She eyes me up and down, like a pest who doesn’t belong. I sympathize with her, because in a way, I don’t belong anywhere.
“Will that be all?” she asks, pen at the ready above her notepad.
“Yeah, that’s all.”
“You’re not going to eat?” Now she’s wound up.
Later, when I rummage through your garbage bins. “Nope.”
She rolls her eyes and sashays inside. Returning with my drink, she practically drops the cup on the table, water sloshing over the rim. I jerk back. She cocks one eyebrow, daring me to say something, but I give up, deflated, and she moves on to another table.
I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until I take the first swig. Between injecting myself and going for a quick swim, apparently my mouth dried out. My stomach growls, too, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I want to sip my water, chill, and question the motives for that annoying girl at the lake. Does she think I’m a charity case? Or was she just throwing a pity party? Either way, there’s something different about her. Something I haven’t faced in a long time. Given the right circumstances, and the right mindset, I might’ve agreed to her offer. As it stands, though, she’s too damn proud to win me over. I rub my cheek, wondering if it’s red from her hit. She has an arm, but nothing I can’t handle.
My thoughts are jolted back to reality when, behind me, there’s commotion. Women cry out, shuffling their children out of the way. Husbands guard their wives. What the hell? I squint, as if that will actually give me heightened, catlike senses to see what’s going on. As the crowd moves aside, my heart thrums five times faster. No. Big P and his boys are heckling Jake, their voices carrying to the outdoor patio where I sit.
“Where is he, man? I know you know,” Big P taunts.
Jake shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. Haven’t seen him around here in a while.” He strums three chords on his guitar, as if that will make Big P get the hell out of dodge.
Oh, shit. I shoulder my backpack and prep myself to run when Big P snatches the guitar out of Jake’s hands and smashes it against the concrete, wood splintering into several pieces.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jake yells, standing up. “What’s your problem, bro?”
“My problem,” says Big P, “is that you know where he is and you’re covering his damn tracks. Now, tell me where I can find him before your face is the next thing to collide against the street.”
“Look, man, if I knew, I’d tell you.” There’s a nervous tinge to Jake’s voice.
No, no, no, Jake. Don’t let them hear that.
Too late.
Two of Big P’s boys—B and Ice—fist the back of Jake’s shirt, picking him up midair, and slamming him to the ground. His face meets the concrete with a loud crack. Damn it. They pick him up again, his nose spouting blood, and prepare to do the stunt all over again.
“Last chance,” says Big P. “Where is he?”
Jake can’t even utter words; he’s probably in shock, and pain.
B and Ice get the nod of approval from Big P, but before they do some serious damage to his face, I shout, “Hey, assholes! Over here!”
That gets their attention. They drop Jake and gradually stalk my way. By now, everyone on both sides of the road watch in anticipation of what’ll happen next. I’m surprised nobody’s called the cops. God, that’s the last thing I need.
“Get him!”
B and Ice sprint toward me, and I bolt over the low patio railing and up the road, taking a detour through one of the alleys. Of course there’s a fence at the end. I launch myself halfway up the chain links, hauling my body over the frame, and land on two feet. B and Ice have caught up, though. I pump my legs into a sprint, bounding out the back of the lane, through the rear parking lot, and over small hills of grass and wildflowers.
“You can’t hide from us!” one of them yells from behind me. I think it’s Ice, or maybe it’s B. Either way, my brain is too busy at the moment to give a damn which.
I’m too out of shape. If this had happened back in the day, back when I was still lifting weights and throwing footballs across the field, I would’ve outrun these guys by now. But here I am, racing from two men who are pretty much the equivalent of bodyguards. Two men who probably have guns.
