Forget Me Not by Coleen Paratore Page B

won’t stay too long. I want to see JFK tonight.
    “I can only hang out until seven,” I say. “I hope that’s okay.” She’s your friend, Willa, just tell her the truth. No…what if she wants to come, too?
    “Oh, sure,” Mare says. “I need to leave soon anyway. I promised Papa I’d pick up some things at the market.”
    “How is your father? And Nico and Sofia?”
    Mariel’s father is in a wheelchair. JFK said he was injured in a work-related accident. I’m not sure how. Nico and Sofia are twins, three years old, I think. I don’t ask Mare about her mother. I want to, but it feels too personal. I’m hoping she’ll talk about her someday, though. JFK said Mrs. Sanchez is an actress off pursuing her “big break,” with Mariel’s blessing, if you can believe it. Mare told JFK her mother was like a bird who would die if her wings were clipped. Well, that might be so, but it seems to me a mother bird shouldn’t fly off and leave her babies, no matter how talented she is.
    We bring our dishes into the kitchen. Sam gives Mare a container of fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies to bring home to her family. When Mareleaves, I go upstairs and fix my hair, brush my teeth, and put on some lip gloss and perfume. I put some cookies in a bag, stick it in the basket of my bike, and head toward JFK’s, taking a different route so I won’t run into Mariel passing by the market.
    As I pass the gray clapboard Bramble Beach Association building, the parking lot is full. A sign reads: IMPORTANT MEETING TONIGHT . 7 PM .
    That’s funny, I don’t remember Mom and Sam talking about a meeting tonight. We belong to the BBA. All the people who own homes in this area do, a couple hundred families I think it is. We pay yearly dues for beach maintenance and landscaping and other stuff. In the summer, there are softball games, craft classes, and movies for kids, and card games and things for adults. Nana likes the Thursday night square dances. The big event is the Fourth of July Field Day, coming up next week.
    I wonder what the meeting’s about? I wheel my bike into the rack and go inside.
    Ruby Sivler’s father is at the front of the room. There’s Tina’s father, Mr. Belle. There’s the lady who owns the huge white house with the swimming pool right at the entrance to Sandy Beach. Several people I recognize as Ruby and Tina’s neighbors. The “boat crowd” as Sam would say.
    “It’s high time we took back our beach,” Mr. Sivler is saying. “First we’ve got intruders trespassing on our beach, more and more each summer, and now the best part of the Spit is roped off for birds. I don’t know about you, but I work hard all week. I want to enjoy my beach on the weekends. There’s something wrong with this picture, people.”
    There’s lots of clapping.
    “We need to protect our investment,” Tina’s father, Mr. Belle, says. “And we need to take action, quickly. The sand on the Spit is slipping away like the proverbial hourglass. First it’s a few beach towels and a boat anchored here and there, next thing you know, they’ll be pitching tents and acting like they live here.”
    There’s a commotion throughout the room.
    “As president of the BBA,” Mr. Sivler says, “I’ve taken the liberty of developing a system for preserving our rights and policing what we’re entitled to.”
    Mr. Sivler explains that every Bramble family who has “legal deeded rights” to the beach will be given a small white flag with a number on it. He holds one up and waves it to show how simple the idea is. “Each certified BBA member family whose annual dues are paid will be assigned a flag with a number. “When you’re at the beach, just post your flag in the sand nextto you. Then we’ll all know who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
    “How we gonna enforce that?” someone shouts out.
    “Good question,” Mr. Sivler says. “We’ve hired three retired police officers to patrol the beach and guard the entrances