Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  Something twitches inside my stomach, and I sit up a little straighter. “Oh… sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” A beat of silence passes. “Miss Walker, I need to meet with you and your mother. We have some matters to discuss. Your grandfather’s will, namely. Your Aunt RaeLynn suggested meeting next Monday evening.”

  My jaw drops open and all the moisture evaporates from my mouth. I have to clear my throat in order to answer. “Um, we can’t meet with her. I don’t know if you know, but…”

  “Ah, yes. I know all about the family dispute.”

  Heat crawls up my neck, making me itchy. Had Grandpa really told this man everything? “Then you should know it’s not a possibility.”

  “It’s what your grandfather wanted,” Mr. Sisco says. “He was very specific in his requests.”

  “Listen, you really need to talk to my mom about this.”

  “Like I said, I’ve tried her phone. Several times actually. I left her a message, but she still hasn’t returned my call.”

  Yeah, Mom can be bad about that sometimes. “I’ll tell her to call you,” I say. “Promise.”

  “You can tell her it involves a large sum of money.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m quite serious, Miss Walker.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it for a moment. Is this some kind of sick prank call? I press the phone back to my ear. “Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this isn’t funny. I gotta go.” I hang up and pull out another cigarette, rolling it between my fingers and wondering if the call was possibly legit. Grandpa had been somewhat secretive. But Mom should be the one to decide if Mr. Sisco is telling the truth or not. I push the cigarette back into the pack and slide it beneath the planter. The screen door slams behind me as I enter the trailer.

  “Mom?” She doesn’t answer, but shuffling noises carry from her bedroom down the hall. I knock on her closed door.

  “Yeah? Come in.”

  I find her reorganizing her sock drawer—another nervous habit she’s developed over the years. She cleans when she’s stressed, or upset, or worried about something, which means our house is usually spotless. “Someone named Mr. Sisco called. He says he’s Grandpa’s lawyer.”

  She closes the sock drawer and perches on the side of her bed, staring up at me anxiously. The disastrous makeup is gone, but her nose is bright red and her face, still splotchy. “And?” she asks.

  “He said he needs to meet with us. To discuss the will. He also said it involves a large sum of money.”

  Mom’s eyes widen, so much so that they look like they might actually pop out of her head. “So that’s the guy who’s been calling me.” She nods with the realization. “I wonder why he didn’t say so in his message.”

  “No idea. You should probably call him back, though.”

  “Let me use your phone.” She stretches a hand my way. “Mine’s on the charger.”

  “There’s one little problem,” I say, handing it over. “We have to meet with RaeLynn, too.”

  Mom’s face pales, and she squeezes the phone in her hand. Her eyes shift to the floor as her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “Well…” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I guess we’ll just have to suck it up, then.”

  I lean against the doorframe, trying to register what she just said. Because if I heard Mom correctly, hell has just frozen over.

  CHAPTER 2

  BECKA

  “BECKA, PASS!”

  I look right to see Leah is wide open. Dribbling past the Lady Hawks defender coming at me, I make a clean pass. With little effort, Leah collects the ball and shoots, sending the ball soaring past the keeper’s outstretched hands and into the far corner of the net. Leah and I fist bump before jogging back toward center field.

  “Nice assist, Cowles,” Coach yells from the sidelines.

  Yes, it was, thank you very much. Eyes focused on the opposing forward about to kick off, I get back into my game stance.

  “Go Becka,” someone yells from the stands, and I swear it sounds so much like my little brother, I have to turn and look.

  Wham! The soccer ball smacks me hard in the chest, just above my left boob. I grit my teeth before anything can come out of my mouth. I don’t know who yelled my name, but it wasn’t Ricky. Of course it wasn’t Ricky. What on earth is wrong with me? Grandpa’s funeral must be messing with my head.

  Whitney’s already covering my slack and dribbling upfield. I shake off the pain and move forward. A Hawks defender steals the ball from Whitney, pounding it all the way back to our defense. Dang it. I wheel around and run in the opposite direction just in time to see our keeper has snatched up the ball. I jog backward, preparing for the punt. It could be my ball again any second. My left pec still stings like the devil, but I try to stay focused.

