Ellison was silent at eight A.M. Not even the wind could rouse itself to combat the still summer air as Ethan trailed his uncle through the empty streets of downtown—if it could really be called that. Back in Arcadia, downtown meant six city blocks, twelve streets, two movie theaters, twenty restaurants, a hotel, and countless stores. In Ellison, it was a single intersection. There was a general store, a gas station, a clothing store, a cafe, and Uncle Robert's malt shop. A little ways down the road was Town Hall, but according to Uncle Robert, the mayor had so little to do that the building was left empty most of the year. And that was all. Other amenities had to be brought in from the next town over, about a ten minute drive away.

        Ethan was horrified.

        He kept his head down and watched his sneakers scuff the pavement as he followed Uncle Robert into town. It wasn't until they reached a small grassy area between two buildings that he finally looked up—and found himself jarred to a halt.

        In this clearing, two benches sat facing each other across a bubbling fountain. Next to one of them was a flag pole, reaching skyward, its three flags hanging limp in the absence of wind. On the bottom, the American flag, its forty-eight stars lost in the folds. Above it, the simple red cross of Alabama's state flag. And at the top, its edges lifting in a sudden light breeze, was an pattern Ethan had seen only in history books: a red background with a dark blue X across the center, filled with bright white stars.

        Uncle Robert, a few paces ahead, noticed that Ethan was no longer on his tail and whirled around in annoyance. "Hurry up," he snapped, but paused when he saw the path of Ethan's eyes.

        "Uncle Robert," Ethan mumbled, swallowing hard. "Why is that here?"

        His uncle straightened, a defensive look coming across his features. "Well," he said gruffly. "That there is an important part of our history. It'd do you well not to disrespect a cultural symbol, as it is. Now, come on."

        Ethan ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn. "Yes, sir."

        The malt shop, at least, looked like the one he and his friends frequented back home. As Uncle Robert unlocked the glass doors, Ethan saw the black and white checkered floors, the cold marble counter with the red spinning chairs, the jukebox against the wall. A sudden wave of familiarity washed over him—and with it, a tide of homesickness. One day into his summer exile, and he was already nauseous with dread.

        Uncle Robert went behind the counter of the small shop and flicked on a switch, flooding the place with light. "So, this is it," he said, sweeping a hand to cover the five tables, complete with sweetheart chairs, a soda fountain, and the counter. "The Malt. The life of the town."

        Ethan scoffed—then realized, a moment too late, that his uncle was serious. "Cool," he amended, shoving his hands into the pockets of his chinos. Uncle Robert eyed him carefully.

        "It's all pretty simple, nothing fancy," he went on. "Menu's only got a few items, and since you have the morning shift, you don't need to worry about closing down. You can handle this, right?"

        "Yes, sir." Ethan nodded. It seemed that conversation with his uncle shrunk his vocabulary down to these two words. He didn't have the voice to mention that back home, he had worked at the local McDonald's for nearly two years. He also wasn't completely sure if anyone in this town had ever even seen a McDonald's.

        "All right, well." Uncle Robert cleared his throat, ran a hand over his stiff hair. "Let me show you around, give you a tour of the place."

        As it turns out, "the place" wasn't much—just the main shop plus a small kitchen in the back, through a set of metal double doors. Tuesday was burger day, Ethan learned, and the only time the rusting old stove ever got put to use. The rest of the time, sodas and milkshakes were the only items on the list.

        "Real variety," Ethan muttered, glancing over the laminated menu. Uncle Robert, thankfully, didn't hear.

        Ethan learned how to operate the soda machine; how to blend ice cream into a milkshake the right way; where, exactly, to kick the juke box in case it stopped in the middle of a song. All of this instruction was given in Uncle Robert's curt, impersonal tone, and all without a single heartbeat of eye contact. Ethan gave his understanding in half-hearted nods, all the while eagerly awaiting the moment that Uncle Robert would leave and he would finally be alone.

        Finally, when the big clock on the wall showed the time at fifteen minutes to nine, Uncle Robert completed his tour back in the main area. Ethan looked over the older man's shoulder, out the full-glass front wall, and saw only a single soul milling down the street, heading toward the cafe. He wondered if this was actually a ghost town.

        "Well, then," Uncle Robert said, fixing the collar of his shirt. He coughed into his fist. "Do you understand?"

        Ethan nodded. "Yes, sir."

        "Are you sure? I don't want any slip-ups while I'm away. I mean it."

        Hollowly, Ethan recited the same response.

        "Good. Good." Now, he adjusted his pants. He looked at the mirror above the counter, the song list next to the juke box—anywhere but at his nephew. Ethan felt nonexistent. "In that case," Uncle Robert continued. "I will leave you to it. There's a telephone in the back, if there's any kind of emergency. Try not to call."

        "Yeah," Ethan mumbled. "No sweat."

