Summer and July

by Paul Mosier

  “You’re safe.” She smiles. “When we wave at you with our rescue buoys, pointing up or down the beach, that most likely means there’s a rip current. They can come out of nowhere. You can’t fight ’em. You just gotta get out of ’em.”

  “Okay.”

  “And trust Summer. If she waves at you to move down the beach, then do as she advises. She’s a smart surfer. A smart swimmer.”

  “Okay.”

  “Betty!” Summer appears. “Are you okay?” She looks more scared than I was.

  “I’m okay,” I say. But I start crying.

  “I’m so sorry,” Summer says. “I should have stayed closer to you.”

  “You two are pretty shook up,” the lifeguard says. “Why don’t you come in and take a break? Betty can borrow my buoy until we get to shore.”

  “Thanks, Heather.” Summer still sounds choked up. “You’re the best.”

  “You’re the best,” the lifeguard says. “I’m just doing my job.”

  We kick to the beach, but now it’s easy. Especially for me with the buoy. The sun is warm on my back, the beach and the town bask before us.

  But as we pass the waders standing near the shore, they stare at me. I’m the girl who needed to be rescued. So I keep my eyes to myself.

  Feet on the sand, I hand the buoy to lifeguard Heather, and thank her. Summer gives her a hug, so I give her a hug too.

  Summer and I have to walk down the beach a hundred yards to find our towels spread in the sand. I drop onto mine. Summer sits beside me.

  “You’re a strong swimmer,” Summer says.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. You fought that rip current for ages.”

  I look down at the sand. “That makes me strong but stupid.”

  “No. That’s totally my bad. This is new to you. I should have stayed by your side. I should have told you about rip currents.” She scoops sand over her feet to bury them. She shakes her head.

  I scoop sand to bury my own feet like Summer did hers, though I’m not sure why. Then I look out to the sea, which just tried unsuccessfully to claim me. A shiver hits me—either from the cold water, fresh from the Gulf of Alaska—or because there’s something exhilarating about being afraid of something that’s really real.

  A little later we’re at a taco shop on Main Street, dry suited and salty haired, sitting on the patio in the afternoon breeze. A woman walking by stops beside our table.

  “Mom!” Summer says. “Wassup?”

  The woman smiles and looks from Summer to me, then back to Summer. “Hello, Summer. Who’s your friend?”

  I stand and extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Juillet.”

  She smiles, shakes my hand. It’s like looking at Summer in thirty years. But maybe a sadder Summer who doesn’t have time to ride waves anymore.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Juillet.”

  “Her name is Betty!” Summer interjects.

  “My name is Anna,” she says. “Do you live here in town?”

  “She’s visiting from Michigan!” Summer says. “Fireflies, snowmen. Did you say snowmen?”

  Summer is acting silly, but the sadness underlying her mom’s expression grows deeper. “Oh. Well, then I guess we only get to enjoy you for a short while.”

  “Until the end of July,” I say. “Summer’s been showing me around.”

  “Betty’s gonna learn to surf!” Summer says.

  “Good.” She looks at her watch. “Summer, did you say you were out of conditioner? I have to pick up some things for Hank at the pharmacy.”

  Summer frowns. “Of course you do.”

  Her mom watches her. “Well? Are you out of conditioner?”

  Summer looks away. “No. Yes. Whatever.”

  Her mom forces a smile at me. “It was nice meeting you, Juillet. Good luck catching a wave.”

  I force a smile back. “It was nice meeting you, too. And thank you.”

  “Bye, Mom. Sorry for being . . . you know.”

  “It’s fine. I have to be on set tonight, so I won’t see you.” She bends down to kiss Summer, waves to me, then walks away with the same gait as her daughter.

  I stare at my guacamole, then pick up a chip. “Is everything okay?”

  Summer raises her veggie taco. “Everything is perfect.” She takes a big bite. “Maybe we could write postcards later?” Summer says it through a mouthful of taco. Shredded cabbage falls from her mouth.

  “To who?”

