“There are bullies everywhere, but none of them bothered me.”

“Do you still study Krav Maga?”

“Yeah, my dad and I do it together. His girlfriend, Shasta, said we should have something we do as father and son. I went out for football and track at my new school.” He studied her for a moment. “What’s up? You nervous about starting high school?”

She nodded glumly. “I’m not really good at anything. I make straight B’s. I’m only medium-good at sports. I play second-chair clarinet—like that’s a thing. Plus school starts a half hour earlier and I am so not a morning person.” She licked the perimeter of her ice cream cone until she realized he was staring at her. “What?”

“You’re better at surfing than anyone I know.”

“You must not know many people.”

“Come on. What’s your superpower? My mom used to say everybody’s got a superpower.”

Caroline puffed up a little. “Okay, here’s something. I’m really good at sewing. I can sew like the wind.”

“Sewing, like with a needle and thread?”

“On a machine, too. My life’s goal is to get an industrial single-needle machine. Mrs. Bloom lets me use hers. That’s why I’m so excited about working at her shop. I get to use her machines.” She jumped down off the stool and modeled her shorts. “Check it out. I made these from my own pattern.”

“Cool.” His gaze lingered on the shorts, and then his cheeks reddened.

“Anyway,” Caroline said, feeling a blush of her own coming on, “how is this going to make high school any easier? Am I going to get through high school by sewing and surfing?”

“Probably not, but at least you’ll be doing something you like.”

Chapter 16

Working at the fabric shop was heaven compared to dishwashing hell. Caroline loved everything about it, even the nitpicky paperwork and the customers who messed up displays without buying anything.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Bloom said at the end of the week. “Your first paycheck.”

“Thank you.” Caroline didn’t even look at the amount. She would be willing to work here for free, truth be told. Mrs. Bloom was one of her favorite people, always happy to show her sewing techniques, from ways to improve fit to using the industrial machine and the serger. She was always totally cheerful with her customers, but every once in a while, a shadow would come over her, like maybe she thought of something bad or sad.

Just before closing time, Caroline saw her standing at the front counter, gazing out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. “Everything okay, Mrs. Bloom?”

“Oh! You startled me, Caroline.”

“Sorry. I . . . Can you help me with something in the back? I already clocked out. I was working on a raincoat for Wendell.”

“Wendell?”

“My dog. He’s getting old, and he hates going out in the rain.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Mrs. Bloom. “How can I help?”

“I’m having trouble with the fit.” In the back room, Caroline showed her the project. For her dress form, she had a stuffed toy about the size of Wendell. “See, it’s awful, and it’s not going to stay on.”

Mrs. Bloom studied the garment, and now the expression on her face was not faraway at all, but intensely curious. “Well,” she said, “I always encourage you to experiment with design and construction.”

“I know, but I worked and worked, and what’s the point?” Caroline scowled at the coat, which buckled at all the wrong places. The fabric choice—a print with fire hydrants—now seemed cheesy.

Mrs. Bloom pinned a couple of seams. “I bet you figured out a few things.”

“Yeah, like don’t use a fabric with a one-way pattern.”

“Then your effort wasn’t wasted. The best way to learn is to fail.” She locked the back door and they headed toward the front.

Caroline nodded. “I’m well on my way, then.”

“Don’t be afraid to fail. You just have to fail better every time,” said Mrs. Bloom with a grin as she turned on the security system. “I have a book of new fall patterns coming tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to do up a few for displays.”

“Are you kidding? I would love that.” She looked around the shop, dim and quiet now. “I totally love making things,” she said. “My mom says it’s my passion.”

“Moms are usually right about such things.”

“Well, I have no idea why I like it so much. I just know that when I’m making something, I’m totally happy.”

“That’s lovely, Caroline. I like that sentiment.”

“My mom says the secret to the restaurant’s success is the family philosophy that fixing tasty food is a way to show love. So do you think it’s the same as making things to wear?”

“A way to show love?” Mrs. Bloom’s eyes softened and crinkled at the edges. “Another lovely sentiment. And I think you’re absolutely right.”

Caroline and Will almost never called each other on the phone. Some kids had mobile phones, the kind that fit in a pocket and flipped open, but Caroline didn’t. And even if she did, she doubted she’d be any more inclined to call him. So instead of calling to see if he was home, she went to see him at Water’s Edge.

She jumped off her bike and ran toward him. He was over by the barn, wearing a tool belt and pounding away at something. He and his grandfather were forever doing projects or fixing things around the place. “Whatcha doing?” she asked him.

“Skateboard ramp,” he said. “Check it out.” He jumped up, unbuckled the tool belt, and grabbed his board. “It’s not done yet, but . . .” He skated the board along the driveway and popped up onto the homemade ramp. Almost immediately, he caught an edge and went flying, landing flat on his back.

Caroline bolted toward him and sank down to the ground. “Hey, are you okay?”

He slowly picked himself up. A livid road rash slashed across one elbow and one knee. “Dang,” he said, inspecting the damage. “That hurts.”

“We should go inside and clean it up.”

He shook his head. “My grandmother would freak out because I’m not wearing a helmet and pads. I’ll clean up with the hose.” He wobbled a little, trying to stand up.

She stuck out her hand and he steadied himself as he climbed to his feet. Just for a second, he lurched into her, practically hugging her. He smelled of asphalt and grass and sweat, and she let go quickly, feeling flustered. “Helmet and pads. Maybe your grandmother’s onto something.”

He turned on the water at the spigot and hosed off the scrapes, wincing in pain. “Maybe,” he said. “The ramp is pretty rad, though. I like making stuff. My granddad says I should live here when I’m grown, on account of I’m his only grandchild and he wants to keep it in the family.”

“Here?” She shaded her eyes and squinted at the big painted house. “Are you gonna do it?”

“Maybe. It’d be cool, right?”

She didn’t reply. She often dreamed of another life, far from the peninsula—Paris or Hong Kong or New York or Milan, someplace fashion designers worked. “I made something, too,” she said after he’d rinsed off. “It’s for you.” She pulled it out of her backpack. “For Luau Night.”