Ahead, two of the main streets intersect. Get past the crossroads. Cars are everywhere; waiting on the light to change, waiting to make a turn, waiting, waiting, waiting. I don’t have time to wait. I bolt through the traffic, vehicles slamming on their brakes, nearly missing me. That’s okay, because the alternative would be getting taken out by Ice and B, maybe even tortured until Big P decides how he wants to use his new toys on my skin. Carving. Slicing. Chopping. Nothing new for him; the man gets what he wants, when he wants it.
Momentarily, I’m sidetracked by the flash of blue lights and the wail of a siren. NO! Not now. I don’t stop, though. Every strand in me is pushing my body, my mind, me, to stay alive. I’ll get their money. I will.
“Son!” A car door slams shut behind me, and I risk a glance over my shoulder. The cop is now pursuing me on foot. “Slow down! Get back here!”
I recognize him. It’s Charles, one of my dad’s friends.
Before slowing to a complete stop, I double check the area beyond Charles’s car. B and Ice are nowhere to be seen. I’m sure they saw the police logo and decided to bail.
“What the hell are you doing out here? Who are you running from?” Charles, like me, bends over at the waist to catch his breath. He hasn’t been in the best of shape since his stroke a couple of years back. I should’ve known better than to push him.
“You didn’t see them? They . . . I . . .”
Charles straightens up. “Who?”
I shake my head, leveling myself, too. I have to lean against a tree, though; I’m too dizzy. “Nothing. Never mind. Just some crazy kids.”
He gives me this look that says he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push the subject. “You know . . . Ah, God . . .” He peers up at the clear sky, as if that’ll help him find his words. “Your mom and dad have been worried about you.”
I don’t want to talk about them right now. Jesus, Charles, give it a break. I try opening my mouth to speak, but my throat feels like it’s clogged with cotton balls.
“Your mom went out looking for ya after that night,” he carries on. “She was so distraught. Your dad, too. He hasn’t been taking this so well.”
“And Lucas?” I murmur hoarsely.
Charles purses his mouth, hands grasping his hips. “About as good as a twelve-year-old kid can be. They’ve kept him busy with sports and all, hoping it’ll keep his mind off the way things are.”
I nod. “Good. It’s better that way.”
“Better for whom? Them, or you? ‘Cause the way I see it, none of you picked a particularly great way to show your admiration for one another.” He pauses, maybe reflecting on that night, maybe reflecting on the effect it’s had on my parents and Lucas since. “They shouldn’t have done that to ya, Logan. It was wrong.”
“Yeah, well, they did.” Can we please not talk about this? “Can’t undo the past. What’s done is done.”
“No, but you can learn from the past, even if it isn’t your friend.”
I snort. “There’s no going back. They’ve made their decision pretty clear: they don’t want me around.”
“For God’s sake, boy! Are you listening to yourself? They kicked you out for a reason.” He seizes the moment to collect himself. “Look, your father never gave me all the details of why they did what they did, but he reassured me it was for your own good. Now, I’m not sayin’ I agree with them one hundred percent, but I think there’s more to it. I think if you collected yourself and agreed to work things out, they’d welcome you back with open arms. But, as it stands, you’re up Shit Creek.”
I roll my eyes, letting my backpack fall from my shoulder. He didn’t tell you because you’re a cop. “Nothing will ever be the same again, because they’ll never trus
t me.”
“What was it, Logan? Theft? Underage drinking? Drugs?” he asks.
I almost lose my composure at the last mention. “Don’t worry about it, Charles. You go on doing your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
He sighs. “Well, whatever it was, it had to be pretty bad. I’ve never known of your parents to be so upset about something.”
Bad. Bad. Bad. You’re a bad person.
“It was,” is all I say, managing to swallow past the lump in my throat. The aching dryness has returned, and I suddenly wish I had my water.
“Well, uh, do you need a ride somewhere? Is there someplace you’re staying?” He wipes the back of his neck.
He’s just prying, probably so he can give my parents answers. Answers I don’t really want them to have right now. “I live all over, moving from here to there when I feel like it. It’s not terrible.” Liar.
