“I guess God did some weeding or something.”
Mother Mary doesn’t respond. Well, that’s not exactly true. She says a lot with her eyes. The way she’s staring makes me realize she’s never looked at my scar. Not once in all these years. Like it’s invisible to her.
I grab a thick limb on the maple tree and dangle my lanky legs. “Moxie Lord thinks I might be able to get into college for my writing.”
Mother Mary nods.
“Not that I could friggin’ pay for it.”
“Don’t look at me, Cricket. I took a vow of poverty a long time ago.”
“Maybe I could ask the pope for a loan.”
She blows out a loud puuuuugh. “Yeah, right. Get in line.” She slaps her hand to her mouth. “Whoopsadaisy.” She crosses herself and kisses her fingertips.
We leave our empty teacups on a bench and walk to the cliffs. It’s windy and cold. I watch the ocean churn. Something’s missing.
“Goodness, the tide’s high,” Mother Mary says, peering over the edge.
I gaze at my Silky Jets and realize what’s missing. My jetty is completely submerged. “Jeez, it sure is. I ain’t never seen it this high.”
“That’s one thing you can always count on in this place. High highs and low lows. No way around that.”
A strong onshore wind blasts my face as if the ocean agrees.
“It’s on account of the full moon,” I say. “Did you see it last night?”
“No, I missed it. Us old fogies don’t stay up as late as you, Cricket.”
“What are you talking about? My curfew’s ten.”
Mother Mary blasts out another puuuuugh.
“What?”
“Oh, please. That fire escape’s seen more late-night action than Mary Magdalene after a Sadducee bake sale.”
I chuckle and step closer to the edge.
“Be careful, Cricket.”
The ocean is stunning. Crystal reflections dance on the surface. I gaze up at their source. The sky’s plastered with a zillion sparkling stars. Wispy clouds decorate the foreground. Like a baby’s been finger-painting on God’s blank canvas.
“Full moons push and pull the tides much more powerfully than at other times,” I say.
“That they do,” she says quietly.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Mother Mary pats my back, resting her hand there for the briefest moment. Long enough, though.
“We going to Salivating Arny’s tomorrow to get the Little Ones some new duds?” I ask.
“That we are.”
I know I’m gonna walk tall on that sidewalk tomorrow. For Mother Mary. And the Little Ones. And me. The thought makes me smile.
I turn to ask what time we’re going, but she’s gone. She’s walking away from the cliffs with her arms extended, her palms up, and her head tilted back. Somehow I know she has her eyes closed. She sees better that way.
Thank You
In Order of Appearance
(What can I say? I like old movies.)
Mom
For brainwashing me into believing I can do anything I set my mind to.
Family and friends
For love, support, laughs.
Liz Bicknell
For having a sense of humor.
Carter Hasegawa
For advice and critique (without a contract) that was instrumental in taking the manuscript to the next level.
Lisa Borders
For book doctoring that healed gaping wounds.
Critique Group Cohorts
Michelle, Kristy, Peter, and Frank. For encouragement and harsh words delicately delivered.
Michelle Cusolito
For being an optimistic and insightful writing ally and seeing beneath Cricket’s scars very early on.
Rubin Pfeffer
For guidance, wisdom, and honesty. For being an exceptional agent, but more important, an exceptional person.
Jeannette E. Larson
For taking on a diamond in the extreme rough.
Adah Nuchi
For lifting Cricket out of the slush and falling in love with him from page one. For passion, patience, vision, and calm, despite my constant objections and whining. For helping me make the story everything you always knew it could be, so much more than I ever imagined. And most important, for your gentle stubbornness when you knew you were right, which was pretty much most of the time.
About the Author
SCOTT BLAGDEN grew up in Foxborough, Massachusetts, and now makes his home on the coast near Cape Cod, where he enjoys being a dad to his teenage twins. In addition to writing, he has been self-employed in real estate for thirty years. Dear Life, You Suck is his first novel.
Scott Blagden, Dear Life, You Suck
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