The Center of Everything (11 page)

Willow and Carter-Ann shoot invisible Spider-Man Donut webs all the way home. “Gotcha, Ruby!” they say. “You're stuck.”

Eventually, Aunt Rachel's driveway fills with cars, and parents and aunts and uncles and cousins fill the picnic table and lawn chairs and shaded spots on the backyard grass. They heap paper plates with burgers and hot dogs and ribs—except for Cousin Fiona, who decided this afternoon after seeing the baby cows in the Fairmont Farms part of the parade that she will become a vegetarian. Her plate is heaped with fruit salad and macaroni salad and garden salad. She is pretending she does not know that the brown bits in the garden salad are bacon. There is no apple crisp.

Every plate is full and everyone is eating, except for Willow and Carter-Ann and a half dozen of Ruby's younger cousins, who are chasing one another around the yard, catching each other in invisible webs.

“Ruby is safe!” yells Willow as she dashes, panting, up to Ruby's chair. “You can't web me now.”

“I can too,” says Cousin Louie.

“Nuh-uh. That's the rule,” Willow says. “Ruby is safe. Aren't you?”

“Are you safe?” Louie looks skeptical.

Willow's face is pink and her hair is curled with sweat. Her eyes plead.

“Of course,” says Ruby.

“Okay. Ruby is safe,” concedes Louie. “But you can only stay at safe for sixty seconds, and then you have to run again. That's the rule too.”

Willow nods. “Thanks, Ruby.”

Ruby pushes a tomato slice around her paper plate.

She thinks about rules.

About supposed to.

About not supposed to.

And about a third possibility. One she has been trying not to think about ever since Gigi died. One that makes her feel as small and lost as she does in her dream. As she did the first time Gigi told her about the swirling centerless space. But now there is no Gigi to find her in it.

What if there is no such thing as supposed to?

Every year, after the cookout, Ruby's family heads for The Hole Shebang. Every year they pack blankets and folding chairs and a cooler of soda and a thermos of hot cocoa for Aunt Lynn, who gets chilly sitting on the ground. Every year Ruby's dad says, “Let's take the scenic route.” And then, every year, they avoid the traffic of downtown Bunning and drive the quieter roads along the edge of town, Ruby's parents in the front seat, Gigi and Ruby buckled up in back, singing Sweet Adelines tunes.

Except this year, of course.

This year Ruby is buckled in her seat, but there is no singing. Ruby leans her head against the window. What if there is no supposed to? What if there is no one way things are meant to be? What if it is all just random and spinny and wild?

They drive past her old school. Past her new school. Past New Hampshire Bank and Trust. Past the cemetery.

Her parents have the radio on WNHB. “The first literary description of something that might be considered donut-like appears in the work of the Ancient Greeks,” explains a pinched-sounding woman.

“That's enough of that.” Ruby's mother turns off the radio. “I heard what you did in the parade,” she says to Ruby. “The silence? For Gigi? That was a nice gesture, sweetie.”

“But nobody got to hear your essay,” says Ruby's dad.

“That's okay.”

Ruby sees her parents glance at each other. “Do you have it with you?” her dad asks. “You could read it to us.”

Her essay cards are folded into her shorts pocket, but Ruby does not feel like reading them. “I'll get carsick,” she says. It is one of her parents' greatest fears that someone will throw up in a Pepperdine Motors vehicle.

“I'll read it, then.” Mom sticks her hand over the seat, palm open, and Ruby drops her cards into it.

Ruby's mother clears her throat. “‘Some say it was destiny,'” she reads, sounding a little like the pinched woman from the radio. “‘A brave sea captain, a freak storm, and a platter of puffy dough balls.'”

Dad chuckles. “Puffy dough balls.”

“‘Donut holes made him famous, but being a sailor' . . . ‘just a big field' . . . Um? Ruby? I think your cards are out of order?” Mom hands the cards back for Ruby to sort out. “Just read it, honey. You won't get sick. —How long does it take to read — a minute, right? That's not very long.”

Ruby shuffles the cards around to their proper places.

