Summer Bird Blue

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  The last song Lea and I listened to. Just before we got in the car with Mom. Just before we started to write our own song. Just before she died.

  Something sharp hits my chest, like my heart is turning into ice. I feel dizzy and cold and far, far away.

  I can feel her. I can see her. The way she sings with her mouth barely open, the way she taps her hand against her knee, the way she rests her head on my shoulder because sometimes it was the best way to say, “I get you, and you get me, and let’s never change.”

  But it did change.

  My head feels empty and full all at once, and before I know it, I’m standing at the edge of the driveway, lured by the song that will only ever remind me of my lost sister, and looking straight into the eyes of the boy from the window.

  They’re a dark, smooth brown. Most people I know have flecks of other colors around the irises—bits of gold or green or blue. But his are completely unblemished, like two perfect chocolate coins.

  He grins with too much cleverness for his own good. “Hey, hapa girl. I was wondering if I’d see you again.” His black hair hangs across his left eyebrow like he just rolled out of bed.

  I look in the back of the truck. Next to the cooler are two surfboards—one with an oversized green gecko and the other covered in blue and green swirls. There’s another guy sitting in the driver’s seat, his hair in tidy curls at the top and fading into his skin by the time they reach his ears. He watches me—they both do—waiting for me to reply.

  Ignoring them, I stare straight through the window until my eyes find the car stereo.

  The guitar sounds like dripping caramel. The singer’s voice sounds like he’s singing in a room full of wood and fire, with a midnight breeze rolling through the open windows. Because to Lea and me, music wasn’t only about sounds. Music was scenery and smells and tastes and magic, too.

  But it doesn’t feel like magic anymore—it feels like I’m being haunted.

  Something punches me in the chest, and I feel my heart explode like icicles splintering in a thousand different directions. It’s painful. More painful than I could’ve ever imagined. I don’t know how something as beautiful and important as music could suddenly feel so empty and cruel.

  Music used to be life and hope and everything happy. Now it’s full of ghosts.

  “That song,” I start to say, but the rest of the words don’t come to me.

  The boy looks over his shoulder at his friend, who shrugs casually and grabs a baseball cap from his lap, spins it around, and snaps it against his head like a magnet.

  “Dat’s my sistah’s iPod,” his friend says. “I neva heard half da stuff before.”

  The boy from next door turns back to me, the happy creases next to his eyes never disappearing even when his smile tucks itself away. “Yeah, me neither. I like it, though. You know who sings this one?”

  I try to push their faces out of my mind because I feel Lea slipping away. I hold my breath, like I’m trying to hold on to her. Like inside my heart is a pair of hands that are grabbing and reaching for any sliver of her left in the world, because they want to hold on to something of her.

  I can feel her, somehow—even if she is buried in a graveyard in Washington State, hundreds of miles away from me. Music has always made me feel closer to Lea. I guess even death couldn’t change that.

  Except it’s painful now, to think about Lea and to feel close to her. Which means listening to music is painful too.

  Something strange and wiry creeps into my thoughts, like a slithery creature whispering things that just can’t be true.

  You don’t deserve her. You never did. Maybe you don’t deserve music, either.

  My chest aches. And aches. And aches.

  I can’t take it anymore. Losing Lea feels like there’s a knife forever twisting in my heart. It feels like walking up a stairway that never ends, and every new step gets harder and harder to climb. It feels like floating through space with no way of getting home.

  It feels hopeless.

  And losing music, too? It feels like someone has taken all the oxygen out of the world. It feels like I’ll never be able to breathe again.

  Having her close to me is too painful—so I let Lea go. I let her ghost slip away.

  Another song starts—something upbeat and full of clever rhymes. The guy in the baseball cap points to the stereo. “Dis mo’ like it,” he says, bobbing his head around like it’s floating in the water.

  I let everything inside me escape like a heavy breath tumbling out of my mouth. It’s too much—the loss of Lea, the loss of music.

