by Cameron Lund
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m surprised he’s telling me all these details; sharing a story that’s so personal.
“Tommo and I have always tried to, like . . . parent-trap them,” he says with a laugh. “We fly back to Maui to visit my dad and try to convince my mom to come with us, but she never will. She hasn’t been back to Hawaii since.”
“That’s messed up,” I say. “I mean, Hawaii is her home.”
“Yeah, I’m so mad at my dad for taking Maui away from her. But sometimes I wish she wasn’t so stubborn.”
Now that the car has stopped, it’s hot again, the sun beating down hard on the back of our necks. The leather seat feels slippery beneath my bare thighs. I know now is the time to get out of the Jeep, but for some reason I don’t want this conversation to end. It feels good to talk about this. It feels good to know that someone else is going through something similar to what I am.
“My mom always brings guys home,” I say. “There was a guy there this morning. He made pancakes. That’s why I was in a bad mood.”
“Yeah, pancakes are disgusting.” He smiles so I know it’s a joke.
I sigh, fanning myself with my hand. “It’s just—I’m not opposed to my mom dating, or even hooking up with guys, even though it’s gross. It’s just frustrating because she brings them home, tries to play nice with me in front of them, and then she pushes them away.”
“That’s fucked,” he says.
“I know.” I’m completely melting now, sweat dripping off me in the grossest of ways. I’ve got to get out of the car. “Anyway, thanks for driving me back here.” I climb down out of the Jeep.
“Hey, wait,” he says. “Aren’t we swimming?”
“What?”
“It’s hot as shit out right now. We’re at the lake.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Skinny-dipping?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“I’m not getting naked in front of you and all of the innocent people down on that beach.”
He laughs. “It was worth a try.” But then he unbuckles his seat belt and jumps down out of the Jeep. “Come on. Just go in your clothes.”
I tentatively touch the crown braid I spent so long making this morning. It’s already wilting, flyaway hairs frizzing around my face from the humidity. I look down at myself. I’m wearing a pair of jean shorts and a black tank top and my nicest bra—the one I bought at a fancy boutique in LA when Olivia and I took that trip there with her family. It’s not the kind of bra you submerge in the lake.
Besides, I’m already late for my first day at Scoops. And I don’t want to spend any more time with Kai right now than I have to.
“I have to go,” I say, opening the door to my car. “I have to be somewhere.”
Kai sighs. “Your loss, Penelope.”
“Sorry.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s just that the look of disappointment that flashes across Kai’s face makes me feel for a second like I’m disappointed in myself too.
THEN
JUNIOR YEAR—OCTOBER
THE PARKING LOT AT school is too small to fit everyone’s cars, so if you’re running late, it only makes everything worse. It’s early October—a month into school—one of those perfect crisp fall days where you can taste the air. But I’ve been circling the lot for five minutes and I’m already ten minutes late for homeroom.
I decide to give up and drive out onto the winding road that wraps around campus, looking for street parking. Unfortunately, driving isn’t my strong suit, and parallel parking even less. I’ve been trying and failing to park in the same spot for another five minutes when Jordan walks by and knocks on my window.
At first, I don’t want to roll it down. I wonder for a minute how tinted the window is, if he can tell I’m the one inside, the one so pathetic she can’t even park her car—so frazzled about being late she’s near to tears. But then I remember the stickers my mom put on the bumper—FLORENCE’S GARDEN EMPORIUM, COEXIST, MICKEY MOUSE. Jordan knows this is me. Besides, you don’t turn down a chance to talk to Jordan Parker, even if you’re at your worst.
I roll down the window.
“Everything okay, Harris?” He grins wide, leaning into his arms on the roof of the passenger side. I can see his muscles through his T-shirt.
I hastily wipe my eyes. “I’m so late. And I can’t park this stupid car.”
“You want me to try?”
At first I want to tell him no. I don’t want to be the silly girl who needs a boy to rescue her. But the idea of Jordan Parker inside my car, his hands on my steering wheel, is too tempting to turn down.
“You don’t mind?” I ask, stepping out of the car.
“Nah, I’m a pro.”
He slides into the driver’s seat and motions for me to climb back in on the passenger side. But once I’m seated and he’s behind the wheel, he doesn’t try to park the car. Instead, he puts it into drive and cruises down the street, away from the school.
“Wait,” I say. “Where are you going?”
“Let’s do something fun,” he says. And then he turns to me and his beaming smile wipes any doubt from my mind, dries the protest right off my tongue. I don’t care that I’m officially cutting class, that it could hurt my chances of college, that I am technically being kidnapped. Because I have waited my whole life to be in Jordan’s passenger seat, someone worth cutting class with, someone boys find pretty enough to take on adventures.
I don’t know why I’ve caught his interest right now—if it’s because he’s specifically interested in me at all, or if I’m just a girl with a car, an opportunity for something more interesting than school. But I know I look good today. Since it’s the start of the year, we’re all still trying our hardest. Everything we do now in these first months sets the tone for the entire year. I’ve been watching makeup tutorials all summer—learned how to contour from YouTube, how to make my nose look smaller and my cheekbones look sharper, how to overline my lips so I look like an Instagram filter in real life. And maybe Jordan has finally noticed.
