Summer Doesn't Last Forever

by Magdalene G. Jones

  “Cold,” Amias manages. “So. Cold.”

  “This . . . mistake,” Brynn tries to breathe.

  “I hate you all!” I shout, hugging myself.

  “No more than we hate us,” Drew shivers and slaps his own hand. “Past me. Bad.”

  “Come. On. Tarni,” Brynn spits out between blue lips. “It’s not . . . as bad as what we . . are going through.”

  “You try getting splashed with icy water unexpectedly!”

  “Uh, yeah. We just did,” Drew rolls his eyes.

  I shiver, scowling down at them. The rest of our group laughs behind us, and Ryan keeps snapping pictures. I eye the traitor trio.

  “I want to punish you, but I’m not sure how.”

  “We have . . . received our punishment,” Amias swims over to the side of the pool.

  He grips the side, struggling to pull himself up.

  “Need a hand?” I crouch down.

  “Yeah,” he offers a smile.

  I smile back and grasp his hands, leaning forward, “‘Long live the king.’”

  Amias’s eyes widen, but I let go and shove him back into the water. Amias yelps. Another splash and more laughter fill the air. Drew and Brynn half-drown between their cold and glee. Amias reappears and narrows his eyes at me. But then laughs as well.

  “Well played, Tarni Bird,” he shakes his head. “Well played.”

  Drew clambers out of the water, and Brynn and Amias follow. They stand on the edge of the pool, shivering and hugging themselves. If I had not been doing the same thing, I might have felt a little sorry for them. Instead, I smirk to the best of my abilities, my teeth chattering.

  “Lion King fan,” Brynn gives me a weak and trembling high-five. “Nice one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You better have awesome pictures from that,” Drew wags a finger at Ryan.

  “I do. No worries. Now, let’s keep going. We have two more pictures left to take!”

  We set off again. The wet crew hangs at the back, still trembling.

  “You are quite wet, aren’t you?” Brynn glances at me.

  “You think?” I hiss, clenching my jaw.

  “Sorry,” Amias claims.

  I wave him off and dry my glasses. “I paid you back. Well, you at least.”

  “Uh-oh, Brynn,” Drew ducks behind his sister. “Looks like she’s out for us now.”

  “Just keep that in mind.”

  We keep walking and snapping pictures, miserable. Drew, Amias, Brynn, and I stay huddled together as our group continues energetically. We finish and hurry across the resort and into the starting hall, still shivering. Jeff looks up from one of the couch benches.

  “Well done, guys!” He stands up. “You’re third back. Go ahead and give your camera to Jan over there. Ryan, pick out which pictures we count for votes.”

  He looks at Amias, Brynn, Drew, and me and raises an eyebrow, “Oh dear.”

  “Hi,” I manage.

  “I haven’t seen this many people wet yet,” he laughs.

  “Yeah, we jumped from the bridge,” Brynn shrugs with no small amount of pride.

  “I look forward to seeing that picture. Do you all have your keys? Do you want to go change into warm clothes?”

  “Will we miss anything?” I ask, surprising myself with the question.

  “Not at all. We won’t hear the results for a few days. As soon as everyone gets back, we’ll dismiss you for lunch.”

  “Great,” Brynn slumps her shoulders.

  She fishes in her purse and pulls out her key. I hesitate a moment, then shrug.

  “Yeah, that does sound good,” I wave to the rest of our group.

  We walk back out together. I fight the urge to fidget, my vanished adrenaline allowing nervousness to trickle back in.

  “I am. So. Cold!” Brynn stamps her feet.

  “Same,” Amias and Drew say as one.

  I nod but stay silent. Though cold, I know I am better off than they are.

  “I hope lunch is as good as their breakfast,” Drew stares in the cafeteria’s direction.

  “Yeah, I bet it is. They had the gyros prepared,” my mouth waters at the thought.

  Amias shivers and hugs himself, “So, Tarni. Where are you from?”

  “Classified.”

  “What?”

  I smile, “I can’t say. Security reasons.”