  The loss of Mom.

  The boy in front of me cups a hand over his eyes like he’s blocking out the sun. He doesn’t seem bothered I’m not answering any of his questions, but he’s also not ready to give up. “We headed fo’ Palekaiko Bay. You like go?” he asks, breaking through my frustration. He has two matching dimples right in the center of his cheeks like a baby doll, but black sideburns that trail to the bottoms of his earlobes. He’s like a man-baby. It’s confusing.

  “What?” I blink. I’m having a hard time concentrating.

  “I t’ink she no can understan’ your pidgin, brah.” His friend leans out the window and cups a hand around the sides of his mouth. “He—like—know—if—you—like—hang—wit’—us . . . today,” he says, drawing out each word like there’s too much noise in between us.

  My new neighbor pulls his face back and shakes his head, his eyes pinned over his shoulder. “Eh, genius, you still talking pidgin.” He turns back to me and reaches out his hand. His forearms are dark and lean, but all muscle. “I’m Kai.” There’s a light behind his eyes—something more than just cleverness. It’s something very much alive, like a gear constantly turning, or a wild crackle of electricity. Some people look like that—like their brains never take a break.

  I used to look like that too, but now there isn’t any light left. My brain has blue-screen-of-deathed.

  His friend waves from the truck. “Gareth,” he says, squinting like he’s not sure if he really wants to be introduced to me.

  Kai and Gareth have nearly identical tans—a deep beige closer to Aunty Ani’s than mine—but the similarities stop there. Gareth is still in the car, but even I can see he’s huge. The driver’s seat is pushed back an extra foot to make room for what are probably the longest legs known to man. And his shoulders are broad and his neck is wide, and even though he looks strong, I don’t think it’s exclusively muscle.

  Kai lets his hand drop when I don’t take it, but he doesn’t seem fazed. He crosses his arms instead and raises his shoulders. “So whatchu think? You like go to the beach?”

  “What? No. I’ve never met either of you before,” I say, my voice flustered.

  Gareth lets out an impatient breath and reaches out of the window to nudge Kai. His hand looks like a massive bear paw. “Eh, brah, she no like go. Come on—we already stay late.”

  Kai waves him off like he needs another few seconds. “Well, can you at least tell me your name?” he asks me. “I mean, we can see into each other’s bedroom windows. We’re practically roommates.”

  “You can see into my bedroom?”

  “Well, sort of. When the blinds stay open.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “No it’s not. You can see into mine, too.”

  “That’s even more creepy.”

  He tilts his head back and laughs. “I’m not getting this across well. I just thought we could get to know each other. Since we’re neighbors.”

  “It’s not a requirement to be friends with your neighbors. Some of the happiest neighbors are complete and total strangers.”

  “Well, what if our mail ends up at the wrong house, or if you need to borrow sugar?”

  “Nobody borrows sugar in real life.”

  “Have you ever needed to borrow sugar before?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  Gareth hangs his elbow out of the window a
nd looks at me with a tired smile. “Please jus’ go tell ’em your name, or tell ’em you not interested. Cuz dis uncomfortable fo’ watch already.”

  “Rumi,” I say, clearing my throat. “My name is Rumi. But we’re not going to be friends. I’ll be leaving soon, so there’s no point.” Just for the summer. That’s what Aunty Ani told me. A couple of months for Mom to grieve without me getting in the way.

  A couple of months where Mom doesn’t have to be anyone’s mom at all.

  My throat tightens, but I try to ignore it.

  Kai turns around and looks at Gareth, who shrugs at him and starts pushing buttons on the stereo.

  The black dog suddenly appears, yapping a few yards behind me, demanding everyone’s attention. Its ears fold over lazily, and its tail curls into a bush of fur against its back.

  Gareth groans. “Lolo dog.”

  Kai leans down and claps his hands together urgently. “Howzit, Poi? You got out of the yard again, eh?” He wiggles his fingers above the ground. “Come on, come here.”