  Head in the game, I tell myself. Head in the game.

  Sure enough, it soars straight to me. I trap the ball with my thigh and dribble upfield. Our forwards are covered up by Hawks defense, and two midfielders are headed my way fast. I fake right, then touch the ball left, trying to throw them off, but they’re not falling for it. Number forty-seven—the tall girl—matches my stride, preparing to make a swipe for the ball. It’s now or never. I make the shot, but my foot connects all wrong and the ball goes flying out of bounds, nowhere near the goal. The crowd groans and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t believe I blew it like that.

  The Hawks are setting up for a goal kick when three whistle blasts pierce the warm evening air. I blow out a breath, a certain emptiness filling up my chest instead. We won. Barely. Not that I had much to do with it.

  Coach doesn’t say a word about my missed shot. He knows I came straight to the game from the funeral, so apparently I get a free pass to screw up today. Too bad it doesn’t keep me from being mad at myself. What a stupid mistake.

  “Nice game,” Maddie tells me, but I’m not sure she means it. That was the worst I’ve played in forever. She gives me that sympathetic look I’ve gotten to know so well lately. “And I’m really sorry about your grandpa.”

  I wave her apology away with my hand. “Thank you. I’m okay, though.”

  Maddie looks skeptical. “Text me if you need to talk, ’kay?”

  I nod, knowing full well that I won’t. At least not about my grandpa. “Sure.”

  After Gatorades and a talk from Coach, which I barely hear thanks to my loud, self-chastising thoughts, we all head our separate ways. Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder as we walk toward her Jeep. Neither one of us says a word.

  Back at home, dinner is some kind of cheesy casserole Mom microwaves and serves up on paper plates. Someone from church has dropped food off every day since Grandpa passed.

  I take a seat across from her at the kitchen table. “This one looks good. Or at least better than that meatloaf thing yesterday.”

  She gives me a half-hearted smile. Now that her makeup is washed off, the dark circles beneath her eyes are more prominent. She looks exhausted. Older, too. “It’s Mexican lasagna, I think. That’s what Mrs. Rayburn brought last time…”

  Neither of us wants to talk about last time, though, so instead we dig into our dinner. For a while, the only sounds are those of silverware scraping on our plates and the ticking clock on the nearby wall.

  “So,” I say, trying to make conversation, “when’s Tim coming home?”

  Mom takes a sip of water and settles back into her chair. “Next Tuesday.”

  In some ways, my stepdad lucked out. He’s been in China on business and missed this whole ordeal with Grandpa. “It’s weird that they wouldn’t let him fly back early for the funeral.” I take another gooey bite. Only there’s a jalapeño hiding inside this one, and I need to guzzle half my glass of sweet tea in order to soothe the burn on my tongue.

  Mom shrugs. “It was an important deal. It would have cost too much to fly him home and then back to China again.” She pokes at the casserole with her fork. “And it’s oka
y. I handled things fine on my own.”

  She did, but I know she would have much rather had Tim here. At least it’s all over now. I shake my head, recalling the scene with my cousin and aunt outside the chapel. “Can you believe what K. J. did today? She’s such a jerk.”

  An odd-looking smile crosses Mom’s face. “Can’t say I was all that surprised. And besides, you know that apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

  “True.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” she says, perking up a bit. “We need to meet with Grandpa’s lawyer Monday evening to go over his will.”

  I’m not sure why mentioning K. J. made her think of that, but I nod. “Okay.” Then I can’t help but laugh. “I hope he’s not leaving me all his bug collections.”

  Mom smiles—a real smile this time. “No, I believe he’s left all those to the Entomological Society.”

  “Thank goodness.” I swipe at my forehead with pretend relief. “I didn’t know where in the world I was gonna put them.”

  “Very funny.” Mom’s phone buzzes and she goes to the kitchen counter to grab it. Her face brightens as she looks at the screen, and I know it must be Tim. He’s likely calling before his morning meetings in Beijing. “Hey baby!” she says in that honey-sweet voice reserved only for him. “How are things?”

