Ellison was silent at eight o'clock in the morning. Not even the wind could rouse itself to combat the thick summer air. Ethan trailed his uncle down the lane toward downtown. The wide dusty path curved through the trees, jutting off every now and then to reveal a driveway to another little house. Far off in the forest, bugs kept up a constant buzz. Ethan squirmed away from the bulbous flies, feeling like little insect legs were crawling up and down his body. Uncle Robert was unfazed.
It took about fifteen minutes to reach downtown—if the area could really be called that. Back in Arcadia, downtown meant six city blocks, twelve streets, two movie theaters, twenty restaurants, a hotel, and countless stores. In Ellison it was a single intersection, though the road was paved here, at least. There was a general store, a gas station, a mechanic's shop, a post office, two small restaurants that both claimed to have the best burgers in town, and Uncle Robert's malt shop. A little way down the road was the town hall, but according to Uncle Robert, the mayor had so little to do that the building sat empty most of the year. And that was all. Other amenities had to be brought in from the next town over, about a twenty-minute drive away.
Ethan was horrified.
He kept his head down and watched his sneakers scuff the pavement as he followed Uncle Robert. It wasn't until they reached a small grassy area next to the post office that he finally looked up—and jarred to a halt.
In this clearing, two benches faced each other across a bubbling fountain. Next to one of them was a flagpole, its three flags hanging limp in the absence of wind. On the top, the American flag, its forty-eight stars lost in the folds. Below it, the simple, diagonal red cross of Alabama's state flag. And at the bottom—its edges lifting in a sudden light breeze— was a pattern Ethan had seen only in history books: a red background with a dark blue X across the center that was filled with bright white stars.
Uncle Robert, a few paces ahead, noticed that Ethan was no longer following and glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. "Come on," he snapped, but he paused when he saw the path of Ethan's eyes.
"Uncle Robert," Ethan said, swallowing hard. "Why is that here?"
His uncle straightened, a defensive look coming across his features. "Well, it's an important part of our history. It'd do you well not to disrespect a cultural symbol. Now, come on."
Ethan ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn. He forced his gaze away from the flagpole and trailed after his uncle, the sweat on his arms feeling suddenly like crawling ants. The realization was forming in the pit of his stomach that this was where his father had grown up—that he had walked these dusty streets, passed beneath that flag probably thousands of times. And still, he had sent him here.
That hot rush of anger, which had subsided overnight, boiled up again in Ethan's chest. He clenched his fists as Uncle Robert stopped in front of a pale-green storefront and pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket.
"Here we are," he said, pushing open the door. Ethan ducked in after him, taking a long, shaky breath. The malt shop, at least, looked like the one he and his friends frequented back home. Ethan saw the black and white checkered floors, the cold metal counter with the red spinning chairs, the jukebox against the wall. A wave of familiarity washed over him, and with it, a tide of homesickness. One day into his summer exile, and he was already nauseated with dread.
Uncle Robert went behind the counter of the small shop and flicked a switch, flooding the place with light. "So, this is it," he said, sweeping a hand to cover the five tables complete with sweetheart chairs, a soda fountain, and the counter. "The Malt. The life of the town."
Ethan scoffed—then realized a moment too late that his uncle was serious. "Cool," he amended, shoving his hands into the pockets of his chinos. Uncle Robert eyed him carefully.
"Nothing fancy here," he went on. "Menu's only got a few items, and since you have the morning shift, you don't need to worry about closing down. You'll be okay?"
"Yes, sir." Ethan nodded. It seemed that conversations with his uncle shrank his vocabulary down to just those two words. He didn't have the voice to mention that back home he had worked at the local Steak 'n Shake for half a year. He wasn't sure if anyone in this town had ever even seen a Steak 'n Shake.
"Listen, I wasn't planning on this." Uncle Robert looked uncomfortable as he ran a hand over his stiff hair. "But your dad didn't want you lazing around all summer, and the boy who worked here last summer, ah—well, he's gone now."
