Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  I can’t pay attention. I refuse to even rotate my head in Hugh’s direction. I hear him cough, and I’m sure he’s equally unhappy. We’re going to have to work together every week? No. Not possible. I’ll have to tell my aunt that I need a new partner.

  That’s the only way I’ll be able to get through this summer.

  The rest of the class passes in a blur, and before I know it, Aunt Lydia is telling the class to come up and get their cameras. Since I already have mine, I dawdle at my desk. I watch as Hugh and Wren walk up together to the front of the room, pick up their cameras, and leave together. How sweet. I roll my eyes, then finally stand up and head over to my aunt.

  “So, kiddo,” Aunt Lydia says with a smile, scooping up her big laptop bag, “what did you think of the class? Want to go get some coffee?”

  “Uh, sure,” I lie. I’d prefer to be alone right now to process seeing Hugh, but I can’t be rude to my aunt. “The class was … ” I pause, searching for the best word. “Inspiring.” That, at least, is true (well, it’s true of the parts I was able to focus on). Already, my fingers are itching to start today’s assignment: taking a picture of food or drink from an interesting angle. Of course, nothing I eat or drink here in Hudsonville would prove too interesting. I wonder what I’d be dining on if I were in France …

  “Inspiration is the goal,” Aunt Lydia replies, beaming. She turns and leads me out of the classroom. We walk down the hall and step outside. The day has warmed up considerably, and I unzip my hoodie.

  One small thing, I imagine saying to my aunt as we climb into her car in the Whitman parking lot, I have a crush on the guy I partnered with today, you know, the cute latecomer in the white T-shirt and black-framed glasses? Like, a can’t-even-talk-to-him crush. So I’m wondering if maybe you can un-partner us? That way, I can pay better attention and complete the weekly assignments like a normal person. It’s a win-win!

  No. Even unspoken, the words sound silly. I shake my head as Aunt Lydia turns up her music. It’s a pretty melody. A woman is singing, “Truth is just like time/It catches up and just keeps going.”

  We drive through the campus gate. “See you later, Max,” Aunt Lydia calls, rolling down her window to wave to the security guard.

  Max waves back, grinning. “See you, ladies. Aren’t you lucky, Summer, getting a lift from your professor?”

  I smile but my stomach tightens. Exactly. I shouldn’t be asking my aunt for more favors. Having her switch around partners for my benefit would kind of fall under the “nepotism” umbrella. And I definitely want to keep the fact that we’re related a secret, at least from my classmates.

  Maybe, I think as Aunt Lydia turns onto Greene Street, I can somehow soldier on with Hugh as my partner. After all, he and I have classes together in school (Though you’ve never been partners in school! I remind myself). Ruby would certainly think it a dream opportunity to be partners with my crush. But maybe Hugh will find me so off-putting that he will ask Aunt Lydia for a new partner. That would be ideal.

  I’m so deep in my thoughts that I give a start when I see that Aunt Lydia has parked in front of Better Latte Than Never.

  “Is this okay?” she asks, unbuckling her seat belt. “I’d drive us to Starbucks at the mall, but I’m meeting a former student for lunch on campus … ”

  “It’s perfect!” I exclaim, feeling a burst of joy. “Ruby works here.” Despite any lingering weirdness with my best friend, I desperately need to catch up with her now. I jump out of the car and charge into the coffee shop, Aunt Lydia following behind.

  The air conditioner is on full blast, and the narrow space smells of coffee beans and vanilla. People are getting their drinks to go, or sitting in the wooden booths against the walls. The chalkboard above the counter lists the regular offerings, as well as the daily special: a “July Black Eye”—a large iced coffee with a double shot of espresso.

  “I think I need that level of caffeine,” Aunt Lydia says, pointing to the special as we get in line. “What would you like, kiddo?”

  “Iced mocha with whip,” I reply—this is one decision I never agonize over. I stand on my toes and scan the brown-aproned baristas behind the counter. Ruby is not there. I deflate, but then I hear her laugh—I think it’s her laugh; it sounds more high-pitched than usual. I look to my right and see Ruby in her brown apron and platform sandals, standing by one of the booths and chatting with the seated customers.

  “Do you mind?” I ask my aunt, inching out of line.

