Nearing September

by Amber Thielman

  “I appreciate that,” Nick said, and I watched his eyes travel from Mrs. Wittman’s perky breasts down to her slender legs, barely covered by a skirt. The principal, I noticed, didn’t seem to mind.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’re out of here.” I reached out and shook Mrs. Wittman’s hand, feeling the annoyance gnaw at me. The least I could do was act professional and not like some snide bitch, despite how much I wanted to strangle them both. “Thank you for your time and help.”

  “Anytime,” Mrs. Wittman said. Her gaze still hadn’t wavered from Nick’s face.

  How unprofessional.

  I turned to walk toward the exit. I didn’t care if Nick followed me or not. For all I cared, he could hook up with whoever in the hell he wanted to. Had this happened back in Miami, I would have been the first one to refuse a school where the principals hit on the students’ parents. In Seattle, I couldn’t bring myself to find the energy to care. So long as they were good to Piper, Nick and Mrs. Lucy Wittman could do what they pleased.

  “Wait for me, Sam,” Nick called, and I heard his sneakers against the tile floor as he jogged to catch up. For some reason that I couldn’t quite place, I felt the urge to turn back around and stick my tongue out at Lucy Wittman. It wasn’t a competition, I knew, but I wanted to gloat anyway. “What are your plans now?” he asked.

  “I need to register for classes and find a job,” I said. “Hopefully one of the hospitals in this shitty city is hiring.”

  “Shitty city?” he repeated with glee. “That rhymes!”

  “Can’t you find a modeling gig, or something?” I asked.

  “I haven't heard from my agent,” Nick said with a shrug. “He always calls when I have a gig.”

  “What, no Beachbody covers to work on?” I asked him. I was surprised to hear such bitterness in my tone when I thought of Nick's silly career. I had seen him only on magazine pages a few times, but it bugged me the way the principal had mentioned it—like he'd been into soft porn and she loved seeing him half naked on the cover of a magazine.

  “You weren't very nice in there,” Nick said as we walked toward the bus stop. “In fact, you were kind of a bitch.”

  “No, I wasn't,” I said, and a flush rose to my face. “She was a bitch.”

  “Were you jealous?” he asked. “You seemed jealous. Were you jealous?”

  “Of what?”

  “I don't know. Anything. Everything.”

  “Stop flattering yourself, Nick.” I leaned back against the metal post, arms folded, unable to look him in the face. I feared that if I did, I would punch him in the nose. Nick had always had that effect on me for as long as I could remember, and I hated it.

  “It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he said and flashed his best smile at me. As we waited, I pulled out my phone, disappointed to see that since we'd left Florida yesterday, Richard hadn't bothered to call or even text. I knew he was a busy man—that's one reason I had fallen for him to begin with. But was one text, one phone call, too much to handle? Even Tasha had sent me a good morning text.

  The bus pulled up to the stop and Nick and I sat down in the back, away from the general mob. I hated the city bus—so many strange, annoying people who did nothing but stare at me. I'd hated the bus in Miami, too, so had started driving Richard's second car to avoid it. Here, I was shit out of luck until I could find a job, bring in income, and invest in a second-hand hunk of junk.

  “Where's the university?” I asked Nick. “Are you going with me?”

  “We're not going to the college today,” he said. I glanced over at him, irritated.

  “Of course we are,” I said. “At least, I am. I need to get my classes going, Nick, or I'll fall behind.”

  “Sam, you're halfway through the semester,” he said. “You can't register here; you're going to have to contact your professors in Miami and finish those classes first. Duh.”

  I frowned, realizing that he was utterly correct. I'd had so much on my mind that I hadn't even considered that's what I'd have to do before registering in Seattle next semester.

  “Fuck!” I cried and put my head in my hands. “I am going to fail so hard. How is this going to look on my med school application?!”

  “Listen.” Nick turned toward me, smiling. For some godawful reason, his smile reassured me. “You will be fine. For now, let's focus on Piper, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, and let out a breath of the air I had been holding.