Of course, Ethan thought, seething. As if being sent to this place wasn't enough.
"Anyway," Uncle Robert went on. "Let me give you a tour of the place."
As it turned out, the place wasn't much—just the main shop plus a small kitchen in the back, behind a set of metal doors. Tuesday was burger day, Ethan learned, and the only time the rusting old stove ever got put to use. The rest of the time, sodas and milk shakes were the only items on the list.
"Real variety," Ethan muttered, glancing over the laminated menu. Uncle Robert, thankfully, didn't hear.
Ethan learned how to operate the soda machine—how to blend ice cream into a milk shake the right way—and where, exactly, to kick the jukebox in case it stopped in the middle of a song. All of this instruction was given in Uncle Robert's curt tone, and all without a single heartbeat of eye contact. Ethan gave his understanding in half-hearted nods, all the while eagerly awaiting the moment when Uncle Robert would leave, and he would finally be alone.
At a quarter to nine, Uncle Robert completed his tour back in the main area. Ethan looked out of the rectangle of glass on the door and didn't see a single soul on the street.
"Well, then," Uncle Robert said, fixing the collar of his shirt. He coughed into his fist. "Do you understand?"
Ethan nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Are you sure? I don't want any slipups."
Hollowly, Ethan recited the same response.
"Good. Good." Uncle Robert adjusted his pants and looked at the mirror above the counter, then at the song list next to the jukebox—anywhere but at his nephew. "In that case," Uncle Robert continued. "I'll leave you to it. There's a telephone in the back if there's an emergency. Try not to call."
"Yeah," Ethan mumbled. "No sweat."
Uncle Robert nodded quickly, his receding hairline catching the light. "I'll be back in a few hours," he said, leaving as if he couldn't get out quickly enough.
Once his uncle had disappeared down the lone cross street of downtown, Ethan stood in the center of the malt shop, taking everything in. It was slightly cooler in here than it was outside, but every move Ethan made still felt like he was swimming through the air. It hung; it lingered; it sat on his shoulders and buried his feet in the checkered linoleum. He felt heavier in this place.
Sighing, he forced his leaden feet to march behind the counter, snagging a squeaky vinyl stool on the way. Once he was situated, positioned conveniently behind the cash register, he looked both ways, licked his lips, and lifted up his shirt.
Tucked into the waistband of his pants were the two latest issues of Strange Suspense Stories. He had read them about a dozen times each already, of course, but they had been the first of the stack he had smuggled into his suitcase.
Pulling the comics carefully out, Ethan placed them on his lap. He flipped the top one carefully to the first panel, so as not to wrinkle the pages. His uncle probably would not have approved of this, reading comics while on duty. If he noticed, of course. Which he hadn't that morning, when, at the breakfast table, Ethan made it through the first edition of Outlaw Kid—twice. He'd absently stirred his oatmeal as his aunt spoke loudly about their neighbor down the road, her voice expanding as if she wanted it to crawl up the walls and nestle into every corner of the woodwork. He wondered if she knew how terrified she sounded.
The minutes ticked by like years, and not a single customer walked through the door. For four hours Ethan read and reread the comics, stared at the wall, and dug some spare change from his pockets to play a few songs on the jukebox. Most of the options were Elvis. He hated Elvis.
By the time one o'clock rolled around, Ethan was thinking that in all his fourteen years of life, he had never been so incredibly bored. "This is such a drag," he announced to no one. He felt energy building up inside of him, trapped between these four white walls, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaping to his feet and bolting out the door.
Instead, in a grueling display of self-control, he ran a hand over the soft curls of his cropped, dark hair and swiveled back and forth on the stool, knocking his knees against the counter.
Uncle Robert strolled in just past one o'clock, and Ethan heaved a sigh of relief.
"How was it?" he asked as Ethan rushed to shove the comics back up his shirt.
"All right. Empty."
