I look at the shirts I’ve just been handed. “Is that … there’s no interview?”
“I can ask you more questions if you want.” He looks like he’s serious. “Otherwise you can start tomorrow. We need all hands on deck to start orientation. They’ll be here before you know it.”
And by “they” he means the tourists. The thousands of summer residents and visitors who will take our tiny town from a two-thousand-person ghost town to a bustling summer destination. We may have a week before they start to trickle in, but by the Fourth of July, Riverton will be unrecognizable.
“I can start tomorrow.” I smile, because I had no idea it would be this easy. That for the first time in weeks, something could go right. And so easily.
“See you at nine.”
And just like that, I am officially employed for the summer.
AIDEN
Hauling canoes all day is suspiciously similar to baseball camp: I’m tired, hungry, and probably going to hurt in weird places tomorrow. Ellis hands Olivia a pile of red clothes, shakes her hand, and makes his way back to the riverbank, where I’m standing with an armful of red cushions.
“You hired her? Seriously, Ellis?”
He looks shocked. “She was nice. And she seems like she’ll actually show up. She called four times yesterday.”
I can’t help but groan. This is not how my low-key summer at River Depot is supposed to go.
“You should have said something if you had a problem.”
“You didn’t give me a chance. You had to offer her a job on the spot?”
Ellis rolls his eyes and gives me a fake pouty face. “Oh, I’m so sorry you have to work with a nice, cute girl all summer. My sincerest apologies for burdening you.”
I roll my eyes, because of course Ellis would have no idea who Olivia is or why I wouldn’t want her around—he doesn’t go to Riverton, he goes to South Hills, one town over. And yes, she’s cute, I guess. But she’s also got a boyfriend I’m not interested in running into this summer.
“Just hire some cute guys for yourself and don’t worry about me. Please.”
“What exactly is wrong with her?” he asks.
“She’s Zander’s girlfriend.”
All I get from Ellis—who has been to most of my baseball games since forever—is a blank stare.
“Zander. My catcher.”
Ellis shakes his head and turns away to go back to the boat shed. “Sorry, man,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Just doing my job.”
Fantastic. Now not only do I have to work with someone from school, I get to worry about Zander coming around. I rarely saw him around school without her. And the best thing about River Depot is that local kids don’t hang out here. Not yet, at least.
* * *
It’s almost seven, close to closing, and River Depot is nearly empty. Everything is quiet, and I can finally hear the river sounds now that it’s calm. The river is really shallow, and along the banks the water just barely skims over the tiny pebbles that line it. Even the deeper part, where we put the boats in, is barely past my knees in this section. The weeds that grow there float with the current, rippling just under the surface.
My mom is right, this would have been a beautiful spot for a house. That was the plan, fifteen years ago when my dad bought this place from my grandpa. It was struggling, barely getting by as a tiny general store and gas station. So my parents bought it with the plan of running it for a few years and then building a house here. But then my dad quit his construction job, doubled down on additions to the building, and started offering trips down the river. Our gas pumps are mostly for decoration now—the drive is usually too cluttered with boaters or shoppers, to actually pull in for a fill-up.
By the second summer, it wasn’t a general store anymore, it was a local tourist stop, right along with the beach and the wineries, and everything else. And now it’s my summer hiding spot. Sort of.
It’s never pitch black along the river. There are houses dotting the banks, and then there’s the moon shining off of the water, but I grab one of the lantern attachments anyway, because it could be late by the time I get back and my night vision is crap these days. I clamp the curved metal onto the canoe and step into the water. It’s like bath water in the ankle-deep shallows of the river, even after a seventy-degree day. One foot, then the other, and I’m sitting on the hard metal, wishing I had thrown one of the red flotation squares under me. They’re in front, shoved up under the seat, and I’ll never get to them without tipping myself. A kayak would have made more sense for a solo trip, but the canoes have more room. My black bag is sitting in front of me, a thin line of water trickling under it.
