Stained Glass Summer

by Mindy Hardwick

  “Do you want a seat?” Cole waves toward two seats on either side of the motor.

  Grateful to have something solid to sink into, I drop into the seat and set my bag by my feet. I zip into a life jacket as Cole flips the white buoy onto the dock and tosses the rope onto the wood deck. I dangle my left hand in the water. It’s cold, and I quickly yank my hand out. The whole Sound can’t be this cold! It’s August. Don’t bodies of water warm up by August? Science was the one class I knew where I could get away with drawing. But now, I wish I’d paid attention to the movies Mr. McGee showed, and maybe I would know why the Sound is so cold.

  Cole moves the boat into gear and the motor hums behind us. “Kinda cold, huh?” he says, and grins at me. I’m relieved to see him smile and not mention my little outburst in the stained glass shop.

  “Not too bad.” I dip my hand back into the sound and try not to flinch. I flick a handful of water at Cole. It misses and lands on the side of the boat. Wiggling my newly painted red rose toes, I flip off my sandals and sneak a peek at Cole out of the corner of my eye. Is he looking at my painted toenails?

  Cole acts like he doesn’t notice and steers the boat into the Sound. A strong smell of fish rises up around us, and I think I’m going to gag.

  “Do orcas smell?” I ask, pinching my nostrils together.

  “Not usually.” Cole turns the boat toward the right, and the cold wind blasts me as we move onto the sound. “Are you cold?”

  “Not at all,” I say, gritting my teeth. Forget fashion. I wish I wore my new flannel shirt instead of the thin black spaghetti top and short black shorts. The life jacket is not helping with the wind. We pass tall hemlock and Douglas fir trees covering the hills surrounding the islands. Seagulls soar around the brown and green islands jutting into the Sound. I take a pretend snap shot and hold the images in my mind just like Dad’s camera.

  Cole raises his finger to the passing Islands. “We don’t go there,” he says, and raises an eyebrow.

  “Why not?” From a distance, the island looks the same as the other ones. Rocky beaches, hills with tall green Cedar trees, and spots of brown grasses.

  “Too many tourists,” Cole says. “Especially in the summer.”

  Cole seems to have the same attitude about tourists as Opal and Alexa. I still haven’t figured out what’s wrong with tourists. I think the Island might get a little boring without them.

  “Sure you don’t want that towel?” Cole asks. “I probably have a blanket around here, too.”

  “I’m okay.” I scan the dark blue water. Nothing jumps out of the Sound like the orcas I’ve seen on the advertisements for the whale-watching boats. “Is this the right place?”

  “We have to go just a bit more.” Cole waves to a spot in the Sound. “I’ll turn off the motor and we’ll wait.”

  “And I can swim.” I unzip my life jacket.

  Cole’s face turns red. “You’re not really going to swim.”

  “’Course.” I flip off my shirt. “I have this new suit.” I love my bikini, and I searched hard in Chicago to find it. I hoped I could go to the Island beach and lay in the sun on the hot sand. No one told me the Island beaches had rocks and not sand.

  “But it’s cold.” Cole grips the steering wheel.

  “I can handle it,” I say. “I know cold.” I smile to myself. I sound like Sammy.

  “People die.” Cole’s jaw muscles tense.

  “What?” I stare at Cole. What is wrong with him? He should be flirting and teasing me. Instead he’s acting like I did when Sammy ran across the street.

  Scared.

  “It’s just a short swim.” I stand up to get ready to take the big plunge. “I’m a very good swimmer.” I toss one leg over the side. “I took swim lessons at the Y when I was five.” I didn’t swim a lot in Chicago, but when I traveled with Dad on his photography shows, I always swam in the hotel pools. Swimming in the Sound can’t be much different than the pools. I just can’t see the bottom and, as my foot touches the water, it’s a little cold. I gasp and try to swallow the gasp. More than a little cold.

  “Jasmine, please.” Cole thumps his foot against the bottom of the boat. “You can die in seconds.” His voice rings with an edge I’ve never heard. I pull my foot out of the water. I haven’t really seen people swimming with the orcas or swimming at all in the Sound. I just thought it was something you could do—like swimming with the dolphins. But maybe Cole is right; maybe the water is so cold that people die. I want to impress Cole, not die.

  “Sammy’s Dad died in the water,” Cole says softly. “My uncle. It was last spring.”

  The motor idles, and in the sudden quiet I hear the waves slapping against the bottom of the boat. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself.