  She takes a drink of horchata and gives me a crazy look over the glass. “Friends? Family?” She says it like it’s obvious. Then she holds me in her gaze. I grow more and more uncomfortable.

  “I’ve kinda only been hanging around one girl.”

  Summer stirs her horchata with her straw. “Oh?”

  “Fern.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “And then my mom made me stop seeing her.”

  “Why?”

  My eyes get small. “My mom used to love Fern, because she never had to worry when I was with her. But then suddenly she decided Fern was bad for me. That she was controlling me, and keeping me from growing.”

  Summer nods. She opens her mouth and moves the taco toward it. But then she pauses, and holds the taco steady. “Am I controlling you? Making you do things you don’t want to do?”

  My eyes are their right size again as I watch her watching me, waiting for my answer. I scoop some guacamole onto a chip and stuff it into my mouth to give myself time to think of my response.

  It’s like Fern enjoys feeling scared and spooked. She loves spooky books and scary movies, and anything creepy. But I think maybe I only pretended to be scared because I was hanging around her. That’s how it feels right now, but it also feels like a big mess I can’t understand or find my way out of.

  Summer isn’t so complicated. I think of the list of goals in the drawer. Mom’s goals for me, and my goals. But even though Mom wrote three of the five, now six, all of them are mine now.

  Finally I answer. Definitively. “No. You’re definitely not controlling me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  She grins. “Good.”

  And neither was Fern, I think to myself. I don’t want to say it, though. Not now, anyway. So I take a bite of my veggie taco so I can’t.

  8

  SUMMER AND I are in line at Pinkie Promise in the afternoon. Our turn comes, and we are greeted by Otis.

  “Dudes! How’s the surf?”

  Summer holds up her empty hands. “No boards, no waves.”

  Otis tilts his head back in recognition. “It was pretty tame this morning. But it wouldn’t be a bad day for teaching Betty.”

  I’ve gotten used to being called Betty, so I don’t correct him the way I used to. I kinda like it now, like somehow I’m a different person. A new person.

  “We’ll get her there,” Summer says. “We’re working our way to it. She threw about a thousand savage punches at a rip current yesterday.”

  “Well, definitely let me know when you catch your first wave,” he says to me. “And it shall rain free ice cream.”

  Summer laughs. I laugh, but too late. I was slow reacting because I was busy worrying, picturing myself trying to stand on a surfboard.

  Moments later we’re scarfing down our cups of ice cream, sitting on the sticky bench in our bathing suits outside Pinkie Promise. I’m trying the pancake flavor, which tastes like maple syrup. Summer has mint chip with her usual mountain of whipped cream. This side of Main Street is in the afternoon shade, which means we don’t have to eat it in a hurry before the sun melts it.

  “You’ve conquered the ankle busters,” Summer says between bites. “You’ve swum against a gnarly rip current. Bigger and better things tomorrow?”

  I nod, though I’m not really sure. Describing it as bigger than swimming against the rip current, which was a terrifying mistake, doesn’t make me thrilled to see what she has planned for me next.

  “Why is this ca
lled a bite of ice cream?” Summer looks at her spoon questioningly. “You don’t really bite it, and it’s not really a lick since it isn’t on a cone.”

  “Good question.”

  “Calling it a spoonful doesn’t describe what your mouth does to it.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. But I like listening to her talk.

  “Maybe a glop?” she asks.

  “Glop?”

  “Yeah, we could call it a glop. Like, ‘gimme a glop of that.’”

  “I’m in,” I say.

  Then my phone buzzes. I pick it up and look at the screen.

  “Ugh. I forgot. I’m supposed to FaceTime with my dad and his girlfriend. He’s in Switzerland so I kinda need to get this.”

  “It’s like I’m meeting your family!”

  I scoff. “If you wanna call him that.”

  I lick my lips clean and push my hair out of my face. Then I tap the screen to connect. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Bonjour, Juillet!” He’s smiling, looking ridiculous in a white dinner jacket. “We’re just finishing up at a bistro here in Zurich. Say hello to Genevieve while I pay the check!” He hands the phone to his girlfriend. She appears on-screen, arranging herself so I can also see her fabulous dress and glass of champagne. She’s wearing sunglasses, as always, though it’s nighttime there.