“So, can I give ya a ride?” His eyes implore mine for a sign, something he can latch onto, to keep his conscience satisfied.
In response, I barely move my head. No, Charles. Just . . . no.
His eyes leave mine as he nods. “Well, don’t get into any trouble. I don’t want to be the one to bring ya in.”
“I’ll try,” I mumble.
“Take care of yourself, Logan,” he says as he turns and walks back to his car.
“Bye, Charles,” I breathe, battling my subconscious mind. Go after him! Go home! But I meant what I said about it not being that easy. My parents would’ve found me by now if they wanted to work things out, wouldn’t they? And it’s their fault I’m in this situation to begin with; it was their idea for me to be a ‘team player,’ as Dad called it. They put too much pressure on me to be the perfect quarterback, the superstar god of the football field. They could’ve at least acted like responsible adults instead of pushing me.
They were always pushing me.
At school. “C’s in three of your classes? Logan, how will you ever get a football scholarship with grades like these?”
On the field. “You get your ass out there and score a touchdown! I don’t care if you dislocate your arm in the process; you do what you gotta do.”
Out the front door. “We can’t do it anymore, Logan. We just can’t let you stay here. Lucas can’t ever look up to someone like you, and your mom and I, well, we don’t really know what happened to our son or what you’ve done with him, but you’re not the boy we raised.”
Pushing me away, away, away.
Four • Chloe
So he won’t go down without a fight. That’s fine. I can live with that. I’ve watched Intervention enough to know when a drug addict goes through the five stages, and he’s definitely piggy-back riding Addiction—maybe even Denial. Or is that only for alcoholics?
I wander back to the lake house, taking my sweet time. Mom will wonder where I’ve been, why earlier I darted out so quickly. More fresh air, Mom, because the air between you and Dad is too congested for my breathing.
Several teenagers sail down the lake in a boat, wildly squealing with laughter as they tease one another. That should be me. I should be having the time of my life every single summer I visit Sandy Shores. I should be creating memories with friends, or be showing off for that one boy who stole my heart. Instead, I’m standing here, on the shore, watching my would-be life pass by.
My eyes never leave the boat until they’ve completely disappeared from sight. Where they’re headed, I don’t know. Anywhere is better than here.
Mom mutes the TV when I enter through the kitchen. “Where were you?” she asks.
I open the cabinets, searching for a distraction, and a cup. “Out.” It’s always like this between us. She’s so patronizing and nosey when it comes to my personal life that I can’t help but throw up a brick wall. And if I tell her about trying to help a drug addict, well, she’d blow a gasket.
“That’s not what I asked you,” she pushes.
I don’t respond, which is my usual choice comeback. Grabbing a glass, I move toward the refrigerator, which is—thankfully—out of Mom’s line of sight. As I close the door, I jump at her sudden appearance in the entryway, her arms crossed, searching for a fight. I know how this ends.
Ignoring her, I fill my cup with ice and soda, then take a sip without looking her in the eyes.
“Chloe,” she warns, “I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Then don’t,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t see what the big deal is, anyway. We’re supposed to have these awesome summers here, yet you guys still keep an invisible collar on me at all times. I’m not a toddler, Mom—”
“I never said you were.”
“—so don’t treat me like one.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, like she’s in some insurmountable amount of pain that nobody but her feels. “When you are in my house, you have to abide by my rules.”
See, normally I’d say something along the lines of “Okay, Mom” and stalk up to my bedroom. But this year is different. Since she and Dad dragged me into their relationship woes, I don’t care about making them happy, making them believe we’re this perfect family. So, why pretend?
In the obedient response’s place, Mom gets: “Yeah, but it’s not your house; it’s Dad’s. And he’s not exactly here right now, is he?” God, that hurt me more than it hurt her, I think, but all this hatred I’ve harbored for the past six months has swollen inside my mind and body, petitioning me to release it.
Wish granted.
