Island by Peter Lerangis

1
    H E WAS STARING AT me.
    Well, not all the time.
    But whenever I would look at him, our eyes would meet.
    It wasn’t like in that old movie Doctor Zhivago. You know, when the girl and guy spot each other on a crowded trolley and — dzzzzt — cut to the sparks on the overhead electric wire. That’s a cool scene.
    This was creepy.
    He was creepy.
    I wasn’t sure why.
    He didn’t skulk around or drool. He didn’t have hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, or pale gray skin.
    He was tanned and healthy looking. He had a jet-black ponytail, frizzed from the humidity and salt water. He wore navy pants and a white shirt. Just like all the other bus-people at the Nesconset Yacht Club.
    But something was off.
    First of all, his shoes were battered and way too big, as if they’d been picked out of the trash. But that wasn’t it, either.
    It was the body language.
    Awkward. Nervous. Eyes darting around the room. As if he’d forgotten something. Or was afraid he’d be caught.
    Rachel, you’re taking this way too seriously, I told myself.
    I do that sometimes. Ask my little brother, Seth. He says that I think I’m in a movie all day long, turning everyone else into characters. According to my dad, I need to grow up and act my age.
    Seth is right. Dad is wrong. But those are whole other stories.
    All I knew was that this busboy sucked the air out of the room.
    And I was the only one who noticed.
    Everyone else was listening to my boring Uncle Harry, who was giving (as usual) a speech:
    “… And so, in this picturesque village, Nesconset, so near and dear to us all, we celebrate the birthday of a pioneer. A great man. My father, Clem Childers the Third …”
    Clemson, not CLEM. Grandpa Childers hates CLEM. It sounds like Clam. You should know that, Uncle Harry.
    The busboy was staggering across the room now, loaded down by a trayful of dirty plates. You could tell he hadn’t been a busboy very long.
    “… whose life was marked by heroism and loss,” Uncle Harry droned on, “on that tragic day, sixty years ago, when he swam to safety, the only survivor of the tragic boating accident …”
    I nearly threw a jumbo shrimp at him.
    Not in front of all these people, Uncle Harry!
    I couldn’t believe it. Grandpa Childers never talked about that incident. It was a birthday cruise like the one we would soon be boarding. He lost his best friends. He lost his own grandfather.
    I looked around for Grandpa Childers. I spotted him in the doorway that led to the dock. He was ignoring Uncle Harry, doing some magic trick, pulling a kumquat from behind the ear of one of the party guests.
    (That’s Grandpa Childers. Seventy-five going on fifteen.)
    When I looked back, the busboy was out of sight.
    “… and subsequently he dedicated his life to the dreams and aspirations of the children who had lost their lives — and we here are living proof that he succeeded!”
    No. There he is. Heading toward the kitchen. Still struggling with that tray. Heading for … Mr. Havershaw.
    This was amusing.
    But Mr. H was quick. At the last moment he jumped out of the way, and the busboy disappeared through the swinging kitchen door.
    Too bad. A collision would have been just fine.
    Mr. H was at the party to see me. He’s the director of this boarding school called Phelps. My mom and dad want me to go there the year after next, so they invited him.
    My mom and dad are impossible. I’m not even in eighth grade yet, and they already have my whole life planned out — prep school, Yale, then some career where you shout into a phone, networking all day. That’s what they do best. They network at the beach. They network over breakfast. (And they tell me I spend too much time on the phone. Ha!) I once told Dad he should have his cell phone grafted to his ear, but he didn’t find it amusing.
    I mean, I should have been having fun. School was out. It was a gorgeous July day. But I was dressed in heavy, stiff clothes, sweating like a pig and worrying about my