I checked my wallet and figured that I’d have enough for some dinner and ice cream, but not much after that. Definitely not enough for more pictures. I realized this when I was half-in, half-out of the front door. Uncle Kevin helped me through the door and reminded me of the curfew: eleven sharp.

I protested that I didn’t have a watch. “Just use the clock in the park. It’s on the monument. You can’t miss it.” Actually, maybe you can, I thought. I had forgotten about it until now. “Or just ask your friends. Kirandra probably has a watch.” Did he mean that she was more responsible or something else? The confusion must have shown on my face, because he finished pushing me out the door and reminded me, “Eleven PM!”

As I started walking, my thoughts returned to money. I could make it through tonight ok, but what about after that? What would I do? I sighed and tried not to think about. Tonight was going to be fun, and I was already excited about it. I could think about money later.

As I flipped through them, I realized that there weren’t any people in them. Lots of strange angles, some cool devices from where Uncle Kevin worked, and the sunset on my first day here. It felt empty, like I had just captured the outside of things but I was missing the inside. Before I left, I was going to take pictures of — people. Friends wasn’t exactly right, but I wanted to remember them: Kirandra, J, Uncle Kevin — everyone. It would be a lot better than forgetting, like I had never been here at all.

After breakfast, I scanned Uncle Kevin’s note and remembered the discussion that we had last night. Today would be a day of cleaning the vinyl siding on either side of the house, outside. The job required a pressure washer and he didn’t own one. Fortunately, he had hooked me up with someone who did. “Go talk to the Martins. They’re three houses down on the right. They know you’re coming.” The note reminded me of the water-to-bleach ratio that the machine needed.

I lazed around a bit before I took a shower and got some clothes on. Part of me thought about what would happen if I just didn’t do the job at all. The images that came to mind convinced me that was a bad idea: getting grounded by my uncle, being shipped on a plane home, having my parents keep an eye on me no matter what I did after that. I did call J, though, to see what he was up to. His mom said that he was over with friends playing Zombie Mayhem Twelve. “It’s the Thursday fragfest,” she said. I got the impression that she played the game herself, and that she was pretty good.

I made my way over to the Martin’s around ten. I knocked and Mr. Martin greeted me at the door. He was a spry older man, about the age of my grandfather, I guessed. He wore black-rimmed glasses that barely held back bright dark-blue eyes. That sounds weird, but his eyes were bright even though they were dark in color. His nose seemed too large for his glasses, he had a mop of thinning black hair, and his hands were always moving.

I found a scribbled note attached to the fridge. We were going to a barbeque this evening at the Randall’s across the street. They had a bike that Uncle Kevin would talk to them about. “Great,” I said aloud, “except all that’s eight hours away.” The microwave clock seemed to mock me, with neon-red digits reading 9:05.

I spent most of the day just laying around watching TV and eating junk food. When dusk showed up, Uncle Kevin and I got ready and headed across the street to the Randall’s. We brought soda pop and a few bags of chips which I hadn’t touched the whole day. Of course, the skull-and-crossbone notes stuck to them had helped.

We all gathered in the Randall’s backyard, which was spacious without being gigantic, with a back patio to fit. Two tables and plenty of white lawn chairs were scattered across it. The cooker stood in the middle, giving off the delicious smell of barbeque. Someone had set up a game of croquet on the lawn, but there weren’t enough people to play yet.

The Randalls were an older couple, I’d guess in their fifties. They were retired and their children had grown up and moved away. I felt like they pressed me for too much information, but soon other people showed up and I got used to it as everyone else asked me the same questions. It soon dawned on me that there wasn’t anyone there my age. Two couples were in their thirties, another couple around Uncle Kevin’s age brought their eight-year-olds, and Mr. Gene showed up with his walking stick. I played croquet with the eight-year-olds and their parents until the barbeque was ready. Then it was every man for himself, because the aroma of barbeque had made us all hungry.

The chips went really well with the barbeque. They had all kinds of different sauces, but I stayed away from the stuff marked with three x’s. I had just polished off my third plate and was on my way for a fourth when I bumped into a tall blonde girl. She turned to look over her shoulder and said, “Watch it, bub.” Her voice was playful and yet reprimanding. “I’m sorry,” I said, turning to look at her. “I was looking at the food.”

She stood slightly taller than me and was dressed in off-white cotton pants that tied at her ankles, an artsy checkboard top with a name scrawled in red cursive across that I didn’t dare spend much time looking at to figure out what it said. Her blonde hair was feathered and hung down slightly over one of her eyes. Her eyes were sky-blue and I knew, instantly, that she was older than me, smart, and probably in college.

She thought for a moment and then said, “Why? The food’s not that great-looking.” Her voice had this kind of unserious, sly tone to it.

I grinned as I filled my plate. “Ok, you win. The food isn’t supermodel material, but it sure tastes good.” I went to stand away from the cooker and a moment later, she joined me. “So who are you?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

I reached out a hand and then thought better of it. “I’m Chris. Kevin Blythe is my uncle, erm, my cousin. I’m here for the summer.”