  “Oh wicked,” Drew snaps his fingers. “I wish I lived in a place like that. Classified. So cool.”

  “It’s not as cool as it sounds, I’m afraid. It’s still Africa,” I finish with a lilt to my voice. “How about you guys?”

  “Kenya. The bush areas,” Amias points to his chest.

  “We’re in Morocco, baby,” Brynn poses for a moment. “Which is on the classified side, Drew.”

  “Yeah, but we can still say it,” he turns off our pathway.

  “See you at lunch!” I call after him.

  He raises a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Hobbies?” Amias asks. “I mean, what are your hobbies?”

  “Getting to the icebreaker questions before Jeff can?” Brynn smirks and tosses her limp ponytail.

  “Good point. Yes.”

  We laugh.

  “I like football—the real kind. I mean,” Brynn rolls her eyes. “‘Soccer.’”

  “Those terms are even more confusing when you are half-American and half-Australian,” I make a face.

  “Oh, I bet.”

  “You’re half-Australian?” Amias glances at me.

  “My mum is Aboriginal Australian,” I point to my damp hair.

  “Cool! I wondered with your accent.”

  “It’s a bit off,” I agree.

  “Nah, just different,” Brynn digs in her purse. “What are your hobbies, Tarni?”

  “I write a lot. Lots of journaling, and I’ll occasionally write a poem. I also play piano, but I’m not very good.”

  “I play piano too,” Amias’s face lights up. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s hard work, but yeah. What are your hobbies?”

  “Music. I sing, play instruments, and compose when I can.”

  “Wow,” I blink at him. “That’s awesome!”

  “Thanks,” his smile spreads into his voice.

  “This is me,” Brynn points at a bungalow row. “I’ll see you when we’re warm again!”

  “See ya,” Amias and I wave.

  We keep walking. I swallow, awkwardness flooding back in. Why did Brynn’s house have to be before mine?

  “Do you have many friends where you live?”

  The question pierces through my nerves like scissors cutting through an already popped balloon. I look down.

  “Not really.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Amias presses his blue lips together.

  “I used to,” I say to the cobbled pathway. “Expat friends, I mean. But they left five months ago.”

  “Ouch. Sorry.”

  “It’s been pretty . . . hard,” I shake myself. “Ah, there’s my place. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “All right,” he gives me a small smile.

  I march away, hugging my cold body. I climb the steps to our little bungalow and walk inside.

  What a bizarre few days. From crying in my room at home to falling asleep on Amias’s shoulder -. Never mind, don’t think about that. To having fun with my roommates and getting splashed with icy water.

  So strange.

  I change into warm clothes and start pacing. Just having fun. I’m just having fun. No one knows me, and no one will want to know me once I’ve had a couple of mental breakdowns. I sit down on my bunk and clutch my head in my hands. My fingers burrow into my damp hair.

  I feel fake and hollow. Like my sadness before, sadness now, and fun now are all fake at the same time. Even my hollowness feels fake. I press my lips together, open my phone, and look at my messages. My heart stings. I last texted Adam and Everly four days ago.

  They still haven’t responded.

 
; What did I do wrong? Did I say something? And what will I do if they don’t respond? Panic rushes through me. I send off another pair of messages. Maybe they are just busy like me.

  But I still make time for them.

  Don’t be selfish. They have better friends now. I stand up, clutching my satchel straps. It’s kind of them to keep in touch, even sporadically. My heart aches deeper, and my lips begin to tremble. They wanted to leave. I have to be happy for them.

  I give up. Crying, again, I slump to the floor and hide my face in my knees. I have to be happy for them. They never thrived in our city . . .

  But who am I without them?

  Chapter Five: Strategy, Honoring, and Fake Medals

  Another few days pass, and I settle into camp. My roommates and I eat breakfast together daily. We have our morning worship session (thank the Lord, our prayer group is mixed up each day) and have an honoring session—the best part. We swim, play games, hang around together in the lounge area, and if we’re lucky, sleep.

  I love it here.

