Summer and July

by Paul Mosier

  The Big Kahuna’s house is a light blue California bungalow with lots of windows. Music spills into the small yard, and the covered front porch is littered with sandals and shoes.

  “Bare feet,” Summer says. “House rule.”

  We kick our sandals off and park them to the right of the door. Summer guides me through the open doorway, to a big living room filled with people but not crowded. There’s a tall guy playing surf music on an electric guitar plugged into a tiny, fuzzy-sounding amp. There’s not a stick of furniture except a table with a few bowls of potato chips and tortilla chips, and guacamole and salsa. Summer pulls me to the guacamole and starts chowing down. Between bites she smiles and waves at various guests, who seem to be of every age, from schoolkids to gray-haired. There’s a lady who looks like she’s eighty dancing with a boy who could be her great-grandson. People in shorts and dresses and T-shirts and hoodies, long hair and short hair and bald, and wearing hats.

  “This guac was definitely made by the man himself.” Summer reaches for another tortilla chip. “It’s got diced cucumbers in it so it’s extra juicy.”

  I take a chip and scoop up some of the guacamole. It’s as unbelievable as Summer says. There’s nothing like it in Lakeshore.

  “Which one is the Big Kahuna?”

  Summer quickly scans the room. “I don’t see him. He’s probably asleep. But those are his sticks.” She points to several surfboards of various sizes standing against the wall.

  “Why would he sleep through his own party?”

  Summer shrugs. “I’m sure he had a good time. But he likes to wake up early for dawn patrol.”

  “And he lets people just hang out in his house? What if someone wanted to steal his stuff?”

  Summer laughs. “The only things he has of value are his boards. But nobody would take them. That would be totally uncool.”

  The guitar player begins an old song I recognize, called “Louie Louie.” A guy sitting on the floor joins in on a bongo drum. I watch as half the people in the room start dancing. Then I feel a tug on my arm as Summer drags me away from the guacamole table. She pulls me to the middle of the room and begins dancing. Or, rather, she’s been dancing the whole way, but when we arrive at the middle of the room she’s dancing with me.

  She shouts the words to the song, about someone named Louie who apparently needs to leave. Summer is grinning, arms high in the air, shaking her head from side to side, golden hair playing on her shoulders. Her hips move from left to right. She looks totally careless, carefree, like she was born into this, born for this. Meanwhile I can feel myself moving, but more like someone walking up stairs or crushing grapes.

  Summer doesn’t seem to notice how badly I’m dancing. She’s laughing and having the best time, like all you have to do is tell her it’s a party, give her some guacamole, play a song she likes, and she’ll dance like she can’t help herself. She looks like she’s stumbled upon the edge of happiness, the very limits, without even trying.

  She lowers the hand that was celebrating its possession of a guac-dipped tortilla chip, and brings it to her mouth, not missing a beat, moving her face closer to mine while she shakes like a dashboard figure on a bumpy road.

  I start laughing and realize I’ve forgotten how I’m dancing, and discover I’m not dancing so badly, like my body is dancing me, and I keep on laughing, and dancing. I’ve never danced like this in Michigan. Not at my old school, where I had friends, or my new school, where I have just one friend. Back home I only dance because I feel like I have to, but it’s never made me feel happy, or free.

  Summer puts her hands back above her head and turns until her hip is bumping against mine. I mimic her without thinking or trying. I feel my face shining, my skin glowing.

  Then my hip misses hers, and I look down and see she’s stopped moving, arms hanging at her sides. I follow her unhappy gaze across the room to the two skater boys who’ve just entered, the two jerks we saw on the Fourth of July. As they cross the room to where we stand, the taller one smirks and does an imitation of Summer, of how she was dancing, of how we were dancing. His sidekick laughs.

  Summer folds her arms. “Why don’t you skate off a cliff, Wade?”

  Wade throws back his head, laughing. “Why don’t you feed a landlord, Summer?” His sidekick snorts.

