“But it’s the truth, right? She doesn’t know her.”

“Michael,” Aimee says. “It’s her business, and maybe something that bothers her, and she doesn’t want a group of people standing around discussing it.”

“Well, we’re not just any group of people,” he says, coming over and putting his arm around my shoulder. “We love Delsie. She’s our people. We’re her supporting actors in life.”

I bump shoulders with him. “Thanks, Michael. It does make me sad to talk about it, though. Maybe another time . . .”

Part of me would like to talk to them, but I wonder if Grammy is right—maybe talking about things just stirs up sadness.

I’m grateful that Aimee stepped in like that, though. I’ve been wondering if she’s been curious why I went quiet that day she asked for help with her part, but it seems like she understands. I’m lucky. When the waves are rolling in, my friends are the jetties.

• • •

The first two tag sales are filled with a lot of glass and stuff I wouldn’t want.

But I get a good feeling after arriving at the third one and spotting a Strong Shoulder mason jar like we drink iced tea from in the neighborhood.

Aimee calls to me, “Delsie! I found a frame!”

I head over. It’s a frame that says CAPE COD and has a seal on it. Another weird coincidence. But I don’t want that frame as a reminder, so I say, “What self-respecting Caper would have a frame that says Cape Cod?”

An old guy in a chair says, “Exactly why I’m selling it!” and he laughs like he thinks he’s the funniest guy east of the Bourne Bridge.

“I think it’s perfect for you,” Michael says. “I happen to know that you are a wash-ashore.”

“I got here at two days old,” I say. “Close enough.”

“If you didn’t take your first breath on this side of the bridge, then you are not a Caper. You are a wash-ashore.”

Aimee smacks him on the arm. “What is with you? Lighten up.”

“Why? I smell like a house fire,” he complains. “I’m in a bad mood.”

“I get it,” Aimee says. “But living at the campground can’t be all bad. You must have some fun there.”

“Yeah, I guess it could be seen as fun. But then again”—he leans forward and gets in her face—“I’m not a raccoon. Another reason I smell so nice is I hate their showers. I mean, some things are meant to be community. Showers are not one of them.”

“They have walls, right?” I ask.

“Sort of. But you don’t have to look at other people’s feet when you shower, do you? I really don’t need to do that. I don’t mind sharing. Really I don’t. I can share my dessert. A bench. Seriously. I’d rather share a head cold than a shower.”

“I know what’s really bothering you,” Aimee says. “You’re mad because Madam Schofield gave you a hard time.”