Summer and July

by Paul Mosier

  Fern and I spend a lot of time talking about the end of the world, and what it will be like. At the mall we talk about what would happen to the stores and everything in them, depending on whether the end comes from asteroids or zombies or plague, and which stores we’d loot, since everyone would be freaking out and not paying for anything.

  Mom thinks it isn’t normal to spend so much time thinking about the end of the world, and she thinks Fern brings it out in me. She thinks I’ve become obsessed with the apocalypse because I don’t want to think about the fact that my dad left us and ruined our lives, but his leaving proves that things do fall apart. It’s just a matter of what’s gonna fall apart next. Or maybe everything is gonna fall apart at once. And even though nothing particularly bad has happened to Fern, she still understands that it’s only a matter of time.

  All of that seems a world away as I sit on the cool green and examine tiny white flowers that grow scattered above the grass. Then I notice a homeless man lying on the ground. He props himself up on his elbows, not even a hundred feet from me. He’s shoeless, and even from this distance I can see that the soles of his feet are black with street tar.

  He catches me staring at him and grins. More like a half grin, because he’s missing half his teeth. I quickly look away. Then I feel bad about looking away, like he’s got bubonic plague and I can catch it from staring at him or whatever. Or that what he is can rub off on me. I look back so I can smile at him, like Isn’t this a lovely day sir, but he’s lain back down. A couple of moms and a dad are having a playgroup with toddlers nearby, but they don’t seem bothered by the homeless man at all. They don’t seem to notice him a bit.

  I watch as the dad in the playgroup lifts his toddler daughter to the sky. She laughs down at him. Then he turns her around and puts her on his shoulders. I feel a twinge of pain in my heart, thinking of my dad and everything he used to do with me. Rides on his shoulders. Lifting me into trees to inspect the newly budding leaves. Teaching me to ice-skate, reading stories to me at bedtime. Sitting in the front row at my piano recitals, beaming. Holding my hand whenever I was afraid. Holding my hand so I was never afraid.

  Dad is the reason I play the piano. It was his ambition as a kid, but then he chose medical school over music, because his parents wanted him to be practical. He still plays, and he plays really well, but he’s laid his ambition at my feet. Now that he’s gone, every time I see a piano, or hear the notes coming from it, my heart hurts.

  I look away from the playgroup. The breeze moves through my hair. My phone buzzes, and I take it from my back pocket to check it.

  It’s a text from Fern.

  Why does your mom hate me? I miss you. The mall isn’t the same without you.

  She used to text me constantly. But the longer it’s been since Mom forbade me communicating with Fern, the less often she does. It’s like I’m seeing her give up on me in slow motion. Her texts and her lonely words make me feel guilty, because the reason we can’t see each other is totally my fault. So I lie on the grass and try to think of something else.

  Instead I think of the times we spent together.

  Once we were at the mall, sitting in the food court, eating soft pretzels and watching boys.

  “You know, the music they play here has messages in it to make you buy more stuff.” She tore a bit off a soft pretzel and dipped it in the spicy mustard.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The words are backward but your brain can figure it out without you even knowing.”

  I tried to imagine what buy more stuff would sound like backward. Futs rom yub?

  “It’s all science.” She took a sip of lemonade. “Come on! It’s too noisy in the food court. But if we sit directly under a speaker in a quiet part of the mall I bet we’ll be able to hear it.”

  She pulled me away from the table. I grabbed my lemonade and followed her. We passed the Athlete’s Foot, the shoe store where the cute guy at the register wears the referee uniform, and the music store where the grim man in the suit plays the organ at the store entrance. I wondered if maybe the grim man playing the organ was in on the hidden-message thing, too.

  Finally Fern stopped at a couch surrounded by fake plants with a speaker overhead.

  “Now we sit with our eyes closed and listen.”

  At the park in Santa Monica, I close my eyes and listen, remembering the day at the mall with Fern. At the mall there were no birds singing. There wasn’t the sound of the breeze moving through the trees. Just fake light and fake air, and music she said would make us want to buy things.