  “This party is for cool people,” Summer replies.

  “So why are you here?” Wade fires back.

  The song plays on, but Summer takes my hand and pulls me away from Wade and his friend, out of the living room, down a short wood-floored hall, and into a bathroom. She shuts the door behind us and drops onto the toilet, where she sits, inconsolable.

  “Why did they have to come? All the parties in Ocean Park and they had to come to this one.”

  Beside Summer is a shelf displaying scattered seashells. There’s a small watercolor painting of a surfboard above the toilet.

  “What did he mean by telling you to feed a landlord?”

  She scoffs. “Landlord is surferspeak for a great white shark. You don’t really see them here. And if he ever went in the water he’d know that.”

  I look at my fingernail but don’t bite it. “Back on the Fourth of July you said school was tricky. What did you mean?”

  Summer stares at the wood planks of the floor. “I kinda told everyone at school to kiss off. Including Wade. Then I stopped going there.”

  “You stopped going to school? Just like that?”

  She shakes her head. “First I got miserable. Then I told everyone to kiss off. Now I’m homeschooled.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But that’s the story. I mainly stay home and . . . take care of things. My mom doesn’t have near enough time to teach me, or enough money to pay someone. She manages just enough to keep the State of California out of our hair.” She reaches forward and spins the toilet-paper roll. “It’s only been a year. So far.”

  I’m wondering what could possibly make this girl so unhappy, and whether she’ll one day tell me to kiss off. But before I can ask, she stands and pushes her hair behind her ears.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  I follow Summer out of the bathroom. She stops and looks down at a pair of huarache sandals outside a closed door in the hall, then slides her feet inside them, closes her eyes briefly, and steps backs out. “The Big Kahuna’s sandals,” she whispers. “Step into them for good surf mojo.” She points to the sandals and I do the same, stepping my bare feet into them. They’re way too big, but they feel comfortably worn. I step back out. Summer nods and I follow her into the living room. She veers toward the wall where the Big Kahuna’s boards are standing and touches each one, trailing her fingertips across their surfaces. I follow behind, doing the same, each of the four a different sensation, a record of their births, their heroics, the baking sun and salty sea. Only after we pass the guacamole and head toward the front door do I realize that she wanted to leave not the bathroom but the party. I bend to pick up both pairs of sandals on the porch, ’cause Summer passes them by. I hurry to catch up to her as she crosses the street, then pauses on the sidewalk on the other side. Her house is to the left, my cottage is to the right. She turns to me.

  “I’ll walk you home,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  She’s quiet as we travel the few dozen slow steps to the hedge, the front door. Then she turns to me.

  “Sorry for ruining it.”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

  “We walked from stellar guac. We bailed on a great song. Both my fault.”

  “It was those guys’ fault,” I say.

  She looks at her feet, shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “It’s okay. I’m kinda tired anyway.” It’s not really true, but I say it.

  I’m still holding both pairs of sandals. I’m thinking of bringing this fact up when she steps toward me and puts her arms around me, over my shoulders, and moves close to hug me. As she draws back and
turns away from me I realize I never put my arms around her. I don’t know why I didn’t—maybe because of the two pairs of sandals held in my hands—and I don’t know why it fills me with a sense of panic that I didn’t.

  I can’t even say good-bye or call out that I still have her sandals as she walks past the hedge and onto the sidewalk. But as I stand there alone in the cool night air, listening to crickets and a song by Buddy Holly from the party across the street, I decide it’s okay. Because only the best kind of friends can say good night without saying good night, knowing for certain that they’ll be together again at the same spot on the same sidewalk the very next day.

  14

  THE NEXT DAY we’re floating out on the water, just past the impact zone. The sun is warm, the wind is light. It’s pretty chill out here on our boogie boards.

  Summer glances out to the open water. We’re not catching waves at the moment, but she’s watching anyway. “So, do you think you’ll ever hang out with Fern again?”