It’s early June, two weeks until the summer equinox, so the sky is still bright and warm, just like the shallow river water. I don’t know why I’m so attracted to the outdoors right now. Maybe because it reminds me of when I was younger, and spent more time with my family in the summer, before baseball got so intense. Being outside makes me think, but it also helps me forget. It tricks me, with its colors and textures and sounds, into forgetting everything that I’m missing. When I’m anywhere else, every second is filled with the glaring reality of what is different. The assignment board that hangs in the shed is blurry. I circle every boat twice to double-check the number before jotting it down on my clipboard. I don’t trust myself, don’t trust what I’m seeing. What I’m not seeing. Everything is softer than it used to be, and not in a good way.
You should get your glasses. That’s what some kid’s mom said to me when I was filling out their paperwork, my face crowding the clipboard more than I had realized. I don’t have glasses, I told her. She glared at me but didn’t say anything. I don’t know why I bothered; I’ll never see her again. There’s no need to impress her with my visual acuity, or shame her with a pity party over being seventeen with the vision of her kid’s grandpa. Just shut it, lady. That’s what I wanted to say. But it’s my last day with the stupid little bandage by my eye, and my bruises are yellowing, and I’m so close to having my parents off my ass about everything.
I slice my paddle through the water, a mist of cool droplets spraying my hand. The river current isn’t strong—that’s why it’s perfect for families and first-time paddlers who aren’t paying attention—but it’s enough to move me along. And this late I don’t have to worry about traversing through red inner tubes and floating coolers. I rest the paddle across my lap and let the water push me. I close my left eye, letting everything go out of focus. I see three strips—the brown of the dunes, the darkness of the water, and the green of the trees on the right bank. I keep floating along. Is this what it will be like someday? I close my eyes. I don’t think I believe in the whole “senses coming alive” thing, but I still can’t help but wonder if there’s something to it.
The rocking of the boat is more noticeable now, the sound of the water louder. Maybe it’s just that I’ve stopped paddling. That I’m thinking about it. Everything feels off. The boat dips, and my eyes whip open, my body sliding to my right with barely enough time to balance myself. Alongside me, my paddle slides into the water, hitting the metal with a clank as it tips overboard. I didn’t pack an extra paddle and I can’t just leave it behind—there’s no getting back upstream without it—so I use my hand to slow the boat down and when I’m over a shallow spot I put a foot over the edge. It’s so shallow the canoe bottoms out on the rocks.
Grabbing the bow, I turn the boat toward a sandy spot on the shore, a little C-shaped crescent cut into the trees. My paddle is floating to my right, coasting toward shore, and I scoop it up and toss it back into the canoe. The bank is sandy, and I pull the front of my boat up onto the shore, far enough that it can’t get pulled back out by the river. No one is going to steal my canoe—if they’re out here, they already have one.
My backpack is slung over my shoulder in a quick motion and I’m headed into the woods, ready to put pencil to paper, to capture everything around me. I want to finish the sketches in my pad—the
ones I started on family car trips, and buses to away games, and in classes that didn’t hold my interest. I want to finish them all, while I still can. You’re being so fucking melodramatic. Ellis’s voice is in my head, and I know it’s true, that I’m having a breakdown or something, but I don’t care. I don’t think wandering around in the woods and paddling down the river and drawing shit is the worst thing I could do. I’m not out throwing bricks through the windows of everyone with 20/20 vision, or egging my eye doctor’s house, or something. I’m creating fucking art. And yes, I’m doing it in the middle of nowhere. So sue me, Ellis.
In front of me, the sandy shore stretches out and upward, and I duck under a branch as I make my way up, eager to see where this unexpected, sandy road will lead me tonight.
* * *
I’ve been exploring almost every night for the past week, and every time I take a different path I find something new. I always have a certain destination in mind, but over and over I end up someplace I wasn’t expecting. Someplace better. Ellis can’t understand why I don’t just sit down somewhere and draw. Why I insist on canoeing and trekking through the woods, and making it “such a project.” But getting to my spot is half of the work. Because as I paddle and hike and dodge the snapping branches and lumpy tree roots, my mind wanders. If I sat down right after work, I can tell you exactly what I’d draw. A canoe. Maybe, if I was feeling really creative, a montage of canoes, all different colors. And I’m pretty sure a canoe-themed portfolio isn’t going to sway Mr. Winters into letting me into Advanced Senior Art.