  After fifteen minutes, Fern said she had an urge to buy a family-size set of luggage, but I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel anything at all. So Fern insisted we stay and listen another fifteen minutes. By then I was late for piano practice, and Mom was not happy.

  Being late for piano practice wasn’t why I was banned from seeing or speaking to Fern. Mom put an end to my friendship with Fern because of a lie I told. Mom doesn’t even know it was a lie, and if I had told the truth—or if I told the truth now—I could still be friends with Fern. But I don’t want to tell the truth, or even think about it, even from this distance, in a beautiful park high above the apocalypse.

  I stand and take my empty soda can to a recycling bin, then make my way back to the cottage. It’s still empty, still nobody home, and it occurs to me how much I’m missing Summer.

  I go back to the screen door to make sure there isn’t a note or postcard that I’ve missed. There isn’t.

  I walk into my bedroom and open the desk drawer. The list is staring back up at me, beside a little pencil. I take them both and flatten the list on the desktop. I stare out the open window. A hummingbird stops in front of me, hanging in midair. He nods, then moves on.

  Putting the pencil tip to the list, I make an addition.

  FIX FERN THING

  I watch a marathon of cartoons, eight episodes of the same show. Every time I hear a skateboard pass, I run to the window. They don’t really sound like her skateboard, but I do it anyway. It’s never Summer. I would text her just to say what’s up, but she told me she doesn’t have a service plan anymore. Summer didn’t say why she doesn’t have a service plan. But she just has an ancient phone with a cracked screen, and all she does is take pictures with it. I’ve got a service plan but nobody to text.

  Mom said she’d pick me up at six thirty and take me to dinner at a Vietnamese place on Main Street. I save my appetite for it, holding off on snacks after lunch. Now it’s 6:47 and I’m starving.

  At 7:02 I finally hear the screen door open, and I reach for my shoes. But then there’s a knock on the door.

  I don’t like answering doors, especially in a city like Los Angeles. Technically Santa Monica, but surrounded by the much more menacing LA. And now with the sun lower, the shadows lengthening. So I sit completely still on the couch. I even hold my breath.

  “Betty!”

  I almost fall off the couch in surprise, then look up to see Summer’s smiling face at the little window by the door that lets in the breeze. Her face is practically in the living room.

  “Don’t do that!” I say, getting to my feet.

  “Did you order a pizza? ’Cause I have one!”

  I unlock the door and open it. She comes through with a giant pizza box. It’s so big she practically has to turn it on its side to get in the door. She’s wearing a long-sleeve hoodie and jeans.

  “I’m going out to dinner with my mom,” I say. Then my stomach growls. “But maybe I could have just one slice.”

  “This place is so cute!” Summer puts the pizza on the table and opens the top of the box. “Spinach and garlic! Six slices for me and six for my new bestie.” She pulls up a chair.

  I’m sure she doesn’t mean it about me being her new best friend. But the pizza smells incredible. I’m drooling like a dog. I fetch plates and napkins from the cupboard. I also pour two glasses of water, then join her at the table.

  “Where did this come fro
m?” I take my first bite. It’s heavenly.

  Summer closes the lid and looks at the top of the box. It’s got a picture of an Italian-looking guy with a mustache and a chef’s hat, smiling and giving a thumbs-up. And the name of the pizzeria. “Gino’s. I love Gino’s!”

  “You couldn’t remember where you got it?”

  “It was a gift from a delivery guy,” she says through a mouthful of pizza. “Gratis, as they say in old Italy. Or is that Spanish? Anyway, he had one of those delivery bicycles with a big basket on the front. But he said he’d just decided to quit and did I want a pizza?”

  I set my slice down. “So you just accepted a pizza from a stranger without question?”

  She swallows the last of her bite, then licks tomato sauce from her lips. “Of course not! I asked if it was vegetarian first. And anyway, delivery people are pretty much always strangers. Right? Unless you have friends who deliver pizza. Which would be very cool.”