  Aunt Lydia chuckles. “Please. I’ll get our drinks and grab us a booth.”

  I thank my aunt and sprint toward Ruby, my bookbag bouncing. The second I reach my best friend, I squeeze her arm.

  “OMG!” I whisper-shout. “You don’t understand. Hugh Tyson is in my photography class. And we’re partners! I actually almost died. And Wren D’Amico is there, too, and I can’t tell if she and Hu—”

  The words stick in my throat the instant I notice the customers in the booth. Ruby had been blocking them from sight before. They are Austin Wheeler and Skye Oliveira.

  I am seized by horror. Did they hear me?

  Blessedly, Austin’s head is bent over his phone, and he’s scrolling through what look like sports stats. Skye’s colorless eyes, though, are trained on me.

  Behind her masterfully applied makeup, Skye Oliveira is plain. And I envy her plainness. She has a straight nose, thin lips, wavy hair that’s neither blond nor brown but somewhere in between. Her features are even: nothing strange or Picasso-ish. Therefore, she is beautiful. She was voted Prettiest Sophomore in our yearbook. Today, she’s wearing a pink tank top and a khaki miniskirt, her hair up in a high ponytail. She also has on several gold bangles and one of those blue “Stand Up to Bullying” rubber wristbands, which I think may be the textbook definition of irony.

  I anxiously twist one of my own bracelets. Sure, Ruby had mentioned that Austin was coming to Better Latte, but it’s not time for her lunch break yet, is it? And I never imagined that Skye would be part of the equation.

  “Summer!” Ruby cries, her voice strained. She pries her arm out of my grasp. “You’re done with class?”

  I nod. “I’m here with Aunt Lydia,” I explain, my heart thudding. I glance over my shoulder to see my aunt carrying an iced mocha and a July Black Eye to a booth.

  “What I don’t understand,” Skye speaks up, as if she’s continuing an ongoing conversation, “is why some people would choose to go to school in the summer.”

  I look back at Skye, my face growing warm. So she did hear me. Ruby shifts from one foot to the other, and Austin stays absorbed in his phone.

  Skye lazily stirs a straw in her milky iced coffee. “I mean,” she goes on, her tone as casual as her drink stirring, “I guess Hugh Tyson would jump at any chance to read more.” She grins at me slowly. “He’s kind of hot, isn’t he, like in a nerdy way?”

  I clench my teeth. There’s nothing worse than someone you don’t like liking what you like. What you discovered. I discovered Planet Hugh! Not Skye Oliveira.

  Besides, she has a rotating cast of gelled-hair boyfriends, à la Genji Tanaka. Hugh isn’t in her orbit. She’s clearly messing with me. I stay silent.

  “Typhoid Wrenny,” Skye continues, stirring faster, “is no surprise. What else does she have going on? If I were as much of a freak, I’d hide out in classrooms twenty-four-seven, too.”

  I feel something like an explosion inside my chest. I think of fireworks.

  “Wren is not a freak,” I hear myself spitting out. “Just because she doesn’t conform to the societal norms of, like, taking selfies every second doesn’t mean she should be ridiculed.”

  Oh my God. What did I say? I’m shaking. Why did I furiously defend Wren? I don’t even like her. Why would I snap at Skye Oliveira?

  Skye’s straw stills, and this time, Ruby squeezes my arm. Hard.

  “Come on, Summer,” Ruby says, forcing out a laugh. “You need to rest. I know you’re still stressed about France—”

/>   “No,” I protest, even though maybe France was part of it, part of the frustration and anger that came bubbling up out of me.

  “Oh, you’re going to France this summer?” Skye demands, regarding me with what could be hatred, or shock, or grudging respect. “I’d heard someone in our school was, but I didn’t know who … ”

  “Well, I’m not going—” I start to explain, but Ruby is dragging me away, making apologetic noises toward Skye and Austin, like a mother hustling her tantruming baby off the playground.

  Austin glances up from his phone, his eyelids at half-mast, wearing a dazed smile. “Later, Ruby,” he says. “Lunch in half an hour, right?”

  Ruby manages to nod and smile in his direction as she continues to pull me toward the counter. We pass by Aunt Lydia, who looks up from her coffee and knits her brows at us. I don’t know what to say. To my aunt, or to my best friend.