  Gag. They’ve been married a little over two years, but they’re still in that mushy honeymoon phase. Even though it grosses me out most of the time, it’s at least nice to see my mom happy. I just hope that, unlike the last two marriages, this one actually lasts.

  While Mom curls up in the living room chair, still talking to Tim, I finish the rest of my dinner and trash our plates before heading back to my room. I fall onto my bed with a sigh, my mind drifting back to the funeral. It could have been worse, I guess. Mom was relieved people at least attended. We honestly weren’t sure who would show. Grandpa knew people in the entomology world—especially from back when he was an adjunct professor at the University of Arkansas—and I think he had a few friends who came over to play cards on occasion, but it was a surprisingly good turnout for someone who’d lived with agoraphobia for so long.

  Not that my grandpa and I were ever super close, but it’s hard to believe he’s really gone. No more Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners at his place. No more trying to act interested when he went on and on about his latest insect find. Or following him around his woods as he tried to spot a Great Crested Flycatcher. Actually, the bird-watching was interesting at one time—back when I was about ten—but it all got old after a while. Now that he’s gone, it’s hard to know how to feel about things. I’m sad, for sure, but not in the way I might have expected. Certainly not in the way I was when Ricky died.

  I stuff in my earbuds and close my eyes, hoping the music will soothe my mind. Before long, I’m bobbing my chin to a catchy beat as the lyrics repeat a line about moving on. That is so what I’m ready to do.

  I’ve had more than enough of this awful day.

  After practice Monday, I rush home to shower and change since we have to be at the lawyer’s office by six o’clock. Mom’s especially quiet on the drive and seems distracted. Or maybe even agitated. She keeps clicking her ruby red fingernails against the steering wheel and bouncing her free foot on the floorboard.

  “Is something wrong?” I glance in the visor mirror, smoothing down my barely dry ponytail and applying a coat of lip gloss.

  She turns to give me a tentative smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just not sure what to expect, is all.”

  “Do we have time to go through the drive-thru?” The golden arches loom in the distance, and my stomach feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. I didn’t have time to reheat any leftover casserole at home, and lunch feels like it was an eternity ago.

  Mom eyes the clock on the dash. “I guess we’ve got a couple extra minutes.” She puts on her blinker and turns into the McDonald’s parking lot.

  “I’ll take a large fry and a Coke.”

  “Alrighty.” We pull up to the menu board, and Mom places the order for me.

  The fries are nice and hot, but not hot enough to keep me from scarfing them down. Mom pulls back out onto the street, and I yank a fry out of my mouth to yell out as we bump onto the center median. The Jeep bounces wildly, knocking my head from side to side, but Mom maintains control and merges into the lane like she’d meant to do that all along.

  “What are you doing?” I turn to give her an incredulous look. “There’s no left turn there. You have to go up to the light.”

  Mom grips the steering wheel, her mouth pinching around the edges. “I forgot.”

  A cool, wet feeling spreads across my chest, and I look down to see a large splotch of Coke all over the front of my white button-down shirt. “Mom!” I yell. “Look at me! I can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

  She glances my way briefly before peering back at the street in front of her. “Sorry, but we don’t have time to stop anywhere else.”

  Something is definitely going on. It’s not like her to drive like this or to make me go somewhere looking like a slob. I groan. “I’ll just wait in the Jeep, then. I doubt you need me anyway.”

  “Actually, we do. This involves you, too.”

  “See, I knew it. I am getting the bug collections.”

  She doesn’t smile at my poor attempt at humor. Instead, she grows unusually quiet again. My suspicion continues to deepen, but apparently I’ll just have to wait until we get there to find out what the deal is.

  We pull into another parking lot with a row of modern, two-story office buildings, and Mom parks in front of one with a sign that reads Sisco and Browning, Attorneys at Law. The Coke stain on my chest has grown to the size of a grapefruit now, and the liquid has soaked into one side of my bra. Disgusting. I pinch the fabric, pulling it away from my skin, but there’s really no way to escape without taking my clothes off. “This is going to be totally embarrassing. Don’t you have a scarf or something I can use to cover it up?”