  “I don’t know.” That’s what I say, but what I feel is that I’ve been a terrible friend to Fern, that I betrayed her, that I don’t deserve her.

  “Do you think you can find a way to not let her control you?”

  I hesitate. “She’s not really so bad.”

  Summer furrows her brow. “Didn’t you say she kept you fearful? Didn’t you do all that stuff, the Mistress Snuffles—”

  “Scarfia!”

  “—because that was what Fern liked to do?”

  I frown. “How is that any different than me only doing crazy dangerous things because I’m hanging around you and it’s what you like to do?” I regret it as soon as I say it.

  “Is that how it feels for you?” Summer looks at me with an unfamiliar seriousness. “Am I forcing you to do things you don’t want to do?”

  I never can say what I need to say, but it’s easy to say things I regret. Like the lie I told Mom. The lie about Fern.

  “Because we could find a mall somewhere,” Summer says. “And maybe there’ll be a Salty’s Pretzel Shop there.”

  “Softee’s.” I smile in spite of myself. “No. I don’t want to go to the mall.”

  “You sure?”

  I sigh. “I have a list of goals in a drawer at our cottage. Goals of things to do while I’m here. None of them can be found at the mall. And pretty much all of them are things I couldn’t do without you.”

  Summer smiles. “I’m sure you’re wrong about that. I’m sure you could do whatever you set your mind to. But I’m so glad to be along for the ride.”

  I smile.

  “So, what’s on the list?”

  I gesture to the open sea. “This.”

  A wave rolls under us. We rise and fall.

  “It just so happens that it’s on my list, too.” Summer looks back out to sea. Her eyes get big. “Bluebird!”

  I look but there’s no bird, blue or otherwise. There is a wave, though, and Summer turns her boogie board to face the beach and starts paddling. I do the same.

  The wave is big, and as we frantically paddle and kick, it picks us up and pushes us in front of it. We’ve caught it perfectly, and within a few seconds it’s clear that it’s the best wave of the day, the best wave ever. Summer and I are almost close enough to hold hands, and I look at her and she looks at me, laughing, whooping, and we ride and ride, past the boogie boarders who are too close to shore to catch this beast, until we’re steering around the waders and are finally deposited on the sand as the wave retreats.

  “That was awesome!” Summer shouts, getting to her feet. I unstick myself from the sand, which has a way of feeling like a suction cup. Summer jumps to me and gives me a hug. “That was the longest ride ever. Did you love it?”

  “I loved it.”

  “Another one?”

  “Another one.”

  We take our boards in both hands and skip off into the sea, bouncing over the incoming waves. We relive in words the ride we just took, then we’re deeper and paddling out to the same spot. We turn to face the shore.

  Summer watches a wave pass beneath us, then paddles backward to go farther out. “That wave we just caught was what’s called a bluebird. It’s a wave that breaks farther out than the rest. That was why it was bigger, and longer, and more fun. We were lucky to get it.”

  “Do you think we can get another?” I ask.

  “Maybe. Bluebirds are rare. They’re something unexpected that comes along and gives you the best time ever. If it doesn’t crush you. We can wait out here for a while, and at the very least we can let the waves program us.”

  I give her a blank look.

  “That’s what I call the feeling you get from being out in the water all day,” she says. “The way you feel like you’re rocking back and forth all night long. Have you ever felt that before?”

  “Only this week.”

  She smiles. I smile back. Then I look to the open water for bluebirds and my heart stutters, my breath catches. I cannot speak, cannot form words, because my eyes are fixed on a group of dorsal fins. Desperately I reach for Summer, but she is too far, and my hand splashes in futility. I cannot breathe, my terror is so complete.

  “What?” Summer paddles toward me, reaches for me. The dorsal fins are as close as if they were on my street back home, appearing and reappearing, above and below the surface, moving parallel to the beach. Getting closer.

  But Summer follows my gaze, and her eyes light up. “Friends!” she shouts. “Dolphins!”

