Page 84 of The Last Thing You Said

“I take it you’re not going to the parade, then?” he asks.

Oh, the parade. Watermelon Days. I’ve never missed a Watermelon Days parade.

The last thing I need today, though, is the too-bright sunshine, the loud marching bands.

“I’m still grounded, remember?”

He doesn’t answer. The game is back on, and I watch it, too, like I used to do when I was a kid. We’d get a pocket-size schedule at the gas station every April and mark the games we wanted to watch. Clay would fish with us, but he hated baseball. Watching the Twins was something special I did with my dad, just the two of us.

“Look,” Dad says after the inning ends, “I talked to Mom and we think that maybe we’ve been too hard on you. We know this is a tough time for you, Lucy, and maybe we shouldn’t have kept you away from your friends. So we’re going to reduce your sentence.”

“Really?” I cry. The sound of my own voice rattles inside my head. This is so backward. He should be adding to my sentence, not eliminating it. But I’ll take it. “I’d hug you, but I don’t think I should move.”

“Don’t screw this up again, Lucy. You’ve done some really stupid things. Knock it off, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

At a commercial break, Dad gets up and goes into the kitchen. He comes back a few minutes later with an ice pack, two small orange pills, a cup of coffee, and a banana.

“This should help,” he says.

My phone buzzes as I swallow the painkillers—Hannah.

Holy shit what got into u last night?

Ha. Too much booze, that’s what.

U know Ben beat Simon to a pulp right n then dumped Dana? Shits getn real babe.

My stomach drops, and I really am going to be sick. I didn’t imagine it, Ben and Simon fighting.

Wait. Ben broke up with Dana?

I’m so tired, so confused, I can’t think about it. Everything is so complicated.

Another buzz: Luuuuuuceeeee r u there?

I text back: Funny story, Dad eased up on me. I’m not grounded anymore.

In seconds: I’m picking u up and we r going to that parade.

Forty-five minutes later, Hannah knocks on the door and lets herself in. I haven’t moved.

“Holy hell, Lucy, it’s stifling in here. And it stinks. Oh, hi, Mr. Meadows.” She grabs my arm, hauls me up, and pushes me toward the stairs. “You, my friend, need a shower.”

I stand under the hot spray and let myself cry—everything that I do remember about last night rushes through my mind. Shots, karaoke, the beach. The replay stops there.

After I’m dressed, I grab my sunglasses from the top of my dresser. The treasure chest is there, Ben’s agate nestled among the stones. I open the lid and roll it between my finger and thumb. I’ve missed the slight weight of it, the only solid, unbreakable thing in my life for so long. I slip it back into my pocket.

Hannah drives us into town to watch the parade in front of the Full Loon, which soft-opened Thursday night. We have to park a few blocks up the hill, and I’m glad that we’re walking on the side of the street opposite Ben’s house. Jane and Tom and Ben sit in lawn chairs at the edge of their yard. My heart pounds. There is an empty chair next to Ben.

Is it for Trixie? She loved Watermelon Days, especially the parade.

I’m socked with a memory. Watermelon Days, three years ago. Trixie and I were thirteen, the first year our parents let us go to the carnival on our own. The sun disappeared behind the trees; we had fistfuls of tickets for rides and games and mini-donuts. The night stretched before us, all twinkling, spinning lights and excitement.