Because Advanced Senior Art isn’t some humdrum slacker-fest full of pencil sketches and watercolor. No, it’s Art as Life. An in-your-face, hands-on art experience, focused on real-world applications. It’s less instruction, and more experimentation. I took Intro to Art freshman year with Mrs. Salsberg, and then Art II and III with Winters, but his more advanced classes were always at the end of the day. I always opted for last hour study hall, so I could bail to the gym for pitching practice and conditioning. Mr. Winters didn’t seem impressed by that excuse when I tracked him down on the last day of school and begged him to let me into senior art. He was impressed by my begging though, because he offered me the chance to show him a portfolio at the end of the summer. “Wow me,” he said. And I’m going to. Because I need something to care about this summer. Something to distract me from no baseball camp, no friends. I’ve never felt like Emerson in art class. And that’s all I want—all I need—right now. To just be Aiden.
So I have eight weeks to make this happen. Less than sixty days to show Mr. Winters what I’m all about. To show myself what I’m all about. Who are you, Aiden Emerson? That’s what he asked me as I left his room. I still don’t know the answer, but with every dune I climb, I feel a little closer. Who are you, Aiden Emerson? I hike up the steep dune, an arch of branches just overhead, shading me. As I reach the top and the trees make way to open sky, I shield my eyes. The sun is making its slow descent toward the lake, already darkening to amber, as it prepares to be eaten up by the water. I look out over the sand below me, the sandy paths weaving through the dune grass. I didn’t realize I had climbed so high—I’m above everything.
I set my backpack down, pull out my paper, and nestle my package of pastels down into the sand next to me. This is why I don’t draw in my room or on a picnic table somewhere. Who are you, Aiden Emerson? I’m sure as hell not a boring collage of canoes you hang over the couch of your summer home. No, tonight I’m the world on fire. I’m end-of-days, burning water, apocalyptic beauty.
Chapter
Four
OLIVIA
I sit down on the couch and set the bowl of popcorn between Aunt Sarah and me. If I had some sort of secret superpower, it would probably be my popcorn-making ability. I spend entirely too much time shaking and mixing, and making sure the butter and salt comingle perfectly so there aren’t good bites and bad bites.
Aunt Sarah moans a little as she pops the first few pieces into her mouth. After I gave her the lowdown on my new job situation, we both decided to forgo a frozen dinner for popcorn.
“I haven’t seen Zander lately.” Aunt Sarah doesn’t say it in a suspicious tone, more like she’s genuinely curious. That makes two of us, I suppose.
“They left for up north.”
She nods, like she should have known that. I think summer has caught up to both of us. Somehow it’s the second week of June already, and in three short months I’ll be a senior. And Aunt Sarah will be gone. The thought jabs into me. I keep forgetting about the looming change in my living situation. Aunt Sarah and I don’t talk about the move. We’ve spent the last week deep-cleaning the house to put it on the market—so it’s definitely happening—but we don’t talk about it. I vacuum and she scrubs, and in the evenings we sit on the couch watching movies and just being us while we still get to.
I have less than twelve weeks to figure out how I’m staying in Riverton. Zander’s house is obviously off the table, and Emma is lobbying her parents, but the Langes have four kids of their own to worry about, and Emma already shares a room with her younger sister Cordelia. I don’t know where I would even fit in their house. Maybe on a couch or in the basement? I’d be open to either at this point.
“Are you excited to go up next month?” Aunt Sarah asks.
It takes me a minute to remember we were talking about Zander and his summer plans. I nod. I haven’t told Aunt Sarah about Zander. About the breakup. I haven’t told anyone but Emma yet. Has he? I don’t want to have to say it out loud, but also I don’t want her to start telling me all of the reasons I’m better off. What if, just like Emma, she isn’t as Team Zander as I thought she was? Better to just wait and see how the summer pans out.
“She called again.”
“And how is her latest boyfriend?”
“Olivia,” Aunt Sarah scolds.