“Go on,” says Ruby's dad. “We're listening.”

“‘Some say it was destiny,'” Ruby reads.

 

***

Some say it was destiny. A brave sea captain, a freak storm, and a platter of puffy dough balls.

Donut holes made him famous, but being a sailor was what Captain Bunning loved. When he and his ship grew too old to sail, he didn't know what to do. He dry-docked
Evangeline
and moved from city to city, looking for a place to settle. He thought he'd never find a home on land.

Then he came here. It was just a big field and some woods and not many people, but he was tired of drifting around. He decided to stay. Rather than use trees from the woods, he salvaged beams from his beloved
Evangeline
and built a school.

Then he went traveling again—this time telling everyone he met about the school, the place, and what it would become. People listened and people came and a real town grew.

Maybe it was destiny. Maybe not.

All I know is that Captain Bunning didn't just invent the donut hole, he created a “hole” community.

And I'm glad he did.

***

 

There is a sniffle from the front seat. “Mom? You okay?”

“I'm fine,” says Mom. “Your dad's the crybaby.” It would have sounded like an insult if she hadn't said it so gently.

“Aw, Ruby, you remind me of my mother.” Dad makes a teary smile at her in the rearview mirror. “It's like having a little bit of Gigi there in the back seat.”

It is so weird to see her dad cry. He did on the day Gigi died and at the funeral, but since then he has seemed like exactly the same dad he was before. Busier at work, maybe, but otherwise the same.

“I miss her a lot, Dad,” Ruby says.

“You do, Rubes?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I thought I was the only one. My brothers and sisters, everybody seems normal and busy—but, yeah. I miss her every day. She left a hole . . .” Dad's voice skips in the middle of the word, and Ruby's mom rests a soft hand on his shoulder. “I'm okay, Ruby. Don't worry,” he says.

“I'm not worried.” In fact, Ruby feels better than she has in a while.

The turn signal clicks on, and Ruby's dad pulls into the rec center parking lot. He rolls down his window and waves to a Boy Scout with an orange flag. “Where do you want us?” he asks. His voice has returned to normal; Mom's hand has left his shoulder. It is like the past three minutes never happened. But Ruby knows they did.

 

The Boy Scout waves their car toward another Scout, who waves them toward another, who, by luck or fate or chance or whatever, is standing just two spots away from where Lucy is helping her dads take lawn chairs out of the back of the Okeda Martial Arts pickup truck.

Ruby's dad shuts off the car and unlocks the doors. “Hey, Rubes,” he says. “Maybe later this week we can go to the cemetery together? I'm sure I can sneak away from the show room for a bit.”

“Okay,” Ruby says. She knows saying yes and going to the cemetery will make her dad feel better, but—“Dad? How about we go to the roof, too? Of the dealership?”

“Oh, Ruby. I don't know anything about stars,” he says.

“That's okay,” says Ruby. “I'll teach you.”

Ruby's mom tilts her head in the direction of the Okeda Martial Arts truck. “Did you see Lucy?”

The few times they have argued in the past, Ruby waited for Lucy to calm down and come to her. That's how Ruby knew it was safe to apologize. Then everything would continue exactly as it had before, Luby and Rucy, exactly how it was supposed to be. If she went to Lucy now, who knew what would happen?

“I see her, Mom,” Ruby says.

She unbuckles.

At first it is awkward.

“Hi,” says Ruby. Or maybe it is Lucy. It doesn't matter. One says hi and then the other does. “I—” they both say, and then each waits for the other to finish.

“Lucy,” Mr. Okeda says, “we're going to claim a spot. Are you sitting with the Pepperdines again this year?”

Ruby looks at Lucy. Lucy looks at Ruby. “Yes,” they say.

“Make sure you're with them before it gets dark,” says Mr. Fisch. Lucy's dads head for the rec center soccer field. Ruby and Lucy head in the opposite direction.

