The Six Rules of Maybe

People coming and then leaving. But there were always those few who would look around at the beauty of what we had and who would decide to stay always.
    “I’ve got an idea,” Mom said. She had gotten a little too much sun the day before, and her shoulders were the kind of pink that stings a little.
    “What kind of an idea?” I said. The ferry was getting smaller and smaller, almost toy boat–size. Seagulls were standing around looking aloof or were busy picking at dropped french fries or cigarette butts. The waters of the Sound were laid out in front of us, glittery in a way that was both mischievous and knowing. Mom looked a little that way herself.
    “This is going to sound crazy, but I’ve been giving it some thought.” She stopped, as if she’d told me already and was waiting for my reaction. I wondered if this was the sort of news that people in the movies would have to sit down for.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “I thought we could visit the Martinellis in Africa. The two of us.”
    I wanted to laugh. I did laugh. The thought of Mom and me in Africa seemed as silly as the idea of Mr. and Mrs. Martinelli there.
    “I’m not kidding,” she said.
    I thought about it, but I could only bring up some image of Mom and me in twin safari hats riding camels, which wasn’t even the right country.
    “Listen, Scarlet. It’d be good for us. I’ve been here since I was a girl. I’ve spent my whole life here. I’ve got money saved. I’ve wished for things and never really had the chance… . It’s time to stop dreaming and do something about it. You’ve got to know what you want, then … go.”
    I remembered the rule, number two. The paper was folded in my pocket. I had kept it near me since Hayden had put it in my hand. I remembered the last rule, too. Rule six. You let go, and then you start again.
    I changed the image in my mind—Mom and me, in our regular clothes, walking down the wide shiny floor of an airport, boarding a huge plane that would take us somewhere with different smells and sounds and sights. Real postcards to Clive Weaver this time. I would need to read up on the Ivory Coast.
    “Okay,” I said. I smiled.
    “I really want to do this, Scarlet,” she said. “I always talk about it… .”
    “So now we stop doing what we’ve always done,” I said.
    The frame had been built for the Saint Georges’ garage, and the smell of sweet fresh-cut wood filled our street. The sounds of the construction workers’ radio, too. Well, I keep on thinkin’ ’bout you, sister golden hair surprise… . The motorcyclist next door was named Dennis, and Jeffrey and Jacob followed him around like he was God. It reminded me of the time the guy from the Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia, came to the island, and all of the dads started wearing tie-dye and hanging around Hank’s—where Garcia had eaten lunch once—grabbing each other’s arms like fourteen-year-old girls whenever they saw him around town. Jacob found one of Ally Pete-Robbins’s bandannas and wore it tied around his head like Dennis did, and Jeffrey tied a shoelace around his neck with a silver gum wrapper hanging from it in some lame attempt to replicate the leather strand with a metal medallion that Dennis wore. I took their picture, arms around each other’s shoulders like tough guys, hung it on my wall with the others.
    Nicole called me again, and I answered.
    “I’m really sorry, Scarlet,” she said. “I was a shitty friend.”
    “I’m sorry too.”
    “I was wrong about Jesse.”
    “Maybe we can start over,” I said.
    “I hope so.”
    “I cut my bangs too short a full month ago, and they still look horrible,” I said.
    “You told me that cutting your own bangs was an act of self-loathing.”
    “I did?”
    “I’m sure they look way better than you think. You’ve got great hair, no matter what,” she said.
    “I’m going to stop wearing the bag, then.”
    “I’ve hated it without you,” Nicole said. “Things are going to be different from now on.” This was how it felt when you didn’t try so hard. When you didn’t control everything. Sometimes maybe it meant people came to you. It wasn’t only Nicole’s fault that she had taken and taken. It was mine that I hadn’t stopped it. I was the willing hostage, the same as Fiona Saint George.
    At the end of August, Fiona Saint George left for school, giving me a shy wave through the car window. I heard Kevin Frink was moving away to be with his father somewhere in Florida