"Usually is, in the morning." Uncle Robert grunted as he circled around the counter, a guttural sound that made Ethan shudder. "Summer, so most kids are sleeping late. They'll be streaming in about half an hour from now."
Ethan frowned. As much as he abhorred the idea of spending his already abysmal summer stuck in a crowded busboy job, he wondered why his uncle wouldn't stick him in the busier shift for the extra hands. "You sure you don't want me to stay through the crowds?" he asked. "I could help out, if you need it."
Uncle Robert paused with his hand on the back door, his head perking up in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "No," he assured Ethan, shaking his head slowly. "That's all right, I can handle it. In fact, you should probably head on home. Cara's got lunch waiting for you, and it'll get cold if you don't hurry."
Relief and confusion mingled in Ethan's mind as he stood, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. "All right," he mumbled awkwardly. "See you back home, Uncle Robert."
From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw the man flinch at the title. He lowered his head and quickened his pace out the door.
Outside, it seemed that the town had finally come alive. Or at least, as alive as was humanly possible in a town with barely more than a few hundred people. Unlike the morning, there were a few people milling about in the streets: two women in floppy sun hats arched out of their seats at the restaurant down the street, their rosy lips in full sprint; across the street, in front of the general store, two little boys turned a jump rope for a little girl in a pink dress; inside, a few slow-moving figures pulled items from sagging wooden shelves.
Ethan met the scorching sun with his face turned skyward, and for a long moment, he simply stood on the sidewalk in front of the malt shop, taking dusty breaths. The skipping rope and scratching feet coaxed up the dirt from somewhere beneath the pavement to coat the skyline gray and brown. With a sharp kick to the concrete and a dry cough, Ethan turned and headed home.
Something strange happened as he paused at the intersection, looked both ways, and crossed the street toward the general store. A man, a woman, and a sweet-faced little boy stepped through the ringing door just as Ethan's feet touched the curb. It seemed as if their necks had been tugged by the same string, three fair-haired marionettes with piercing green eyes that met his gaze head-on. Something electric and frosty passed between them, a chill in the summer heat. The woman moved suddenly, one hand gripping her husband's arm, the other flying to her purse; her son melted into the rustling folds of her dress. The man seemed to grow four inches in fear. He whispered something into his wife's ear, then turned his frigid glare back to Ethan.
"Keep walking, boy," he barked. "There's nothing to see here."
Ethan swallowed hard, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He hunched his shoulders, buried his chin in his chest, and took sweeping steps past the family. It wasn't until he had put a store between them that he dared look back. They were in the same place, frozen, all three staring at his receding figure, wishing him away.
Ethan whipped back around, and for the first time, but certainly not the last, he ran through the town of Ellison. His feet pounded the pavement and startled the dust as the family's blank gazes lurched to life and chased him all the way home.
xxx
That was the first encounter of many. Over the next few days, Ethan's life fell into a routine. Wake up, exchange a few sleepy words with his aunt and uncle, eat breakfast, escape to the malt shop. Sit for four hours reading comics without seeing a single customer, wait for Uncle Robert to come and take his place. Walk home, run home, try to decipher the whispers and the stares.
"—you remember Andrew Harper?"
"What is that boy doing here?"
"That's his son, I heard—"
"—last time one of 'em was here, it was all trouble."
"Married that Negro woman, God knows why."
"—too many colored folks moving into these parts—"
"—doesn't belong in our town."
He caught words here and there as he walked home, arranging and rearranging them in the back of his mind. With each passing day, he was becoming more aware that there was no one here who looked like him. The stares of the people here, their curiosity wrapped in disgust, was familiar in a deep, ugly way. It was as if some part of him had expected it. It reminded him of the way Samuel Hill and those other boys had looked at him after his parents split up, and his mom left town—the same way they had looked at him ever since. Even still, Ethan longed for Arcadia; for his next-door neighbor and the cute girl down the road and the malt shop that was packed with people all day long. He missed walking down the street and getting lost in the crowd, being passed without a second glance. He missed being outside without feeling fear and anger wrestling for control of his emotions, leaving him exhausted and drenched in sweat.