        Uncle Robert nodded quickly, curtly, his receding hairline catching the light. "I'll be back in a few hours," he said, and left as if he couldn't wait to get out fast enough.

        Once his uncle had disappeared down the lone cross street of downtown, Ethan stood in the center of the malt shop for a long moment, taking everything in. It was cooler in here than it was outside, but here, too, the air did not move. It hung; it lingered; it sat on Ethan's shoulders and buried his feet in the checkered linoleum. He felt inexplicably heavier in this place.

        Sighing, he forced his leaden feet to march behind the counter, snagging a squeaky vinyl stool on the way. Once he was situated, positioned conveniently behind the cash register, he looked both ways, licked his lips, and lifted up his shirt.

        Beneath, tucked into the waistline of his pants, were the two latest issues of the Fantastic Four. He had read them about ten times each already, of course, but they had been the first of the stack he had smuggled into his suitcase.

        Pulling the comics carefully out of his pants, Ethan placed one on the counter and one on his lap, where he flipped it carefully to the first panel so as not to wrinkle the pages. His uncle probably would not have approved of this, reading comics while on duty. If he noticed, of course. Which he hadn't that morning, when, at the breakfast table, Ethan made it through the first edition of Superman—twice. He'd stirred absently at his oatmeal as his aunt spoke loudly about their neighbor down the road, her voice expanding as if she wanted it to crawl up the walls and nestle into every corner of the woodwork. He wondered if she knew how terrified she sounded.

        She still smiled like she'd been set on fire.

        Like the Human Torch, Ethan thought, as that very character swept across the page to defeat the Four's latest enemy in one sweep of a flaming fist.

        The minutes ticked by like years, and not a single customer walked through the door. For four hours, Ethan read and reread the comics, stared at the wall, dug some spare change from his pockets to play a few songs on the jukebox. Most of the options were Elvis. He hated Elvis.

        By the time one o'clock rolled around, Ethan was thinking that in all his sixteen years of life, he had never been so incredibly bored. "This is such a drag," he announced to no one, so fed up with the emptiness that he couldn't even feel silly. He felt the energy building up inside of him, trapped between these four white walls, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaping to his feet and bolting out the door.

        He needed to run.

        Instead, with a grueling display of self-control, he ran a hand over the soft fuzz of his cropped dark hair and swiveled back and forth on the stool, knocking his knees against the counter.

        Uncle Robert strolled in at one oh three, and Ethan heaved a sigh of relief.

        "How was it?" he asked blandly, as Ethan rushed to shove the comics back up his shirt.

        "All right. Empty."

        "Usually is, in the morning." Uncle Robert grunted as he circled around the counter, that guttural sound that made Ethan shudder. "Most kids are still asleep. They'll be streaming in about half an hour from now."

        Ethan, still perched on the stool behind the counter, frowned. As much as he abhorred the idea of spending his already abysmal summer stuck in a crowded busboy job, he wondered why his uncle wouldn't stick him in the busier shift for the extra hands. "You sure you don't want me to stay through the crowds?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "I could help out, if you need it."

        Uncle Robert paused with his hand on the back door, his head perking up in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "No," he assured, shaking his head slowly. "That's all right, I can handle it. In fact, you should probably head on home. Cara's got a lunch waiting for you, and it'll get cold if you don't hurry."

        Relief and confusion mingled in his throat as Ethan stood, brushed invisible dust from his slacks, and nodded. "Sure," he mumbled awkwardly. "See you back home, Uncle Robert."

        From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw the man flinch at the title. He lowered his head and quickened his pace out the door.

        Outside, it seemed that the town had finally come alive. Or at least, as alive as was humanly possible in a town with barely more than a few hundred people. Unlike the morning, there were a few people milling about the streets: two women in floppy sunhats arched out of their seats at the cafe down the street, their rosy lips in full sprint; two little boys turned a rope for a little girl in a pink dress in front of the general store; inside, a few slow-moving figures pulled items from sagging wooden shelves.

        Ethan met the scorching sun with his face turned skyward and his fingers curled to his side, and for a long moment he simply stood on the sidewalk in front of the malt shop, taking dusty breaths. Because it was dusty even here; the skipping rope and scratching feet coaxed up the dirt from somewhere beneath the the pavement to coat the skyline gray and brown. With a sharp kick to the concrete and a dry cough, Ethan turned and headed home.

        Something strange happened as he paused at the intersection of Maple and Lee, looked both ways, and crossed the street toward the general store. A man, a woman, and a sweet-faced little boy stepped through the ringing door just as Ethan's feet touched the curb. It seemed as if their necks had been tugged by the same string, three fair-haired marionettes with piercing gray eyes that met his gaze head on. There was a wavering moment as something electric and frosty passed between them, a chill in the summer heat. The woman moved suddenly, one hand gripping her husband's arm, the other flying to her lips; her cherub son melted into the rustling folds of her dress. The man seemed to grow four inches in fear. He whispered something into his wife's ear, then turned his frigid glare to Ethan.

