We seven
Courtney Santo 1. We seven are lost. The wind pushes us off the beach and onto the promenade where we pull at the nylon edges of our jackets until their hems hang down over our shorts. Squinting through overcast refraction, we urge the cirrus clouds to hurry on their way up and over Saddle Mountain. Tourists crowd the sidewalks. There is a round of minigolf, and then the jolt of bumper cars as each big kid rides with a little kid to save a dollar. At the arcade, we seven plug nickels into the Skee-Ball machines. That saved dollar buys twenty games. Our mother’s breath quiets in this place where we’re all accounted for. In one glance she sees us all. We are contained. How satisfying is the cascade of balls falling into place. We roll them like our father taught us—twisting our wrists to bank the wooden sphere against the side rails. Throw after throw, the ball spins solidly into the 100-point hole. None of us are so foolish as to try for 500 points by aiming for the holes set opposite each other in the two uppermost corners of the machine. Red tickets push out of the slot like scarves from a magician’s mouth. We gather them in great armfuls thinking of how we will exchange the construction paper for plastic domes that when turned inside out jump into the air as if scared of not being the way they were made. We are counted. The youngest is missing. Her shoes, in front of the last machine, hold her place. The yellow flip-flops tell us she will be right back. On the street, we call her name. All of us have