Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  I park and get out, slowly making my way to the house. The number 4792 is engraved on a wooden sign hanging from the front porch rail, just above a frog planter full of what looks like dead grass. I double-check the number with the address on my phone. This should be it.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I knock on the door.

  I’m not sure who’s more shocked to see the other, Jackie or me. Her face is pale and thinner than I remember, like she’s been ill, but she opens the glass door and invites me inside. I glance around the place before taking a seat on a faded tan couch. It’s surprisingly tidy, but the smell of stale cigarettes cancels out any nice first impression I might have had. Jackie sits in a chair opposite me.

  “Is K. J. around?” I ask, filling in the long silence.

  She shakes her head, eyeing me with a look of apprehension. “I was hoping maybe you knew where she was.”

  “No, I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

  Jackie wrings her hands together and frowns. “She was so angry with me. I don’t blame her, but I’m worried. She won’t answer any of my texts or calls.”

  Hmm, that sounds familiar. “How long has she been gone?” I ask.

  Jackie’s frame seems to wilt before me. “Since that night you two came back from the Keys.”

  Her appearance makes more sense now.

  “I’ve talked to her,” I say, hoping to put her at ease. “It was about a week and a half ago, but she’s okay.” At least I hope that’s the case. I honestly don’t have any better idea of where she is than her mom does.

  “I have a feeling she might be with her friend Carter,” Jackie says. “I’ve tried his phone, but he doesn’t answer either. I can give you his number if you want. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “Okay, sure.” I remember K. J. talking about Carter.

  Jackie rises and heads toward the kitchen where she writes something down on a blue sticky note. She also grabs a white envelope from the counter and hands them both to me. The letter is addressed to both K. J. and me, written in Grandpa’s familiar cursive.

  “This came in the mail the other day,” she tells me. One corner of her mouth turns upward, like she wants to smile, but can’t quite find the energy to do so.

  “Thanks.”

  Jackie sees me out, and it strikes me as I get back into my car that this is the first time I’ve felt pity instead of hatred toward my aunt. She’s made some big mistakes in her life, more than I probably know about, but unlike my mom, she’s never been able to get away from them. She’s still knee-deep in the muck.

  After K. J.’s phone goes straight to voicemail again, I give Carter’s number a try. To my surprise, he answers on the second ring. I explain who I am, not at all shocked when his voice suddenly turns cold. Still, after some semi-pleading on my part, he gives the phone to K. J.

  “Hey. Can we talk? Please?”

  “Yeah,” she says, sounding completely unenthused. “What’s up?”

  “In person maybe? Plus, I have something for you.”

  She hesitates before responding. “I guess so.”

  Then she gives me an address, which I scrawl down beneath the number on the sticky note. After tapping End Call, I read the address to Siri, and she directs me to another mobile home park a few miles away. K. J.’s silver Honda sits outside the fifth trailer on the left. I park between it and a beat-up pickup truck—the one I’d seen her get into that day at Pour Jons.

  K. J. answers the door. “Hey,” she says, looking less than thrilled to see me. Even so, I’m relieved to see that she’s okay.

  She lets me inside and I try not to gawk. I didn’t know trailer houses were all that different, but this one is much older and dumpier than her mom’s. The same stale cigarette aroma hangs in the air, only here it’s mixed with the scent of something else, like mildew. I try to ignore it as I hand over the envelope.

  “Your mom gave me this.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “So that’s how you got Carter’s number. I was wondering.”

  A blond boy wearing a red Reynold’s Auto Parts shirt and jeans appears from the hallway. Carter, I can only assume. He has one of those skater hairstyles and a sort of hardened look about him, but he’s not bad-looking.

  “This is Becka,” K. J. says by way of introduction. “Becka, Carter.”

  He eyes me somewhat warily before looking back at K. J., who has settled onto the couch now, her feet tucked up under her. A folded blanket and pillow sit on the other end, and I’m guessing this must be her bed for now. “See you after while,” Carter says to K. J. before heading out the front door.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I came to talk to you about the rodeo. It would be stupid not to do it.”

  Her eyes narrow, and her whole demeanor changes. She crosses her arms, leaning back into the couch. “I told you. I’m not doing it.”

  “But don’t you want to go to school? And get your inheritance?”

  She shakes her head. “You know as well as I do that I’m not cut out for that shit. Besides, I’ve got a decent job now. Pays nine bucks an hour.”

  “Where at?”

  “Reynold’s Auto Parts.”

  I want to tell her she’s too smart to spend her life working at an auto parts store or living in some dump like this, but I don’t. Sometimes the truth only makes people angrier. I nod toward the letter sitting beside her on the couch. “You can read it first if you want.”

  K. J. glances down at the envelope before giving a one-shoulder shrug. “Fine.”

  At first, her face is unreadable as her eyes move over the words, but at some point, her expression darkens, the corners of her mouth shifting downward. Her forehead creases, like she’s become lost in thought. A few seconds later, her eyes shift from the letter to the floor.

  “Well?” I ask.

  K. J. doesn’t say anything, just hands the letter to me.

  I sink into the couch beside her to read it.