  The dog doesn’t stop barking. The more Kai interacts with it, the more frantic the yapping becomes.

  Gareth flinches. “You making ’em worse.”

  Kai sighs, standing back up. He runs his fingers through his black hair. “One day we’ll be friends.” And then he looks at me, a twinkle in his eyes, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to the dog anymore.

  I look over my shoulder at the neighbor’s house. There’s nobody in the yard, and the gate is shut.

  The small mess of dark fur bounces up and down near my feet, catching my attention. “I don’t know why you want to be friends with it. That dog has social problems, just like its owner.”

  “You met Uncle George?” Kai raises a dark eyebrow. It looks like a faded caterpillar.

  “Are you guys related?” I pull my chin into my neck at the idea that I might be surrounded by the world’s weirdest family.

  Kai laughs. “Everyone is Uncle and Aunty in Hawaii, hapa.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not calling him ‘uncle’ anything. Your uncle George has anger issues. He sprayed me with a hose.”

  He laughs louder, looser. You know the saying about being made of rubber and insults bouncing off a person because they won’t stick? I think Kai might be made of rubber. A lot of rubber.

  Poi keeps barking below us like a fire alarm that won’t turn off.

  “The first time I saw you, you were screaming your head off in the driveway. What’s that make you?” Kai looks at me curiously, his cheeks tight with humor.

  “I guess I’ve got issues too.”

  “Yeah no, you guys all lolo.” Gareth taps his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. “Jerrod stay waiting fo’ us at da beach, and da dog is giving me one migraine. Can we go already?”

  “Okay, okay.” Kai waves his hand at him before making his way around the truck and sliding into the passenger seat. When he’s settled inside, he leans forward and stares at me through Gareth’s open window. “Be nice to Poi. I spent two years trying to get her fo’ like me. Please don’t mess up my progress.”

  And then the truck crawls up the drive before peeling around the corner and disappearing from my sight.

  I face Poi again, its shrill yaps pounding through the neighborhood street like an alarm clock in a nightmare. When I look up at Mr. Watanabe’s house, I see him standing in his doorway, barefoot and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. His hands are folded behind his back, and he’s watching me like I’m the problem and not his annoying little dog.

  I retreat to the house. I don’t feel like fighting today.

  When I’m sitting on my bed, I close my eyes and try to let the music back into my head—I picture the stereo. I picture Lea. I picture the rise and fall of the melody. I try to remember the lyrics we made up for “Summer Bird Blue.” But every time I think I have it, the sharpness returns in my chest and the notes pull away from me like the tide moving back into the water.

  Holding on to a melody is like trying to hold on to Lea—I can’t do it. I’m too afraid of the pain that comes with it.

  How am I supposed to keep a promise I can’t even hold on to?

  I wish Mom were here, and then I hate myself for missing her at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I can’t sleep. My mind is racing with too many thoughts—about how painful music has become, and how I still haven’t cried since Lea’s death, and how Mom should be here.

  I press my fingers to my temples, staring at the moonlight slipping through the parted blinds, and I wonder if I’m somehow responsible for all of this.

  Maybe I’m too heartless to cry. It’s not a secret I wasn’t as good a sister to Lea as she was to me. And maybe Mom knows it too—maybe Mom is finding it hard to love me when it’s just me on my own, because it’s so much more obvious that I’m not as good as Lea.

  I wonder, if Mom had been given the chance to choose which of her daughters she could save, if she would have picked Lea.

  It’s not hard to imagine her answer. Because even I would’ve picked Lea.

  The knot in my throat starts to grow, until it’s pushing at my neck like there’s a rock wedged in there. But the tears don’t come.

  I don’t feel like I’m trying to hold back, or like I’m making an effort not to cry. But I can’t do it—I can’t turn my rage and hurt and heartache into tears. It’s like whatever is happening in my head isn’t connecting with my body.

