Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  Only the next raft hits the churning water and flips end over end, sending the seven occupants flying into the river. Oh, damn. Holding a hand to my forehead, I shield my eyes from the sun and watch their helmets bob along in the current. No one seems hurt, at least.

  “And if we don’t make it,” Barry continues with a grin, “no big deal either!”

  Two more kayakers, who obviously know what they’re doing, pass through without so much as a bobble, and Barry must think we’ve seen enough because he asks if we’re ready to give it a try ourselves.

  Delilah and Trista are wide-eyed, and Becka looks a little greenish, but Luke, Dillon, and I raise our fists in the air and let out a war cry.

  “Remember, we’re going to aim for the space between those two big rocks,” Barry reminds us once we’re back in the raft. “Just like most of the other boats have done.”

  We maneuver to the left side of the river to wait for the other groups to clear out. Then, when Barry gives the signal, we paddle as hard as we can to the right.

  “Hold ’er straight!” Barry yells, but the water is already pulling us forward at an angle, and our paddling is useless against the force of the current.

  How the hell did those kayakers make this look easy? I try to paddle even harder but realize we’re totally going to crash. Looks like Dillon is going to get his wish after all. My side of the raft hits the drop-off first, and I let out a scream, half terror, half exhilaration. The back part of the raft soars skyward and I’m launched into the air. I land face first in the water, my heart hammering against my rib cage.

  After I surface, I belt out a laugh. We freakin’ made it. We ran the Sluice. Who cares if we didn’t exactly do it in our raft? I turn to search for the rest of my crew. Two white helmets bob along ten feet behind me—the twins—and their parents aren’t far behind. Barry’s somehow already made it to shore up ahead. He tugs the raft back onto the rocks, pointing to his destination and indicating we should meet him there. I give him a thumbs-up.

  “Man, that was such a rush,” I say to Dillon, who has managed to catch up with me now.

  “That was a massive fail!” he replies, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. Delilah’s smiling, too, but she’s probably just relieved it’s all over.

  “Wait,” I say, scanning the water around us, “where’s Becka?”

  Delilah’s smile falters. “Becka?” she calls, a note of anxiousness in her voice. She turns a three-sixty in the water, calling for my cousin again.

  “Oh no,” I mutter as I search the shoreline ahead but still don’t see her. I imagine her lifeless body floating down the river. Not too long ago, I might have even wished for that, but now the thought makes my stomach twist in fear.

  “Becka!” I yell again as I swim toward shore and scan the faces of the spectators. There are probably a dozen or more of them, but no one is paying us any attention. Did no one see her go under? “Becka!” This time I yell so loud that my voice cracks a little. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies to the point where I feel like I could maybe puke. Then I hear a peal of laughter rising over the sound of the rushing water.

  “Hey, over here!” Perched on a rock not far from the Sluice, with her tanned legs dangling, my cousin waves at us.

  What the hell? A frown pulls at the edges of my mouth, but I can’t ignore the rush of relief flooding through me.

  “How’d you get up there?” Delilah yells.

  “I bailed early,” she yells back. “I was afraid we were going to flip.”

  I’m not sure how I missed that, but then again everything was happening all at once. “You suck!” I yell as I grab ahold of a rock and hoist myself up onto it.

  Becka gets to her feet and starts downriver, meeting up with us.

  “You scared the shit out of me, you know,” I say when she’s within earshot.

  She gives me a skeptical look. “So you’re saying you would have actually cared if I drowned?”

  “Maybe.” I drop my gaze before turning to help Dillon, and then Delilah, out of the water.

  As the four of us make our way along the river’s edge, my heartbeat manages to return to somewhere around normal. I can’t believe I got so worked up, but then again, maybe that’s to be expected when two people have spent as much time together as Becka and I have lately. It’s hard to say.

