birds, fish, and every manner of creepy-crawly thing her sister had ever requested. It was the only thing she could think to do to help her sister now. She wasn’t allowed to even breathe in Ainslie’s direction if her mother was hovering around.
Both Sloan and her father found it easier to simply stay out of the way. “You know how your mother is,” he had said. They were on the beach watching leggy sandpipers skitter away from a dog’s awkward advances. “She’s focused on Ainslie, and that’s the way it should be. It’s what’s best for your sister that matters right now.”
He hugged her to his side, making it awkward to walk. This path of least resistance suited Sloan, and when her father slipped her the keys to the old battered Jeep, she had known without it being spoken that he was giving her the vehicle. Previously a point of contention between her parents, it was quietly dismissed, ignored really, like everything else where Sloan was concerned. She floated around, standing always on the outside of conversation, like a ghost on the periphery of her family. After she got the Jeep, she’d come to Brookgreen so frequently her father finally told her to keep the membership card.
“I don’t imagine the rest of us will be going for a while,” he’d said.
Sloan was crosshatching to represent the scales on the bottom of the alligator’s body when she heard laughter. Usually Sloan could sketch here for hours and not be bothered, but occasionally people wandered near. She heard a giggle, and then a group of six stepped from behind a hedge into sight.
“Wow, this is cool,” one of the guys said.
“I’m bored. Let’s go,” a girl whined.
The guys sported khakis and pop-collared Lacoste shirts. The girls each wore pink sweatshirts emblazoned with the College of Charleston and short cotton shorts with Greek letters across their butts.
He was the sort of boy she immediately disliked. Shiny bangs, polo shirt, sports legs like ropes. As he drew near, she recognized him. He was from real money, new money, Lafayette Isle money, where everyone was a perpetually tanned, logoed, CrackBerry’d drone. He’d graduated the year before, although he’d spent his younger years in private school. Calhoun Wannamaker. The list in the year-book beside his name showed letters in golf, tennis, baseball, and track. Sloan was appalled that she remembered this information, that she could even see his photo’s position on the page. But such was the curse of the artist’s photographic memory. His hair was much shorter in that photo. Today his bangs hung down over one eye, and he whipped them to the side every few minutes. He moved fluidly, like an athlete. He was quickly beside her, leaning over her shoulder toward her drawing.
She hesitated, slightly irritated at the intrusion, but also flattered by the attention. She held up her work.
“Shit. That’s really good.”
“Thank you.”
“You come here and draw a lot?”
“It’s kind of my space, my time to be alone.”
“Oh, hey.” He threw up his hands and made a show of backing away. “If you’re running me off.”
“No.”
“No, you’re not running me off?”
“No.”
“Okay. Well, like, I’ve seen you around school. I mean last year I did.”
She simply looked at him.
The whiny girl appeared from nowhere and laid perfectly polished nails on his arm.
“Come on, Cal.”
“In a minute. Y’all head on back. I’ll catch up.”
The girl gave Sloan a hateful glance. “Whatever,” she snapped. When she was some distance away her voice carried across the surface of the black fountain. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“So anyway,” he continued, rolling his eyes, “you’re Sloan Sullivan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So if I asked you to go out sometime, what would you say?”
“Out with you.”
“Sure. Dinner or something.”
“Dinner or something.”
“Damn, do you always repeat everything?”
“No.”
“Okay, so give me your digits.” He pulled a slim phone from his pocket.
She hadn’t said she would go out with him. She watched him program her name and wait patiently for her number. She considered him for a moment, let him sweat just a little. He was used to having his way, and just briefly she thought of telling him no, but just as quickly she rattled off her numbers, which he punched in. Her phone rang in her pocket.
“Now, I know you have my number,” he said.
“Are you always so aggressive?”
“What if I never saw you again?” He smiled a perfect smile. “I gotta run and catch up with my friends, but…I’ll call you.”
“Sure.”
He started to walk away.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You never told me your name.”
He seemed slightly amused by her.
“Oh, sorry. I just thought you knew me.”
“Not really.”
He grinned. Did he know she was lying?
“Cal Wannamaker.”
“Okay, Cal.” She drew out his name in a mocking tone. He grinned in a crooked way.
“Yeah, okay.”
Sloan watched him go, then she lowered her head to draw again but her fingers were frozen. Her pulse fluttered and her mind was blank. Unable to concentrate, she suddenly decided she needed caffeine to help her focus. It was a habit she had recently developed. Since there were so few good coffee places in their vest-pocket town, she often treated herself to a cappuccino at the garden’s café. It was this habit that had introduced her to LaShonda Washington, a girl she had always gone to school with but had never really known. Once Sloan started hanging at the café at off-hours finishing sketches, she had found LaShonda amusing and easy to talk to.
“Hey,” LaShonda said when her friend walked in.
“You totally won’t believe what just happened.”
“What?” She continued to count dollars into the cash register. The café was empty except for two people conversing excitedly in German.
“Germans always talk so loud,” LaShonda mumbled.
“Do you remember Cal Wannamaker from school last year?”
LaShonda raised her eyebrows. “Sure. Rich, preppy, jock. Good-looking, though. Why?”
“I just ran into him outside and he asked me out.”
“You lie.”
“I swear.” Sloan held up her hand as scout’s honor.
“Girrrrl.” LaShonda seemed unconvinced. “What’d you say?”
“I gave him my number. Maybe he just wanted to prove he could get my number.”
“Be careful. Isle boys make for the quick hookup and even quicker breakup.” LaShonda slammed the register’s drawer shut.
“That’s with summer girls. They don’t try to pull that crap on locals.” Sloan knew her friend had never been out with a boy from Lafayette Isle. Blacks weren’t even able to own real estate there. Although it was supposed to be a secret, everybody knew the private island would never be integrated. The