The Ferris wheel glows purple ahead of us. The lights spin around, changing colors like a kaleidoscope. Some cheesy boy band sings about having the music up and the windows down. The bass vibrates in my throat.
“If I die with these letters in my purse, I hope you know we’ll be the new topic of conversation in this town,” I tell him. I pat my purse for good measure. “I don’t exactly want them found with my corpse.”
“We’re not going to die,” he assures me. “I’ve ridden this thing plenty of times. It’s not even that scary. But it’s part of the experience, so we have to.”
He hands over the last of his tickets, and we step onto the seat-like bucket. I leave my purse over my shoulder. I may not want to be found with these letters, but I sure as hell don’t want them falling to their own death and being stolen.
Rooks lowers the bar onto us, and it clicks into the place. The ride’s worker double checks it and says we’re good. I hand the flamingo to Rooks.
“You don’t want it?” he asks. His eyes appear confused, maybe even sad.
“Yes, I want it, but you’re guarding it on here,” I say. “I can’t be responsible for my own life, the flamingo, and the letters. I’m sixteen. I never asked for this type of responsibility.”
He laughs and scoots closer to me. He wedges the flamingo between himself and the side of the seat. Then he wraps his arm around my shoulder.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I swear,” he says, hugging me with his arm.
“Because my mom would murder you?” I retort.
He scrunches his face like he’s debating it. “Well, a little bit of that, yeah,” he says. “But it’d kind of break my heart too, and we can’t have that.”
The seat jolts up so the next people in line can get on the ride. We sway in the air, and my heart may have fallen and splattered on the concrete. I’m not sure if it’s the boy or the height, but my heart is definitely out of my chest.
“I’m telling you,” Rooks says. “This charm is going to work its magic one of these days.”
Oh, honey, it already has. It worked its magic the day I saw you from the balcony of my new bedroom. That charm is definitely effective.
“You think so?” I ask instead. I don’t know why I even bother with wit or sarcasm. Mom told me to guard my heart, and I’ve already let it flop away.
“Think about it,” Rooks says, talking with his one hand that’s free. “We’re already involved in this top secret hidden letters scandal together. You know about my lobster theft, and I’m already aware of the deer heads that most girls would hide for as long as possible. Those are serious milestones.”
“So you’re a criminal, I’m part redneck, and we’re harboring buried treasure,” I say, turning toward him.
“Exactly. This is about as real as it gets,” he says. “And somehow I managed to get you on a Ferris wheel with me, all the way up here where you can’t escape. You know, if I wanted to, I could kiss you right now and you can’t even run.”
I don’t think I can even breathe right now. Someone on the fairgrounds has clearly stepped on my splattered heart and ruined any chance of survival.
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Oh, I would,” he says. “And I bet you won’t stop me.”
His fingers trail along the side of my cheek, and he leans in. He’s right. I don’t stop him. He lifts my chin so my lips meet his. I close my eyes and fall victim to the smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy. His mouth is warm and inviting, like the glowing lights on the carousel, opening all of my senses to this hopefulness and freedom that I thought couldn’t possibly still exist.
The ride jolts again, shaking us apart by mere inches.
Rooks laughs and leans over to my ear. “Told you that you wouldn’t stop me,” he whispers.
Seth’s Letter
I drove past the drive-in theatre the other day. I was out with my dad. In that moment, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want to marry Hanna or work in the factory or stay in Coral Sands forever. I didn’t, though, because I knew he’d be mad. He’d be hurt or disappointed. But the more I think about leaving, the more determined I am to do it.
I want that freedom, to be able to breathe without feeling like someone is standing behind me to make sure I inhale correctly. I want that escape, the one you talked about that night when we were only halfway watching the screen at the drive-in.
Maybe next time I’ll take you out dancing instead. You still owe me a dance...or two or three. I want out as much as you do. I just don’t know where to go. I’ve hardly been outside of Coral Sands. I don’t know what the rest of the world is like.
But how amazing would it be if we were the rebels of our generation? If we were the ones who went against the odds and chose something other than the path that’s been paved for us?
We should do it.
Her Reply
I daydream of the words you write. I long for that freedom, to walk into a night club, to order a drink with my fake ID, to dance under the lights like no one is watching us. But they’ll always be watching us.
The problem isn’t just that you’re promised to Hanna or that your family has secured a life for you in Coral Springs. Even if you walked away and defied all that you have set for you, you still couldn’t be with me. The world wouldn’t allow it. They wouldn’t allow us to be together. We’d always have to fear retaliation or harm. You wouldn’t be given the opportunities you’ll have with Hanna if you were to have me standing by your side. It’s our harsh reality. It’s my reality.
But it doesn’t have to be something you face. The only way we could ever live freely would be to sail far away to an island where no one could find us. It’s a silly thought. These last few weeks have been a dream. I’ve felt like I was on the verge of freedom.
But I know how this ends. Summer will arrive, and there won’t be letters waiting for me at the Crane Pavilion. I’ll see your wedding announcement in the newspaper. And all of my wishes will be lost like those falling stars I can’t catch.
It’ll be the summer of lost wishes.