  “Hello, Genevieve.”

  “Hallo, Juillet.” She’s got this mysterious, fake European accent. She’s actually originally from Mobile, Alabama. “You look like you’ve been kissed by flames.”

  I glance to Summer, who’s got this smile of amused disbelief. But I won’t smile.

  “I’ve been in the sun. Learning to surf.”

  Genevieve scoffs. “Surf? You? Aren’t you afraid of jellyfish?”

  Summer grabs the phone and turns it toward herself. “There’s no jellyfish in Dogtown. Just sharks.”

  I push Summer away and turn the screen back to my face.

  Genevieve frowns. “Who was that? Do they not have hairbrushes in this dog town?”

  I frown back at her. “That’s Summer. She’s my friend.”

  “Well, since you’ve become so brave as to surf, you must come with your father and me when we go skiing in the Alps this winter! And I know a wonderful hair salon to fix you and your friend.”

  “I’ll probably ski this winter, but I’m gonna do it somewhere else.” Total lie.

  “In California!” Summer says, bumping her face back into the frame.

  Dad reappears and takes the phone from Genevieve. I’m so mad at him, so I hand mine to Summer. She moves her shades from her hair to her eyes.

  “Hello?” He squints, looking slightly confused. “Juillet?”

  “Yeah! Hey, Dad!” Summer grins at him.

  He furrows his brow. “Look, our taxi is here and we’re about to see a show. I’ll give you a shout as soon as I can. Say hello to your mother for me, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Pops! Give my kisses to Genevieve. And send me some Swiss chocolate!” Summer practically shouts it, then taps the screen to disconnect.

  She moves the shades back to her hair and turns to me with a goofy smile, then covers her mouth like maybe she did something wrong. I cover my mouth too, and we both start laughing. We laugh so hard tears come, which is convenient, ’cause I’m pretty sure I was gonna cry anyway.

  Finally we calm down. My tears dry in the breeze. Zurich melts away, the man who ruined my life melts away, and we’re back to the bench in front of Pinkie Promise in Ocean Park, eating our ice cream before it melts away.

  I’m thinking that the pancake ice cream was a good choice, that I’ll have to experiment with new flavors more often. “I’ve never actually been skiing,” I say. “And I know I told Genevieve I was learning to surf, but I haven’t made my mind up about it yet. Okay?”

  Summer nods, dips back into her mint chip.

  I look into my almost-empty cup, and dig a spoonful. I think of Genevieve and her stupid face. “Maybe I’ll try boogie boarding tomorrow.”

  Summer doesn’t say anything, but out of the corner of my eye I can see a little smile. Then she scoots across the sticky bench until her bare leg is against mine.

  At night I lie in bed, doing research on boogie boarding on my phone. Clearly, the advantage of being on a boogie board is that if a tsunami were to come, at least I’d be on something that floats. Unfortunately, I learn that the biggest drawback, according to a web search of how to die while boogie boarding, is that when you lie on a boogie board with your arms and legs sticking out, you apparently look very much like a sea turtle or a sea lion, at least to any dim-witted sharks that might be lurking beneath. The important fact here being that sea turtles and sea lions are two of sharks’ favorite foods.

  I’m trying to talk myself into the possibility that Summer will forget about boogie boarding entirely, but I can’t even get myself to believe that, since she’s pretty much always in a swimsuit. She’s always looking for an excuse to get in the water. So I think about possible fake injuries or medical conditions that would prevent me from being able to go in the water. Unfortunately, all I can come up with are jimmy leg and scrivener’s palsy.

  I threw away the list of goals twice, but I also pulled it out of the garbage twice. And now it haunts me, telling me I really want to do the things written on it.

  And I believe it because it’s true. I really do want to do the things on the list.

  I can do that. I can ride a stinking boogie board.

  Or I can die trying.

