Summer Days, Starry Nights

by Vikki VanSickle

  “I asked him, and then I told him if he didn’t take me I’d tell Mimi and Daddy what he’s been up to at night.”

  Gwen laughed. “That’s more like it: classic sibling blackmail. Don’t worry about it, Reenie. You’re just giving him a taste of his own medicine.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “So what’s the problem? Are you worried you’ll get caught? Bo never has, and it’s not like he’s Mr. Careful, stomping all over that roof every night. It’s amazing no one’s figured it out. Except us, naturally.”

  I looked at my hands, embarrassed. “I’m nervous. What am I supposed to do? I don’t even know where we’re going.”

  “Relax. It’s not like you’ll be going to a secret underground nightclub. It’s probably a bonfire in someone’s backyard; someplace you’ve been a million times. Only this time there’ll be booze and the boys of Wide Mouth Bass.”

  “You know the name of his band?” I asked.

  Gwen shrugged. “Didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Do you want to come with us?” I asked, even though I knew I could never convince Bo to take both of us.

  Gwen gave me a pointed look. “Do I look party-ready?” she asked, patting her covered head.

  “How long would it take you to get ready?”

  “Too long. Sorry, Reenie, as much as I’d love to cut loose with the country mice, I’m going to sit this one out. But before you go, I’ve got something for you.”

  I watched as Gwen leaned over her bed and dug through a pile of what looked like dirty laundry. She must have found was she was looking for, because she cried, “Ta-dah!” and the next thing I knew I was being smacked in the face by a piece of clothing. But not any piece of clothing; it was her red shorts.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your secret weapon,” Gwen said. “I guarantee if you walk into that party in those shorts, you’ll have every single person begging to be on the guest list.”

  “I don’t know, they’re awfully—”

  “Short? That’s why they call them shorts, Reenie. Come on. You’ve got great legs. You should let them out once in a while.”

  “I was going to say red.”

  Gwen grinned. “The only thing better than short-shorts is red short-shorts. Now try them on.”

  “Turn around,” I said.

  Gwen rolled her eyes and flopped on the bed, throwing her arm over her face.

  “Fine. I’m getting expensive cold cream all over my arm, all in the name of preserving your modesty. One year in dance school, Reenie, that’s all you need. You’d be running around naked before you knew it.”

  I stepped out of my old shorts, which were permanently saggy and stained from a whole summer of campfires, and shimmied into Gwen’s shorts. I wasn’t convinced they would fit, but they slid over my hips and buttoned snugly against my waist. They felt sleek and glamorous, although I was shocked at how short they were. With my arms at my sides, there was at least an inch of bare skin between the tips of my fingers and the cuff of the shorts.

  “I’m ready.”

  Gwen sat up and squealed. She was smiling so hard her face cream cracked over her cheeks like mud in the midday heat. “Perfect. Now all you need is your yellow blouse, the sleeveless one. But don’t tuck it in. Leave a few buttons undone and then tie the ends up. I’d let you borrow my lipstick, but somehow I think you’ve reached your limit.” Gwen sighed and swooned back against the pillows. “Oh, to be young and on the verge,” she said wistfully.

  Now I was the one rolling my eyes. “You’re not even eighteen yet,” I pointed out.

  Gwen smiled sadly, like I was young and so naive and she knew better. “Sometimes I feel like I’m a hundred years old,” she said. Then, with a sigh, “Have a good night, Reenie. This old maid is going to get some beauty sleep.”

  I hated to see her like that, distracted and faraway. I wondered if she was thinking about Johnny. I noticed an envelope lying open on the pillow. It wasn’t one of her mother’s telltale cream ones, so it must have been from Johnny. Poor Gwen. Receiving letters from a loved one must be bittersweet. On one hand, it’s nice to hear from them, but on the other it makes you miss them even more. Still, she had a boyfriend, a bona fide rock star, and was a beautiful dancer. A million girls would switch places with her in a second.

  “You’re hardly an old maid,” I protested.