He parks the car in town, right in front of Scoops, and then climbs out, running around to the other side to open my door. I’ve never had someone open a door for me, and it seems so romantic. Suddenly, it feels like we’re on a date.
“You want some sorbet?” He nods toward the sign. “Whenever I’m upset, I always get sorbet.”
“I’m not actually upset,” I say. “I just can’t park.”
“Still,” he says.
It turns out Scoops is closed at eight a.m., so we go to the corner store instead and buy Popsicles, taking them down by the edge of the lake. I’m anxious the whole time—about getting caught, about someone asking why we’re not in class, or seeing one of my mom’s friends out running errands. But the thought that we’re doing something bad makes it even more fun. Being with Jordan right now feels dangerous.
“I can’t believe it’s still so hot,” Jordan says, licking his arm where a drop of Popsicle has dribbled down to his elbow. “I’m ready for winter.”
“I can’t wait for Halloween.” Halloween is my favorite holiday. I love getting the chance to dress up, spending days putting together a costume and taking pictures of cool makeup looks. Except usually I get too embarrassed to wear a costume to school.
“I like Thanksgiving,” he says. “My family is huge. All the cousins and aunts and uncles and everybody comes over, and it’s, like, complete mayhem. Mashed potatoes everywhere.”
I grin at his description, picturing a bunch of mini Jordans running around. It sounds so different than the quiet Thanksgivings I’m used to at my house: my mom, Seb, and I eating Chinese takeout in front of the TV.
“No mashed potatoes for me, though,” Jordan says. “I’m lactose intolerant. It’s grisly. Like absolutely rank.”
“Gross,” I say, but I’m laughing because I can’t he
lp it. Sometimes it’s unfair that guys can make jokes about disgusting stuff and we’ll still think they’re hot no matter what. I could never make a joke about stomach issues to a guy.
“Your family sounds fun,” I say instead, changing the subject back to better topics.
“They’re the best.” He breaks his Popsicle stick in two, spinning the pieces around in his hand. “My parents are so in love, it’s sick.” He laughs, sticking his tongue out in a disgusted way. “You ever seen your parents make out? I guarantee mine make out more.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my face flame. There’s just so much to get into. I don’t want to bring the mood down, admit to Jordan that I don’t know my dad—that I’ve seen my mom kissing different men over and over again. This is the first real conversation we’ve ever had, and I don’t want to ruin it. So instead, I nod. “Um, yeah. My parents are always kissing too.”
“So gross, right?” Jordan laughs. Then after a moment: “How come we never hang out, Harris?”
“We do hang out,” I answer, and it’s true. We go to the mall with our friends, to the lake and mini golf, and sometimes parties in Kai’s barn. But obviously we don’t talk. Olivia is always there, taking charge, speaking for me because I’m too shy around Jordan to speak for myself.
“Nah, but not like this. You’re pretty cool, you know that?”
My phone buzzes then, and I see a text from Olivia. Where the eff are you?!
Jordan and I got popsicles, I text back, and it makes me feel so powerful.
We return to school then, walking through the doors together just in time for second period. We go our separate ways, him to English and me to bio, but that moment we’re together in front of everyone is enough. If everything we do right now sets the precedent for the rest of the year, then I am officially the girl who cut class with Jordan.
This is the coolest I’ve ever been.
NOW
WHEN I GET TO SCOOPS, Sarah is waiting for me.
“You’re late,” she says, and I check my phone to see it’s five minutes past my given arrival time.
“Sorry,” I say. “I had to get my car from the lake. So where’s the manager? I’m supposed to be training.”
“I’m the manager.” She puts her hands on her hips.
I stare at her for a second, trying to make sense of everything. Why would Sarah have picked me for this job? Maybe I was the only one who applied. It’s not like Scoops is a place people are dying to spend their time.
“What?” she asks when I still haven’t said anything.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just surprised. Don’t you hate me or something?”
“Honestly, Penny, I don’t think about you that much. Go put your bag in the back room and grab an apron.”
We spend the next hour going over everything I’ll need to know. Sarah shows me how to use the cash register. She points out which flavors are the best and which ones to avoid at all costs (although having grown up on Scoops ice cream, I already know), and the proper technique to make the perfect scoop, round and fluffy and perfectly centered on the cone.
By the end of the hour, my arm is sore.
“One last thing,” she says, bringing me over to the storage freezer in the back room. “Never ever order a banana split.”
“What, why?”
She opens the freezer door and I see three giant clear tubs of what look like they were once bananas, but appear to have frozen into a congealed black lump. It’s like a rotten block of banana ice.
“We’re not allowed to throw them away,” Sarah says. “I swear there is mold in here. Best to avoid it.”
At around noon, the store gets busy. I can feel the sun blazing hot through the windows, and I’m glad to be inside in the air conditioning. I wonder briefly if Kai ever went for that swim in the lake. I’m not sure I would have gone alone if I were him. I always feel awkward doing things by myself, like all the strangers around me must be watching, thinking I have no friends.