  In rapid succession three—no, four—smooth gray curves break the surface of the water. The dolphins’ backs shine as their dorsal fins point to the sky, then cut back into the sea. Now my heart is racing. It’s soaring. They’re so close we can hear the water as they rip through it.

  Then a fountain spouts from the surface as one of them leaps into the air. I swear it’s smiling at me, at us, as its full glossy length shimmers in the sun. It does a tight turn midair and drops back nose first into the water, tail curling to send an arc of spray at us. It splashes me right in my face.

  “Hotdogger!” Summer shouts. “Show-off!”

  I’m laughing and crying at the same time, ’cause I went from so scared to so happy, so quickly. We watch the dolphins’ fins disappear and appear again as they race away to the south.

  “Bluebird!” Summer shouts.

  This time I know not to look for a bird, but I do look over my shoulder as I point my board to the shore and begin paddling, paddling. It’s the same wave, maybe bigger, and when it reaches us it almost crushes us, tipping my face down into the sea. But after getting a nose full of salt water I’m still riding it, and so is Summer, beside me. We’ve been worked, we cannot whoop and holler, but we ride, holding on for dear life, bouncing all the way, until finally it dumps us on the shore.

  I pull myself up and look at Summer. She’s bent over, hands on her knees, spitting a big gooey mouthful of clear saliva on the sand. She stands up straight and slogs up onto the dry beach, dragging her boogie board behind her. Then she turns and falls into a sitting position. I sit.

  I’ve never seen her get crushed like that before. It scares me. But she turns to me and smiles.

  “I would have felt pretty bad if those were sharks and they ate you, after everything we’ve talked about.”

  I laugh. “I bet you could have punched them all in their noses. Like the Big Kahuna.”

  “I might have needed a little help.” She shakes her head, like she can’t believe all of this, the way I can’t believe all of this. “Just so you know, I’ve never been that close to dolphins before.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “I’ve seen them jump plenty, but I’ve never been splashed by one.”

  “Me neither.” I smile. “Obviously.”

  She puts her arm around me. “I’m never gonna forget that.”

  What she said plays in my head. I imagine myself as an old lady, sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, thinking of this, or telling it to some random young perso
n, maybe a grandkid.

  “Me neither.”

  Then I think of how I’ll be an old lady remembering the day I got splashed by dolphins with Summer, and I find myself wondering whether she will be someone I still know, or just a memory like a shoebox full of seashells.

  Mom isn’t home for dinner. She was supposed to be home at eight, and we were gonna take a cab to a Mexican place in downtown Santa Monica. I was looking forward to telling her all about the amazing day I had today, which was almost beyond belief.

  At least Summer isn’t around to see me looking mopey and pathetic, eating a bowl of Raisin Bran for dinner.

  I sit in the front room late into the evening, watching cartoons with the lights off. The cool night air comes through the window by the door, along with the sounds of happy people walking by on the sidewalk, strolling to and from their dinners with family and friends, going to parties. Cars drive by on Fourth Street, coming and going to restaurants and movies and the pier and everyplace else fun.

  Finally the headlights of a cab make shadows on the walls of the front room as it pauses in the driveway beside the cottage. I hear Mom thank the driver, and then the shadows play in reverse as the cab backs away. Then she’s putting the key in the door, turning the knob, and standing in the doorway. I feel her eyes on me.

  “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

  “I didn’t expect to be stood up.”

  She watches me watching cartoons for a second, then moves to put whatever she’s carrying on the big dining table. “I’m sorry, Juillet. The ER was so swamped I couldn’t get away. You know how it is.”

  “Yep. I sure do.”

  I smell her Indian takeout. I hear her opening the bag, taking out the containers.

  “I brought aloo gobi. And vegetable korma.”

  It smells so good I might cry. But there’s no way I’m gonna cry. “I already ate. Hours ago.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Raisin Bran.”

  That sounds suitably sad in a room filled with this glorious smell. So after she gives me a chance to ask her to share, she adds, “There’s enough for you if you’d like.”