Page 27 of We Fell Apart
“Expand your horizons,” says Brock. He shoves aside the potato chip bags and deals the cards.
The rules become obvious to me pretty quickly. Jacks are wild, no talking, eights reverse play, aces skip the next player’s turn. Say “Have a nice day” when you play a seven.
“You’re freakishly competent,” Brock tells me. “Have you played this before?”
“Nah. But my brain is good like that.”
“I’m so confused,” moans Meer.
“Penalty for talking,” says Brock.
“Matilda talked,” says Meer.
“Penalty to Matilda, too.”
“I’m sorry I told you to shut up,” I say.
“Penalty for talking, again,” says Brock. “But that’s okay.”
—
Later, Meer walksme to the edge of the cliff, near where the staircase leads to the beach.
“You can see Beechwood Island from here,” he says, pointing. “It’s far, but you can. See?”
The setting sun is nearly at the horizon line. I can only make out a vague shape in the distance.
“TheGazettesaid the Sinclairs have a bunch of houses there,” Meer continues, “but the big one, the main house—that’s the one that burned.”
“People died, right?”
“They were a little younger than us.”
“Did you know them?”
“No. Two were in the family, cousins. And one was a friend of theirs. I got the names from the article: Mirren Sheffield, Jonathan Dennis, and Gatwick Patil.” Meer’s somber look changes to mischief. “Brock and I are going over there tonight. And Tatum’s coming, too.”
“To Beechwood Island?”
“Mm-hm. You should come. We have a boat docked in Menemsha.”
“Why?”
“Just to explore. I want to see it. Don’t you? I’ve never seen a burned building.”
“I’ve seen them on TV.”
“I don’t really watch TV. And anyway, it’ll be different in real life.” He turns away from me. “But don’t come if you’re like, scaredor anything.” He says it like a kid in a cartoon, a silly imitation of peer pressure.
Thing is, I am scared. We’d be trespassing on a private island belonging to a powerful rich man, walking around in the ruins of a building where people just died.
But Meer bites his lip when he’s thinking. He didn’t fit in at school. He keeps a sketchbook full of ideas. He has a wildness inside him that doesn’t know where to go, most of the time.
Like me. Like me.
“Count me in,” I say.
“Good,” says Meer. “Meet in the garage at eleven.”
