July 6, 2027, 8:04 a.m. [email protected]: Rhea’s right. I’m getting other people’s phone calls when I do connect. It’s weird. I didn’t know cells could have crossed signals.
July 6, 2027, 3:58 p.m. [email protected]: How are we supposed to communicate? Sheets out windows?
July 6, 2027, 4:15 p.m. [email protected]: It’s getting worse. Had to post this from Little Doves School. Sprint says to just wait. So inconvenient!!!!!!!!
July 7, 2027, 10:49 a.m. [email protected]: Is this normal?
July 8, 2027, 3:16 a.m. [email protected]: Nikita—no! It’s not normal. Never happened here before.
July 9, 2027, 10:02 a.m. [email protected]: Hi guys! Rhea! You work so hard! I miss you! I miss all of you! So glad we sorta caught up at the BBQ! Just wanna let ya’ll know about an open house I’m showing Saturday mourning at 1425 Savile Row, Glen Head, which is souper pretty to visit. Thought ya’ll could like to take a trip away from this heat!
July 9, 2027, 1:03 p.m. [email protected]: Please remember—this is a community site. No advertising!
116 Maple Street
Saturday, July 10
“Triple digits for the twentieth day in a row. That’s got to be some kind of record!” a static-riddled NPR host announced. Since the sinkhole, everything was static. “What’s gonna happen next? Is it gonna rain frogs?” the host asked. Then she started talking about all the global warming refugees dying at the border. It was all so depressing that Gertie Wilde bellied up between the kids eating Froot Loops at the breakfast bar and switched off.
“I’ve got an open house in Glen Head. While I’m gone, I want you guys to go out and get some fresh air.” She pointed at the trampoline on the Ottomanelli lawn, where all the kids were jumping. “Look. The Rat Pack’s up and at ’em.”
Julia didn’t look. “Those nerds? Their parents won’t let them go outside until the hole’s filled.”
“I guess last night we started something, ’cause there they are, Jules.”
“It’s too hot for outside,” Julia answered as she stretched, still without looking. Her legs went one way, her arms the other, while her back arched. She was wearing Arlo’s Hawaiian shirt that brushed the tops of her knees. Not exactly street wear, but the loose fabric would keep the heat rash away. Larry was the real problem. He was wearing green shorts and a green turtleneck, because it was the only green top he owned. He’d decided that green was organic, and would make him a real boy instead of an “aspy cyborg.”
“I’m serious. Get your shoes on and brush your teeth,” Gertie said. “I don’t want you screaming like banshees, waking your dad as soon as I’m gone.”
“Can I eat avocados for dinner? Are they expensive?” Larry asked.
“What?” Gertie asked.
“OMG, you are so weird. It’s because they’re green, isn’t it?” Julia asked.
“He’s not weird. Don’t say that.”
“Sor-ry, Lar-ry,” Julia answered in singsong. “You’re sooo not weird.” Even this early in the morning, her curls were damp with sweat. “Why can’t we wake Dad? He could take us to Jones Beach. That’s outside.”
“He’s exhausted, Jules. Plus there’s some kind of algae bloom. The beaches’re closed,” Gertie answered. “I left the Slip ’N Slide out front and Margie Walsh said you can attach a hose to her house anytime. It’ll be better than sitting in here getting baked. Which reminds me, you’re not to play near the sinkhole. And you’re to keep your eye on Larry.”
“Why don’t you take Larry?”
“You’re talking about me like I’m not here,” Larry said.
Holding her belly, which felt way too heavy for twenty-five weeks, Gertie faced the both of them. “Enough! Get your flip-flops and sun block! Now!”
“But they’re mean!” Julia cried.
“You played with ’em last night. They’re perfectly nice kids. Better than anybody from East New York, for sure.”
“They were nice ’cause you bribed ’em with ice pops. Besides, Shelly wasn’t there. It’s Shelly that counts. The rest of ’em follow.”
“Well, what did you do to Shelly?”
“Nothing!”
“So there’s nothing to worry about!” Gertie announced as she squeezed her baby-bloated feet into a pair of black, size-ten Payless pumps. She tried her best not to notice the condition of the house: a pigsty decorated with puckered, home-stitched drapes and creaky estate-sale furniture.