Chapter Twelve
I feel a little crazy. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep from texting Rooks half the night or maybe the adrenaline hasn’t drained from my body yet, but that goofy-happy feeling from the flamingo has amplified. I turn over on the air mattress and stare at the fluffy pink stuffed animal. She smiles back at me, completely enamored by all things Rooks Carter. She may be an inanimate object, but I know she’s enamored.
Even after reading about Seth’s secret girl and her summer of lost wishes, I can’t shake this giddy feeling. I have to find a way to erase this sappy grin off my face before I encounter Mom this morning. She was in bed last night when I got home, but I poked my head into her room to let her know I was home safely and had locked all the doors.
She’s probably on her second cup of coffee by now. She’ll be more than alert enough to pick up on the spring in my step, or whatever lame term she would use for it. I want to soak up this moment, though, like a sudsy bubble bath before all the bubbles fade into the water. I want to absorb it and feel every ounce of it like a warm summer day by the pool.
I don’t want to face the fact that I’m just like Seth’s girl, looking at a summer of lost wishes. She may have never gotten her summer, but my summer is as lost as hers. This isn’t going to last. Rooks will leave town just as sure as Seth would’ve unwillingly married Hanna. Why can’t I just catch a break and catch one of those falling stars that she talks about in her letters? I’d safeguard it, even more than my heart or the letters themselves. I’d keep that star and all of its sparkly goodness in a mason jar and let it shine on and on and on.
I force myself to sit up. If I wanted to put a damper on last night, I’ve officially done that. I use my new-found sullenness as motivation to get up, shower, and get ready for the day. Our new dishwasher is being installed early this afternoon, so I want to use the hot water before Mom goes on
a dishwashing spree.
An hour later, I’m presentable enough to show my face in the kitchen. Mom sits at the bar on an old barstool that I’m sure she’s ready to replace. Her laptop is open in front of her. A coffee mug sits beside it.
“How was the fair?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the screen. She reaches for her computer mouse and clicks.
“It was fun,” I say. I channel lost wishes and fizzled stars to keep my voice steady.
“That’s good,” Mom says, completely engrossed in whatever is happening on her computer screen. She hasn’t even glanced my way.
I climb atop the other barstool and wait for her to say something more than small talk and two-word answers. She reaches for her coffee mug, takes a sip, and then looks up.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve been refreshing my e-mail for hours now. The mayor in Chesterfield is hosting a party, and I submitted a bid to do the interior décor for it. They’re doing an elegant beach theme, and it’d be the perfect project to start my portfolio.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, getting up and walking to the refrigerator.
I search for something caffeinated that isn’t black coffee. Luckily, Mom’s Dr. Pepper addiction is still relevant because there’s a twelve-pack sitting in the fridge. I pop open the can and grab a donut from Mom’s store-bought package.
Mom sighs and shuts her laptop. “I don’t think they’ll choose me,” she admits. “I don’t have any known experience. I have no former clients. All I have are photos of our house at different stages as we’ve redone things. Maybe I should stage some photos.”
Oh, no. The last thing we need is Mom running around the house with paint swatches and beach decorations. I can only imagine how many table settings she has in mind. I have to stop her before she turns into a designing demon.
“Clients will come in time,” I tell her. “You can do some local stuff, even if it’s small, to get your name out there. Once you have some examples on your website and pass out your business cards, you’ll be on a roll. And you never know, they may choose you anyway.”
Mom sighs again, as if every word I just said went in one ear and out the other. This role reversal stuff isn’t my specialty. I bite into my donut and hope that’s all the pep talking I have to do today.
“I need some sort of big exhibit,” she says. “You know, something to launch me, to get my name out there. Like an open house – our house! Piper, that’s it. We’ll have the ‘before and after’ photos. We can do a grand reveal of the house. It’ll show my style, and it’ll take away some of the mystery and novelty of the house.”
There’s no turning back now, but gosh, how I wish we could. I don’t like the thought of all the people in Coral Sands coming into our new home and analyzing it and whispering about it. I don’t want them criticizing Mom for changing up the kitchen or expanding my closet. I don’t want people learning the layout of our home so they can break in later. And heaven forbid the person behind the prior break in show up. I don’t want them back in our house.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mom says, even though I’m certain she doesn’t know because she has no idea about the letters. “You think people will come just to be nosy, and there will be some who do, but this will help the town move forward. They can see this house as something new. It’s a fresh start for us. It won’t be ‘what could’ve been’ anymore. It’ll be what is.”
With that, the doorbell rings and halts any argument I could have put in place. Not that it would’ve mattered. Mom’s made up her mind. It was made up the instant she said ‘open house’ and the gears started turning in her coffee-coated brain. Then again, everyone else is convinced that our intruder was a group of nosy kids, not someone after buried treasure.
“C’mon in,” Mom says from the front door. “Overlook the boxes. We’ve been unpacking.”
“Hopefully it’s starting to feel like home a little more then,” Mr. Carter says in response.
I don’t even know what’s on his agenda for today, so I get up and walk into the living room. He and Mac stand with Mom, but there’s no sign of the pretty boy who’s usually helping out.
“I have a few errands to run, but feel free to start wherever you wish,” Mom says.
