“He was probably just a sub,” Aidan says.
“Lost in the garden?”
“No. Ditching like you.”
“Right,” I answer. Aidan can never quite let go of his concrete world. But, then again, I can never quite let go of the one I am in either. It’s disconcerting to think that he and I might be a good balance.
“Which way now?” Seth asks.
I look at the crossroad. “Straight,” I answer. “No, left. Left.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I think.
The road becomes narrower and curves and bends. Houses are set back, mostly obscured by acres of foliage.
“Pricey part of town,” Aidan observes.
“This the way?” Seth asks.
I nod. But I am not sure. How can I tell him I don’t exactly remember where my house is? I was eight the last time I was here, and eight-year-olds don’t pay attention to directions. It is not streets and road names that matter to children, but landmarks, like a windmill, a rusted-out wagon, a long row of mailboxes, twin stone pillars with lion sculptures topping them. Where are these guideposts?
The road twists and dips, winds and curves.
And stops. We are at a dead end. No house.
The car idles. “I don’t think this is it,” Seth says. “Unless your parents live in a rabbit hole.”
“Why don’t you ask directions?” Mira asks.
We all turn and look at her. We are in the middle of nowhere, and there is no one around. Mira shrugs. Point taken.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We must have made a wrong turn.”
“No problem,” Seth says, turning around the car. “What did you say the address was again?”
“It’s 829 Ravenwood.”
We backtrack to the last cross street we passed, and Seth stops and looks both ways. He looks at me. I shake my head. I want to slide beneath the seat with the empty cups. What seventeen-year-old doesn’t know where her house is?
Seth eases out onto the road. “Let’s try—”
“Over there!” Aidan’s arm juts between us and points to the right. “There’s someone.”
Several yards down the road, an elderly man with a wide-brimmed hat sits in a chair between two baskets. One holds apples, and the other, bunches of miniature sunflowers. A sign facing our direction reads: FRIUT AND FLOWRS 4 SAEL.
“Funny. I didn’t notice him when we passed by before.”
“Poor old guy,” Mira says. “Not too much business way out here in the boonies.”
“Wait here.” I hop out and run over to him to ask directions. “Excuse me? Do you know—”
He waves his hands and shakes his head. “No English. No English. Flowers? Flowers?”
I try my rusty French. He repeats: “No English. No English. Apples?”
My almost nonexistent German.