The First Last Day (2 page)

I'd e-mailed and texted her a few times after she left for camp but never got any answer. I figured she'd moved on—like everyone else.

A
rock I'd found on the boardwalk flew from my pocket when I tossed my shorts on the bed. I picked it up and traced the outline of a fish skeleton with my fingernail. This one was a beauty—definitely worthy of a drawing. I knew Mom would never let me keep all twenty-six fossils I'd collected, so I'd gotten into the habit of sketching them—along with everything else I couldn't keep. No matter how many times we moved, it was never easy to leave so many things behind.

After showering and throwing on a pair of shorts
and my new
DON'T WORRY, I'M AN ARTIST
T-shirt that Mom bought me, I headed to the living room to show her. Dad was working at his desk. “Where's Mom?”

“Last time I checked, she went to take a nap,” he said without looking up.

Mom never used to sleep in the daytime, but suddenly she was napping every day. She said it was because of the heat.

“How's the research going?” I asked.

“Great,” Dad answered, changing to his Professor Adams voice. “This article on Einstein is fascinating. Did you know—”

Before he could finish, Mom burst in from the porch. “What do you think?” she asked, holding a box filled with three small clay pots. “Will these be okay on the ride home?”

I glanced at the carton. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I almost forgot about these seeds G-Mags gave me. She said if I plant them now, I'll have a garden of herbs by the fall.”

Mom had been acting weird all summer. One minute she forgot things and the next she acted like she was
on some deadline. She put the box down. “Did I hear that you and Kevin have a date to go to Atlantic City?”

“It's not a date!” I said, louder than I wanted to. “The Damicos are here to take Kevin home tomorrow. The four of us are going to Atlantic City.” Did Mom think I
liked
Kevin? The way Abbey told me she
like
liked that eighth grader who rapped at the school talent show?

Did I?

“I didn't mean that kind of date,” Mom said.

I felt my face flush as a horn blasted from the driveway.

Mom reached for the fruit bowl on the counter. “You should take a healthy snack with you,” she said, tossing a shiny, red apple my way.

It hit my hand and fell to the floor. I grabbed the apple and threw it back to her. All summer long, she'd been obsessed with eating healthy snacks. It wasn't like she used to let me eat Cheez Doodles and M&M's all the time. But she'd suddenly gone all health foodie. The week before, she'd tried to make Dad and me eat chips made out of some dark green leaves. (I wouldn't recommend them.)

I patted my backpack and told Mom I had enough money for food.

“Be careful,” Dad said as I raced toward the door.

“And save some of that energy for packing,” Mom added. “I'll need your help.”

“Okay,” I yelled back. But I couldn't help wondering what was up with Mom. Since when did she need my help doing anything?

P
romise me you'll text every half hour,” Mrs. Damico said as we stood in the middle of the hotel lobby. “And don't go outside.” She's a behavior specialist in middle school, so she's really good at rule making. Once she finished her list of dos and don'ts, she took off with Kevin's dad toward the casino.

To our left, people sat on stools in front of slot machines, hypnotized. Kevin pulled out his camera. Immediately, a stern-faced security guard barked, “No filming!”

Kevin shoved the camera into his backpack. “That footage would have been perfect.”

“For what?”

“
Vampire Cows Versus Zombies
. Genius, huh?”

I was about to agree when I spotted a woman in flowered pants walking up to an empty slot machine. She pulled a lever and, suddenly, bells and lights went off. “Look at that,” I said. “She won on her first try.”

“It's probably her first try at
that
machine,” Kevin said. “G-Mags says most people put more money into the casino than they'll ever take out of it.”

“Then why do they do it?”

“I guess it's fun, but it sure seems boring to me.” Kevin pointed to a giant neon taco. “Hey, that place looks good.” He pulled out his camera to get a quick shot of the neon sign.

“Don't tell me,” I said.
“Attack of the Killer Tacos.”

Kevin tucked the camera back into his bag. “It's like you're reading my mind.”

A few minutes later, we were seated at a table, looking at pictures of burritos and beans with melted cheese. “Can you believe this is our last dinner together?” I asked.

“It's only three thirty,” Kevin said. “G-Mags is making ragout tonight. You're invited.”

“It's not about the food. It's . . .”

Before I could finish, Kevin had peeled the paper end off his straw and stuck the plastic in his mouth. He blew the wrapper across the table, missing me by a couple of inches. I turned just in time to see the man behind me as he twisted to find out what hit him.

With his black hair, pale skin, and dark suit, the guy looked like he'd never been out in the sun. I leaned toward Kevin and whispered, “He could play a vampire in your movie.”

Kevin grinned as our server approached us. Her long blond hair hung in curls, and her lips were flamingo pink.

I ordered tacos, and Kevin asked for a chicken quesadilla. When the waitress left, I eased into another conversation about staying in touch after summer. I may have been shorter and younger than a lot of seventh graders, but I knew enough not to come right out and ask someone if they'd always be your friend. That definitely would have bought me a seat on the train to Nerd Town.

I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. “Don't you wish summer would never end?”

“It'll be tough to go back to school,” Kevin said. “But it'll be great to start working on my movie. My mom and dad are getting me new computer software for my thirteenth birthday, and . . . I'll get to see Michael. How about you?” he asked. “You must be looking forward to something.”

“I guess . . . private art classes with my new teacher. That'll be fun.”

“You and Michael would really get along,” Kevin said. “He's an amazing artist—just like you are. He's always painting or sketch—” Kevin stopped and got this weird look on his face, like he was confused or maybe mad about something.