  We leave South Carolina for our next stop in West Palm Beach the following day. It’s strange, but I can sense a subtle shift between us. Becka’s behind the wheel and I have my earbuds in, listening to music she probably wouldn’t care for, but it’s like I can breathe a little easier around her now. Like some of the hate between us has maybe evaporated. We’re nowhere near being friends, but the urge to slap her hasn’t been nearly as overwhelming today. Maybe thinking she was dead for ten seconds really did have an effect on me.

  I nod my head along to the beat and stare out the window. We pass another cotton field, only this one’s been harvested, with round bales of cotton wrapped up in bright pink plastic. Weird how they bale it up just like hay. A ding cuts into my song and another text from Carter appears at the top of my screen. He got a job at Reynold’s Auto Parts in Siloam Springs, which is cool. I respond with a thumbs-up emoji and tell him about (almost) slaying the Sluice.

  We text back and forth for several more minutes, though it’s mostly him just telling me about his first day on the job. He’s making nine bucks an hour, which doesn’t really sound like much when I think about it. Good thing he’s splitting the bills with Dax.

  At one point, I notice Becka peeking at my phone, so I push it down in between my legs. Nosy much? She quickly focuses on the road again as I stop the music and pull out my earbuds.

  “I need a bathroom break,” I tell her.

  “I think there’s another town up here in a few miles.” She raps her fingers on the steering wheel before continuing. “So… is that your boyfriend?”

  I snort. “Um, no.”

  “Oh, okay. Just wondered. I saw you with a guy that day when you left the coffee shop. Thought maybe that was him.”

  “It is him, and he’s just a friend. Carter. We’re texting. Ever do that with your friends?” Sarcasm oozes from every word.

  “Yes,” she says, frowning. “Sorry. Guess I’ll know better than to ask something like that next time.”

  I push out a sigh and fold my arms across my chest. “It’s fine. I just get sick of people always making assumptions. It gets really old after a while, you know?”

  Becka rolls her eyes. “I said I was sorry. Did you ever consider that maybe I was just trying to make conversation? I don’t really care if you have a boyfriend… or a girlfriend for that matter.”

  “Okay, okay, I hear you. And I don’t have either one. Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just all this closeness.” I gesture around the car. “I think it’s getting to me.”

  She nods, seeming to understand. “I know what you mean.”

  “At least we haven’t killed each other yet. Grandpa would probably be proud.”

  Becka laughs. “Probably. And speaking of Grandpa, I wonder why he didn’t leave us a letter after the rafting trip.”

  “No idea. I’m sure we’ll get another one soon, though.” I point to a sign up ahead. “Hey, there’s a Love’s.”

  Becka moves over to the right lane and takes the next exit.

  We park, and I hop out, making a beeline for the bathroom. Becka’s not far behind me. Afterward, we browse the touristy gifts, probably because we both need a little more time to stretch our legs. I find a T-shirt that says LIFE’S A BITCH, only with BITCH crossed out and BEACH written above it. Since it seems totally fitting for the next leg of this trip, I decide to splurge on it. As we’re waiting in line at the register, I show Becka the shirt, half expecting her to turn her nose up because she seems so goody-goody and all, but to my surprise, she just laughs.

  “I think I want to wear it,” I say once we’re back in the car and I start to peel off my tank top.r />
  “K. J.,” Becka squeals, eyes flashing toward two guys walking past my window.

  I continue with my shirt swap anyway. “It’s just a sports bra. And it’s not like we’ll ever see them again.”

  But one guy keeps staring even after I’m fully clothed. I stick out my tongue at him, and he looks away. Becka and I are still cracking up about it as we merge back onto the highway.

  CHAPTER 20

  BECKA

  THE KEYS AREN’T WHAT I EXPECTED, BUT IN THE very best way. With the windows rolled down, K. J. and I cruise along the two-lane highway, nothing but ocean surrounding us. The sight of so much blue is surreal, and at times, a little unnerving. But it’s all good. Salt water and sunlight fill my nostrils, and right now it’s the most wonderful smell in the world.