At dinner, he fended off Aunt Cara's attempts at conversation and shoveled food robotically into his mouth. Her voice was still too loud.
xxx
It was on the second Thursday of June, a few days since he'd first set foot in Ellison, that Ethan Harper first met Juniper Jones. He was polishing the already spotless countertop, his eyes trained on the glossy pages of last month's Crimefighters issue, when the bell above the door let out a jingle. It took a moment for his mind, lost in the action, to register the arrival of a customer. By the time he realized that someone had come inside, she was already at the counter and sticking a freckled hand in front of his face.
"Hello," she said, her voice like wind chimes.
Ethan looked up quickly, his mouth hanging open and his arm still reaching out to wipe at an invisible smudge. He dropped his rag, cleared his throat, and stared at the girl who was now sitting calmly on the stool across from him, spinning herself in a slow circle. A volcano of bright orange hair erupted from her head and spilled down her back in loose, messy curls. Beneath the harsh malt shop lights, she was luminescent.
"I—" He licked his lips and tried again. "Hi."
She swung back to face him, a wide, crooked-toothed grin splitting the galaxy of freckles on her cheeks. "Hi, there," she said, extending her hand again. Ethan shook it gently. "My name is Juniper Jones, but you can call me June, Junie, or Starfish. Or Juniper, I guess. Or JJ. But really, I prefer Starfish."
Her accent was just a quiet hint lingering on the edges of her words, and her sky-blue eyes never once strayed from his face. He fought the urge to take a step back.
"By gosh, you're sure quiet." She snorted. "What's your name? Don't make me pry it out of you."
"Uh, I'm Ethan Harper," he mumbled.
"That's it?" Juniper cried. "No nicknames, no exciting alias?"
"I—my middle name is Charlie?" Ethan shook his head. "Listen, Juniper, it's nice to meet you. Can I get you something?"
"Juniper again." She shook her head. "I've been trying to convince someone to call me Starfish. It's catchy, don't you think? Anyway, Ethan Charlie Harper, I'll have a root beer float, please."
"Fifteen cents," Ethan said, but her coins were already sliding across the counter. As he put them in the register, he felt her watching him.
"You're new," she said, slightly frowning as he moved toward the soda fountain. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. And you know, that's pretty rare in Ellison. I probably know everyone in this whole town. We could walk down the street, and I could tell you, 'That's Betty, that's Stu and Laura, those are the Shaefer twins.' Guess you're not from here, huh?"
By the time Juniper finished her speech, Ethan had spent so much energy listening that he could hardly manage a response. He forced himself to nod. "My uncle owns this shop," he murmured. "I'm here for the summer."
"Mr. Shay is your uncle? I never would've guessed. Y'all just don't look the same, is all."
Ethan studied the dark skin of his hands but said nothing.
"Not that I mean anything by that, you know," Juniper went on. "Some folks here think everyone should stick to their sides, you know, white folks and colored folks, so of course they were real frosted last year when that school in Topeka got all mixed up again, the way it shoulda been in the first place. Anyway, I thought it was ridiculous that they were so rattled because there isn't a single Negro within twenty miles of this town. And Lord knows if they tried to force that here, half this town would be lined up in front of the schoolhouse to stop it. Whoa, careful there!"
Without realizing it, Ethan had knocked an elbow against Juniper's root beer float, sending dark soda sloshing over the edge of the glass. His eyes had been fixed on her face, and his heart was hammering. The cold stares of the townspeople resurfaced in his memory. He imagined them all lining up in front of the malt shop during his shift, murmuring about how he didn't belong, forcing their way inside, and smothering him with their furious gazes.
"Shoot, sorry." Ethan shook his head to clear the image and reached for the rag.