  Mom lets out a snort. “Yeah, Becka. I keep all my spare scarves in the back of the Jeep. Let me grab one for you.”

  “Hey. It’s not my fault you decided to drive like a wild woman on the way here.”

  She gives me her infamous “Mom” look. The one that says I better shut my mouth if I know what’s good for me. So, with my arms crossed tight over my chest and head hanging, I follow her inside.

  The office is small, with stark white walls and absolutely no decor. The smell of tobacco lingers in the air, and it’s about ten degrees too cold in here. A receptionist who appears a few years past retirement age directs us to Mr. Sisco’s office—the last one on the left—and goosebumps have cropped up on my skin by the time we step into the room. The fact that the front of my shirt is soaking wet isn’t helping matters.

  “Hello,” a round-faced man says from behind a sturdy-looking table. He offers a faint smile as he extends a hand outward, ushering us into the seats across from him. He has a receding hairline and glasses and looks pretty much the way I expected a lawyer to look. Smart, but stuffy.

  “Hi, Mr. Sisco,” Mom says. Her eyes dart back toward the open doorway, like she’s expecting someone else to come in.

  “So how are you two ladies doing this afternoon?” he asks as we settle into our oversized, cushy office chairs.

  “Fine, thank you,” Mom says.

  “I’m just a little chilly,” I add, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “Oh, sorry about that.” He rises to his feet and moves to the doorway. “Constance,” he calls down the hallway. “Could you turn the temperature up some?”

  “Sure thing,” she replies.

  Thank goodness.

  Mr. Sisco returns to his seat and glances at his watch. “We’ll wait a few more minutes to get started. Hopefully, they’ll be here by then.”

  “Who?” I ask. Would there be more lawyers coming? I can’t imagine this will be too involved, but then again, what do I know about lawyers and wills a
nd such?

  Mom gives me a rushed, sidelong glance and then smiles nervously back at the lawyer, who still hasn’t answered my question. Then, from down the hallway, I hear the front door open, followed by the murmur of voices. One of them is faintly familiar, and my eyes widen. Oh no. Is that who I think it is?

  I turn toward Mom, but she refuses to look my way. She still has that weird, nervous smile plastered on her face. Mr. Sisco clicks the pen on the yellow notepad in front of him. Next to it sits a large maroon folder. Grandpa’s will, no doubt. My arms constrict tighter across my chest as footsteps continue to thump in our direction. I suck in a breath and risk a glance back toward the doorway.

  “Hi there,” my Aunt Jackie says, wearing pink lipstick much too bright for this occasion—or any other occasion, for that matter. Hands pushed into the pockets of her tattered jeans, K. J. shuffles in behind her mom. Her eyes stay glued to the floor. I didn’t get a good look at her at the funeral, but wow, she looks different than I remember. Especially with her hair chopped off like that. She’s all grown up, too—but then again, I guess we’ve both changed quite a bit since the last time we saw each other. I keep up my self-inflicted stranglehold.

  Mr. Sisco invites them to sit on his side of the table, across from me and Mom. Smart move, except now I’m looking at both of them, and I’d really rather not. I realize my mouth is hanging open and promptly close it. My eyes narrow, and I glare at my aunt as all the negative emotions I’ve ever felt about her rise to the surface. Every few seconds, my gaze shifts to my cousin, but she refuses to look up. Not quite so bold when you’re not driving away, huh?

  After the longest stretch of awkward silence I’ve ever experienced in my life, Mr. Sisco says, “Let’s proceed, shall we?”

  Mom still hasn’t said a word. She’s been digging in her purse this whole time and finally pulls out a pen and a small notepad. She focuses on Mr. Sisco, completely ignoring the other occupants in the room. A small squeak comes from her mouth, and she gives a slight nod.

  “We’re ready,” I tell Mr. Sisco. It looks like I might have to be the one to take charge today.