D. MacHale - SYLO

A man was sitting on the float wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a worn Sox cap, working on a lobster trap. The place was classic Maine, like you’d see on a postcard.

Tori got off the scooter and strode toward the house.

“Wait here,” she commanded. She climbed the porch and went right into the house.

I wasn’t about to sit there like some barnacle, so I got off the scooter, dropped my gym bag, and followed. The place was old, but well taken care of. Across from the house was a gray barn that was nearly as big as the house and just as weathered. The expanse between buildings was nothing but hard-packed sand with sprouts of sea grass poking through everywhere. I walked onto the porch but rather than knock on the door, I rounded the house on the porch until I was on the pond side.

Tori had gone through the building and out the back door. She strode quickly across the yard, headed for the dock. It was low tide so the ramp at the end pitched down at a sharp angle. The pond must have been deep because even at low tide the lobster boats were floating. They looked to be twin thirty-five-foot Duffys. Or maybe Beals. Both had white hulls. One had a navy blue wheelhouse; the other was painted bright red. The red boat’s name was painted on the bow in fancy, scrolling letters: Tori Tickle .

Cute.

The blue boat looked to be older. The paint on the white hull was yellowed with age. It was probably the backup vessel. Its name: Patricia.

The guy on the float must have been Tori’s dad because she went right up to him and gave him a big hug. It was the same guy she’d been with when she made the lobster delivery to Lesser’s Fish Market. It felt like a hundred years had gone by since then. I never met the guy but I must have seen him around because he looked familiar.

I had no idea where her mother might be.

Though Quinn and I had spent the summer working on a lobster boat, I didn’t know much about the business end of lobstering. But I knew enough to understand that the only way a lobsterman makes money is by dropping traps and hauling up lobsters. The quarantine was keeping the lobster boats at their docks, which meant none of these guys could work. There was nothing good about this quarantine.

Tori said something to her dad and playfully pushed his cap down over his eyes. It was nice to see that she wasn’t cold toward everybody. At least she liked her father. When she started back toward me, I quickly shot around the porch and went to the scooter. No sooner did I sit down than the front door of the house opened and Tori came out.

“This place is like…classic,” I said. “Where’s the closest house?”

“I told you to wait,” Tori scolded.

Busted.

“I was just looking around,” I replied. “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gotta be tough,” I said. “Not being able to work his traps.”

“You think?” she snapped angrily, as if I had insulted her.

“Whoa, easy. Just making conversation,” I said defensively. “I work with my dad too.”

“Let’s go,” she said and walked toward the barn.

“Go? We just got here.”

She held up her hand to show me a key on a ring.

“We’re not there yet,” she explained.

Tori opened the barn door and I was hit with the distinct smell of horse.

“You can ride, right?” she asked.

The truth was I had been on horseback a couple of times but to say I could ride was a stretch.

“Sure,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

“Don’t sweat it,” she assured me. “It’s an easy ride, but we can’t take the scooter.”

Made sense, but it didn’t make me any less nervous. If Tori rode horses the way she drove her scooter, I was in trouble.

Tori quickly and expertly saddled two beautiful, golden palominos. It made me think of Quinn’s theory about people and knots. I wondered if the same applied to saddling horses because Tori definitely knew what she was doing.

She handed me the bridle of one, then led the other out of the barn.

“Does he have a name?” I called.

“It’s a she,” she replied.

Oh.

“Then what’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

Tori was starting to annoy me. I looked up into the big brown eyes of the horse that I was about to trust with my life. She looked harmless enough.

“Are we cool?” I asked her.

The horse blinked. I hoped that meant we were cool.

“I gotta call you something so how about…Lassie?”

The horse blinked again. I took that as a yes and led her out of the barn.

Tori was already mounted and waiting. With only a minor amount of awkward struggling, I managed to get my foot into the stirrup and hoist myself aboard.

“Hi-ho Silver,” I said with a smile.

Tori didn’t think that was funny and/or charming. She reined her horse around and started off. With a small kick, Lassie and I followed. Seconds later we were bouncing back along her driveway the way we had come. Lassie was a calm old girl, which was fine by me. Tori led us back toward the highway, but before we reached the main road, we turned onto another sandy road that I hadn’t seen on the way in. This one was less used and the sand was soft, which was why the scooter wouldn’t have worked. The road traveled roughly parallel to the highway while gradually moving closer to the shore.

I trotted up to Tori and we walked side by side.

“You going to tell me what this is all about?” I asked.

“You’ll see when we get there. It isn’t far.”

We walked along in silence, which was making me crazy.

“You know, I’ve known you for four years and I don’t—”

“Five,” she corrected. “We’ve been in school together for five years.”

Oh. That was interesting. I didn’t even think I was on her radar.

“Okay, five years, and all I know about you is that you work with your father and don’t talk much.”

I wasn’t sure if Tori was going to say anything and was about to give up trying to draw her out when she finally spoke.

“That’s all there is to know,” she said flatly. “That’s the trouble with this island.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Don’t you ever get tired of living on a rock?” she asked.

“You mean Pemberwick? Uh, no. I kind of like it here.”

“Well, good for you.”

“That means you don’t?” I asked.

Tori gritted her teeth. She obviously wasn’t used to talking about herself. Or about anything.

“My father works hard,” she said. “He drops traps, pulls out spiders, drops more traps, and argues over prices. That’s his life. He’s a good guy. He deserves more than a bad back and a house that’s falling down.”

“Is that what he thinks?” I asked.

“No, but this is all he knows.”

“What about your mom?”

Tori’s expression turned dark.

“Sorry,” I said. “Don’t mean to be nosy.”

“She left when I was three,” Tori said, suddenly cold. Colder than before. “Never even said goodbye. I’m not sure if I should hate her for bailing on us, or envy her for escaping. I guess maybe I’m more like her than like my dad.”

“That sucks. Where does she live now?”

“I have no idea,” she said with no emotion, as if she couldn’t have cared less. Or at least acting as though she didn’t care.

I was beginning to get the picture of why Tori was so closed up…and hated Pemberwick.

“I wouldn’t do what she did to my dad,” she added. “So maybe I’m not exactly like her. But I wouldn’t hate it if we moved somewhere else and started over.”

“You sound like Quinn,” I said. “He’s ready to blast out of here the first chance he gets.”

“And you’re not?” Tori asked.