First 5 Pages February Workshop - Bradley

Name: Lisa Bradley
Genre: Young Adult Mystery
Title: Island Shadows

I’m carrying around three tickets to the Met in my sweater pocket. The Met is this big art museum in Manhattan. I bought the tickets thinking I’d surprise my parents for their anniversary. I’m three-hundred miles away now. And I’m still holding onto these tickets.

My sophomore year is finally over. I talked my parents into letting me spend the summer in Silver Head to help me “deal with things.” A part of me wanted to stay in the city, to stomp my feet and scream that they couldn’t do this to our family. But a larger part of me wanted to leave. Ever since Mom and Dad broke the news to me, the only thing I could think about was getting to Silver Head. Everything about this place reminds me of childhood.

Gramps and I are in the Oldsmobile '88 headed toward town for my morning shift at Cafferty’s General Grocer. For two weeks now, this has been our routine. The summer job isn’t the local library like I’d hoped, but Mike Cafferty pays me decent money for helping him and his sons at the store. The money’s going straight in my “Art School” fund. The fund’s a tad south of where I expected, and buying the Met tickets didn’t help, but picking up a few extra shifts should fix this.

I slide the tickets from my sweater pocket and stare at them. I trace the ticket faces with the underside of my thumb. The paper is softened and creased, the text nearly rubbed off in spots, like the tickets are ancient.

Three tickets.

“Maybe we’ll do some fishing later, Tess,” Gramps says. “Like old times.”

Gramps is serious about fishing. He and his buddy Cal won the Walleye tournament the last four years running.

“I’ll probably just draw,” I say, sliding the tickets back in my pocket.

“Tessy—”

I cut him off with a look. We used to vacation at Gran and Gramps’s cottage by the river every summer. For ten days my t-shirts smelled like peach juice, bug spray and diesel fuel.

I peek at Gramps from the corner of my eye. He’s moving his lips like he might say something else, but doesn’t. His blue eyes are glassier than I remember, and the freckled brown spots on his hands seem darker too.

I lean my head against the window glass, tracing the curvy line of the river with my eyes until I grow dizzy. Since I arrived, I can’t stop staring at the river. This shade of bluish-green doesn’t exist anywhere else I’ve ever been.

I’m reminiscing over our family trips in my head when a series of flashing lights on the highway causes Gramps to ease on the brakes. He comes to a stop beside a young-ish looking police officer standing in the road. The cop looks barely older than me.

Gramps lowers his window; a smell like burning leaves curls inside. “What’s all this, Officer?” he asks.

“Another fire,” the policeman says, leaning in toward the window. “Just making sure it’s contained. Keep your speed down for the next few miles.”

Gramps nods curtly, his face tight. He pushes the button and the window rolls up.

We pass by a ladder truck and a Fire & Rescue vehicle up ahead on the side of the highway, their lights spinning but no sirens.

“Forest fire,” Gramps says. “Probably already got it under control.”

I’m not sure what my face looks like, but Gramps must see something there. He smiles weakly, but his expression seems rolled up like the window, not his normal face.

Growing up in the city you’d think I’d be used to flashing lights, but for some reason this bothers me. Silver Head seems so untroubled. It’s hard to imagine anything bad ever happening here.

The police cruiser and firetruck lights continue to spin in the side-view mirror until I can’t see them anymore. I can’t pull my eyes away.

The Oldsmobile feels like its crawling toward town. We finally round the bend onto Main Street, passing by the welcome sign that says population two thousand five hundred.

Gramps pulls into a parking spot across from Cafferty’s General Store.

“Sorry you have to keep dropping me off,” I say.

Gramps waves his hand, like its no big deal. Town is too far a walk from the cottage. I passed my driver’s test earlier this year, but there’s only the Oldsmobile to share between me, Gran and Gramps.

After saying goodbye to Gramps, I cross the street and head toward Cafferty’s. The windows are wallpapered with yellowed ads and fliers hawking everything from housecleaning to charter fishing guides. Paint peels along the edges of the window frames. I swing open the front door and the familiar sound of bells rattle against the glass. Mike’s behind the front register counter. He looks up and smiles. Mike smiles at everyone.

“Mornin’, Tessa.”

I mumble hello and head to the staff office behind the register counter to drop off my backpack. These days, I carry my sketch pad and pencils everywhere, even though I haven’t drawn anything in weeks. It’s not like I haven’t tried, but I end up staring at a blank sheet of paper.

Cafferty’s is pretty typical, though about a quarter of the size of a regular grocery store. It sells milk, meat, fruits and vegetables. I head toward my area in the gift shop, a cramped space off to one side with a wide opening facing the main part of the store. This corner holds a treasure chest of shiny things for tourists to buy: miniature lighthouses, dream catchers, sun towels, things like this. The candy aisle’s pretty popular too.

Every morning, except weekends, I sit at the gift shop counter ringing up Tootsie Pops and bouncy balls to frazzled parents whose children pull at the hems of their shorts. I used to be one of those kids. Five years ago, when I was eleven, we stopped coming to the river. Right around the time Mom quit painting and took a job at a bank in mid-town.

“Tess.”

Crap. I look down at the register. I’ve jammed it up again. Paper is choking out of the receipt slot. The machine starts beeping. Mike puts down the cardboard box he’s hauling and jogs over.

I smile weakly at a woman and twin toddler boys staring at me from the opposite side of counter. The boys are already sucking on their Tootsie Pops.

"Sorry,” Mike mutters to the mother. “Technology. I don’t know why I let my teenagers talk me into upgrading this thing.”

Bells rattle on the front door and Mike’s youngest teenager, Ryan, who’s about my age, strides in the store. Ryan’s sandy-colored hair is a few shades darker this morning, probably still damp from his morning laps. Mike calls Ryan over to deal with the paper jam. Ryan strides over, sliding in between me and Mike behind the counter where it’s already cramped. I catch the familiar not unpleasant whiff of spice mixed with something stringent, probably chlorine. Same scent as every morning, not that I notice.