"No worries." Juniper flashed another smile. "You know, one time when I got a float here—"
Ethan tuned her out as he cleaned up the spill, letting her rattle on uninterrupted. Thoughts of being cornered by the townspeople still lingered in his mind, but Juniper clearly didn't notice. She only paused her chatting to take sips of her drink.
"So, why are you here in Ellison? Is Mr. Shay your only uncle? Are your parents on vacation? Do you like it here? Are you going to stay for the fall? It's real beautiful in the fall."
She watched him with doe-like eyes, grinning expectantly. Ethan sighed. "My dad sent me here for the summer, but I can't wait to split. No offense, Juniper, or Starfish, or whatever, but this place is a killjoy."
Juniper gasped loudly and suddenly, startling Ethan into a stumble. When he righted himself, her hand was slapped across her mouth in disbelief. "Ethan Harper!" she scolded. "Clearly, you have not experienced the wonders Ellison has to offer. It may be small, but it's a real gem if you dig deep enough."
"Gonna take a hell of a lot of digging." He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd already figured he'd never find anything to like about this place. Not with the way he felt whenever he stepped outside.
"Then it's just your lucky day!" Juniper grinned. "I've been looking for a summer sidekick for Lord knows how long, and, well, here you are."
"Summer sidekick?" Ethan echoed, blinking at her.
"Yes," she said. "I want to have the most fantastic summer ever. The summer to end all summers." She spun slowly in her chair, spreading her hands in front of her face as if conjuring an image in the air. "I want this summer to be—to be invincible. But obviously, you know, I need a little help. Everything is better with a friend. So far I haven't found anyone fit for the job, but you're perfect. You got a bike? No? Well, we'll get you one, you'll definitely need it. My adventures are not for the weak or the bikeless."
Ethan blinked, staring in disbelief at Juniper as she calmly sipped her float, and tried to decide whether this girl was actually being serious. Her smile was disarming and genuine, but what if she was just teasing him? What if this was the next level of those whispers on the sidewalk? After all, no one in their right mind would actually ask to be called Starfish.
"How long are you gonna stare at me like that before you say yes?" Juniper asked, tilting her head. "Boy, you really don't talk much."
"I—" Ethan attempted a response, but his words turned to sludge on his tongue. The surprise, the confusion—the sudden contact with another person after a week of near silence—it was too much to handle.
"Great!" Juniper Jones bounced in her seat, clapping her hands. "Consider us friends, Ethan Charlie Harper. Ethan Charlie Harper," she repeated to herself. "E-C-H. Ech! Like that sound you make when you try to eat a whole lemon! Have you ever tried to eat a whole lemon? Let me tell you, when they say lemons are sour, they mean it."
This time Ethan didn't even bother trying to respond. When Uncle Robert waltzed through the door at two minutes after one, Juniper was still there, swinging her legs against the counter and twirling the straw of her now-empty drink. He smiled at her with a warmth that Ethan hadn't thought the man was capable of.
"Mr. Shay!" Juniper exclaimed. "How are you?"
"Great, Juniper. Glad to see you." He crossed behind the counter with a nod to Ethan and disappeared into the back. Ethan, who had returned to reading his comics as Juniper went on a tirade about the injustice of bug torture, glanced up warily.
"How's your aunt doing, June?" Uncle Robert asked, returning into the main room.
Juniper's grin wavered for a split second before she replied, "Oh, you know. She's all right. Speaking of her"—she squinted at the clock on the wall above Ethan's head—"I'm late for making her lunch! Thank goodness you reminded me." She leapt off the stool, her gangly limbs askew, and smoothed her yellow dress down the front. "Bye, Mr. Shay. Bye, Ethan Charlie Harper. I'll see you soon!"
Her final word became a single-note melody as she swept out the door, a tumbling breeze in the stagnant heat. Ethan stared after her, blinking in confusion. He looked at his uncle, who shrugged as he watched the redhead disappear around the corner of the building.
"What can I tell you?" he said. "That's Juniper Jones."