There are two playgrounds at the Bunning Recreation Center. One has relatively new equipment that is molded plastic and has no sharp edges or rusty bolts or things you can get your fingers stuck in. That playground is mobbed with little kids and hovering parents. A bit farther back, however, is another playground—smaller and much older, built at a time before parents discovered all the ways a kid could get a concussion. There are no little kids here. No hovering parents. There is a swing set with chains hanging from it but no swings. There is a metal slide, the kind that can burn your legs on a sunny day, and a steel carousel that you can run and push and hop onto and spin.

This is where Ruby and Lucy are headed.

“I should have known you wouldn't be mad at me,” Lucy says, “but I was kind of a jerk.” She keeps talking as they reach the back playground. Reciting, really, as if this is a part she has rehearsed. “I was so stressed out with the play, and I keep messing up all my lines, and I overreacted. Usually, you help with the lines more and I guess I was kind of mad that you kept cutting out on me.”

Ruby sits cross-legged on the carousel, but Lucy cannot sit still. She grabs hold of one of the carousel bars and pushes. “And it's a really big part, you know? And everything depends on me and—”

If you were Ruby Pepperdine, you would be listening to your friend Lucy, but you might be stuck thinking about that third possibility, too. Wondering how, if it were true, a person could find her place in the world. How things wouldn't just be wild and spinny and out of control all the time. You might wonder how anyone was really supposed to figure anything out.

And so, when Lucy says, “. . . and then I find you talking about some secret wish with Nero? You're
supposed
to be my best friend”—you might not be able to stop yourself from saying what you've been thinking all afternoon.

“What if there is no supposed to?”

Which might make Lucy stop talking.

“What?” she might say a moment later. “Of course there is a supposed to. Otherwise people would be, like, stealing and driving a hundred miles an hour and stuff.”

“Those are laws,” Ruby says. “Rules. It's different than friends. Different than most things.” The carousel has stopped now, but Ruby feels like it is still turning underneath her. “I'm not
supposed
to be your best friend. I
am
your best friend. I choose to be your friend. Because I like you. Because you like me.” The last part comes out more like a question than a statement.

“Of course I like you! Geez, Ruby.” Lucy sits next to Ruby on the carousel edge. They can see the part of the parking lot where the parade floats are on display. People wander in and out and around the floats. A red-faced man in a Civil War costume holds a toddler on his shoulders. A cluster of girls pose for a photo in front of a cardboard dairy barn. “Smile, Your Majesty,” they can hear the photographer call.

“No supposed to, huh?” Lucy says, finally.

Ruby shrugs. “I don't think so.”

“I think you've been hanging around Nero too much.” Lucy laughs, and Ruby does too, a little.

“Nero is my friend too, you know.”

“I know,” Lucy says. I
know.

“At least, I hope he is.” Ruby cannot help but remember how he'd turned away from the library window. How he hadn't looked at her as she stood in the circle in the square. Maybe he is not her friend.

There is only one way to find out. Ruby pulls her phone from her pocket. It has been turned off since Patsy Whelk told her to during the parade.

There is one message. It is from Nero.

Well?

Ruby texts back.
You at rec center?

Yes

Meet us at old playground.

Us?

Me and Lucy

No thanks

Lucy has been reading over Ruby's shoulder. “I can go sit with my dads,” she says.

“Stay,” Ruby says to Lucy.
Come
, she texts Nero.

 

Three minutes can be a short time when you are sitting with a back-again friend. It can be a long time when you are waiting to find out if you have another.

Ruby watches the parking lot. One after another, people emerge from cars and move toward the soccer field. A boy in a kilt walks beside a girl with a Hula-Hoop. A woman Ruby recognizes from the Night Owls holds the hand of a man Ruby thinks was one of the fire truck drivers. The redheaded family joins a cluster of boys in ball caps. People mix and shift and sort into new groups, new formations. Finally, Nero appears, walking head down, up the hill toward the old playground. When he gets there, he stands close enough to hear conversation, but no closer. He waits. Lucy waits.

“I made a wish on Captain Bunning's statue,” says Ruby, finally. “It was supposed to come true at the parade, but it didn't.”

“It didn't?” Nero looks surprised. “I thought when you got quiet up there—”

“I still don't know what the wish was,” says Lucy. Her voice sounds hard.