Mom bites her lip and opens her eyes, nodding. Without saying another word, she glides back to the couch, covers up under a throw, and un-mutes the TV.
I sigh. I don’t want things to be like this between us. I want to be there for her, but every time I’ve tried starting a conversation about her and Dad’s problems, she’d change the subject, basically telling me it’s none of my business. Well—news flash!—it is my business. I’m their daughter. I was created by these two people who were once in love, so I have as much right to know as they do.
But I don’t believe for a second either one of them is mature enough to man-up to what’s happening. They both realize what’s going on behind closed doors, and neither of them says or does anything. They just choose to keep their mouths shut, pretending this isn’t a farce. Pretend, pretend, pretend. God, one would think I was born into a family of actors. If that were true, Mom and Dad would’ve definitely won an Oscar for best duo performance by now.
This summer is turning out worse than I imagined. I had these romantic ideas of Mom and Dad making up while they’re away from the boring hum-drum of work and everyday life, but now those notions have flown out the window and latched on to the tip of a breeze, carried off to another state. Maybe even another planet.
I flop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. What the hell am I going to do for fun around here? I need something to keep me occupied. And, no offense, but spending all summer watching movies and reality TV shows with my mom is not what I had in mind.
W.W.J.D.
What Would Jessica Do?
If she were here, if her father had never died, what would she and I be doing? Painting our toenails? Gossiping about cute boys, or, dare I even say it, our boyfriends? She doesn’t need any help in that department, but it was obvious to everyone at Clear Lakes High School that I did, seeing as I’ve never actually had one. Unless I count the time Jeremy Frazier and I made out behind the school and he told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world, only to show up to homecoming two weeks later with Melanie what’s-her-face. Seriously, I don’t even remember her last name. Ugh. Men.
The reality of the Jessica situation is that I truly don’t know if we’d still be friends, even if that summer never happened. Her destiny always lay with cheerleading and becoming an element of the popular crowd. And mine? Well, I’m not sure what my destiny is, but it probably isn’t this. I snatch a pillow, cover my face, and scream. Not one of those horror movie, blood-curdling screams—those are obnoxious—but one that feels good. Jus
t to release all my pent-up frustrations aimed at the world.
As I come down from the high, I sheepishly grin to myself . . . and hear a plat at my window. Sitting up, I wait; wait to see if it’s the stupid birds tapping on the glass or the gutter, wait to make sure my ears aren’t hearing things, wait for my heart to lessen its frenzied beating.
Plat.
My body jerks in response. Okay, so I’m not making this up. Slowly, I stand and peep around the edge of the window. Standing in the backyard, looking warily around, is that crazy boy. So he changed his mind, huh? That’s . . .
Interesting.
Good, I suppose.
I flip the latch and raise the pane. “Came to your senses, I see.”
He glares at me. “I’m not doing this for you.”
I shrug. “Of course you aren’t; you’re doing it for you. At least, that’s the goal.”
“Look, we need to get some things straight before I agree. Can you come down?”
I smile. “Be right out.”
Passing by Mom in the living room, she doesn’t even bother to turn around and look at me. There’s no telling how long she’ll be pissed about our little tiff. Mental note to self: watch a movie with her sometime this week, even if it’s torturous.
Outside, the boy waits expectantly, then motions with a backward nod away from the house.
“I figured your parents would ask questions if they saw me,” he says as we meander down the lake’s shore. “I also figured you were pretty spoiled, so you’d have the best view of the lake.”
I roll my eyes and snort. “The whole parents thing? Not likely. My dad’s either screwing his tramp girlfriend or tossing back a few beers, and Mom’s acting like a chronic-depression sufferer who ran out of meds. And good guess on where my room is, by the way. It would’ve sucked if it were my parents’ bedroom instead.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He stares at the ground before him, eyebrows creasing in deep thought.
Time to change the subject before this topic becomes a mess. “Earlier, you didn’t need my help, so what made you come back?”
Last Summer Page 3