Sirens in Beacon Hills

Chapter Four

We arrive at the lacrosse field just as the team spills out of the locker room. Jackson spots Lydia and waves before he continues onto the field. As we settle near the bleachers, I notice a familiar face among the players—a boy whom I remember sitting behind in English class, though I never caught his name during roll call. He stands near the sidelines, engaged in conversation with another classmate in English.

The coach strides onto the field, his authoritative voice cutting through the chatter as he starts barking out orders. One of the boys breaks away from the group and heads towards the goal. From the unsure expression on his face, it's clear he's not entirely confident in his role.

We watch the practice unfold, and the intensity of the players is palpable in the air. Allison, more focused than Lydia and me, points towards the boy in goal and asks, "Who's that?"

Lydia follows Allison's gaze, studying the boy with curiosity before turning back to us. "Him? I'm not sure who he is. Why?"

"He's in my English class," Allison murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. From where I'm sitting slightly above her, I offer a reassuring smile.

"I think I heard his name was Scott," I interject, leaning closer between Allison and Lydia. Allison's smile widens, appreciating the tidbit of information, before I settle back, deciding to pay closer attention to the practice myself.

The players move with precision and speed, their athleticism evident in every pass and shot. The evening sun casts long shadows across the field, adding a dramatic flair to the scene.

Scott holds his position in goal with a natural ease, effortlessly deflecting every shot that comes his way. His movements are fluid, and his reflexes are sharp, earning him a few cheers from his teammates and spectators alike. Beside the field, his enthusiastic friend cheers him on with infectious energy, his gestures and shouts adding a lively touch to the scene.

"He seems like he's pretty good," Allison remarks softly from below me, breaking my focus momentarily. I glance down at her and Lydia, both of whom are nodding in agreement.

"He does." I say quietly as I nod with them.

"Yeah, very good," Lydia adds, her tone impressed as she squints against the setting sun, following Scott's every move as he continues to block shot after shot.

I find myself equally captivated by Scott's skill, admiring the way he anticipates each play and reacts with precision. The atmosphere around the field is charged with excitement, with the cheers and encouragement from teammates and fans blending into a vibrant backdrop to the practice. As the session progresses, it becomes increasingly clear why lacrosse holds such significance in Beacon Hills, and I silently acknowledge that Scott's talent is a key part of that.

~~~

After lacrosse practice wrapped up, I decided it was time to head home and tackle the unpacking that awaited me. Luckily, my new house was just a short 15-minute walk from the school, a pleasant change from the longer commutes I was used to in Florida. Despite the chill creeping into the air as the sun began its descent, I welcomed the relief from the perpetual heat and humidity of my old home state.

Entering the house, I found myself alone—my mom had already left for work. Climbing the stairs to my room, I was met with a sight that made me groan aloud. Boxes lay open haphazardly, their contents spilling out across the floor. Had I really left everything in such disarray while rummaging for my blanket and pillow last night?

Realizing I needed help to make any progress, I reached for my phone with a resigned sigh. Checking the time, I noted that it was still early enough in Florida—about 7 p.m.—to catch my best friend before she turned in for the night.

I find her contact and quickly hit the call button, placing the phone in my ear as I listen to the rings echo through the line. After what feels like an eternity but is probably just five rings, she finally picks up.

"Finally! I was beginning to think you were going to ignore my call," I say with a laugh, hearing her slightly out-of-breath response on the other end.

"Sorry, I heard it vibrating, but I couldn't find it," she replies, chuckling with me. I quickly switch the phone to speaker mode, allowing her voice to fill the room as she continues, "How is it over there? How was your flight?"

"It's different, but not bad," I respond, glancing around my messy room. "The flight was long, but I survived. How's Florida?"

"Same old, same old," she says with a sigh. "I miss you already, though. What's the new place like?"

I look around at the scattered boxes and half-unpacked belongings. "It's a work in progress," I admit. "I haven't even made a dent in the unpacking yet. My room looks like a tornado hit it."

She laughs. "It sounds like you could use some help. I wish I was there."

"Me too," I say, feeling a pang of homesickness. "I could really use my best friend right now. But tell me about your day. Distract me from this disaster zone."

I hear her laugh softly, followed by the crunching of paper. "How was your first day at the new school?" she asks.

"It was alright," I reply, beginning to unwrap my dresser from the protective packing the movers had meticulously applied. "I made a few new friends." The movers did a great job; they barely had to disassemble anything.

"Already trying to replace me?" She teases, but I can tell she's joking. There's no way anyone could replace her.

I shake my head, even though she can't see me. "Like anyone could replace you, If they did, who would I swim with?"

There's a brief pause as she pretends to ponder. "I guess that's true," she says, her tone playful.

I smile, feeling a bit more at ease. "Yeah, and besides, no one else would understand my obsession with bad horror movies."

"Or your terrible taste in music," she adds, laughing.

"Hey, my taste is eclectic, not terrible," I protest, grinning as I pull another piece of wrapping from the dresser.

I laugh, settling onto my bed amidst the boxes, feeling a bit more at home with my best friend on the other end of the line.

I pull a few photos from one of the boxes, carefully placing them on the shelf. Most of them are of me and Beth, our smiles captured in various moments of our friendship. There are a few of me and Mom, but none of Dad. I didn't have many friends in Florida, and none of them could compare to Beth.

Beth and I chat for hours, covering everything and nothing at all. She tells me about her swim after school, describing the cool water and the familiar smell of salt water—details I know I'll miss deeply. We laugh about old memories and plan future visits, our conversation weaving through topics like the comfort of a well-loved blanket.

As the clock inches towards 10:00 p.m., Beth reluctantly has to hang up to get some sleep for school. "Talk to you tomorrow?" she asks.

"Absolutely," I say, feeling a twinge of loneliness as I end the call. I sigh and sit on my mattress, which is still on the floor. I haven't found the bed frame yet, and a small part of me worries I never will. With a dramatic flop, I fall backwards onto the mattress, staring up at the blank ceiling and wishing it were the night sky over the ocean.

The empty room feels a bit too quiet without Beth's voice, and I close my eyes, imagining the sound of waves crashing against the shore. The ceiling above me is just a canvas, but in my mind, it transforms into a starry sky, the same one we used to gaze at during late-night swims.