“What is she this month, a barista? A dog-walker?” I scoop popcorn into my mouth and chew. “Has she resurrected her short-lived private investigation career?”
“Olivia.” For all of my mother’s horribleness, at some point my aunt’s sisterly allegiance always kicks in. Especially the last year or two. I don’t get nearly as much mom-hating time as I used to with Aunt Sarah. “You’re being a brat.”
“I was raised in a barn…” I can’t help myself. Truly. Any other time, Aunt Sarah says I’m an old lady in a teenage body. But talking about my mother brings out my inner brat. “… By my mother.”
Aunt Sarah doesn’t have to say another word, because she’s glaring at me like she’s thinking of grabbing the chair I’m sitting in and tossing me into the driveway. Though I’m already getting booted out of this house, so it’s not even much of a threat anymore, is it?
“Fine.” I jab the remote at the TV and pause it. “What does She Who Shall Not Be Named want?”
“For you to call her.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll call her tomorrow, after work.”
Aunt Sarah tips her head my way and levels me with a stare. “Call her tonight.”
I groan. “I’m not in the mood tonight. Tomorrow I’ll already be tired and sore, and probably cranky, from my first day doing god-knows-what down by the river.” I stretch my head back and let it rest against the top of the cushion. “Perfect timing to call my mother.”
“She said today, Liv. It sounded important.”
I laugh. “Right, because we all know how much important news she always has to share during her quarterly check-in calls.” I pull my hair out of my ponytail and shake my fingers through it as the loose brown curls fall around my shoulders. I look like my mother; probably another reason why I’m so terrified to end up like her. I do my best impression, with exaggerated enthusiasm and her signature tongue-click after each sentence. I stretch out my fingers and put my imaginary phone to my ear. “Have you been watching The Bachelor, did you see who he picked?” Click. “And did I tell you I’m not eating eggs, or carbs, or foods that start with a G anymore?” Click. �
�Not anything white either.” Click. “You know what white foods do to your body, don’t you?” Click.
I hang up my imaginary phone on my thigh. Aunt Sarah’s judging brown eyes are right—I’m being such a bitch right now. Takes one to raise one. I turn the movie back on, and my voice is almost a whisper. “I’ll take my chances that it can wait until tomorrow.”
Chapter
Five
OLIVIA
I hate these khaki shorts more than anything I’ve ever hated before. Why did I trust Aunt Sarah to buy me shorts? How do I not own khaki shorts? And better question, where do girls find these cute little khaki shorts that don’t look ridiculous? The pair Aunt Sarah bought me at the mall have long square pockets that bunch at my hips, and they’re super long. Like nun-shorts long.
“I figured there was probably a length requirement of some sort.” There is very little sympathy in Aunt Sarah’s voice when I sulk around the living room, moaning about how I don’t have time to get anything else before my first day at River Depot.
“No length requirement. Just khaki.” I drop onto the couch and moan when my shorts only ride up to mid-thigh. “The girl at the front desk was practically showing cheek.” Which is a bit of an exaggeration, but she definitely did not have camp-counselor shorts on. I don’t need to show cheek, but I wouldn’t mind a little thigh.
“Would it make you feel better if I dropped you off?” Aunt Sarah asks.
“Riding my bike is the least of my problems at this point.”
My bigger problem is that I didn’t think this whole thing through. In my panic over not having a summer job, I somehow managed to get one that I’m going to be horrible at. How did I go from sitting at a desk, writing editorials about local events and sorting through photos and fetching coffee and lunch, to working at River Depot? I mean, “River” is in the name. And it’s not like I can’t swim or anything. I grew up in a beach town—they basically just throw you in the lake when you’re born—but I’ve never been big into outdoorsy things. River Depot is basically nestled in the very spot I usually avoid. And the thought of complete failure—even at a job I’m not excited about—is making me want to crawl back under the covers. I don’t know how to prepare for this. Last night I googled “tips for working outdoors” and “surviving your first wilderness job” (a little dramatic, yes, but still semi-accurate). Nothing helpful. I should have found a job as a camp counselor, because that’s a job a lot of people are willing to give you advice on.
When Summer Ends Page 5