Out of the Box(3)

“Nah, that’s okay.” I’m willing to try new things this summer, but I draw the line at wearing a full-on costume to the park.

“Suit yourself.” She opens the door, and I step outside and take a breath of cool, salty ocean air.

Jeanette lives on a dead-end street with a tiny park at one end and Beacon Hill Park at the other. Her garden is a riot of blossoms; roses climb up the front of the house and peonies as big as my head crowd the path. I’m so busy looking at the flowers that at first I don’t notice the girl sitting on the steps of the house next door.

“Hey, Sarah,” Jeanette says to her. “It’s folk-dancing night. Want to come?”

I cringe. I should have warned my aunt that no other teenager on the planet would be caught dancing with a bunch of crazy adults in a park, but how was I supposed to know that this girl would be sitting outside tonight?

I was excited when Jeanette told me a girl my age had moved in next door. I’d imagined us becoming friends, but one look at her tells me we’ll never find anything to say to each other. Especially now that she thinks I’m some sort of folk-dancing enthusiast.

Sarah’s obviously not the folk-dancing type. For one thing, she has what I can tell is an expensive haircut. Wisps of black hair frame her face, and her green tank top hugs her in all the places I cover with baggy T-shirts. What gets me most is the huge sunglasses. She looks like a model.

My silly bandanna feels hot and itchy on my head. I prepare myself for her scowl. I’m ready to glare back, link arms with my aunt and sweep us away from rejection.

But Sarah is grinning. She jumps up and grabs the door handle. “I’m there! Just let me tell my dad. Back in a flash.”

I raise my eyebrows.

Jeanette only says, “She hasn’t missed a single Thursday since they moved here last month.”

“Bye!” Sarah calls over her shoulder as she slams out of the house. I’ve already got goose bumps from the ocean breeze, and she’s pulled on a black sweater flecked with silver. I consider running back to get something warmer, but don’t want to draw attention to myself. I’ll warm up as I dance anyway.

We hurry along the street, past old houses with lush gardens and a fancy new place whose entire front yard is paved over with beige bricks. The rich scent of the park reaches my nose, and I smile. It smells like warm earth and happy plants.

Beacon Hill Park is my favorite place in the whole world. I love the creek by my school too, but this park goes for blocks and blocks, with flower gardens, fields, a hill that sweeps down toward the ocean, and even a petting zoo. We cross a little bridge over a brook, and a peacock’s cry slices the evening air. The first time I heard that sound, years ago, I thought someone was being attacked. I’m used to it now. The peacocks are always jumping the fence in the petting zoo and rambling around the park. You can hear them for miles.

“Sounds like George is on the prowl again,” Sarah says as we cross the little stone bridge.

“George?” I ask.

“The peacock. He’s the one that makes the most racket.

The others try, of course, but there’s no comparison.”

Before I can ask how model-girl knows all this, Jeanette answers my question. “Sarah volunteers at the petting zoo. She’s on a first-name basis with all the animals.”

I snort, unable to picture her surrounded by smelly goats or mucking out a pigsty. Sarah catches my smirk before I can wipe it off my face.

“It was my parents’ idea,” she says. “When we moved here, there was only a month of school left. There wasn’t much point going for just a few weeks, so I became a petting-zoo volunteer instead. I like it, actually.”

“Cool,” I say. I mean it. My parents would never let me miss a day of school, never mind a whole month.

“Yeah,” Sarah says, “but it’s not gonna make September any easier. I hate starting all over again.”

“You’ve done it before?” I ask. I never have. Mom moved around a lot when she was little, and she’s always made a big thing of staying in one spot while I grow up.

“Seven times,” Sarah says. “My dad’s a professor. He’s always getting jobs at different universities.”

Seven? “How old are you?” I ask.

“Thirteen,” she says as we come to a clearing in the trees. A handful of adults has already gathered, and their get-ups make my aunt’s outfit look almost conservative. I’m suddenly thankful that Sarah is here, making me stand out less. “I hate it,” she says. “Moving, I mean. I’m glad you’re here for the summer though. At least I’ll have someone my own age to hang out with.”