I remember the first time I ever met Reeve. It was back when our house was being built. Nadia was little then. I was seven. I never saw the house that used to be there. Just pictures of it. It was a two-story house with a wraparound front porch, decorative shutters, and a big iron weather vane. It wasn’t at all my parents’ style. But my mom was set on the spot. It was a large plot, two acres, with a perfect view of the sea. The man who lived there wasn’t even planning to sell, but Dad had a lawyer send him a letter and he offered a ton of money.
The day after Dad and Mom signed the papers, they had the house bulldozed.
This was back when White Haven wasn’t all megamansions. I mean, the houses were definitely big, but I don’t remember many of them having in-ground pools or elevators or five-car garages. It was more about the land. There was a lot of space between the houses, privacy, and they really did have the best views on the whole island. I guess in that way it was destined to end up the way it did. Owned by rich people.
Anyway, since my mom was the one who worked on the plans, she liked to visit the site and see how things were progressing.
One time she took Nadia and me with her.
When we got to the site, they’d poured the concrete foundation and had started framing out the rooms with two-by-fours. There were at least ten pickup trucks parked on the lawn and one big yellow dump truck.
“Oh good Lord,” Mom muttered. “We’ll have to resod the whole front lawn.”
I remember being totally amazed by how big our house was going to be. We’d only ever lived in apartments. Granted, they were luxury apartments, but you still had people living right on the other side of your walls. This house was humongous.
There were a bunch of workmen milling around. They all seemed to have big round stomachs. I held Nadia’s hand and stood close to my mom, while she talked to one of the contractors. Even though it was hot out, Mom wore a black suit and heels, and she kept her sunglasses on even when we were inside the house.
She was arguing about the staircase. She kept pointing to her plans, telling him he needed to follow her directions or else she’d hire another crew. The man scoffed. “We’re the only crew on the island.” My mom said, “I’ll send them in on the ferry and rent them a house.” And that basically shut him up.
While my mom was getting stern with him, he kept looking down at me and Nadia. I think he didn’t like being yelled at by a lady, and especially not in front of children.
And then, suddenly, I felt a big slap on my back.
“Tag!”
I spun around. There was a boy a little taller than me, with a big smile that showed nearly all his teeth, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.
“Reeve!” the man yelled. “I told you to stay put in my truck.”
“You have children running around this work zone?” my mom said, exasperated.
“He was supposed to be at football camp, but my wife apparently wrote the wrong date on the calendar. And she’s away visiting her sister, so . . . I did what I had to do.”
Reeve blinked at me a few times. Then he slapped my arm and said, “Tag,” again. And then he added, “You’re it,” and said the words slowly, as if I didn’t understand English.
“I know how to play tag,” I said, as mean as I could. I hated when people did that, assumed that because I was Asian, I didn’t know English. It drove me crazy.
“Doesn’t seem like it.” He hustled backward away from me.
I dropped Nadia’s hand and sprinted after him.
Mom and the man shouted after us, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to catch him so badly.
Though the man had said Reeve wasn’t usually on site, he sure whipped around through my house like he’d been there before. He knew all these places to twist and turn. He jumped over a pile of wood, ducked under two sawhorses. He was quick, but I was too. I would have been faster if I hadn’t had on dress shoes.
He was almost in my reach when he twisted into a door frame. At the very last second it was like he changed his mind, he didn’t want to go through. But I was already on top of him. I crashed into him and tagged him as hard as I could, and he went flying into the room, skidding across the floor.
It was freshly poured wet concrete. He left the craziest skid mark.
I gasped.
“Damn it, Reeve!”
I turned around, and there was Reeve’s dad, red in the face. He stepped into the room, big boot prints on the concrete. I guess he didn’t care about ruining it, since Reeve had already taken care of that. He picked Reeve up by the back of his shirt, like cats do to their babies. Only he wasn’t gentle. He looked like he was going to kill Reeve. And Reeve looked scared. His whole face changed.
My voice came out in a squeak. “I—It’s my—”
It was my fault, I’d pushed him, but Reeve didn’t let me say it.
“Sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
Mom and Nadia came up then, and they gasped too.
Reeve’s dad, seeing them, set Reeve down. “We’ll fix this right up—no charge, of course.” He glared down at Reeve. “Get in the truck. Now,” he said through gritted teeth.
I felt so bad. Mom put me and Nadia in the car. As we drove away, I saw Reeve sitting in the bed of his dad’s truck, like he’d been told. He didn’t look scared anymore.
He grinned at me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Christmas morning, my plan was to wake up early and make pancakes for everybody. But I stay up late watching A Christmas Story with Pat the night before, so I end up oversleeping. It’s after ten by the time I finally get out of bed.
I put my grubby terry-cloth robe on over my T-shirt and trudge over to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, and I’m surprised to see Dad and Pat at the kitchen table. Pat’s got his head bent over a bowl of leftover soup, and Dad’s drinking coffee. “Merry Christmas, DeBrassios,” I say, my voice scratchy from sleep. “I was going to get up early and make pancakes, but—”
“But you’re a lazy little shit?” Pat finishes, slurping his soup. I grin and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Like my big brudder.” I take my coffee into the family room and turn on the Christmas tree lights. It’s bare under the tree. We already did presents last night, as is the DeBrassio tradition. I got my dad a new fishing pole I’d been saving up for, and I got Pat a vintage Italian motocross decal off the Internet from some guy. My dad gave me a hundred-dollar-bill, and Pat said he’d give me my gift later. Like hell. Pat’s all about rain-checking gifts.
