Page 54 of A Pack of Pumpkins
I nod. That’s a good point.
“Like a picnic on the beach type thing?” I suggest.
He makes a so-so gesture. “Kind of cold for that. Maybe combine it with something else she likes?”
He’s leading me to water, letting me technically plan it while nudging me along.
“So… the beach, but not cold?” I think for a bit.
Victor looks up from his computer and rolls his eyes. “There’s this thing with wood and smoke that generally gives off warmth.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. No more. I can take it from here.”
He smirks and starts typing again. I watch him for a while, weighing whether to broach the same subject again and risk another confrontation.
“Just spit it out,” he sighs, clearly sensing my indecision.
“Look, I just want to know, are you ever going to try with Clara? Or are you really going to out-and-out reject her?”
His expression goes blank for a moment before he clenches his jaw, sighs, and admits, in a defeated voice I hate, “I don’t know.” I raise my hands, but he glares at me. “I’ve got nothing else for you right now, Dag.”
He gestures toward the door and starts typing again, leaving no room for me to sign anything else.
I reluctantly walk out, glancing back one more time before I shut it. He’s staring at his screen, but his eyes are far away, thinking. My brother may not have an answer for me now but I know he’s already halfway there.
Clara
Daganhasbeenmysteriousall day. Usually, we practice signing, talk about our days, walk along the beach. Not only did we not speak today, but when I tried to go for a walk, I was all but forbidden. Now it’s dark, I’m tired, and no courting date has happened. Which is fine, but I wish I hadn’t been strung along all day.
So when Dagan finally appears, I’m not exactly in a courting mood.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready for what? You haven’t told me anything,” I remind him signing and speaking aloud, my tone edging into indignation. He frowns, and I instantly feel bad. I don’t usually snap at people.
"Mine. I’m sorry. I didn’t really communicate this very well, did I?" he signs.
“No—no. I’m sorry. That was snippy of me,” I sign.
He smiles, but signs again, "You were right, though. I’ll try to communicate plans better next time. Are you still up for a date? We can try again tomorrow or this weekend."
I do want to go. I loop my arm through his and let him lead me out to the back porch. Twinkle lights illuminate a path from the stairs down to the beach. Dagan wraps a flannel-patterned blanket shawl around my shoulders. It’s soft and perfect in the crisp night air.
A full moon shines down on the water, casting an orangish glow across the surface. Halfway down the wooden steps, I see it—a bonfire on the beach. A wicker egg loveseat faces the fire and the still lake.
Once we reach the sand, I notice the table beside it. It’s loaded with everything anyone could want for s’mores. Different types of chocolates, cinnamon-sugar and original graham crackers, multicolored marshmallows, and bowls full of treats for dipping like sparkling sugar, Oreo crumbles, and sprinkles.
A squeal of delight slips out before I can stop it. Dagan smiles down at me, and I rise on my toes to kiss his chin. He leans down, brushing his cheek along mine, scent-marking me. I perfume instantly so that the smell of apple pie mixes with campfire smoke. Dagan’s eyes flicker, but he only leans over to hand me a roasting stick and guide me toward the table.
I choose the prettiest marshmallows—pink and blue—and roast them until they’re golden. Dagan tries, but his immediately catch fire. He scowls at the blackened husks until he catches me giggling, then makes a s’more out of them anyway.
We settle into the loveseat, watching the lake through the flicker of the fire in comfortable silence.
"Before you knew the house was haunted, you already owned the Ouija board and tarot cards. You have crystals and dream catchers. I’m glad you came prepared—but what got you into all of this?"he signs.
I smile overly proud of myself that I got most of the signs right away and inferred the rest. I sign back and I'm sure I get some of the words wrong and I'm so slow but he seems to be getting the point, "Honestly, my mom was into it a lot. When she died, I kept a lot of her things—tarot cards, Ouija boards. It made me feel connected. But the older I got, the more it meant to me."
He nods."Me and Victor’s mom passed when we were young too. Car accident."