She looked down at her hand and thought better of it, too. “I’m Danielle. Danielle Carter. Freshman at Kent State. Nice to meet you.”

I felt a little awed by her, somehow, so I didn’t want to admit I was only a junior. I made a joke out of it instead. “I’m in MacPherson High. Junior. Out-of-state.” Brian’s dad was a college professor back home, so I knew something about all the lingo.

She smiled. “So what do you think of my alma mater?” she asked, unfolding her hands and spreading them wide. “Pretty small, huh?”

“It is smaller than where I’m from,” I said, “but I like it so far.” She was smirking, so I added, “I guess it would be different if I grew up here, though.”

“Uh huh. It is.”

“So is there anything to do around here?”

She stood on her tiptoes for a moment. “You mean besides the library? Not really.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being completely sarcastic on that one, so I decided to find out. “That’s not much. I bet the university library blows it away, though.”

“It does, actually. It’s five stories tall, holds over thirteen-thousand books, and has one of the only remaining copies of — hey, are you laughing at me?”

I blinked, dumbfounded. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Then it hit me — maybe she was pushing me. Still, all I could manage was, “Uhm. No. Actually that’s pretty cool.”

“Mmhmm. You bet it is. I have a part-time job there during school.”

“And in the summer you go to backyard barbeques?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, for the main event I throw pizza dough.”

Then I laughed. “Really? That doesn’t sound intellectual at all.”

“It’s not.” She sighed. “But it pays for college and sometimes I like to rest my brain. I don’t want to burn it out, you know. I might end up like Old Man Simmons.”

I nodded.

“Frankie’s?” I asked. She shook her head.

“The other pizza place — Donatello’s.”

“I haven’t been there yet,” I said. “I’ll have to check it out.”

“You should,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips. “Even though it’s not intellectual.”

I was about to ask her why she thought I was intellectual when Uncle Kevin showed up with the Randalls. A strange uncomfortable silence fell over us all. Danielle looked aggressively bored. Uncle Kevin cleared his throat and said at last, “So everyone under thirty found each other, huh?”

“It wasn’t too hard,” I said, smiling, and trying to lighten the mood.

“True,” said Danielle, with an edge in her voice.

Mr. Randall shifted his warm grey eyes over to me. “Let’s go see that bike.”

Somehow, at that moment, having a bike didn’t seem as cool as it did just an hour before. “Sure,” I said, half-heartedly. By the time we had reached the garage, I was able to collect my thoughts. Was I trying to impress her or something? We were both smart and probably didn’t fit in, but she only talked to me because I was the only person there close to her age. So what did that mean? I took a deep breath. It meant nothing at all.

The bike was a dusty, dirty mountain bike that had belonged to a family friend a few years ago. The bike still worked and most importantly, it wasn’t pink, but black. Mr. Randall offered to let me borrow it for the summer and I agreed without hesitation. After that, we went home for the evening.

* * * * *

Monday’s job was cleaning out the gutters. Uncle Kevin had this weird hook-like tool that was part of a collapsible pole. The hook was an attachment, and there was also a brush, but he had lost the other one. I climbed out the second story windows and sat on the gables, raking out the leaves, pine needles, and the congested crud that had accumulated in the gutters. I wondered when he had last cleaned these? Ten years ago? That job took most of the morning and part of the afternoon.

I also had this long flexible metal wire-like tool that was called a “snake”. Uncle Kevin had told me to thread it up the drainpipes to make sure that they were clear. That took almost an hour because I kept running into things like pinecones and twigs that had been crushed together. But I kept at it and by three, I was done — and exhausted.

Work seemed to pass fairly quickly because I was thinking about Sunday and anticipating checking out Tarrant again on my bike. Sunday was felt like a dream. I hadn’t been to church since last Christmas and it seemed like that was more about Christmas than about church. I didn’t know any of the songs or any of the phrases I was supposed to say, but I did recognize a few people from the barbeque yesterday. Kira and Cutler weren’t there, though. The sermon was interesting. I didn’t agree with everything, but I felt like I was on the edge of something something bigger than myself, something good, really important — and then it was time to go. Most people didn’t look like they had got it and that made me wonder why they went; but some people seemed to shine. I felt small and didn’t think that anyone would understand what I felt. Uncle Kevin didn’t talk much about it, either. I thought a little bit more and somehow I knew that Kira would definitely understand it.

After lunch, I had gone to explore the town. Uncle Kevin told me that most of the stores would be closed on Sunday, but I didn’t mind that (except for the camera store). When we had gone to TOGAC, he took a right from the driveway down to Main Street, and most of the traffic seemed to go that way, too, so I followed suit. Main Street was a wide, two-lane street with a handful of cars every minute or so. Tall oak trees hung over the sidewalks on both sides which gave me plenty of shade, a good thing at one o’clock in the summer. Between the trees other roads branched upwards past old, elegant houses. I took a right and headed into town.

It didn’t take me long to notice the first sign of business — a side-street that led to several warehouses. A small marquee close to the ground listed the businesses, and sure enough, there was Kira’s: Old World Antiques warehouse. I kept pedalling and passed a church on my right with a high white steeple, and then after that, a Hyvee grocery store.

