Page 89 of One Last Summer
“That’s a good school,” I said, trying to figure out how to make small talk with a teenager. How the hell did Mack do this? I felt like a robot.
“It’s fine.” The girl shrugged, shifting her scuffed-up black Doc Martens underneath her knees. “I only have one more year, and then I can get out of Boston.”
“College?”
“Yeah,” she said with a nod. “I’m applying early to Brown.”
“Well, I’m actually from Providence originally,” I said. “And I couldn’t wait to get out of there. So I guess we swapped cities. I’m Clara, by the way.”
“Mei,” she said with a quick wave. “I live nearby.” She pointed at the row of townhouses that ran along the edge of the park. “I come here in the morning sometimes, and a few days ago I noticed the loon.”
I scanned the ground near where she sat cross-legged. Beside her were a phone, a notebook, and a small vape pen, and I understood instantly why she was down here by the water at six-thirty in the morning. For a fleeting moment, I recognized everything about her, even though I’d never seen her before in my life.
The need to escape, the itch that came from being this close to the start of adulthood, the childlike wonder that still shared a home alongside her teenage cynicism.
“I like your haircut,” I said. “It’s cool.”
She fingered the choppy edges that stuck out just below her earlobes. “Thanks. I did it myself. My mom hates it.”
“Well, that’s normally a good thing, right?” I asked.
She laughed. “I guess.”
We were quiet for a moment, and in the silence, I noticed the beauty of the gardens around us. Lush greenery, curving, meandering paths, blooming hydrangeas. Even the swan boats, which I’d always written off as cheesy, were lovely up close, delicately carved, and regal in their beauty.
“I haven’t been down here since my boyfriend and I broke up,” I said. “It’s actually kind of pretty.”
“You broke up with someone at the swan boats?” she asked with a hint of incredulity in her measured voice.
“Yeah. I don’t recommend it.”
Then there was a splash in the water, and we both turned to watch the loon, who was craning her sinewy neck as her wings pounded against the water.
My heart thumped with excitement but also worry; it felt like I’d unexpectedly run into an old friend who was now in a very bad place.
“It seems…” I leaned closer to the water, watching its frantic movements. “Like it can’t get out.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I googled it and texted my boss. I guess loons sometimes get stuck in small bodies of water because they need a lot of space to actually fly away, like a plane on a runway. She’s been trying for the last couple of days to take off.”
Worry immediately settled itself in my chest. “What if she it doesn’t figure it out?”
She shrugged, twisting back around to study the bird. “They’ll bring some animal rescue people in to help, move it to a larger lake. But I think it’ll get there on its own. Poor thing just needs some time.”
We stood there quietly, watching it dip its head underneath the water every now and then in between frustrated attempts at flight. Finally, it stilled and floated, giving up on escape for now. But you could see it in the bird’s eyes: She was plotting. She knew it was time to go, now or never.
She just had to figure out how to leave.
38
ALEWIFE’S HEADQUARTERS WERE based out of the second floor of an old mill in the Seaport neighborhood that had—like so many things in this area—been renovated and turned into shiny new offices that still maintained a hint of “character,” a nod to Boston’s never-ending cycle of new things springing up on top of the very old.
The decor was the cool, corporate version of farmhouse chic: Revived wooden floors glimmered, a sparkling relic of centuries past. Giant iron light fixtures hung from high ceilings, looming like thunder clouds over their open floor plan. The bottom floor of the building housed the Alewife tasting room, which had opened last fall to great acclaim.
I paced in their lobby, sipping an Alewife-branded bottle of water their receptionist had handed me when I walked in, fifteen minutes early. My mind should have been focused on the meeting, but all I could think about was the loon stuck in the pond with those swan boats, Mack puttering around the boathouse, Sam nestled under a giant stack of pillows, all my friends together, sipping coffee on the porch of Sunrise.
“Clara!” Amaya breezed through the door with her arms wide, beelining for me as her salmon-colored silk dress moved with her like a second skin. Behind her, assistant Abe lingered like always, double-fisting giant iced coffees.
“I am so sorry I interrupted your time off,” she said, grabbing me by the shoulders with a squeeze. “I hope you know I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t an utter emergency.”