  “The kid is getting Em's life insurance,” he said. “So income isn't a huge issue right now. Let's just get settled first, okay? We’ll worry about the details later.”

  “Fine,” I said. I figured I would regret everything later when I had no job and still hadn't made up my lost college classes, but at that moment, I didn't care. It was the first time in a long time I didn’t care. “Then where are we going today, Nick?” He looked at me again, still smiling. This smile, however, worried me.

  “You'll see.”

  Nick

  I could pinpoint the last time Sam had been at the beach with me—Emily had been there, too—years ago, when we were still teenagers. Now, as I watched her struggle with the wetsuit we'd rented, it was like looking back in time at teenage Samantha, hovering near the water, looking terrified.

  “Is it safe?” she asked. She sounded wary, as though I was asking her to cliff dive instead of surf.

  “It's just water, Sam,” I said. I dropped my board in the sand and zipped my wetsuit. “The fear is all in your head.” I watched her pull back her thick, curly red hair into a bun. Her freckled face was scrunched in determination, but I was certain I'd never seen her looking so frightened.

  “Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to teach me to surf?” Sam asked. “I almost died.”

  “You did not almost die,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You fell off the board and thought you almost died.”

  “The waves were eating me, Nick,” she said. “They were relentless, and they were eating me.”

  “It's only water, Sam.” By now, we were both speaking loudly, drawing stares from up and down the shoreline. She glared at me, her eyes shooting daggers as I kicked off my shoes and picked up my board. Despite her hesitance, I couldn't help but notice she would do this anyway—even if it was just to show me up. Samantha Carson had never been one to turn down a challenge—I had always liked that about her, so long as it wasn’t me she was challenging.

  “Nicholas Barlow, I hate you today,” she said.

  “You hate me every day, Sam, you always have.” I watched her walk hesitantly into the water, her eyes scanning the top of the Sound warily. It wasn’t exactly cold out, but it wasn’t hot, either, which made surfing around Washington only possible in a wetsuit unless impending hypothermia was someone’s jam.

  I followed Sam to the edge of the water, unsure if she would go through with it, when she positioned her board in front of her and dove in, not bothering to look back over her shoulder. I watched her swim out, impressed. Maybe she had learned something valuable during our last horrid surfing encounter.

  “Be careful!” I called to her. “Keep your eye on the undertow, or it’ll pull you in.” Either she hadn't heard me, or she was ignoring me because she didn't look back. I positioned my board again and ran a hand through my hair, ready to follow her out. In the distance, an enormous wave was approaching the shore, and I almost called out to Sam to come back, but she was already a decent way out there, so I said nothing, only watched her swim out.

  Until I couldn’t just watch anymore.

  “Sam!” I shouted as the wave came closer. In the distance, I could see her mop of red hair on top of the water as she positioned herself to ride the wave. “You need to be careful of the reef,” I shouted, praying she could hear me. I of all people knew the dangers of being thrown into an underwater reef. Not only could you be hurt severely, but sometimes hitting a reef while surfing was fatal.

  “I don’t think she heard you,” said an elderly gentleman wa
lking his dog on the beach. “You better hope she’s a strong swimmer.” I looked back at the man, feeling near panicked now. I only averted my gaze for a second, if even that, but when I turned back around to find Sam, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey!” I called, searching the waters. “Sam?”

  “She just went under,” the man said. “That wave pounded her down.” In that very moment, the same monstrous wave that had just pulled Sam in came upon me, knocking me off my feet and the board from my hands. When I resurfaced, sputtering and gasping for air, I still couldn't see Sam anywhere. There was a teenager on his board and a woman in a wetsuit a few yards down catching the next wave, but aside from them, the water looked to be free of people.

  “Shit,” I muttered, and tossed my board back onto the sandy beach. “Sam? Sam!” My gaze caught a glimpse of red beneath the waves, taunting me before I was yanked back under by the surfboard snapped to my ankle. Without thinking twice about it, I dove into the waves, arms grabbing frantically at the water as I swam toward the spot I’d last seen her. While I swam, I prayed. I had no idea who I was praying to. God, maybe. Allah. Buddha. I didn't care just so long as I could get to Sam in time.

