Water Balloon Read Free Page B

things, like reading and writing and doodling. I was the poetry editor of the school's literary magazine (creatively named the
LitMag)
with this amazing writer, Callie, who was fiction editor. The issue we put out at the end of the year was kind of incredible and intense, but really, I'd rather not be part of the
LitMag
at all. I think I'm just not an organized activities kind of girl. There's this unspoken rule, though, that you have to do
something.
    There must have been a bunch of kids in our school who didn't, but when I try to think of them, the only one I can picture is Elsie Jenkins, this über-pale girl who wears a tan windbreaker year-round. It's an outer garment in the spring and fall and an extra layer indoors during the winter. Elsie, as Jane once pointed out, is monochromatic. Her hair and her face are all this washed out, unnameable color, a hue that blends right into the windbreaker. I don't think she has ever had a friend. As far as I know, she has never joined a club. I've only heard her speak once, when she asked me something about submitting a poem for the literary magazine. She never did, though. She's quiet and kind of painful.
    Why am I thinking about Elsie Jenkins, tan-windbreaker loner girl? Could it be because I'm sitting on a boat, participating in the silent holding of a fishing rod with my dad, my who-cares-what-Marley-wants-to-do dad, with no friends in sight for what feels like fourteen hours?
    There has never, in the history of modern civilization, been a morning with more time in it.
    I don't catch anything.
    By the time we're done, Dad catches two fish. He throws them back.
    Yeah, that was worthwhile.
    I think about an endless span of days, of living with Dad and the monotony of watching some little kid. A whole summer of days as long and boring as this one. I want to jump into the lake and swim away, swim into a perfect summer.

Shouldn't I Be Licensed for This Kind of Work?
    When we get back to Dad's, I let him unload everything from the truck into his garage and I run into the house. I feel all fishy and I want to shower before Leah and Jane get here.
    I'm about to call Jane to find out what time they're coming, but there's a message from Leah. "Marley? Listen, I'm really sorry, but I don't think we're going to be able to come over today. OH! My God. We got all this prep work we have to do before the first class. I didn't know there'd be, like,
homework.
Anyway, we're working in groups, and Jane and me—listen, I'll just call you later and explain, okay? I hope you're having fun."
    Oh, yes. I'm having a great time. Woo. Hoo.
    I call Mom's cell phone. She has to fix this. I don't care if she's on a mini-vacation, visiting with friends or whatever. She has to make this better. I leave a message, ask her to call me as soon as she can.
    Dad calls in from the garage, "A little help?" I go in the bathroom, pretend I didn't hear him. Wasn't fishing his idea? Let him put away all his own stuff in his own stupid way. There's never been a more this-goes-here-and-that-goes-there kind of person than Robert Baird.
    After my shower, I can't find a place for myself. At home, I have my spots—the throw rug on my bedroom floor, my chair at the kitchen table, the love seat in the den. I take my book and try the living room couch. It's kind of hard, not inviting. I sit on a stool at the kitchen counter and open my book, but after two pages, I'm up and looking for a new spot, feeling a little Goldilocks-y.
    "Hey, Marley," my dad calls from his room. "I need to go through some of these boxes. Would you give me a hand?"
    I walk out the kitchen door into the backyard. I head through the weedy grass and sit under a big tree toward the back with my book until it gets too dark to read. I'm not entirely proud of myself.
    ***
    The next morning I'm up very early, and I have that same confused feeling of wondering where I am, and then there's Rig, with his big head just resting on my bed. My bed at Dad's.
    Why