  9

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I’m ignoring alien orders when Summer comes up the sidewalk, a boogie board under each arm. One for her, one for me. She also has a big smile.

  “Ta-da!” she says dramatically, handing me my board. “Let’s catch some waves on these sponges!”

  I smile weakly and examine the board. It stands as high as my ribs, and it’s made of a firm, foamy material. There’s a black leash with a Velcro cuff to attach to my wrist.

  I carry the beach bag over my left shoulder, the boogie board under my right arm, as we take Ocean Park Boulevard down the hill. The ocean is ahead in the distance, stretching all the way to China, to Alaska, to Australia. When I think of the map, the globe, it’s also wrapping around the continents and coming back from behind at Florida and New York. It’s got me completely surrounded, but I’m marching off to meet it. It’ll never suspect that I’m coming right at it, head-on.

  Crossing Main Street, I feel like all the people we see can tell it’s the first time I’ve carried a boogie board under my arm. Like I’m an obvious impostor.

  But then I think that when I come away from the shore later today, that will no longer be true. The thought becomes a feeling that fills me, carries me.

  “Boogie boarding is a great way to learn about waves,” Summer says. Our feet hit the sand. “Just like with surfing, you have to catch them in the right spot. But it’s easier.”

  I nod. She’s not looking at me, but I nod anyway.

  “You have to figure out for yourself how far forward your head will be. Some people like to have it back over the board, some people have it a little bit in front. You can watch and learn from me about catching the waves just right. I don’t always get them, and sometimes they get me pretty good. But this is gonna be a blast.”

  We keep walking until our feet are wet. The ocean roars its objections.

  She turns to me, smiling. “Are you ready?”

  Maybe, just with this particular teacher. “Yes.”

  As the cold water rises above my knees, I think about the pool where I swim at the country club back home. This is just like it, except here it’s saltier and choppier.

  And sharks.

  Slimy fingers pull at my shins, but it’s just seaweed. We press on, and the water rises above my belly button.

  “Bounce over the incoming waves!” she shouts over the roar.

  “Okay!”

  When the waves hit, we jump up and hold our boards aga
inst ourselves.

  “When you learn to surf, I’ll teach you how to duck dive under the rakers.”

  “Right.” That sounds terrifying, but I’m not gonna argue about it just now. After all, it’s just water, just like the sink. Just like the bathtub. Except the ocean is somewhat larger. And deeper.

  And sharks.

  “Now we can kick our way out!” Summer falls onto her board and starts paddling and kicking toward the horizon. I do as she does.

  A big wave mashes us, passes beneath us. But we only give up a little ground, or water, and continue pressing away from shore.

  Then finally we get to a place where there are no more big waves. Or, rather, the big waves aren’t big yet. We’re belly-down on our boards.

  Summer looks out toward the open sea, then turns to face the shore. “We’re just past the break zone. We watch for a good wave, then paddle in. You want to be going as fast as you can when the wave comes up on you, but you also need to be in the right spot. If you’re too far out it rolls beneath you, and if you’re too far in it crushes you.”

  “Okay,” I say. But I must not look very encouraged.

  “Just think of it like the ocean is a giant car and you’re a little bug trying to catch a ride on the windshield. Without being splatted.”

  I grimace. “I don’t think that usually ends very well for the bugs.”

  “Don’t worry,” Summer says. “Just watch me and do what I do.” She splashes me. “This is gonna be great.”

  She looks over her shoulder. A small ridge of water swells behind us.

  “Not this one.”

  The wave passes beneath us like an immeasurably large beast, lifting us and then setting us down again.

  Summer smiles. “If we were surfing, we couldn’t be so close to each other. With surfing you need space to shred. But boogie boarding, you pretty much just launch yourself at the beach.”

  Another nod from me.

  She studies the next wave, watches it being born. “Not this one.”

  It swells, rolls underneath us, tumbling our boards, tipping us forward. My face gets dunked in the water.

  So does Summer’s. She spits her hair out of her face. “That might have been a good one. My bad.”