  CHAPTER 28

  ELI

  Dear Katherine and Rebecka,

  I hope you don’t hate me for sharing the news you both deserved to hear long ago. I hope you don’t hate your mothers, either. They’ve both made some mistakes in their lives and, in my opinion, not telling you two the truth earlier on was one of them. At the same time, I understand why they chose not to tell you—it was out of love and the belief that they were protecting you—but you are both adults now and I believe you can handle the truth.

  I’m going to be completely honest: I have no idea where I’ll go after I die. But I’d like to think that, as you’re reading this, I’m still with you in some small way. People say you carry your loved ones with you in your heart, even after they’re gone. I think of it a little differently, though.

  I miss both of my parents dearly, and even all these years later, I can still hear certain sayings my father had or the sound of my mother’s soft laughter. I like to think they now occupy a small, but very real, space in my brain. They’re a part of me and will remain so even after I die.

  It’s the same with you and me. Maybe you get annoyed when you think about my insect collecting or all of my issues that prevented me from going to the places I’ve asked you both to go. However, I’m sure there are a few things you recall fondly, too. At least, I hope so. Even with as little time as we spent together, I believe I’ll always occupy a small part of your brain as well.

  Please know that I’ll be cheering you both on at that rodeo. I’d say break a leg, but that’s the wrong sentiment in this type of sport. So go get ’em, cowgirls!

  This will be the last letter you receive from me. I’m afraid my hand is growing too tired to write much more. I’m just tired in general these days.

  The trips you’ve now gone on were intended to both create and solidify what I hope will be a lasting bond between you two. I also hope your relationship will continue to grow from this point forward, but that, of course, is up to the two of you.

  So goodbye, my dearest granddaughters. Go live the lif
e you’ve always dreamed of. I hope the money I’m leaving will help you get a good start.

  Love always,

  Grandpa

  CHAPTER 29

  K. J.

  FOR A SECOND OR TWO, I CONSIDER CHANGING MY mind and doing the rodeo after all, but then I remember the look on my mom’s face when I confronted her. She wasn’t sorry for lying to me all these years; she was only sorry she got caught.

  Becka finishes the letter and hands it back to me. “Don’t you want to do it for Grandpa?” she asks.

  “He’s dead. What does it matter?”

  Her eyes widen, like she can’t believe I just said that. She still doesn’t know me, apparently, the way I can turn my emotions off like a switch whenever I want to. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check the time.

  “I’ve gotta get ready for work,” I say, even though I still have a few hours before my shift.

  “You’re being completely selfish, K. J.” Becka’s mouth forms a thin, tight line.

  I hold her gaze. “You know what? I don’t really give a rat’s ass what you think. You and your mom don’t need the money, you said so yourself, and my mom doesn’t deserve anyone’s last dime.” I push up from the couch and glower down at her. “Now get out of here. I don’t remember inviting you over anyway.”

  We stand within an arm’s length of each other, and even though it shouldn’t, my three inches over Becka makes me bold. I know I’m being shitty right now, but I can’t seem to stop. We hold eye contact for several silent seconds before she finally looks away.

  “Fine,” she says, “be like that.” She turns to leave but stops at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “You know what the sad thing is? You’re only screwing yourself by doing this. That seems to be your biggest talent.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Becka.”

  Becka’s visit leaves me in a foul mood for the rest of the week, and the stormy weather pattern isn’t helping things. Friday evening, Dax and I have the six o’clock news on to make sure no tornadoes are heading this way. Even though it’s July, you just never know in Oklahoma.

  “This is some freaky weather we’ve been having, huh?” Dax says. He’s perched on a kitchen barstool drinking a Red Bull while I sit on the carpet, experimenting with painting my toenails black. I’ve never painted my fingernails or toenails any color, but I’m feeling a little more adventurous these days. And black totally fits my mood right now.

  “Guess it’s all part of global warming.” I glance back at the television, taking a small amount of comfort in the fact that we’re only in a yellow “watch” area.

  “Could be.” Dax takes a long sip before tossing his can across the room and into the kitchen sink.

  I don’t know why he always does that, but it’s not my house, so I can’t really complain. The news anchor lady comes on blabbing about all the cancellations in the area, and I focus in on painting my big toe nail. “Crap,” I say, accidentally smearing polish on my skin. I use my fingernail to scrape it off. This is way harder than it looks. When I hear something about the “Dog Days of Summer,” I look back up at the TV.

  “… one of the most anticipated festivals in our area each July, but it looks like both the festival and the rodeo will be rained out this evening. This is also the case with the 49th Annual Dickinson Outdoor Car Show that was supposed to be held tonight. Hopefully, tomorrow will be drier and both events will be back on. What do you think, John?”

  The gangly-looking weatherman laughs. “Oh, I believe so, Randi. Tomorrow’s looking to be a typical sunny July day. In fact, we’ll get up to ninety-six degrees, and it’s gonna be a steamy one, folks!”

  “That guy is such a doofus,” Dax says, getting up from the barstool. Like he’s one to talk. Dax is six foot something and skinny as they come. He nods toward the television. “All right if I play Mass Effect? Looks like we’re safe for now.”

