Castles on the Sand

One

I am on my way to work, after school, when I see them. Two men in suits and pea coats, their breath frosting in the chill air. I'm walking down the side of the street that abuts redwood forest, the tall trees reaching high into the mist. They're walking on the side of the street with houses, the little, four street subdivision that is home to all of us who aren't millionaires, but who live here in Pelican Bluffs. The homes are small and dilapidated. More than one has a car up on blocks in the front yard. Junked out appliances slouch against the back fence of the house directly across from me. The stucco is cracked and an ancient television antenna juts up from the roof, twisted and broken.

The MAV shoots past as I walk – that's what we call the gray minivan that arrives at the high school every morning full of Mormons, and leaves every afternoon with just Carson and Chelsey Montrose. (MAV stands for “Mormon Assault Vehicle”.) Carson and Chelsey wave at the two men in suits, and receive a jovial wave in reply. This confirms my suspicion. The two men are Mormon missionaries.

“Hey,” barks one of them.

I glance around, but find that no one else is on the sidewalk just now. More cars shoot past, and it looks like everyone else either drove or hitched a ride from the rapidly emptying high school campus.

The missionaries have stopped walking, though. One of them stares intently at me. He’s maybe five eleven and has dark blonde hair and skin that's bright red in the cold.

I pause and turn. We face each other across the dusty, gray, asphalt road. The other missionary, a brunette, says something to his friend, but I can’t hear a word from this far away. What is now clear to me, though, is that the “Hey” was meant for the blond, staring missionary, not me. His friend shakes him by the shoulder. It’s odd behavior, but I decide to ignore it and resume walking.

Only, the blond missionary keeps pace with me on the opposite side of the road. I speed up and so does he until the other missionary grabs him by the arm. There’s a brief scuffle, and then the blond missionary darts across the street, right in front of a sports car. An SUV gives an indignant honk.

I run.

“Hey!” shouts the brunette missionary. “Elder Britton. Stop! What are you doing?”

Good question, I agree. More honks make me glance over my shoulder, and I see that the brunette has run the blond down. He holds him back. No one’s chasing me anymore.

I keep going. Once I'm far enough away, I glance back again to make sure they haven’t followed me. I'm nearly to Wilkstone Road by now, our town's main street, where I turn right, walk past Jacksons, the gas station and mini-mart; past The Shack, a little burrito stand that serves home cooked Mexican food for exorbitant prices to the tourists passing through town on their way up the Pacific Coast Highway; and turn in at our tiny branch of the Public Library.

Once I'm inside, my cheeks stinging from the sudden warmth, I glance back once more to make sure I’ve lost the missionaries, and then let myself relax.

“Madison,” the head librarian greets me in his lilting, Indian accent.

“Hi, Siraj.”

“How was school?” He always asks, though I don't really know why. He's one of those people who is ageless. I don't know if he's thirty-five or fifty-five. His hair is salt and pepper and most of the lines in his face come from repeated smiles, rather than frowns. He's short and slender and all angles, but nevertheless, he's the sort of person whom you feel you can tell your deepest secrets to and know that he'll just listen and understand. Or in my case, it's my silence that he understands. He never tries to pry into my thoughts.