  “What if it’s poisoned?”

  “It’s probably not. If it is, then at least it’s also delicious.” She takes another bite.

  “But at least you know Gino’s Pizza. I mean, you’ve eaten there before.” I study her expression. “Right?”

  “Actually, I’ve never heard of them.”

  “You said you loved them!”

  “I do! Or at least I do now!” She takes another bite and talks through it. “And it’s so good, huh? But what if the owners were mean to the delivery guy? Maybe that’s why he was quitting.”

  My head spins with worries.

  Summer shakes her head. “Nah, he said he was quitting because he wanted to watch the fireworks on the beach. Which brings me to why I’m here.”

  “Fireworks?”

  She lays another slice in front of me. “Yeah. Eat up!”

  “Fireworks begin with the word fire. They also include explosions. And showers of sparks, which are technically small fires.”

  “Sounds like you’ve figured out the science behind why they’re so beautiful.” She bares her teeth in a grin and tears off a huge bite, then again speaks with her mouth full. “Hurry! I gotta get made up for the celebration.” She holds up a little makeup bag and shakes it.

  I look at the pizza before me. “My mom will be here any minute.”

  “We won’t be all night. And this only happens once every year!”

  It’s killing me watching her eat, I’m so famished. Maybe I’d rather die from eating possibly poisoned pizza given by an outlaw former pizza-delivery guy than from hunger. I pick up my slice.

  Summer takes a gulp of water. “What did you say your mom does?”

  I look at the clock on the wall. “She’s an emergency-room doctor. She’s teaching at a hospital in Los Angeles for a month. It’s part of the same system as the hospital back home.”

  Summer spreads her hands palms down on the table and leans toward me. “Can we just leave her a couple slices and go see the fireworks?”

  I look away, toward the door. “She’ll be here any minute.”

  I keep saying that, and I keep eating the pizza. So does Summer, and finally it’s 7:29 and there are only two more slices for Mom.

  “She probably got held up at the hospital,” I say. “You can’t just walk away when someone’s bleeding to death. And she can’t really take out her phone to text me when she’s putting someone back together.” I hear a car, but it drives by. My heart rises and sinks, that quickly. “I shouldn’t bail on her. We made plans.”

  “I’d love it if you’d watch the fireworks with me. We’ll be at a very safe distance. They’re way down at the Marina and we’ll be on the beach. But we’ll keep our feet dry. I’m not even wearing a bathing suit.”

  The stupid list in the drawer calls out to me. Go outside your comfort zone.

  Finally I give up on Mom arriving, or I agree with Summer, so I text Mom that I’m leaving, and Summer and I walk down to the beach to watch explosions and showers of fire. Summer has poster-paint red lipstick, bright blue eye shadow, and tiny white sticker stars in her hair and on her face. Ordinarily I would say that kind of thing is ridiculous, but she looks adorable. I’ve got my usual Goth face on, and I’m kinda jealous of hers. Almost.

  We wait to cross Main Street at the light. Two guys our age roll up on skateboards. They look us up and down as they wait beside us.

  “Hey, Summer,” the smirkier-looking of the two says in an unfriendly tone. “What’s up?”

  “Nada.” Obviously they know each other, but Summer is acting like she doesn’t want to talk to them.

  “You’re looking all God-bless-America,” the talker says. “And where’d you find your friend? The graveyard?” The other boy laughs a mean, filthy laugh.

  The light is still red. Beneath the makeup my face burns, as I feel their eyes on me, up and down.

  “What are you lookin’ at?” Summer finally says, standing straight and taking a step toward them. “My friend is a better surfer than you’ll ever be, you goofy-footed posers.”

  The light turns green, and the skaters roll across the street, shaking their heads.

  “Stupid hodads.” Summer shakes her head. I make a mental note to google hodad as we start across the street.

  “Who are they?”

  “My nemesis, Wade, and his stupid sidekick who laughs at everything he says.”

  “Do they go to your school?”