        "Keep walking, boy," he barked. "There's nothing to see here."

        Ethan swallowed hard, a nervous sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He hunched his shoulders, buried his chin in his chest, and took sweeping steps past the shrinking family. It wasn't until he had put a store between them that he dared look glance back, just for a moment. They were in the same place, frozen, all three staring at his receding figure, wishing him away.

        Ethan whipped back around, and for the first time, but certainly not the last, he ran through the town of Ellison. His feet pounded the pavement and startled the dust as he ran, and ran, and as their blank slate gazes lurched to life and chased him all the way home.

***********

        That was the first encounter of many. Over the next few days, Ethan's life fell into a puzzle piece routine. Wake up, exchange a few sleepy words with his aunt and uncle, eat breakfast, escape to the malt shop. Sit for four hours reading comics without seeing a single customer, wait for Uncle Robert to come and take his place. Walk home, run home, try to decipher the whispers and the stares.

        "—you remember Andrew Harper?"

        "What is that boy doing here?"

        "That's his son, I heard—"

        "—last time one of 'em was here it was all trouble."

        "Married that Negro woman, God knows why."

        "—too many colored folks, I think—"

        "After the court ruling last year, such a shame—"

        "—doesn't belong in our town."

        He caught words here and there as he walked home, arranged and rearranged them in the back of his mind, drew up nothing that made sense. He remembered hearing whispers of a controversial court ruling the year before, something about the schools down South, but it had seemed so unrelated that he hadn't given it a second thought. But now he thought about what his mother had told him, shrunk from the chilly-eyed strangers, tried not to be sick on the pavement. He longed for Arcadia, for home, for his next door neighbor and the cute girl down the road and the malt shop that was packed with people all day long.

        At dinner, he fended off Aunt Cara's attempts at conversation and shoveled food robotically into his mouth. Her voice was still too loud.

        It was on the second Thursday of June, a few days since he'd first set foot in Ellison, that Ethan Harper met Juniper Jones. He was absently polishing the already spotless counter-top, his eyes trained on the glossy pages of last month's Captain America issue, when the bell above the door let out a jingle. It took a moment for his mind, lost in the action, to register the arrival of a customer, and by the time he realized that someone had come inside, she was already at the counter and sticking a freckled hand in front of his face.

        "Hello," she said, her voice like wind chime.

        Ethan looked up quickly, his mouth hanging open and his arm still reaching out to wipe at an invisible smudge. He dropped his rag, cleared his throat, and stared at the girl who was now sitting calmly on the stool across from him, spinning herself in a slow circle. A volcano of bright orange hair erupted from her head and spilled down her back in loose, messy curls. Beneath the harsh malt shop lights, she was luminescent.

        "I—" He licked his lips, tried again. "Hi."

        She swung back to face him, a wide, crooked-toothed grin splitting galaxy of freckles on her cheeks. "Hi there," she said, sticking out her hand again. Ethan shook it gently, careful so as not to crush her hummingbird fingers. "My name is Juniper Jones, but you can call me June, Junie, or Starfish. Or Juniper, I guess. Or JJ. But really, I prefer Starfish."

        Her accent was just a quiet hint lingering on the edges of her words, and her sky blue eyes never once strayed from his face. He fought the urge to take a step back.

        "By gosh! You're a quiet one, aren't ya?" She snorted, and her shoulders met her ears. "Come on, silly, what's your name? Don't make me pry it out of you."

        "Uh, I'm Ethan Harper," he mumbled in reply.

        "That's it?" Juniper cried, her hands flying to her face. "No nicknames, no exciting alias?"

        "I—my middle name is Charlie?" Ethan shook his head. "Listen, Juniper, it's nice to meet you, but can I get you something?"

        "Juniper again," she groaned, snapping her fingers in front of her chin. "I thought I might have finally convinced someone to call me Starfish. It's catchy, dontcha think? Anyway, Ethan Charlie Harper, I'll have a root beer float, please."

        "Fifteen cents," Ethan said, but her coins were already sliding across the table. As he put them in the register, he felt her watching him.

        "You're new 'round here," she said, frowning slightly as he moved toward the soda fountain. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. And you know, that's pretty rare in a place like this. I probably know everyone in this whole town. We could walk down the street, and I could tell you, 'That's Betty, that's Stu and Laura, those there are the Shaefer twins.' But I don't know your face. Guess you're not from here, huh?"

        By the time Juniper finished her speech, Ethan had spent so much energy listening that he could hardly manage a response, but he forced himself to nod. "My uncle owns this shop," he murmured. "I'm here for the summer."

        "Mr. Shay is your uncle? Well, by gosh, I never would've guessed. Y'all just don't look the same, is all."