  But I hold to my goal, even though staying up past midnight with three fun girls makes polite disconnection hard. I will not get close to people who will leave me. Besides, Everly and Adam have texted me a little (stupid to doubt them. I am so dramatic.) So, I have friends and don’t need more.

  “Yeah, all in all, I am glad you made me go here,” I promise my mom.

  “Good, sweetie. I’m so glad,” Mum’s voice is half-swallowed by phone static. “It is a wonderful place.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see that, “How’s Koa?”

  “Oh, you know. Loving time with the grandparents,” Mum laughs. “He’s a troublemaker, but they are so glad to spend time with him.”

  “They’ve needed that,” I agree, thinking back to my grandparent retreats.

  I check the clock and hesitate. I need to book it to reach our session on time.

  “You need to go?” Mum guesses at my silence.

  “Sorry, this was so short.”

  “Not at all. You have fun. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I love you,” I make a kissing noise at the speaker.

  “I love you too. Goodbye.”

  She hangs up. I slide my phone into my bag with a sigh. But it buzzes, and I snatch it back up. My heart quickens. Adam.

  Yeah, school sucks, but I am so glad to be back in America, you know?

  I fire off a reply, my fingers shaking.

  I know you are. I am happy for you.

  I hesitate, wondering if I should add something. If I should finally be bold. I type out . . .

  But of course, sad for me.

  I shake my head and retype it.

  I miss you, though.

  I lick my lips, my finger hovering over the send button. No. He’s across the ocean. We’ll see how things develop, and maybe we can talk when I visit the States.

  I delete the message and wait for his response.

  It doesn’t come.

  I look up at the clock. Then down at the phone in my hand. He’s busy. I stand, fighting to hold onto the cheerfulness the message had brought.

  I walk to our elected room for meetings, having sessions, and lounging. (And playing four-square—though I still wasn’t a part of that.) Jeff offers me a wink as I sit down. I fidget throughout the video, glancing at my phone every few minutes.

  He’s not going to text you back. I fuss with my glasses, preparing myself for the worst.

  But the thought crushes my chest. I knew it was true, not pessimistic.

  He’s not going to text you back . . . yet.

  I am placed in a new discussion group and follow them outside. I sit down on a couch, still grasping my phone. Genevieve plops down next to me.

  “It’s great being in the same group as you,” she grins. “I wish they would stick us with a group and keep us there. Maya may know everyone, but I can’t.”

  I raise my eyebrows at my redheaded roomie, “You seem to make a lot of friends.”

  “Well, jeez. That’s because I’m freakin’ lonely out in Liberia. I’m an introvert.”

  I stare at her. She shifts a little and nods.

  “It’s true.”

  I turn forward as the discussion begins, still surprised.

  “Today, we continued our discussion of identity,” my teacher glanced down at her sheet of paper. “Everyone has identity issues, and these often manifest as insecurities. Some insecurities are only addressed through repentance of sin. But most are from pressures or lies or others’ skewed perceptions of us.”

  She sets down the paper and looks around, a little too expectantly for my taste. I shrink back into the couch, crossing my arms. I can’t decide whether I like these sessions or not. Our discussions are always good, but the content is often a little . . . cheesy. I shake my head. But, you know, at least it isn’t the classic youth group material that no TCK can relate to.

  “So, does anyone want to share one of their insecurities?” Our leader smiles. “No pressure, but I would appreciate it if a few shared.”

  Hang on, what?

  For a moment, everyone was silent. I stare at our discussion leader—Miss Aven. How does she expect us to say our insecurities? I rub my hands together. And why does it bother me? I’m not an insecure person. I mean, I have struggles sometimes, but I’m better off than most people . . .

  Lena clears her throat on a couch opposite me, “I am . . . talkative and emotional. For years, I was told those were bad traits. So even though I have recovered and see my character traits as simply traits—good or bad, depending on how I steward them . . . I still struggle. As most people can see.”

  “I think everyone here likes your talking. You know how to relate and listen through it,” Miss Aven gestures to the crowd, and I nod.