Mac mentions patching the bad spots in the driveway, and Mr. Carter adds that they will repaint the bay window. Mom assures them that she’ll be back before the dishwasher installation, although Mr. Carter assures her that they’ll oversee things if she’s not back in time.
Mom grabs her purse and is out the door moments later. I didn’t bother asking where she’s going or what she’s doing because it probably has to do with tea light candles, jars of sand, and seashells. I’d rather just avoid the entire design craze.
“I gave Rooks the day off,” Mr. Carter says as I linger awkwardly, unsure if it’s rude to walk away before they get to work. “He was on the couch eating cereal when I left. You’re welcome to go over and make him useful if you want.”
You don’t have to tell me twice. I tell him that sounds like a plan and then dash toward Mom’s office where my makeshift bedroom awaits. I’ll be glad when this is over so I can have an actual bed. The first few nights on that air mattress weren’t so bad, but it’s getting harder and harder to sleep on it night after night. Even if I’m scared of my bedroom, at least it’s mine.
I slip on my flip-flops and grab my purse. I unplug my cell phone from the charger and head next door. But once I’m on the Carters’ front porch, I hesitate. I’ve never been inside of his house. I know we’ve hit ‘serious milestones’ as far as quirks go, but this is still new territory and I’m not experienced in this department.
I knock on the door but instantly feel the desire to run back home. With my luck, the grass would latch on to my flip-flops and throw me to the ground, refusing to let me bail out of fear. So I stay put and wait the ten agonizingly long seconds for Rooks to open the door.
He’s in a pair of flannel pajama pants – and shirtless – when he answers.
“Good morning,” he says, glancing down at his attire. “I’m sort of running behind on life today. Want to come in?”
I step into the dimly lit house. Either they’re trying to save on electricity or Rooks just likes creeping around in a dark house. The TV is on in the living room, spewing a blue glow onto the couch. A bowl with a little bit of milk sits on the coffee table. I don’t know how to act around him now. After our Ferris wheel kiss and the cheek kiss good night, I feel like we’ve definitely crossed the friends line into something more, but what exactly? I don’t ask. I don’t want to be ‘that girl’ who needs to define a relationship after the first kiss – but I’m so totally that girl who needs a definition.
“If I’d known you were going to be at my house today, I’d have cleaned up a little bit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We don’t normally have company.”
“It’s fine,” I say, feeling about as self-conscious as he probably does. “Your dad said you had the day off and sent me over. Mom’s running errands, and watching your dad and Mac patch the driveway wasn’t exactly something I wanted to waste my day doing.”
He shakes his head. “It’s cool,” he says. “Let me go put some clothes on, and we’ll find somewhere new to explore today.”
He says to make myself at home, so I sit on the couch to be polite. He disappears down the hallway and closes a door behind him. After about thirty seconds, I can’t stop fidgeting, so I stand up and walk over to the mantle to look at the few photos Mr. Carter has for decoration. There’s a picture of Rooks and his dad when Rooks was just a small kid. He’s holding a fishing pole. There’s a lake in the background. There’s a much more recent baseball photo of Rooks next to it.
“I was a cute kid, huh?” Rooks asks. He slips into the living room and sits on the couch to put on his tennis shoes. “You can admit it. No one will know but me.”
I glance over at him. “Sucks that you outgrew it, huh?” I shoot back.
He throws himself back against the cushions, grabs his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut. “You’ve wounded me, Piper,” he says in a strained voice. “Straight through the heart.”
“Oh hush,” I say, trying not to laugh.
I walk back over to the couch and sit next to him. He nudges me with his elbow. I wonder if he feels as unsure as I do right now. I don’t even know how to approach the topic without seeming like a crazy girl. I can’t be the crazy girl. If Seth’s secret girl could maintain her sanity, then I can too.
“So what’s the update on Seth McIntosh?” he asks as he finishes putting on his other shoe.
What do I even say to that? Seth wants to run away, and the girl believes it’s all some crazy fantasy that will never come to life. I can’t tell Rooks that. He’s already suspicious of Seth’s motives and possible homicidal tendencies. I can’t add fuel to that fire.
“Not much. They went to a drive-in movie. He wants to run away and be free. She does too, but she’s cautious,” I say, leaving out the details of her hopelessness. “Nothing too scandalous in the last letters.”
“Hmm,” he says, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV. “I wonder if she ever wrote a final goodbye letter after he died. Like if she took it to the Crane Pavilion and left it there, just for closure. You think she put the letters in the wall?”
I can’t imagine any woman in the 1960s hiding letters in the wall of her dead secret love’s future home with his promised-to-be wife. The girl just wants to go to a big city and dance.
“She’s not the type,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s just odd. No girl is going to go to the house that her dead love was going to share with another girl and hide their love letters in the wall.”
Rooks laughs. “Not the type? You don’t even know who she is,” he reminds me.
Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m playing novelist in my head and writing this story the way I’d like it to be told on the big screen. There are so many gaps, and I’d rather fill them in with my own wishful thinking than assume the worst. I want to believe this love was real. Rooks wants to believe Seth killed everyone else.
The Summer of Lost Wishes Page 10