  When we reach the counter, Ruby ducks under and stands facing me, the slab of wood between us. All her fellow baristas are busy taking orders, except for a bearded guy who is opening bags of coffee and possibly eavesdropping on us.

  “What was that?” Ruby hisses, narrowing her eyes at me. “Since when do you care so much about Wren D’Amico?”

  “I—I don’t know!” I sputter, slumping against the counter. Customers step around me, huffing, and I’m reminded of being at the airport, hesitating with my buzzing phone while the other passengers got annoyed. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t answered my phone. If I had just boarded the plane and gone on blithely to France, unaware that Dad didn’t want me—

  “Hey, Ruby!” another barista calls from down the counter. “I need a small latte with extra foam and skim milk!”

  Ruby nods and jams the coffee filter holder into the espresso machine. “It was embarrassing,” she mutters to me. “Did you have to, like, go on a crusade for justice?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My stomach forms a pretzel knot. The bearded barista glances over, as if waiting to hear the rest of my response. “I was super flustered from Hugh being in my class,” I explain. “Which we totally need to discuss, by the way. And then”—I draw in a shaky breath—“seeing you talking to Austin and Sk—”

  Ruby rolls her eyes and grabs a carton of skim milk, her woven bracelets slipping down her wrists. “I know you won’t understand this, Summer, based on how immature you’re being about Hugh, but I talk to the guys I like, okay?”

  Her remark about Hugh burns, even though she has a point. “What about Skye, though?” I whisper. I peek behind me; thankfully, Skye and Austin are busy taking selfies with Austin’s phone. I look back at Ruby and make myself ask the question that’s been gnawing at me. “Are you guys … friends or something?” My voice breaks on the last word, which kills me.

  Ruby shrugs, setting down the milk carton and avoiding my gaze. “Well, she’s good friends with Austin … so … ” She glances up again and her eyes are dancing. “I think he likes me!” she whispers excitedly. “We’re having lunch today, and then he asked me to go to the movies tonight! This might be it, Summer.”

  It. The summer she falls in love. My stomach-pretzel twists even more. I want to be happy for Ruby. Of course I do. But she didn’t say she wasn’t friends with Skye. And the Ruby I know wouldn’t fall for Austin. The other boys Ruby’s dated have been more interesting. Smarter. Like the boy she met in India, who sent her old-fashioned love letters for a year. Austin is a … cliché. The Popular Boy.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I blurt. “Do you really want to hang out with people like Austin and Skye? I thought we didn’t care about that stuff—”

  “Would you be quiet?” Ruby snaps, even though I’ve been whispering. I jerk back, startled. Ruby is bossy, yes, but she never barks at me. We never fight. The bearded barista raises his eyebrows, as if he’s surprised, too.

  Ruby and I are silent, staring at each other. The air feels thick. I remember her dropping me off at the airport, when everything felt normal.

  I pluck at one of my bracelets. “What is going on?” I whisper. “Are you mad at me?”

  Ruby shakes her head, her dark-brown eyes full of regret. “It’s just—you never want things to change, Summer.” She rakes a hand through her hair, looking exasperated. “You weren’t even supposed to—” She stops and looks down at the milk carton.

  My limbs get cold. “I wasn’t supposed to what?” I ask quietly. What was Ruby going to say? Do I want to know what she was going to say? I feel a tingle of dread work its way down my back.

  “Ruby!” the barista hollers from down the counter, sounding peeved. “That skim latte, please? What are you doing?”

  “Sorry—coming right up!” Ruby calls back, her face turning red. She glances at me, and I know we can both tell that something between us has splintered, ever so slightly. A small crack. I think of my broken mirror. “We’ll talk later?” Ruby says to me, busying herself with the espresso machine. Her mouth is tight.

  “Yeah.” I step back from the counter, reaching down to twist my two bracelets; they feel flimsy. “Love you times two,” I say tonelessly.

  Ruby echoes the words, and they hang between us, random syllables strung together like a banner. Then I turn away and start toward Aunt Lydia’s booth, my bookbag heavy on my shoulders. I slide into the empty seat, take off my bag, and cup my chin in my hands.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Aunt Lydia asks softly, pushing my iced mocha toward me.