I picture myself at Disneyland again, waiting alone in a single- rider line and feel the shame of that moment so fiercely I have to lean my head on the cold glass of the ice-cream case.
“Um, everything okay?” Sarah asks.
I pull back. “It’s just hot.”
“Yeah, this summer is scorching.” She pauses for a second, as if debating whether to continue. “Hey, do you remember that summer in fourth grade when we did the Olympics?”
I do remember. That was a brutal summer too, maybe even hotter than this one. My mom had gone on a trip somewhere and she’d left me at Sarah’s house for a few days. We’d set up sprinklers in her backyard, filled a kiddie pool from the hose, and invited all the neighborhood kids over to play summer Olympics. Sarah and I pretended we were from countries all over the world, speaking to each other in different accents. “You should hang on to Sarah,” my mom said later when I told her about the accents. “She’s weird—the weird ones always become the most interesting adults.”
I’d had so much fun that summer, but then when we went back to school in the fall, things changed. Sarah had been caught picking her nose and I had become the girl who puked, and instead of turning to each other for comfort, it was like we’d both tried to distance ourselves—too afraid some of the other’s humiliation would rub off on us. Then Olivia and I had miraculously become friends, and I’d left Sarah behind, thankful to finally become one of the lucky ones.
“Can you still do a British accent?” I ask now.
“Ay, I reckon I’ve gotten even better at it,” she says in a full accent, a voice that sounds remarkably like Captain Jack Sparrow. Then she immediately turns red and spins away from me, busying herself at the cash register.
I know Olivia would make fun of her in this moment. The thought comes to me surely and immediately that what Sarah has done is shameful and embarrassing and I should feel bad for her. But something stops me from saying anything. Maybe it’s because I’ve felt that way about myself for the past week.
So instead I answer her back in a British accent of my own. “Pip pip, cheerio.”
She turns around and laughs. “You were always terrible at accents.”
“Hey!” I’m suddenly indignant, but I can’t help but laugh too because I know she’s right. “Okay, fine. So maybe I’m not destined for the stage.”
“Eh, as long as we don’t do My Fair Lady next year for the musical, you’d be fine. Your Eliza Doolittle would cause ear bleeds.”
“Come on, Dover!” I shout in the worst accent I can muster. “Move your bloomin’ arse!” It’s a famous quote from the show and I don’t know what compels me to say it so loudly.
“Fuck, that was horrifying,” Sarah says, tucking a blue strand of hair behind one ear. “If you ever use that voice again, you have to eat a freezer banana.”
“I’m not going ten feet near a freezer banana,” I say.
“That’s what you think. Newbies always have to make the banana splits. Them’s the rules.”
“I’m allergic to bananas,” I say, which is a total lie and we both know it. But Sarah lets it slide. It’s so weird to be joking around like this, to actually be having . . . fun with the person I’ve tried the last few years to avoid. I can’t help but worry that Jordan or somebody else will walk by and see us together, that if I’m caught laughing with Sarah, it’ll only make everything else in my life worse.
“Seriously, though,” Sarah says. “You should help out with the musical next year.”
“No way,” I say. I love listening to show tunes, but being in a show? Hard pass. “I don’t do theater.”
“You just quoted classic Rodgers and Hammerstein. It kinda sounds like you do.” She pauses. “Anyway, I’ve seen those annoying photos Olivia is always posting. Like, god knows I try to avoid them, but they’re everywhere. The tennis court shit? You’re actually really good in front of a
camera.”
“No, I’m not,” I say, turning red. “I just do that to help her. She’s an amazing photographer, but I’m not, like, actually talented.”
Sarah pulls out her phone and flips through it. “Get over yourself and take a compliment, dude. Okay, like this one . . . oh, fuck.” She stops scrolling and then flips her phone around so I can see it. “Sorry, this just popped up.” There’s a picture of Olivia and Jordan on Olivia’s Instagram. He’s smiling with his eyes closed tight and Olivia is kissing his cheek. It hits me like a punch to the gut.
Sarah flips it back around and reads the caption. “‘When this guy smiles, he becomes the sun.’” She looks up at me. “Wow, that is the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”
Olivia was always posting pictures like this with Kai when they were together, writing captions she thought were deep—snippets of song lyrics, nonsensical phrases meant to intrigue, clues other people were supposed to spend their time decoding. Once, she posted a picture of Kai with just the whale emoji and we all spent days trying to figure out her message.
It hurts that she’s doing this same thing again, but with Jordan.
“Are these idiots together now?” Sarah asks. “What about you?”
It’s sweet of her to ask, and I’m surprised there’s a small part of her that seems to actually care about my well-being. I’m not sure I would have asked if our situations were reversed.
“Yeah, they’re together.” Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I really don’t want Sarah to see the emotion on my face. “It’s no big deal,” I say, hoping the hitch in my breath doesn’t give me away. “I’m dating Kai now.”
“The Kai who you . . . hate?” Sarah asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Oh, is that what I told you?” I wipe my nose, blink, try to force the tears back in. “I must have been confused. Kai is my boyfriend.”
* * *