Wait for Nothing

He waits.

The cloudy skies cast a contiguous shadow across the little lake, the clear lake, the lake that's too cold to swim in except on the hottest days of summer, the lake where the sunset glows and the sunrise shines, the lake where people build vacation homes on the shoreline and rent them out for a ridiculous price, the lake with the fishing pier that stretches out past the sandy shore and into water that you can't see into because the sun's glare is so strong.

On a sunny day, that is.

But it is not sunny, and the sky is hot, and the lake water is refreshingly chilling as it laps up against the boy's ankles.

A picnic basket, stuffed with untouched treasures, sits neglected at his side. The basket is old; the handles have broken and been fixed more times than he can count—at least twice each summer he spends here, with his grandfather who cares about his fish and his boat, and his grandmother who doesn't care about either of those things, and the neighbors who are different every summer because his grandparents are the only people who live here and stay here all year round.

The space to the other side of the boy is empty, like there should be someone there, but they're missing.

(They are.)

She had hair like coal and eyes like bronze and a laugh like the wind itself and she was staying in the vacation house owned by her family across the lake. The boy doesn't have friends; his parents move too much for him to keep anyone close. A week or two, a month or two, maybe a year, and the friend is gone and he has to start over.

But a day or two? It'd never been that fast before.

(He'd met her yesterday and they rested on the sandy beach in front of his grandparents' house under the clear blue skies and the golden sun and the fresh forest breeze and they laughed about nothing and everything and he asked if she wanted to eat lunch on the pier the next day.)

Maybe she forgot, he thinks, as the clouds roll in, ever darker.

("Of course," she'd agreed. "I love lunch. Wouldn't miss it for the world!" And they laughed.)

Maybe she heard the time wrong, he thinks, as the first drop of rain makes a dark spot on the unpainted pier, bleeding into the wood until the water is gone and the color alone remains.

("Twelve o'clock," he said, and she nodded affirmatively.

"Twelve o'clock. Got it.")

Maybe she's avoiding the rain, he thinks, and lies, and keeps lying to himself because he doesn't want to believe. Even as the drops turn to a downpour, the boy sits there, and waits, and waits, and waits for nothing.

Footsteps behind him, ones he will always know because he hears them every summer day. With a creaky sigh, his grandfather lowers himself to sit in the spot reserved for someone who never came. A wrinkled, bony hand rests on the boy's shoulder, and the child folds his feet up and tucks his knees under his chin.

They sit there and say nothing and everything.

Eventually, the grandfather stands and guides his young grandson back up the pier, lifting the picnic basket as he passes by. Dripping with rainwater, they make their way up the sodden grass and into the house, where the grandmother is waiting with a fresh hot lunch and a pile of dry clothes. Nothing is said about the hour of waiting on the pier; nothing is needed.

The boy waits for nothing, because everything he wants is already here.

Across the lake, the crystal lake, the deep lake, the lake with the surface that is now pitted with rainwater, different every second, no two drops striking the same place twice, there is another pier.

Wouldn't miss it for the world, she said, and she didn't.

Twelve o'clock, she said, and she wasn't late.

But her promise means nothing, because she is on the wrong pier.

Her ankles touch as she sits cross-legged there, in a hip-length shirt and calf-length leggings, and the pink umbrella matches her clothing and shields her from the rain.

Maybe he forgot, she thinks.

(He didn't.)

Her headphones are bulky when they rest upon her head, white and pink, like everything she has, every perfect thing in her perfect world and her perfect life, and the music of her homemade mixtape blares out for nobody but her to hear, singing I don't care too much for money / Money can't buy me love.

She made the tape herself, jumbled and loved and listened to over and over because it's something she did, something she created, that wasn't handed to her on a dish with a note written by a secretary but signed love, Mom and given with no love at all.

She rolls the handle of the umbrella in her palms, feeling the droplets flung off and away in a wide arc and she sniffs because she got her hopes up again. Another friend, another disappointment. She shouldn't be surprised anymore. She still is, though. She's twelve, and it's in her nature to trust.

(By the time she is eighteen, she has broken the habit. She is cynical and sharp and harsh and perhaps that was always the way it would be. But she is twelve now, and she has not let her heart become stripped away. Not yet.)

An hour passes. Two hours. The skies clear. The sun appears again, and she stands up, shakes her umbrella off, and treks up the sandy beach to her house. Dragging her feet across the damp lawn, she goes back inside.

Why?

She does not know.

After all, there is no more to do there than there was to do outside.

The house is sterile and tidy as she slides the patio door shut with a thunk. Mrs. Evan greets her with a glance. Even if her parents couldn't be bothered to show up for the family vacation, at least she has a housekeeper there to keep her company.

("Towel yourself off, girl, for Pete's sake, you're getting the carpet wet!" Mrs. Evan huffs, glaring at the girl, before turning back to her own business.)

She drifts up to her room and stays, watching out the window at the driveway because her room is on the wrong side of the house for a lake-view.

Maybe they'll still show up, she thinks, like she thinks every year, and waits for her mother's car, her father's car, anyone's car to roll up the drive.

They do not come.

She rests her chin on her arms and sighs, closing her eyes. The air has the fresh smell of rain and the breeze is humid. If her parents were here, they would scold her, tell her to close your window, you're letting the cold air out. They're not here. They never were.

Every half hour or so, she hears tires on gravel and she sits up expectantly. Every half hour or so, the sound passes on, someone she does not know headed to somewhere she's never seen. Still, she sits, and watches. Nothing is said about the hours of waiting on the pier; there is no one to say it to.

The girl waits for nothing, because that is all she has ever done.