  “Sam?” I paused, treading water, spitting out the bitter taste of salt as it tried to drown my lungs. I saw another flash of red a few yards ahead and dove under again, forcing my eyes open as I looked for her. My mouth and nose were full of water, and the salt stung my eyes and throat as my hand met Sam’s arm. I tugged, trying to pull her to the surface, but in a matter of seconds I realized her board was caught up on some of the reef—and so was I. Working frantically, I released my ankle from the band and rose to the surface, pulling Sam up. The fresh air hit my face, and I gasped for breath, wrapping my arms around her limp midsection.

  “Sam?” I said in her ear, treading water. “Sam, it's Nick. Say something.” Only silence greeted me—a silence that sent a trill of fear up my spine and into my brain. I'd killed Sam. As I neared the shore, still holding her head above the water, the elderly gentlemen helped me pull her out and onto the sand.

  “Is she breathing?” he asked. Still trying to gather my breath, I crawled toward her in the sand, my hands and legs shaking. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “Samantha?” I said, leaning over her. “Sam? Can you hear me?” I couldn't see her chest rising—could only focus on the pale blue tint her lips had taken on since I'd dragged her from the water.

  “Sam?” I leaned down frantically, putting my mouth over hers and blowing. Nothing. Panicking, and unsure of what else to do, I slapped her across the face once, and then twice. Sam's eyes popped open in an instant, and her mouth silently gasped for air as she gagged and sputtered, sitting up in the sand and shoving me back with the palm of one hand. Relief traveled through me; a relief so intense I wondered if I was about to have a heart attack. I rocked back on my heels, watching Sam catch her breath, wanting to pull her into a hug and shake her by the shoulders simultaneously.

  “That could have been bad,” the old man said. He walked away, shaking his head and muttering, but I felt only intense relief.

  “Christ,” I murmured and put my head in my hands. Once I had caught my breath and coughed up all the saltwater, I looked over at Sam, looking pitiful with her soaking wet red hair matted against her neck and face.

  “I told you,” she said. “I fucking told you.”

  I put my hands in the air, too relieved to be offended. “I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “No more water for you—even if you beg.” I helped her unzip the top of the wetsuit, surprised when my eyes landed on the skimpy black bikini top she was sporting beneath. I drew my hand back, wary of making a wrong move by accidentally knocking into one of her boobs or something. We were friends—sometimes not even that—so why was I suddenly so eager to touch her?

  “Do you mind if we stay here for a bit?” she asked. “I'd like to enjoy the beach out of the water for a while—you know—conscious.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I unzipped my wetsuit and kicked it off, glad to be free of the suffocating material. I had on only a pair of shorts and no top, less constricting while hitting the waves. From the corner of my eye I saw Sam look over at me, and she, too, took my lead and slipped off the entire suit, revealing her freckled skin not covered by the fabric of the bikini. I looked away as she sat down next to me in the sand, flushing. I had to think of something quick—something to distract myself from the fact that my childhood friend was sitting nearly naked right beside me. The chill in the air didn’t help, either. While the sun was, indeed, out, this wasn’t Miami. A person could freeze to death wearing our swimwear for too long.

  “Do you remember when we were teenagers and you toilet papered Mr. Holland's house?” I asked after a moment. “Emily tried to talk you out of it, but you were so upset that you got a B instead of an A in his class that you sneaked down there in the middle of the night and wrapped his entire house and car in strips of toilet paper.”

  “I remember,” she said. She laughed, dropping her head back, and I admired the way the sun glistened off her freckled skin. “You came with me even though Emily refused,” she said. “But once we got to the house you wussed out and hid behind the neighbor's camp trailer while I did all the work.”

  “Don't judge me on that,” I said, but I laughed with her. “Mr. Holland was a grade-A douche. I was already a little spitfire—I didn't need another suspension under my belt.”