  Gwen shook her head. “Trust me, sometimes it’s better to be an old maid.”

  Wide Mouth Bass

  I heard my parents’ door close at twenty to eleven, and Daddy started snoring moments later. The wind had picked up, rustling the leaves and toying with a loose tarp near the boathouse; it sounded like a flag, snapping in the wind. No one would hear me under all that night noise, which soothed my frayed nerves considerably. I lay fully dressed, perfectly still on my bed, imagining the people I might run into from school and what I would say to them. I figured if I had a couple of smart, snappy retorts ready, I could throw them out. Sort of like throwing treats at a strange dog, keeping it distracted so it didn’t attack.

  I kept craning my neck to look at the clock until it finally reached five to eleven. Then I sat up, smoothed Gwen’s red shorts and slipped into the hallway. I was careful not to let the screen door slam and to stick to the trees lining the driveway.

  Bo was waiting for me. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed.

  “You’re early.”

  “So are you,” I said evenly.

  “Nice shorts.”

  I hoped he couldn’t see my cheeks flaming in the darkness. “They’re Gwen’s.”

  “No kidding.”

  “So where are we—”

  “Shh, not here. Follow me.”

  Bo turned and I followed him down the road. We walked single file toward the highway, one foot on the paved asphalt, still warm from baking in the sun all day, and one foot crunching in the gravel beside the ditch. Bo was wearing a loose T-shirt, sleeves rolled up over the thick part of his upper arms just like so many movie stars, his guitar slung over one shoulder. I wondered if girls thought he was a catch, if they came to see Wide Mouth Bass just to swoon over Bo Starr. The thought was so bizarre I almost giggled aloud. We left Sandy Shores property and were halfway to the gate at the end of the Simpsons’ lane when a car suddenly sputtered to life, catching us in the glare of its headlights, bright and yellow as owl eyes.

  “That’s our ride,” Bo said.

  The passenger door popped open, and I heard someone say, “Isn’t she a little young for you, Starr-man?” followed by hearty laughter.

  “See what you’re doing to my reputation?” Bo said, groaning, but he ushered me forward anyway. I ducked into the car and climbed across the front seat. A boy with big glasses and a T-shirt like Bo’s was grinning wildly at me.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, just like Groucho Marx. His thick eyebrows and oversized glasses made him look even more like Groucho. All he was missing was the cigar. I couldn’t help but smile back at him.

  Bo tossed his guitar in the back seat and then swung in beside me.

  “Cut it out, Cracker. That’s my sister,” he said.

  “Cracker?” I repeated.

  “As in, Polly want a cracker,” the boy said. “The name’s Paul. What do they call you?”

  “I’m Reenie,” I said. “As in Maureen.”

  Paul slapped his thigh and crowed like a maniac. “Yee-ow! Bo you never told me your sister was a firecracker.”

  “She’s not,” Bo said. “Now drive. Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”

  “You’re the boss, Starr-man.”

  As we drove to our secret destination, Paul talked non-stop. Bo cranked the radio to drown him out, but Paul just talked over the music. Sometimes he revved the engine, threatening to break all sorts of laws, but the speedometer barely edged past the speed limit.

  The windows were open, and my ears were full of the sound of rushing wind and the bass that thrummed through th
e seats, jarring my bones. It was so exhilarating to be in the midst of all that noise that I completely forgot about being nervous.

  Gwen was right; the party was in someone’s backyard just outside Orillia. Paul pulled up and parked on what looked like someone’s front lawn. I was about to protest that it didn’t seem to be the kind of place you should be parking, but a dozen other cars were already there. The house was dark, but I could see a bright orange spot flickering near the barn, where a fire had been lit.

  “Here we are, party people.”

  Paul crowed again and hopped out of the car. I scrambled after him as Bo retrieved his guitar from the back.

  “Are you in the band?” I asked shyly, hoping it wasn’t a stupid question.

  “Sweetheart, I am the band,” Paul said.

  “What instrument do you play?”

