Free Summer of Lost and Found by Rebecca Behrens

dust. Why couldn’t they leave this place like it was: a quaint town, a quiet island soaked in an old mystery? I biked with renewed energy, thinking of how important it was to look for clues now .
    Finally, I saw a sign for Fort Raleigh National Historic Site and the Elizabethan Gardens next door. I took a deep breath, forcing my feet to keep moving. The wooded side road eventually led to a parking lot. I wheezed in, locked up my bike, and used what little strength I had left in my legs to dash over to the entrance, which was a stately brick building flanked by ornamental shrubs and flowers. The building looked English—at least like some of the ones I saw in photos in Mom and Dad’s album from their honeymoon. They went all over Europe, but spent a full week in London. Dad still talks about how they saw a play at the Globe Theatre, where Shakespeare’s plays were performed in his time. Mom still talks about the meal they had at a restaurant near the theater called the Arden. Dad’s always promised me that he’d take me “across the pond,” as he put it, and we could see a play at the Globe. But apparently he decided to go by himself.
    Right then, I’d have settled for Shakespeare in Central Park—meaning we’d both be home.
    Through the doorway, I entered a bright and cheerful space doubling as a gift shop and ticket counter. Inside, it smelled like my grandma’s favorite soap: “English Rose,” which made sense because of all the flowers and the scented candles. I pulled a sweaty five out of my shorts pocket and handed it to the lady behind the register. She thanked me, held out an admission sticker, and asked if I needed any help navigating the grounds.
    â€œNo, thanks. I’m meeting a friend here, and I’m late. Has a boy”—I blushed saying that—“about my age come in yet? Maybe a half hour ago?”
    She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. But I’ve only been taking admission for the last fifteen minutes—perhaps he got here early.” She winked at me, which made my blush even deeper, and handed me a brochure. The tagline on the front read: A LIVING MEMORIAL TO OUR ENGLISH COLONISTS . Interesting. “There’s a map inside. Feel free to ask a docent or employee if you need any help.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, slapping the sticker on my shirt. I hoped Ambrose hadn’t waited long in the hot sun. Or worse: What if he’d thought I was standing him up, and had left? I hurried out of the entrance building. To my right, past a gurgling fountain, was some kind of herb garden. I opened up the brochure to figure out where it was on the map. Shakespeare’s Herb Garden! I wished that my parents were with me, because it would be the perfect attraction for both of them: Shakespeare for Dad, plants for Mom. Even though I needed to get back to finding Ambrose, I pulled out my phone and whipped off a text to Dad: I am @ Shakespeare’s Herb Garden! Come here & you can see it! (Also, you still haven’t said why you are in England.)
    I put my phone away, folded up the brochure, and hurried down the path. According to the map, I was on the Fragrance Walk, and it did smell like a perfume bottle had exploded, but in a good way. Yucca and sea-holly plants grew on either side of me. I turned down another path and wound up in front of a big metal statue of Queen Elizabeth I. I stopped to take a quick picture to send to Jade. New hairstyle for me? I will never understand why people in the olden days thought certain things were attractive, like hairstyles that show off a high forehead or collars that spread out beyond your head like some hybrid of a halo and bat wings. I moved on, scanning the grounds for Ambrose. Seeing no one, I turned onto yet another wooded path. At the end, right in front of a tree, was a white statue, surrounded by worn stone benches. A boy sat cross-legged on the ground. Ambrose.
    I raced