The road split like a claw, into three roads, with one going right, one straight and one diagonally between the two. I went down the diagonal road and found Edwards Photo Hut, closed of course. The store looked like it been built in the 50′s and then remodeled to look even more like a store from back then. The outside walls were painted alternating white and light stripes; double-glass doors opened from the front, and a low flat roof jutted out over the edges of the walls. A simple sign that looked like an old billboard sat on the roof, shouting “Edwards Photo Hut!” There was a drive-through on the side near me, but the windows were tinted, so I couldn’t really see anything inside. Strangely, I felt like I was being watched, so I got back on the bike and kept going.

It turned out that everything in Tarrant was close to everything else. Once I reached the end of the diagonal road, I was downtown. Within a few blocks, I found Frankie’s, city hall, the library, a McDonald’s, the sub shop, and a few unusual stores, a candle shop, a used book store that specialized in military history, and Kira’s antique shop. Its windows were wide like the other stores and I could see all sorts of things inside — even the astrolabe. On the next block over, I found a dark red wooden building with Italian cursive script arching over the door: Donatello’s, the pizza place where Danielle worked.

I cycled back and took a break in the park at the center of town. It was orderly, with stone pathways from each cardinal direction leading through a ring of shrubs, then flowers, and then at the center, simple grass. A few feet from the grasses in the absolute center of the park stood a covered stone pavillion, which housed a lifelike statue of Anthony Tarrant, the town’s founder. A small plaque talked about his role in as an early American mapmaker.

Down the other direction were the elementary/junior high and the high school. Another road sign indicated that Cranston was that way as well. I went just far enough to find the bowling alley and a laundromat, and then I headed back to the town square.

Sitting in the shade of the pavillion, I watched the clouds skate by, covering me with passing shade. I had just explored my own new world and had a mental map of all the places I had only heard of. I couldn’t wait to explore them all. It was getting close to dusk, though, so I decided to go on home. Where was that lake that Kira was talking about, though? I’d ask her about it next time we met.

That was yesterday, and yesterday I decided where I would explore first. I was going to go back to town and get my photos developed. I left a note for Uncle Kevin, picked up the film cannisters, and headed to town.

There was a little more traffic today than yesterday, so I had to pay attention to the stoplights this time. In a few minutes, I was at Edward’s Photo Hut. An “Open” sign was hung diagonally across the door along with a set of tiny bells, so I was in luck.

Inside, it was like the camera shop at the mall, only with a better selection and funky 50′s pictures (of telephone booths crammed with people, space-age cars, and women with tall hairdos) between the displays. They carried a good selection of 35 mm cameras along with the newer digital cameras, printers, and the usual accessories. The lenses and cameras were displayed on grey carpet with spotlights mounted beneath them and track lighting above so you could get a good look at everything. A door led to a darkroom that you could rent by the hour and the mirror in the bathroom was framed by a smiling guy taking a photo of you. It was a funky, but cool place.

In the back a single cash register sat atop a glass display case, and a guy about my own age leaned forward over it. He had black hair like a mop, black-rimmed glasses, seemed to be both laid-back and methodical. He flipped through a photography magazine, analyzing each page, and yet had greeted me when I came in and followed me with his eyes ever since.

I spent a few minutes looking around and then I noticed a sign for developing film and the prices. I felt like my wallet instantly shrunk. That was half of the money mom gave me for the summer! I was about to ask him about the prices when he asked, “You’re Chris, right?”

“Right.” I looked at him closely. No, he wasn’t familiar at all. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jeff. I do LARP with Cutler.”

“Oh ok. I was wondering how you knew me.”

“He told me he’d invited you and what you look like. Do you know who you’re going to play?” He asked, laying aside the magazine.

“No,” I admitted. “Cutler hasn’t told me a whole lot about it yet.”

“Typical J. He never plans.” He shook his head to move some strands of hair out of his eyes. “J and I run it together, so we were thinking you could be one of the princes, distantly related to the current king.” He then told me the whole backstory of the game, which involved court intrigue and diplomacy with foreign nations as well as ocassional large-scale battles. The king had vanished and succession to the throne was up in the air. It sounded fine to me; as long as my character wasn’t the comic relief, I was ok with it.

I asked him to develop my film and handed over two rolls along with half the money in my wallet. He gave me a sidelong glance. “Are you ok? It looks like you have money separation anxiety.”

I grinned. “It was a little more than I’m used to.”

“Yeah,” he said, “sometimes things are a little more expensive out here in the sticks.”

He said that it’d be ready by Wednesday afternoon; before I went I asked him if anyone was here yesterday. I said that I stopped by when I was looking around town and felt like someone was watching me.

He arched his eyebrow and said quietly, “That’s strange.”

“Yeah. It was really strange.”

He didn’t say anything else, and I got the feeling like he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, so I just waved by and said I’d see him Wednesday.

“Thanks! Come again!” he said in a loud, businesslike voice.

The door shut behind me with the jingle of little bells. Now I had two reasons to look forward to Wednesday!