  “Nothing but the one God gave me,” he said, pulling on a chain around his neck, kissing the cross that dangled there and pointing one finger skyward.

  “Cracker here sings lead,” Bo said, striding toward the bonfire.

  I scrambled to keep up. “I thought you were the singer!”

  Bo shook his head. “Backup, sometimes. I’m lead guitar.”

  “And songwriter,” Paul added.

  “We do half covers, half our own stuff,” Bo clarified.

  As we came closer to the bonfire, distinct shapes grew out of the darkness. There were a lot more people there than I had imagined. Some were sprawled across the hoods of cars pulled up on one side of the fire. Others were seated around the bonfire, and even more were standing in groups further off. It didn’t look all that different from campfires at Sandy Shores, until you noticed that everyone there was young and no one was roasting marshmallows. Instead, they were laughing and chatting, cigarettes dangling from lazy fingers, the ends bright spots in the darkness. I’d thought they were fireflies until I got closer.

  A few people looked over and nodded at us as we arrived. Some of the boys clapped Bo on the shoulder or cracked a joke at Paul’s expense. He didn’t seem to mind. Any attention was good attention for Paul. If anyone thought that it was strange to see me there, no one said anything. More than one person offered me a beer, but I declined each time. I didn’t need beer — it was enough to be out here at my first field party. Besides, Bo would kill me.

  One of the boys peeled away from a group and jogged toward us. “Finally, you’re here. Jones is waiting for you. You took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

  Paul shrugged. “You can’t rush genius,” he said.

  The boy shook his head and laughed. “I hope you’re not talking about yourself, Cracker.” The boy’s glance fell on me. He smiled and nodded in my direction. “Who’s this?”

  “My sister Reenie.”

  “Your sister, well, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I asked.

  The boy punched Bo on the shoulder, grinning. “Bo here may be a rock star, but I never took him for a two-women kind of man.”

  I looked over at Bo, but he suddenly became very interested in his fingernails.

  “What woman?” I asked.

  The boy kept on grinning. He had a big smile, the kind that split his entire face in two.

  “Same shorts, different girl.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, but Bo was heading toward an old shed with Paul.

  “Where are you going?” I called after him, hating the panic that slipped into my voice.

  Bo kept going, calling casually over his shoulder, “To set up. Be good.”

  The boy laughed again. Laughter seemed to come so easy to him, like breathing.

  “Are you going to let him boss you around like that?”

  “He’s even worse at home,” I grumbled.

  The boy rubbed his hair. It was thick and blond and looked like it had a mind of its own. Most boys either Brylcreemed their hair into submission or cut it short to the head, but not him. His was wild and full of life.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve got two older sisters.” Then he offered his hand. I shook it, feeling the warmth pass into my own skin. “I’m Ray.”

  “Reenie,” I said.

  Ray smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

  I recognized him from school. He was older, in Bo’s year. He was long and tall and looked well scrubbed, even in the firelight. Normally an older boy would make me nervous, but Ray kept smiling at me. It was hard not to smile back.

  “So are you musical, too?” he asked.

  “No, not at all. I’m just an appreciator,” I said, then instantly regretted it. What kind of word was “appreciator”?

  “I’m an appreciator, too,” Ray said. “Actually, I like to think of myself as a promoter.” He gestured to the field. “I put these things together.”

  “This is your party?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. There are so many people here.”

  Ray glanced around, smiling. “That has a lot to do with your brother’s band. I just provide a time and a place.”

  I could see now why we hadn’t been attracting outside crowds to our dances. Who wanted to do the bunny hop with their mother when they could be listening to live music in the middle of a field with no parents around?

  “Do your parents know you’re doing this?”

  “My dad is cool with it. He knows something’s up, but he doesn’t sniff around too much. I guess he figures what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Or at least can’t get him locked up.”

  My skin cooled instantly as visions of myself being driven home in the back of a police car, delivered in the middle of the night to a shocked Daddy and angry Mimi, took over my brain.

  “Is this illegal?”