  “This is so badass,” K. J. says for probably the tenth time. She holds one hand out the window, fingers splayed against the rushing wind as she drives. We’ve left Marathon behind, and according to Google Maps, the next island will be Big Pine Key.

  “How on earth did they build this highway?” I ask, awestruck.

  K. J. draws her hand back inside the car, curling her fingers around the top of the steering wheel. “I’m not sure. I’m gonna have to look that up later.”

  “So you’ve really never been outside Oklahoma or Arkansas? Until these trips, anyway?”

  “We went to a feed mill in Kansas on a field trip one time,” she says with a shrug.

  I’m not exactly a world traveler, but I feel a little guilty as I count up all the states I’ve traveled to for soccer tournaments or family vacations—six at least. “I think maybe Grandpa saved the best place for last,” I admit, because I think we’re both falling in love with the Keys already. How could we not? And snuba diving sounds like a lot of fun.

  “You might be right about that,” K. J. says.

  I glance over at her in the driver’s seat with her cropped hair waving in the breeze and her face the picture of contentment. Over twenty hours in the car together and not only are we both still sane, but maybe even happy. And the funny thing is, I’m not really sure how we arrived to this point.

  It’s early afternoon by the time we make it to our final destination: Key West. The island hums with people, but no one seems to be in a hurry to get where they’re going. Even inside the car, I can sense the unique energy all around me, like tropical paradise meets small town quaintness. It’s definitely unlike any place I’ve ever been, that’s for sure. As we drive down the main drag, I point out a Willie Nelson lookalike walking down the sidewalk with a parrot on his shoulder.

  K. J. does a double take and laughs. “This place is amazing.”

  We find our hotel, a retro-looking two-story building called Senna’s Place, and after driving around the same block three times, finally spot a place to park on a narrow side street. Lugging our suitcases to the front desk, we’re greeted by an overly made-up receptionist with a beehive hairdo and fake nails so long they look uncomfortable. She checks us in and points the way to our room.

  “I think Grandpa would have liked this place,” I say, gazing around at the decor in the hotel hallway. It’s a combination of tropical and flamboyant, the walls lined with paintings of golden pineapples and colorful fish, as well as neon abstract art. Hot pink and electric blue draperies adorn the windows. It’s definitely eccentric.

  “Probably so,” K. J. says, pausing to look at a picture of a bright turquoise fish.

  We stash our things in the room and decide to have a look around. After all, this isn’t the kind of place where you hang out at your hotel.

  “I heard that Ernest Hemingway lived here,” I say as we pass back by the front desk. “I think his home is a museum now.”

  K. J. gives me a puzzled look. “Who’s that?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You don’t know who Ernest Hemingway is? A Farewell to Arms was probably my favorite novel from senior English.”

  K. J. finally cracks a smile. “I’m just jackin’ with you. He had the six-toed cats, right?”

  That’s not exactly what he’s best known for, but of course K. J. would know this piece of information. “I think so. Wanna go check it out?”

  “Sure, I’m game.”

  We stop for a late lunch at a sidewalk café and soon learn that half the fun of being here is the people-watching. We see every kind of outfit imaginable—from leather pants to elegant floral sundresses. Several people wear full-fledged costumes, and there’s even a demented-looking clown. Two guys Rollerblade past in nothing but skimpy Speedos, and a woman in a bikini top and purple tutu performs some kind of interpretive dance on the street corner.

  “Are we even in America right now?” K. J. asks after finishing off her sandwich. “I’ve never seen anything like this place.”

  “Can you imagine living here?” I ask as two people in formal frilly dresses sashay past. “It would be so fun. Like a permanent vacation.”

  But K. J.’s attention has already been diverted. “Oh my god,” she says. “Chickens!”

  Sure enough, there they are, strutting along the sidewalk, right in front of us.

  “What in the world? You think maybe they got loose from a farm or something?” Even as I say this, I can’t imagine there being any farms around here—at least not like the ones in Arkansas. This island is way too small and crowded.

