tucked in between Rainbow Dash and Twilight Sparkle. We’ll put on our bathing suits and run across the spiky crabgrass in her backyard to Eel Pond. We’ll jump into the cool water, feeling the tiny air bubbles tickle th
e inside of our noses, and our hair spread out weightless around us. We’ll be mermaids, do handstand contests on the sandy bottom, or just float on our backs.

  Except Nina stops laughing.

  “But what do you think I should do now, when it happens?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “What do you think I should do?”

  When we were laughing, I could forget. Now, I remember. The sounds coming from downstairs aren’t just Clark and Toby moving furniture; they’re the sounds of them packing boxes. Nina’s leaving and everything is ruined.

  Because there’s something else about those bras in the book. They aren’t just floating in the air. The bras are on fancy padded hangers with dangling price tags. The girls trying them on are standing in dressing rooms with thick purple curtains hanging from golden rods. In one dressing room, a mom is hooking the white bra with the crossing pink straps behind her daughter’s back. In a second dressing room, a girl is holding the green bra with the ruffle trim while her mom is holding the pink tank top one. And Nina’s light-blue polka-dot bra? That bra is in a third dressing room where a mom is adjusting the strap on her daughter’s shoulder.

  The thing is, the book doesn’t say what to do if you live on an island where there’s no bra store with thick purple curtains. Or if you don’t have a mom. If you have two dads instead. Or if you have a mom like mine.

  But that didn’t matter because Nina and I figured out a solution on our own. We would go bra shopping together. When the time came, we were going to ask Nina’s dads to take us off island to Target. We were going to tell them that we needed to get something important from the book, so they’d probably know what it was but not ask too many questions. Target is where Molly’s mom took Molly to buy bras. Molly said there’s a Starbucks in the front of the store. That’s where I picture Nina’s dads waiting, drinking coffee, while Nina and I go to the back section, just like Molly described.

  Molly said Target has so many racks of bras that the straps get tangled together like fishing wire. She said when you pull one bra out to see what it looks like, ten more bras come trailing along with it. And once you find a shape you like, you still have to choose the color. Molly’s mom only let her pick between tan and white. But since Nina and I were going together, we would choose way better colors than that.