  I think it’s because the car accident broke me. Losing Lea destroyed me. And I’m not sure how to put myself back together again.

  Is that why I can’t cry? Because I’m no longer whole?

  God, Mom, why aren’t you here? I need your help.

  And for the briefest second, I think about calling her. I think about waking her up in the middle of the night and forcing her to talk to me—to listen to me. Because I don’t know if I can keep doing this alone. I don’t think I should have to—not when I still have a mother and she still has a daughter. Lea would want us to be there for each other.

  But the thought fizzles away as quickly as it came. Because I remember why I threw my phone in the toilet—I remember why it was upsetting to see my phone light up and have no notifications. No missed calls. No contact from Mom.

  She could’ve gotten in touch, but chose not to. Because somehow being near me was hurting her. It was keeping her from grieving.

  Because I hurt people, even when I don’t want to. Even when I should know better.

  A memory

  Lea’s room still smells like her. Like vanilla soap and flowery perfume. It’s faint—fading, like her—but it’s there. I take a breath and feel the sting in my eyes.

  Mom’s voice makes me jump. “You don’t have to do that.”

  I scowl and snap my head toward her. I don’t mean to, but it’s just my natural reaction to being startled. I try to smooth my frown away, but it’s too late. Mom’s already seen it.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says quickly, taking a step back out of the room like she thinks I need the space.

  She’s given me enough of that. Doesn’t she see how much I need her?

  I push myself up from the carpet and away from Lea’s dresser. The drawer is still half pulled out, and there are clothes all around my feet. “You can stay,” I say firmly.

  Mom nods twice, but remains in the doorway. “It might be a little soon for this,” she offers, her eyes falling to the mash-up of T-shirts, tank tops, and jeans.

  I realize what Mom thinks I’m doing, and my eyes widen in alarm. “I’m not going through her stuff to get rid of anything.”

  Mom’s eyes are so tired and swollen. I’ve hardly seen her since we came back from the hospital. She’s mostly been in her room, crying and avoiding me.

  The crying I understand, but the avoiding? I can’t really figure it out.

  I keep talking because it’s different around Mom. She makes me nervous. For the first time in my life, I’m scared I’m
going to say the wrong thing. And I don’t want to hurt Mom when she’s already hurting. “I’m trying to remember what she was wearing. Because I thought it was her yellow shirt, but now when I picture her in the car, she’s wearing a blue tank top. And I don’t know why I can’t remember anymore—you’d think I’d never forget that—so I’m seeing what clothes are still here. Which shirt she left behind.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mom says, and I think she hides a shudder. “What’s this for?”

  “Because I’m worried I’m going to forget,” I say urgently. “I can feel my memories slipping. They’re fuzzier than they used to be. And if I can’t even remember what shirt she was wearing the day she died, how am I going to remember the important stuff? The stuff that means something? So I need to make sure I have it right. I need to make sure I remember everything right.”

  “Rumi, I don’t think we need to do this right now.” Mom’s gaze continues to leap around the room like she’s following a house fly.

  “Aren’t you worried you’re going to forget?” I ask hurriedly. The panic clambers up my throat. I start to feel dizzy. “There’s so many things we didn’t get to finish. Promises we didn’t get to keep. Things we never got to do.” I pause, the shame practically swallowing me whole. “Things I never apologized for. And I need to remember all of it—I need to remember her.”

  Mom crosses her arms and lifts her chin so she’s staring up at the ceiling. The tears are slipping down her cheeks. “I just think it’s too soon.”

  “What else am I supposed to be doing?” My voice echoes in my own head, but I’m not sure it reaches Mom.

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway. “Mom? Why won’t you look at me anymore?”

  Mom squeezes her eyes shut and more tears fall.

  Something sharp and painful gnaws at my chest. “I know you can’t face what happened to Lea, but can you at least face me? I’m still here. And I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “I don’t know either,” Mom whispers into the ceiling. “I wish I did.”