  I’m glad that she didn’t ask if something was wrong; that much is obvious. But I shake my head, in no mood to share.

  I stare down at my drink. I’ve probably had hundreds of iced mochas at Better Latte over the years. This one looks like all the others: a perfect whorl of whipped cream floating atop the creamy-brown drink. Except—no. This one is different. It’s the mocha I will drink after having had that conversation with Ruby. It’s the mocha I will drink while feeling different myself.

  I think of our homework assignment, and feel a tug of inspiration. I reach into my bookbag, remove my camera, and bring it to my eye. At first, I only see darkness—the cap is still on the lens. I unscrew the cap, and the iced mocha comes into focus. I don’t quite know how to work the camera yet. But I still manage to snap the picture: a close-up of this different drink.

  “Nice work, young student,” Aunt Lydia tells me, and I bring down the camera. I’d been concentrating so hard on shooting the iced mocha that I’d almost forgotten she was there. She smiles at me, and I semi-smile in return.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Skye is getting up from the booth. She blows Austin a showy kiss—ugh—and trots outside onto Greene Street, her ponytail swinging. Austin remains seated, spellbound by his phone, waiting for Ruby.

  I glance back at Aunt Lydia, meeting her open, sympathetic gaze. She’d asked me if I wanted to talk. My aunt seems like she’d be easier to confide in than, say, my mom. Or even than Ruby right now. Aunt Lydia has never been married, but she’s been in many relationships. She might know something about boys, and heartbreak. I wish I could tell her about Hugh, and Wren. About Ruby, and Austin, and Skye. I wish—

  “I wish I were in France.”

  The words leave my mouth before I even realize I mean them. Before I realize that they are at the root of my sadness, right below what just happened with Ruby. If I were in France, nothing would have happened with Ruby. Right?

  Aunt Lydia nods at me. “I’m sure you do,” she says quietly. She takes a sip of her July Black Eye. “It’s really unfair, how the rug got pulled out from under you.”

  Unfair. Exactly. A word no one has used yet, not Mom, not Ruby, not Dad. I feel a flare of fury, like someone’s lit a match in me. I nod back at my aunt.

  “My dad called me at the gate,” I tell her, my face hot. “A second, or a minute, or whatever, before I was supposed to get on the plane.” I wrap my hands around my iced mocha, gripping the plastic so hard I worry I’ll crush it. “Like, ‘FYI, darling daughter, stay
put, okay?’ ” For the first time in six days, I don’t feel like crying; in fact, I let out a short laugh, struck by the absurdity of it all.

  Aunt Lydia gives me a small, wry smile. “I know,” she murmurs. “Your mother told me. I’m sorry, Summer.” She gazes down at the ice cubes in her cup, a look of annoyance flitting across her face. “I have to say, your father is pretty good at coming out of nowhere with shocking surprises—”

  Then she pauses and brings a hand to her lips, as if she’s trying to hold the rest of her words in.

  I lean forward, curiosity and fear churning in me. Why are people suddenly unwilling to finish their thoughts in front of me?

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Dad did something like this before?”

  My dad is the king of canceling plans; even before the divorce, he was always bailing on school plays and parent-teacher conferences because he had to stay in France one extra day, something had come up, so sorry, sweetheart. What he’s done now isn’t really a surprise. I have the creeping sense that Aunt Lydia is referring to something else.

  My aunt stares at me for a second before shaking her head.

  “Well, you know, he’s never been exactly reliable,” she says quickly. She gets to her feet, gathering up stray napkins and her empty cup. “Look at the time!” she adds, which I never thought was a thing people really said in real life. Also, as usual, I don’t know the time. Almost noon?

  “I should be back on campus,” my aunt goes on, her cheeks splotchy. “You’re okay getting home, kiddo?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, even though I still feel uneasy. “I’ll catch the bus on Deer Hill.”

  I follow Aunt Lydia to the door, blindly passing Austin in his booth. I forget to look back at Ruby at the counter. My thoughts are acrobats, tumbling and flipping. Shocking surprises, I think. Why did Aunt Lydia use those words? What else was she going to say?

  As I step outside, Aunt Lydia is already getting in her car, waving to me and saying she’ll see me in class tomorrow. Then she speeds away, leaving me alone on Greene Street, with only my iced mocha and my questions.