  She changes her canvas beach bag from one shoulder to the other. We reach the other side of Main Street and continue down the sidewalk on Ocean Park Boulevard. “School’s been tricky.”

  I glance at Summer as we duck under a low branch hanging over the sidewalk. She looks like she doesn’t want to expand on her answer.

  “I said that thing about you being a better surfer than them just to get under their skins,” she says. “But it’s okay if you don’t ever learn to surf. You’re still way cooler than they are.” Then she stops and turns to me. “Also, if you do surf and you end up being goofy-footed, that’s perfectly fine.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  I have no idea what it means, but I hope like heck I’m not goofy-footed.

  We pass the last couple of blocks and enter the park. Coming down the sidewalk, a noisy procession of people dances as they make their way to the south. Most of them are laughing and singing. We watch as we wait for them to pass. Many are wearing white robes, and some play instruments like a trumpet or tambourine. Some of the guys have shaved heads.

  They terrify me.

  “I love watching Hare Krishnas,” Summer says.

  “Why?”

  “They look so happy. They sound so happy. Blowing horns and beating drums, and dancing. They’re probably going down to Venice to have a party.” She turns to me. “Venice is kooky. It’s the best.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sucked into it? Like, you’ll become one of them and the next time I see you you’ll be passing out pamphlets on a curb somewhere?”

  Summer laughs, and puts her hand over her mouth. “When you go to the zoo are you afraid you’ll become a monkey?” Then she tries to look serious. “I’m sorry—is that one of your fears?”

  “No.” I try to make my eyebrows frown to counter the smile that appears on my face. “It’s not the same. Monkeys don’t try to recruit you.”

  “It’s practically the same. Come on!”

  The Hare Krishnas have passed, and we cross over the sidewalk, through to the sand of the beach. We get close to the water so we have a clear view to the south. We spread the blanket Summer brought onto the sand.

  “There used to be bonfires on the beach,” she says. “But they banned them because of the smoke.” She lies back on the blanket and sighs. “Dude, that pizza ruined me. Wake me up when the fireworks start.”

  I briefly consider the possibility that she has in fact been poisoned by the pizza, that we’ve both been poisoned by it. Then I decide she’s just sleepy from so much food. She doesn’t actually go to sleep, but just lies there with her
eyes closed. Meanwhile I watch people on the beach—playing in the water, settling down in the sand to watch fireworks.

  The sun plunges into the Pacific. The lights twinkle brighter on the shoreline, all the way up to Malibu, where the mountains spill into the sea.

  Finally I lie beside her.

  “I’m so glad we met,” she says.

  Then a red light ascends high into the sky to the south, and explodes in a shower of sparks that look like a spider with too many legs.

  “Me too.”

  The boom reaches us, and Summer props herself up on her elbows. I follow suit. Seconds later the fully darkened sky fills with blossoms of sparks.

  “Oooooh,” Summer says, smiling. I watch her profile. I watch the show of fireworks, safely reflected in her eyes.

  5

  I WAKE TO birdsong drifting through the open window. It’s early enough that the marine layer is still filtering the sunlight, softening it. Summer says the marine layer is the name for the low clouds that hang around the coast from the morning until they burn off before noon. She says in May and June the clouds sometimes hang around all day, but in July they pretty much always burn off eventually.

  I’ve got a knot in my stomach because I told Summer I’d wade into the water with her today. Like, not just my feet and shins. I’m so nervous I can’t even finish my bowl of cereal.

  After ignoring alien orders, after we walk down the hill to the beach, I’m standing beside Summer in my mermaid swimsuit at the water’s edge.

  “I think it’s best just to walk in like you own it,” she says. “Don’t let it even guess you might be afraid of it.”

  I bite a fingernail. “How far in could a shark possibly come?”

  She shrugs. “Not any farther than the snack shack.”

  I turn and look at it, standing in the distance by the sidewalk.

  “I’m kidding!” She pokes me. “We’ll be fine. But do you want to hold my hand?”