        Ethan studied the dark skin of his hands, but said nothing.

        "Not that I mean anything by that, you know," Juniper went on hurriedly. "Some folks around here think everyone should stick to their sides, you know, white folks and colored folks, so of course they were real frosted last year when that school in Topeka got all mixed up again, the way it shoulda been in the first place, I think. Anyway, I thought was ridiculous that they were so rattled because isn't a single Negro within twenty miles of this town. And Lord knows if they tried to force desegregation here, half this town would be lined up in front of the schoolhouse to stop it. Whoa, careful there!"

        Without realizing it, Ethan had all but dropped Juniper's rootbeer onto the counter, sending dark soda sloshing onto the marble.

        "Shoot," Ethan growled, reaching once again for the rag. "Sorry."

        "No worries." Juniper flashed another smile. "You know, one time when I got a float here—"

        Ethan tuned her out as he cleaned up the spill, letting her rattle on uninterrupted. She paused only for sips of her drink.

        "So, why are you here in Ellison? Is Mr. Shay your only uncle? Are you parents on vacation? Do you like it here? Are you going to stay for the fall? It's real beautiful in the fall."

        She watched him with doe eyes, grinning expectantly. Ethan contorted his face into a twisted mirror of a smile that looked more like a grimace. "What, are you trying to write a book? If you have to know, my parents sent me here for the summer, but I can't wait to split. No offense, Juniper, or Starfish, or whatever, but this place is such a killjoy."

        Juniper gasped loudly and suddenly, startling Ethan into the wall. When he righted himself, her hand was on her lips in disbelief. "Ethan Harper!" she scolded. "Clearly, you have not experienced the wonders that this little town has to offer. It may be small, but it's a real gem if you dig deep enough."

        "Gonna take a hell of a lot of digging."

        "Then it's just your lucky day! I've been looking for a summer sidekick for Lord knows how long, and by gosh, who would've known you'd just fall right into my lap."

        "Summer sidekick," Ethan echoed, blinking at her.

        "Yes," she said firmly. "I have this dream of having the most fantastic summer ever. Or no—no, not fantastic—invincible. This is going to be an invincible summer. But obviously, you know, I need a little help. Everything is better with a friend. No one around here is fit for the job, but you? You're perfect. You got a bike? If not, we'll get you one, you'll definitely need it. My adventures are not for the weak or the bikeless."

        Ethan blinked, staring in disbelief at Juniper as she calmly sipped her float, and tried to decide whether this girl was actually being serious. Her smile was disarming and genuine, but what if she was just teasing him? What if this was the next level of those whispers on the sidewalk? After all, no girl in her right mind would actually ask to be called "Starfish."

        "How long are you gonna stare at me like that before you say yes?" Juniper asked, tilting her head. "Boy, you really don't talk much."

        "I—" Ethan attempted a response, but his words turned to sludge on his tongue. The surprise, the confusion—the sudden head-on contact with another person after a week of near silence—it was altogether too much to handle.

        "Great!" Juniper Jones hopped in her seat, clapping her hands above her float. "Consider us friends, Ethan Charlie Harper. Ethan Charlie Harper," she repeated to herself. "E-C-H. Ech! Like that sound you make when you try to eat a whole lemon! Have you ever tried to eat a whole lemon? By gosh, let me tell you, when they say lemons are sour, they mean it."

   This time, Ethan didn't even bother trying to respond. He thought she might have continued speaking as he continued cleaning the same spot on the counter, but he wasn't sure. His head was too mixed up to care much either way.

        When Uncle Robert waltzed through the door at one oh two, Juniper was still there, swinging her legs against the counter and twirling the straw of her now empty drink. He seemed surprised to see her there.

        "Mr. Shay!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes nearly popping out of her head. "How are you?"

        "Great, Juniper. Nice to see you." He crossed behind the counter with a nod to Ethan and disappeared into the back. Ethan, who had returned to reading his comics as Juniper went on a tirade about the injustice of bug torture, eyed her puppy-dog expression warily.

        "How's your aunt doing, June?" Uncle Robert asked, returning into the main room.

        Juniper's grin wavered, and she paused for a split second before replying, "Oh, you know, she's doing swell, she's been—oh! Oh, no, look at the time! I have to be home to make her lunch! Thank goodness you reminded me." She leapt off the stool, her gangly limbs askew, and smoothed her yellow dress down the front. "Bye, Mr. Shay! Bye, Ethan Charlie Harper! I'll see you soon!"

        Her final word became a single-note melody as she swept out through the door, a tumbling breeze in the stagnant heat. Ethan stared after her, blinking in confusion. He looked at his uncle, who shrugged as he watched the redhead disappear around the corner.

        "What can I tell you?" he said, reading his nephew's mind. "That's Juniper Jones."