  The smile slipped from Ray’s face. “Hey, Reenie, I take this very seriously. I wouldn’t do anything stupid. If someone gets out of hand, I get rid of them.” He gestured to the party around him. “This is what I do: bring people together, show everyone a good time, let them know how good we have it around here.”

  Looking around, it was clear that promoting was something Ray was very good at.

  “You know, I have something you may want to promote,” I began.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m putting together a show at Sandy Shores in two weeks.”

  “What kind of show?”

  “Live music, dancing, that sort of thing. Wide Mouth Bass is going to play, plus a few other surprise acts.”

  “What kind of surprise acts?”

  I wanted to tell Ray, but I hesitated. If too many people found out, surely word would get back to Gwen and the surprise would be ruined. But without the draw of a big name like Johnny Skins, people might not turn up at all. While I was thinking it over, a murmur passed through the crowd. Ray touched my elbow. It was the smallest hint of a touch, but my skin tingled where his fingers had been.

  “We’ll talk about this later. I think the band is about to start.”

  I stood with Ray as Paul, Bo and two other boys took the stage. It was really just a patch of raked dirt in front of a rickety, old shed, and someone — Ray, maybe — had strung Christmas lights around its frame. The drummer sat on an overturned white bucket, the kind we used for bait. Still, the whole effect was magical.

  As the boys took their positions, people started to move in closer, and soon I was standing shoulder to shoulder in a solid mass of people. Anticipation zoomed through the crowd like electricity. It was impossible not to feel charged up. Everyone was giddy and excited, and I had to rub my arms to make the fine little hairs calm down.

  And then the music started.

  At first I couldn’t get over Bo, bent over his guitar like Elvis. He closed his eyes and threw his head around, shimmying his shoulders, kicking the dirt with the toe of his boot as if the crowd didn’t exist. He was completely different from the charming and humble showman who entertained guests at our nightly campfires. Here he was something wilder, set loose.

  Paul raced around, singing and cla
pping his hands and whipping the crowd up into a frenzy. Before, it had been hard to imagine anyone but Bo leading the band, but now I saw that he didn’t have the same kind of crazy energy that Paul did. Paul was a pop bottle someone had shaken up then popped the top off of; he exploded over the stage in a burst of fizzy energy.

  The songs were catchy, and I recognized most of them, thanks to Gwen’s musical education. All around me people were nodding and singing along. I watched the crowd just as much as I watched the band, fascinated by their reaction. A group of girls clutched each other off to the side, gazing so longingly at the musicians that I felt embarrassed for them. One of them appeared to be sobbing into her friend’s shoulder. Between songs, people clapped and cheered and called out requests. Paul taunted them, pretending not to hear, or making fun of their song choices, but in the end he always relented.

  A few times I looked over and caught Ray looking at me. I blushed and looked away, pretending not to notice, but my heart was off to the races. I had never had a boy look at me like that, and a cute boy to boot. The crowd was so close that sometimes, as we swayed to the music, our arms touched.

  By the end of the performance, I was hoarse from cheering and the back of my neck was damp with sweat. I was breathing hard, as if I had been the one running around on stage, but I felt like I could keep going all night. People begged and pleaded for more, and I joined in their chorus, but Paul dropped to the ground and played dead, not even moving when some joker pretended to kick him in the ribs.

  Ray touched my shoulder and leaned down, speaking directly into my ear, “I’m going to go check on my rock stars. Will you wait here?”

  “Sure,” I said, every single inch of my body zinging. “Paul’s my ride.”

  “Lucky Paul,” Ray said before he jogged off to help the band pack up.

  I watched him go, noticing how tall he was and how at ease in his body. Yet sometimes his shoulders crept up like he was nervous or bashful about something. It was endearing and brought a goofy smile to my face. I must have looked like some kind of simpleton, smiling at nothing, but I couldn’t help myself. Gwen was always complaining about how men strung you out and made you feel old, but I felt like I was six years old and sitting in front of the biggest bowl of ice cream I’d seen in my entire life. With whipped cream.