Free The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach by Pam Jenoff

toward him. He had a quick temper, an Irish temper, his mother had called it. He was forever getting into arguments. This was the first actual fight I had seen him in, though. The last thing he needed was further trouble.
    But Liam was on top of the boy who lay on the ground now, both hands around the boy’s neck. “Apologize,” he commanded. The boy gurgled helplessly, blood trickling from his nose.
    “Liam, he can’t apologize if he can’t breathe.” I tugged at his shoulder. “Let him up.”
    Teachers and lunch aides surged forward, pulling Liam and the other boy apart. Charlie rushed up beside us. “What were you thinking?” he admonished.
    The principal, Mr. Owens, crossed the schoolyard. “I should expel you!”
    Charlie stepped forward quickly. “Respectfully, Mr. Owens, that isn’t necessary. I will take him home right now myself.”
    The principal paused, then acquiesced. “Fine.” Charlie was a student leader, someone he trusted. He wagged a finger in Liam’s direction. “But next time, you’re outta here.”
    “Dad’s going to wallop you.” Charlie scowled once the principal and other teachers were out of earshot. My heart ached that Liam would be punished simply for sticking up for me—again. I wanted to run after him and explain to his parents. “And now I’m going to be late for class.” Liam’s face fell. He could handle expulsion or whatever punishment his folks might hand out. It was Charlie’s disapproval that was too much to bear.
    “But he was only trying to stick up for me,” I began.
    “I don’t need your help,” Liam cut me off tersely. He did not care about punishment, or what the other kids thought of him—except for Charlie.
    “Come on.” Charlie started to lead Liam from the schoolyard, then turned back. “Addie?”
    My heart lifted as it did every time he said my name, wondering if maybe this time he would mean it differently. Was he finally noticing?
    I spun back hopefully. “Yes?”
    “Will you stop by the science lab and tell Mrs. Ferguson I’m going to be late?”
    They set off across the parking lot, leaving me behind. “Sure.” I turned away, dejected. How could I possibly have thought he would say something more?

I had always been able to sense change, like the way Nonna’s leg used to ache before a storm. My neck would tighten and stay tense for days. My appetite would fade to nonexistent and I’d grow tired, sleeping long, restless nights that were full of vivid dreams, even darker and stranger than usual. I’d awaken more exhausted than I’d ever gone to sleep, as though I had traveled great distances in my dreams.
    I’d been that way for more than a week now and I yawned as I stood in my wool coat on the porch, which was still damp from the night’s rain. I hadn’t seen the boys since school on Friday. I still went to the Connallys’ most nights during the week. Charlie (or Jack, during football season when Charlie had practice) would call for me after dinner and then bring me home. My aunt and uncle had stopped fighting me about visiting the Connallys, as long as my homework was done.
    They insisted, though, that I stay home on Shabbes. Back in Trieste, my family had been secular, attending the large synagogue in our neighborhood only on high holidays. But here the block quieted Friday nights and Saturdays, the men making their way to shul and the women keeping the children busy without putting on the radio. It was always a long, sluggish day in the tiny house, and I filled it as well as I could, doing my assignments for school and writing letters to my parents.
    “They haven’t written back,” I fretted the day before at lunch.
    “The mail is disrupted,” Aunt Bess said, speaking authoritatively, though she could not possibly have known for sure. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
    “But what if they aren’t?’ I’d pressed. They could be trying to get word out, or even want to leave now, and we would have no way of knowing. My