This Close to Home by Beth Turley

Author:Beth Turley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2023-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN PAPA MARGHERITA’S

The next day is May first, and it comes with a pure kind of warmth that sticks around until evening. It reminds me that summer is rolling in. Soon the sun will stay up for hours longer, leaving more time to play catch in the yard. I call a Lakefest meeting with Derek at Papa Margherita’s Pizza at five o’clock. We jog there from our houses once in a while, because it’s good exercise, and because slices are only a dollar. My backpack bounces against my butt as I run. The photo album is inside.

Derek is sitting on a bench outside the little brick building. He looks up from his phone and grins.

“I win,” he says.

“We’ve calculated this. My run is point-oh-three miles longer than yours.”

“I’ll give you a head start next time.”

“Deal.”

Derek holds the door for me. I’m immediately smacked with the familiar cheese-and-hot-pepper smell. The counter is covered with the same white boxes our garbage and fridge are usually filled with.

Papa Margherita himself (okay, his real name is Jensen) is at the register. He’s wearing a black apron and burgundy cowboy boots. I’ve heard him tell Dad that his body may live near the lake, but his heart lives on a ranch in Texas.

“You order something, Thing Two?” Jensen flips through his little receipt book. I smile at the nickname. Calla is Thing One.

“We’re eating in,” I answer. “I’ll have a slice of bacon and tomato, please.”

“Broccoli and cheddar for me, thanks.” Derek eyes the photos of Papa Margherita’s baseball team by the beverage cooler. He’s front row in three of them. I think Derek’s team has the best sponsor in the league, but the Poppyseed Garden Center is a close second. Anything is better than the J&B Funeral Home.

Jensen nods. “Take a seat. Two slices coming up.” He doesn’t bother writing our order down.

The TV on the wall is playing a horse race. A few older men watch on stools at the counter with coffee mugs. Sometimes I feel like everyone in Papa Margherita’s has been here before. It’s like a living room for the town.

A new wave of determination crashes over me: Lakefest will bring people together the way this place does. I grab Derek’s hand and tug him toward the seating area. We’re at our usual booth in the corner before I realize what I’ve done.

“Sorry,” I say. I drop his hand like a dead fish.

“Don’t be.”

We slide quickly into either side of the booth. The tables are marbled gray Formica, with white paper place mats. I busy my hands and brain to stop thinking about the calluses on Derek’s palm. I put the photo album between us.

“Is that the album from the TV room?” Derek asks. He takes off his red baseball cap and puts it on the bench next to him.

I flip past the pictures of Calla in the flowers and my frozen-pea incident to the Lakefest spread.

“I thought it might inspire us. I’ve been sleeping with it under my pillow.

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