  “Well, I am working on it. I want to hear from people, but I also need to be heard,” Lena fiddles with her glasses. “Many of our personality insecurities come from things we don’t know how to balance. So we slide to suppressing whatever aspect of our personality needs balance.”

  “That’s a good way of describing it, Lena. Our personality is something to steward like everything else God gives us,” Miss Aven looks back down at her papers.

  “Certainly.”

  Our leader looks around the group. Some kids stare at the grass and ignore the silence, and others frown in thought. No one meets Miss Aven’s gaze.

  “I’m not an insecure person,” another boy tilts his head back. “I mean, I have insecurities, but I’m not insecure.”

  Several others nod, and Lena’s eyebrows twitch.

  “Have something to say, Lena?” I ask when she doesn’t speak up.

  “I always have something to say,” she sighs but gives me a wink. “I used to think the same thing about myself. But . . . just because you know people who struggle more does not mean you do not struggle.”

  Is that . . . me? I flatten my lips, wishing I hadn’t prompted her. The silence continues, and my heart beats uncomfortably. I rub my throat, wondering if I should say something.

  “I struggle with . . . I don’t know. Similar to Lena,” my head buzzes. “I feel . . . I feel unworthy and-and unwanted, but I don’t know where that comes from.”

  The phrases spill out of my mouth in a tangled mess. I swallow hard, panic attacking my stomach. Silence continues. Genevieve takes my hand and squeezes it tight.

  “I often feel useless and unwanted,” she says, doing more for my panic than any encouragement could.

  I breathe out an ache. My hands keep shaking, but my fear settles. Release pushes it further away. A few more people speak up, and I watch relieved smiles spread over their faces. I mimic the smile. Free.

  We finish our discussion, pray, and walk back into the building for games. My feet move without instruction. Something light and airy fills my chest.

  It shatters into pure dread.

  What kind of fool am I? I sit down in one of the chairs, my breathing quickening. How can I be so dumb
? My feelings of worthlessness are built upon my pride and refusal to trust God with who I am. I am a self-pitying, self-obsessed -.

  “Tarni?”

  I jump and look up.

  “Don’t do it,” Genevieve leans over, her green eyes staring right through me.

  “What?” I frown.

  “Don’t believe vulnerability is a sin.”

  I blink, caught off guard by her perceptive comment, “I don’t.”

  “Uh-huh,” she gestures for me to stand. “Come on. Let’s play some games. You are overthinking.”

  “I’m always overthinking,” I get back on my feet, dread still aching in my chest.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “You are . . . astute.”

  Genevieve grins, striding toward the rest of the group, “Thanks. I’m an empath.”

  I tread after her, fussing with my smudged glasses. I look around the room of kids.

  Kids who all have struggles like mine.

  It blows my mind. I have felt alone for years. Yes, I had friends. Amazing friends. But they couldn’t do anything about my struggles inside. They could just distract me or point out when those struggles manifested in my external life.

  But I’m not alone anymore.

  And I am in deep water.

  :•─.•─:•─.•─:•☾☼☽•:─•.─•:─•.─•:

  I tap my pen against my arm and bite my lip. My journal showcases bright, empty pages on my lap. I stretch my neck, huddling deeper against my bunk. Every afternoon, we take a break from the structured sessions for some downtime. My roommates are out playing or talking with people, but our free time lasts a couple of hours, so I use it to its fullest.

  I rub my lips, staring at my page and then up at Maya’s bunk. What am I supposed to do? I have learned so much from this short time at camp. But if it goes on much longer, I will pass the point of return. I will leave everyone. All of them. Brynn, Drew, Genevieve, Maya, Abi, Amias. I will leave them, and they will leave me.

  I cannot pretend this can last. Letting my lonely heart control me will lead to heartbreak. I massage the space between my eyebrows. I must take action against growing close to people!

  I twirl my pen, wracking my mind for ideas. If only Everly and Adam were here! Then I wouldn’t feel the need for other friends -.

  I sit up straight with a start. My head bonks against the upper bunk, but I hardly notice. I lean over my journal.