“What is it?” I asked. “What did I do?”

“It's not you,” he whispered. “It's that man behind you. He's been listening to our conversation. Now he's bending down toward the floor.”

“Maybe he's still trying to figure out what hit him.” I leaned over so I could find the straw paper before the man did, but Kevin shook his head and made a scary face. “Not yet,” he mouthed.

Soon the scrape of the man's chair sounded from behind me. He glanced our way before passing us, swinging a large briefcase. “Maybe he's a writer,” I whispered. “My mom says writers like to eavesdrop on people's conversations to get material for their novels.”

Kevin got a familiar gleam in his eyes, the one he'd get when he thought of a joke or a pun. “He probably writes under the name I. M. Nosy.”

I looked at the man again. “More like I. M. Creepy.”

C
'mon, let's explore the hotel,” Kevin said, heading toward a row of stores.

We looked in each of the shops, which all sold the same things: T-shirts, tiny glasses, mugs, and anything else big enough for the phrase
I
ATLANTIC CITY
. In one store, Kevin picked up a box of saltwater taffy. “My treat,” he offered.

I bared my braces at him. “Remember these. If I break a bracket, I lose my chance for a prize at the orthodontist.”

“Right. Sorry. I forgot you have the diet of an
eighty-year-old. Maybe we can find you some souvenir soup or applesauce.”

“Thanks a lot.” I pivoted with pretend anger and left the shop. When I turned back to make sure Kevin was behind me, I spotted a familiar briefcase going around a corner. “Was that the writer again?”

“Maybe he's following us,” Kevin said.

“Then why is he walking away?”

“Maybe that's how good spies follow people.” Kevin rubbed his chin with exaggeration. “Very tricky.”

I forgot about the man when a voice from a nearby shop sang out, “Voilà!” I gestured for Kevin to follow me toward a group gathered in front of Marty's Magic Shop. We were just in time to watch a guy, with a top hat and a black mustache curled up at the sides, pull a coin from behind an old man's ear.

Kevin wrinkled his brow. “You don't believe in magic, do you?”

“I know they're really tricks,” I said. “But I can never figure them out. So, to me, it's magic.”

“I guess.”

A guy I assumed was Marty held up a deck of cards and asked a little girl to pick one. Her tiny fingers
loosened a card wedged in the middle of the pack. She yanked it out, flattened it to her chest, and then peeked at it.

Marty instructed her to put it back into the deck. He shuffled the cards, held the pack in the air, and bellowed, “I will make the card that you picked rise from the pack.” Slowly, the queen of hearts grew from the middle of the deck. “Was that your card?” Marty asked.

The girl's eyes widened as she nodded
yes
. The crowd gasped in amazement.

“He switched the cards,” Kevin murmured. “I didn't see it, but I know he did.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Marty shouted as he took an exaggerated bow. “And now I have an even more mysterious trick: it's called the Vanishing Silk.” He displayed his bare arms. “You see I have no sleeves in which to hide anything.” He held up a red scarf with one hand and pointed to Kevin with the other. “You!” he shouted.

Everyone turned as Kevin put his finger to his chest and mouthed, “Me?”

“Yes, you seem doubtful,” Marty said. “Do you
believe I can make this silk kerchief disappear?”

Kevin shrugged.

Marty turned back to the crowd and announced, “To the disbelievers like this young man here, I say . . .
Watch. Carefully
.”

Kevin whispered in my ear, “I wish there really was such a thing as magic, so I could make Marty disappear.”

I bit my upper lip to keep from laughing as Marty made a fist with one hand and stuffed the scarf into it. Waving his free hand over the fist, he yelled, “Voilà!” In an instant, he opened both hands wide. The scarf was gone!

I elbowed Kevin. “How do you think he did that?”

Kevin's eyes became suspicious slits. “I don't know, but I know it's not magic.”

All of a sudden, Marty headed toward me. The crowd parted. I froze.

He reached behind me, toward my backpack, and shouted, “Aha!” He flourished the scarf in the air and exclaimed, “
You
stole it!”

A wave of whispers made its way across the room.
A flush crept up my neck. How had he done that?

Marty looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. He used his free hand to twirl his mustache and then turned away, shouting, “All magic tricks are available for purchase!”

Kevin shook his head. “I still don't believe in magic.”

O
kay,” Kevin said. “We've eaten, watched people gamble, seen a magic show, and we still have more than an hour before we have to meet my parents. What should we do?”

“Hmm. Eating. Shopping. Gambling. That's about all there is.”

“Wait a minute,” Kevin said, pointing toward some glass doors. “A windmill! There's a miniature golf course across the boardwalk. Are you up for a game?”

“Sure.”

“Stay here,” he said. “My mom's not answering her cell. I'll
find her and ask if it's okay if we go outside.”

While he was gone, I studied the people walking along the boardwalk. I was deep in thought when I felt my backpack being jostled. Startled, I turned to find Kevin with a big smile on his face. “Did I scare you?”

“No. What were you doing?”

“Your backpack was open. I was zipping it up.”

“How did that happen?”

Kevin wiggled his fingers and made a spooky noise. “Maybe it was magic.”

“I know there's no such thing as magic.”

“Unless you count my amazing mini-golf skills.”

“I'm sure.”

“You doubt me? Well, get ready for some major mini-golf butt kicking!”

At the first hole, the Mad Hatter, the object was to get the ball into a large hat. Kevin got the ball in with one swing. It took me three. At the second hole, Jack and Jill, the ball had to go over a small hill. “Only three tries!” Kevin shouted. It took me six.