  K. J. doesn’t respond but instead jumps up from her seat to follow them. She attempts to reach down and catch one, but the chicken isn’t having it. It darts across the street and into an alley between two buildings.

  After leaving the café, we see more chickens in the strangest locations—some nesting in flower gardens, others pecking about small, grassy strips in front of restaurants or shops. A red rooster stands guard in someone’s front yard and crows as we pass as if to warn us to stay out of his territory.

  “This is freakin’ hilarious,” K. J. says. “I guess they just live around the island like pigeons do in the city.”

  “Apparently.” All I can do is shake my head and smile at the oddity of it all. A few months ago, I didn’t know Key West even existed. Now, I’m sure it’s a place I’ll never forget.

  Using a map on a brochure we’d picked up along the way, we locate the Hemingway Home—a grand, two-story stucco place. Sure enough, dozens of cats wander the grounds as well as the house, and K. J. stops to pet each one that crosses our path. She examines their front paws, pointing out which ones have the extra toe. “Polydactyl, they’re called,” she says with a hint of authority.

  Before, it would have gotten on my nerves, but now I know it’s just her way of sharing one of those random facts she always seems so interested in.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s look at the rest of the house.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

  K. J. follows me into another room, this one featuring a large mahogany bed and matching nightstands with pineapple-shaped lamps. A collection of photos showing Hemingway with one of his wives—and there were several, it seems—hang on the wall.

  I find a plaque that lists the names of his four wives, along with the dates they were married to Hemingway. “Ha! He’s only got Mom beat by one.”

  K. J. looks at me, surprised. “Your mom’s been married three times?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t know that?” I guess I thought it was common knowledge.

  “Nope, my mom never talks about her.” K. J. puckers her mouth up like she might say something else but seems to change her mind.

  It strikes me how strange it is that we still know so little about each other. In a parallel universe—or in a normal family—we might be best friends or at least close, but in this universe we’re neither.

  In the hallway, another cat moseys our way, and, unsurprisingly, K. J. kneels down to stroke its back. “I used to have a cat,” she tells me, now scratching beneath its chin. “Larry. Don’t know what happened to him, though. He disappeared in the middle of a snowstorm one winter. I never saw him agai
n.”

  “You named your cat Larry?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs as if the name isn’t strange at all. “Seemed to fit him.”

  I guess nothing should surprise me by now, but I offer what I hope looks like an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll get another one when I have my own place. My mom didn’t care for the whole litter-box thing anyway.”

  My mom would be the very same way. Maybe they’re more alike than I thought.

  “I wonder why Grandpa never had any pets,” K. J. says as we enter the study. “He didn’t, did he?”

  “No. Mom told me he didn’t think anyone should keep pets—that animals should live in their natural environment.”

  “That kinda sounds like Grandpa, now that you mention it.” She pauses, looking around the room, and then spots another cat in the hallway. “So what’s a cat’s natural environment, anyway?”

  I think about that for a moment. “Good question.”

  We both laugh and spend the next ten minutes coming up with guesses as to where a cat should really live, and our answers only get more absurd as we go along.

  After leaving Hemingway’s house, we explore Duval Street, with all its unique shops, and watch the demented clown character we saw earlier ride a unicycle while juggling baseballs in some sort of street sideshow. It’s interesting, to say the least.

  Dinner is at another outdoor café, and then we finally head to the beach. Kicking off our shoes, K. J. and I wade into the ocean. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to ever since we got here. The water is deliciously cool and a welcome relief from the humidity, but I stop when it reaches my knees, content to just admire the view. With the sun hanging low and the sky a beautiful shade of plum, it’s like we’ve been painted right into a postcard. I’ve only been to the ocean one other time, after a soccer tournament in Southport, but the water is a completely different shade of blue here. Plus, it was March when we went to North Carolina, and the water was freezing.