Beach Day

13: Kepler Eats A Beach Ball

She can't stop thinking about it. With sand between her toes and waves lapping gently at her ankles, shells in her hands, she can't stop thinking about it. Her aunt knows something.

She could ask Uncle Mike, but she knows it wouldn't go well.

Cheap continental breakfast— chalky waffles and sweating yogurt— rests anxiously in her stomach, ready to revolt as soon as she gives the signal. She would rather it wouldn't. Puking in the ocean again seems like a particular kind of Hell (and a wet one, at that). Tiff sighs and crouches down to grab another shell from near her feet.

There's too much about this that she doesn't know. Curse her curiosity! This isn't necessarily a mystery that needs solving. This isn't something that needs doing. She could just leave well enough alone and it would all go away.

That isn't how Tiff does things, though. She's going to chew on this until she chokes.

Someone knows something. Aunt Esther, Uncle Mike, the shadow that was following her in the Dream World— someone knows something and she doesn't know how to get that out of them. Maybe Aunt Esther was right. She should just go to the library when she gets the chance. She tucks the thought away for later.

For now, she's just picking up shells on the beach an hour or so away from Fort Reverence. They aren't even near what's bothering her. She should set it aside.

She can't. Adding another shell to her palm, Tiff thinks of the book in the bag on the floor in the backseat of her aunt's car. She could go get it. She could set herself up in the sand and the gentle wake to give it a read.

And maybe she will. She can't right now, though; the call comes from across the sand— Matt's voice, yelling, "Tiff! Your rat escaped the car and he's trying to eat my volleyball! Fuck— he got the beach ball, goddammit!"

Well, shit. She shoves the shells into her pockets and turns to see what's going on.

They agreed on the way here, at Aunt Esther's request, that Kepler stay in the car for the time being. Obviously, he didn't listen.

Tiff doesn't see what the big deal is. They aren't in Fort Reverence. The only people Kepler could possibly bother are tourists, who don't really count. They can get a good story to tell their family on Christmas at dinner, at the very least.

Oh, god, does she count as a tourist now? Since she doesn't live here anymore? Do all the boiled peanuts and weathered childhood hurricanes mean nothing now that she lives across the country? Does she truly belong anywhere? Too new for Lake Wonder, too far removed for Florida— where the hell is she supposed to go?

Kepler bounds across the sand to her, clearly not enjoying the way it sprays. Though he's trying to give chase, Matt doesn't seem to be fast enough. His bare foot catches on a low point in the sand and he falls flat on his chest and face. Kepler keeps on running toward Tiff with a deflated beach ball in his mouth.

"Goddammit, Kepler," she sighs, ignoring the hushed questions and shock of people around her on what the hell is that. (The answer is obvious, she thinks.)

Off on the drier part of the sand, Aunt Esther pinches her nose and sighs. Feeling almost the same way, Tiff scoops up her beloved rat and marches him up the beach, holding him like a toddler.

Her aunt has been sitting further up the beach the entire time, in a chair sunken in the sand next to where Uncle Mike roots through the cooler for a soda and Aunt Samantha lays on a towel reading some Grisham novel. The Star Wars novelization open on Aunt Esther's lap remains semi-unread as Tiff approaches.

"Kepler," her aunt sighs, "I thought you were going to stay in the car. We put on Ed Sheeran and everything."

He bares his teeth.