  “Sure.” To be honest, I’m sick of watching him and Carter play video games, but once again I have to be nice about it.

  “You making dinner tonight?” Dax asks, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We recently decided to take turns cooking, but when it’s one of the guys’ turns we either have sandwiches or frozen pizza. I’m the only one who knows how to make an actual meal around here.

  “Yeah,” I say with a huff and stand to hobble on my heels into the kitchen.

  Frozen chicken breasts are in the oven and sliced potatoes are frying in a pan when Carter arrives home at half past seven. He tromps across the carpet in his wet tennis shoes, and once again, I bite my tongue. Mom would have such a fit.

  “Smells good,” he says. “Whatcha making?”

  “Stuff,” I say, because they’ll find out soon enough. But then I feel guilty for being rude when I’m getting to stay here for free and all. “So how was your shift?” I ask, working hard to make my tone more friendly.

  “Good. Busy.” Carter gives my arm a playful pinch and grabs a Mountain Dew from the fridge before going to plop down on the couch and watch Dax play the video game. I sigh. This is how our evenings seem to go anymore. Though it’s about as exciting as watching a fly buzz around the room, I watch for a while until the timer for the chicken goes off.

  “Food’s ready,” I say, but the guys aren’t paying attention. They’re totally wrapped up in their game. I shake my head and make myself a plate, sitting at the counter to eat by my lonesome. Lately, I can’t shake this growing, unsettled feeling about living here. It’s like, aside from work, this old mildewy trailer and violent video games have become my life. I don’t want to go home, but I wish I had another option. Maybe even a place of my own.

  Grandpa’s money sure would be nice. That little voice keeps piping up, but it’s completely pointless. I’d have to use it on college, and that defeats the whole purpose because I’m not going to freaking college.

  Saturday, Carter and I both have the afternoon shift at Reynold’s. When I step out for a smoke break around three, I realize that dorky weatherman was right. It’s suffocating out here. But the blazing summer sun has at least dried up all the puddles that were here when we came in at noon. I’m sucking in one last drag when my phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out to have a look. Becka again.

  I’m going tonight

  I type good for u and then delete it, stuffing the phone back into my pocket instead. I stub out my cigarette and head back inside, where I can get some relief from this hellhole, otherwise known as summer in Siloam Springs.

  The afternoon drags on, and though I’m still grateful to have this job, I find myself thinking about all the other things I could be doing instead of organizing car batteries on the back shelf.

  I could work at the vape shop on Aspen, I think. No that’s dumb. What about a job at the art studio where people come with their friends to paint a Christmas tree or a giant purple heart with pink polka dots inside? I’d seen those two pictures outside the window one time anyway. Or what about a restaurant? Waiters probably make decent money, especially at the nice places. If I waited tables, maybe I’d make enough to get my own apartment or something. Some place that doesn’t have to be brought in on wheels.

  I sigh and hoist yet another battery onto the shelf. I just don’t see how it’s possible. How will I ever make enough to live on my own? So far, most of my money has gone for groceries and gas. And cigarettes, although I recently decided I should quit for good because the habit is just too dang expensive.

  When eight o’clock finally rolls around, I follow Carter out to his truck since we rode together today. It’s cooled off by maybe half a degree or so. “So you wanna do something fun tonight?” I ask as I slide into the passenger side. “We could go see a movie or something. My treat.”

  “I think Dax was wanting to play Call of Duty, actually.” He gives me a sheepish smile as he starts the engine.

  I take a deep breath of semi-cooled air. “Really? You know, we never do anything like we used to, even if it was driving around or shit like that.�
� Maybe neither one of us wants to admit that we might have messed things up with that kiss.

  Carter’s smile disappears, replaced by a look of irritation. “I don’t have much extra money to go out and do stuff, K. J. You know that.”

  “Um, hello? I just offered to pay for the movie, and you still don’t wanna go.”

  “How about tomorrow? We’re both off work. I just wanna chill at the house tonight.” He backs out of his space, and we bump through a series of potholes before exiting the parking lot.

  I stare straight ahead. “Forget it.”

  Carter sighs but doesn’t say anything else. We make the rest of the drive in silence.

  Dax already has the PS4 fired up at home, and Carter immediately settles onto the couch beside him, ready for their dude-date or whatever.

  “I’m leaving,” I announce after grabbing a Dr Pepper and a granola bar.

  “Where ya going?” Carter asks without looking up.

  “Dunno yet.” I grab my keys and leave before he can say anything else. Not that he was going to anyway. I definitely need some time to rethink this whole living here thing.

  I start driving with no destination in mind, but the farther I head east, the more I realize I do know where I want to go.

  I pull into the Decatur Round-Up Club at eight forty-seven and hand five bucks to a man at the gate. Luckily, I had some cash on me since I totally forgot about having to pay. Trucks and trailers and horses and hillbillies litter the rodeo grounds. I find a parking spot near the back and start toward the arena with my Dr Pepper can still in hand. Country music blares from speakers near the announcer’s box and several girls ride past me on horses. They wear fancy western shirts covered with fringe and straw cowboy hats, making me wonder if they’re barrel racers or rodeo queens or something like that.