  “What are you talking about? You loved being suspended,” she said. I watched her squirt a dollop of sunscreen into her hand---not that she’d really need it---and rub it onto her chest—right above her breasts—in small circles until it blended into her skin. I forced myself to tear my gaze away. “Not being allowed to be on school grounds was your dream come true,” she said. “It was detention you hated.”

  “That's right,” I agreed. “Because with detention we had to sit in Mrs. Beverly's classroom for eight hours on Saturdays—but with suspension, I could do whatever I pleased.”

  “As long as Agnes didn't catch you,” she said. She was grinning, her eyes crinkled in the corners as she recalled the memories.

  “I could always outrun Mom,” I said. “She was never very limber, even in her younger days. But if she did get a hold of you, it was the belt.”

  “Poor Emily,” Sam said, and her face fell. “She never ran from Agnes. She always just took it.”

  “I know,” I said. “And most of the time, whatever had happened was usually my fault. Emily took the brunt of it.”

  “She was the good twin,” Sam agreed. “I don't know what happened to you.” She smiled to show she was kidding, but I knew she was right. Emily had always been the good sibling—kind, loyal, fun—responsible. Had I been half as decent as her, maybe we would have been closer.

  “Want a jalapeño burger?” I asked. Thinking too hard about Emily made my heart ache. Food was a good distraction.

  “Oh!” Sam said and sat up, supporting herself with the palms of her hands. “I forgot about that. I would love one.”

  “Don't go anywhere,” I said. I stood and brushed the sand from my shorts, squinting at her through the sun. “I'll be right back.”

  Sam

  I watched Nick's muscles tense and relax under the glint of the afternoon sun as he scarfed down his burger and sipped his cola. It was the first time I had seen him shirtless since we were teenagers, and I hated to admit to myself that I was enjoying the view. He worked out, apparently. From the bulges in his biceps to the ripples on his abdomen he was, well, gorgeous. And tan. And that hair I had only days ago rolled my eyes at was now falling into his eyes, damp, like an intense case of sex hair. For a fleeting, confusing moment, I wanted to reach over and run my fingers through it. I wondered how I looked right now—probably like a half-drowned rat with a bad sunburn and a body shape like a five-year-old boy. Why, oh, why had I chosen a bikini instead of a one-piece? Compared to Nick, I was a slob.

  “It's two-thirty,”
Nick said, drawing me out of my fantasy. I tore my gaze away, embarrassed that he had caught me looking. “We should probably be home to meet Piper after school.”

  Home, I thought silently. He used the word so lightly, like the whole situation was the most natural thing in the world. As we gathered our things, waving goodbye to the rare, Washington midday sun, I realized there was nothing ordinary about our situation. Nothing. And yet—that was okay.

  Nick

  “Uncle Nick, I love school a lot.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend yet?” I asked, and Piper blushed, averting her gaze to the floor.

  “No, Uncle Nick,” she said, her tone implying that I was, indeed, a little bit dumb for even asking a question like that.

  “Boys have cooties,” Sam called from the kitchen. She emerged a moment later with a plate of nachos. “You should know that, Nick.” She plopped herself down on the other side of Piper, grinning. Once we'd gotten home, I'd been quick to change into a pair of ratty sweatpants and an old T-shirt. I realized as she watched me that it didn't even matter what I was—or wasn't—wearing—she still couldn't focus on anything else when I was in the room, and she did not understand why.

  “Don't eat those chips,” I said to Piper, eying the plate of nachos. “They've been sitting in my cupboard since last year's Halloween party.”

  Both Piper and Sam made a face, and Sam dropped the plate onto the table without tasting them. There was a moment of silence, an unsure second where neither of them knew what to say or do. Piper, I noticed, seemed oblivious to the tension in the air.

  “So, do you, um, have homework?” Sam asked her.

  Homework! Of course. Children who went to school sometimes had work to do. At home.

  “A little bit, but we finished it in class,” Piper said proudly, beaming. “I worked on math today.”