Aunt Linda eyed both of us before finally turning to leave. When she was out of hearing range, Bryce faced me again.
“I really like Linda and Gwen. Their biscuits are the best I’ve ever had, but I’m sure you already know that. I’ve been trying to get them to share their secret recipe, but no dice. My dad and grandfather grab a few every time they head to the boat.”
“The boat?”
“My grandfather’s a fisherman. When my dad isn’t consulting with the DOD, he helps out my grandfather. Repairing the boat and equipment, or actually going out on the water with him.”
“What’s DOD?”
“Department of Defense.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what else to add. It was hard to reconcile the idea that a consultant with the DOD actually chose to live in Ocracoke. By then, however, the ferry had stopped and I heard car doors slamming and engines rumbling to life. “I guess I should be going.”
“Probably. But hey, it was great talking to you, Maggie. Usually there’s no one even close to my age on the ferry, so you made the trip that much more enjoyable.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to stare at his dimples. I turned away and, surprising myself, I suddenly felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment that our time together had come to an end.
*
I waited until the last minute before getting into the car because I didn’t want to be confronted by questions, which was something I was used to from my mom and dad. What did you talk about? Did you like him? Can you imagine him teaching you geometry and editing your papers if needed? Did I make the right choice?
My parents would have been all over me. On almost every school day right up until barf-day—or pee-on-a-stick day, whatever—they always asked me how school went, like attending classes was some sort of magical, mysterious production that everyone would find fascinating. No matter how many times I simply said that it was fine—which really meant Stop asking me such a dumb question—they continued to ask. And honestly, aside from fine, what was I supposed to say? They’d been to school. They knew what it was like. A teacher stood up front and taught stuff that I was supposed to learn in order to do well on tests, none of which were ever any fun.
Now lunch, that could sometimes be interesting. Or when I was younger, recess might have been something to talk about. But school? School was just…school.
Thankfully, my aunt and Gwen were chatting about the sermon we’d heard in church, which I barely remembered, and obviously, the ride took only a few minutes. We drove to the shop first, where I helped them unload their supplies, but instead of dropping Gwen off, we brought her with us to my aunt’s house so she could help us haul the Christmas tree inside.
Despite my pregnancy, and despite them being older ladies, we were somehow able to muscle it up the steps and prop it in a stand that Aunt Linda retrieved from the back of the hall closet. By then, I was kind of tired and I think they were, too. Instead of decorating right away, my aunt and Gwen got busy in the kitchen. Aunt Linda made fresh biscuits while Gwen heated up yet more Thanksgiving leftovers.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, and I cleared my plate for the first time in a while. And, maybe because Bryce had said something about them, I realized the biscuits were tastier than usual. As I reached for a second one, I saw Aunt Linda smile.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m just glad you’re eating,” my aunt said.
“What’s in these biscuits?”
“The basics—flour, buttermilk, shortening.”
“Anything secret in the recipe?”
If she wondered why I cared, she didn’t let on. She cast a conspiratorial glance at Gwen before facing me again. “Of course.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a secret,” she said with a wink.
We didn’t talk more after that, and once I finished doing the dishes, I retreated to my room. Outside my window, the sky was filled with stars and I could see the moon hovering over the water, making the ocean glow almost silver. I slipped into my pajamas and was about to crawl in bed when I suddenly remembered that I still had to do the paper on Thurgood Marshall. Grabbing my notes—I’d at least gotten that far—I started the actual writing. I’d always been okay at writing—not great, but definitely better than I was at math—and had gotten through a page and a half when I heard a knock at the door. Glancing up, I saw Aunt Linda poke her head in. When she noticed I was doing homework, she lifted an eyebrow, but I’m sure she immediately thought it was better not to say anything lest my progress come to a screeching halt.