  Cole gazes at the water. “It was an accident,” he says. “His kayak flipped. He was too far out. The other boat didn’t see him.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m so cold now the last thing I even want to think about is taking a plunge in the water. I pull my top over my head and zip back into my life jacket. But I’m not sure how to warm my insides, which feel as cold as the water on my fingertips.

  Without looking at me, Cole turns on the engine. The motor hums and he turns the boat.

  I step forward and try to keep my balance as the boat rocks. I rest my hand on Cole’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.” And I do. I understand the pain of loving someone. I understand the grief when they leave, and most of all, I understand scared.

  With his left hand on the steering wheel, Cole slowly picks up my right hand and entwines his fingers with mine. “Look.” He nods toward a slick black head bobbing in the water.

  “Orcas!” I forget about being cold. I wait for the black head to leap out of the water.

  “Harbor seal.” Cole moves his fingers against my palm.

  “Where?” I search the water.

  “Over there.” Cole points toward a group of rocks. “Up on the hillside by the lighthouse.”

  A cluster of people gathered on a high cliff call, “Seal! Seal!”

  I swing forward, but my body sways too far left. I try to steady myself, but it’s too late. My legs slip out from beneath me and I land on my rear. Just as I’m ready to cry from embarrassment, Cole extends his hand. I grab onto his arm and let him pull me to me feet. In one swoop, Cole pulls me into his outstretched arms.

  “Thanks.” I say softly against his broad, strong chest. I know this is the moment. The delicious kissing moment. I raise my head. Cole’s lips move toward mine. I close my eyes. Cole’s cold lips briefly touch mine. But it’s not quite what I expected. Aren’t kisses supposed to be warm?

  Just as I’m trying to adjust to cold lips on mine, and hoping I’m doing everything right, the boat hits a wave. My lips slip away from Cole and in one toss, I tumble backwards toward the plastic seat. The giggles bubble and bubble until I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. Harbor seals instead of orcas, water that never warms up, rocky beaches, and a cold kiss from Cole. None of it expected. But somehow it doesn’t matter. Cole’s hands reach down and work their way through my hair. I’ve never felt so content in my life.

  Chapter Twelve

  I pull the soft green blanket to my face as a rooster crows outside my window. It’s chilly in the mornings, and I forgot to shut the window last night. A cool breeze blows through the room and gently moves the curtains.

  Stretching and yawning, I get out of bed and start what I call “The Jasmine Routine.” It’s something I’ve created in the last year, when I heard about the importance of setting the tone for your day from some motivational speaker at school. The speaker talked about using positive affirmations, but I adapted it to be “The Jasmine Routine.” First, I coat my legs with lotion and powder my arms with a matching bath powder, being careful not to dump on too much and make the scent too strong. Today I use Alexa’s rose petal soap and lotion. I slip out of my violet cotton nightgown, fold it into tiny squares, and place it inside the dresser dra
wer. Mom always lines the drawers with contact paper. She says it makes the drawers look nice and keeps out the dust. Uncle Jasper’s dressers don’t have contact paper. I lay the nightgown next to my folded t-shirts and hum as I think about yesterday’s boat ride with Cole.

  Cole.

  My insides still feel warm. I’ve never met a boy like him. A boy who understands me, and even better than that—I cap the lotion and can’t keep from smiling—a boy I think I understand.

  Uncle Jasper’s soft jazz floats down the hall. After pulling on my jeans, I grab my red cosmetic bag and head down the hall to the bathroom. On the way, I run my hands through my hair. Even if I use the small amount of gel that Mom’s hairdresser recommends, it doesn’t matter. My hair flies around my face in a mass of frizz within the hour. I sigh and push open the bathroom door. I plop my bag on the small sink and open a bottle of conditioner, then take a long, deep smell of lilac. The smell reminds me of home, and I forget about the cracked green tiles in front of me, and the mirror that I can barely see because it’s too high, and instead remember my spacious bathroom at home with the mirror set just at the right angle for my height. I bet Uncle Jasper and I can lower the mirror.

  Leaving my cosmetic bag tucked under the sink, I stop in the bedroom and grab my art bag, then head toward the kitchen. In the long narrow hallway, I listen for a sign of Uncle Jasper. There is nothing. The back door is open, and a fresh cold breeze blows across through the kitchen.

  “Uncle Jasper?”

  I look around the small kitchen. There isn’t one sign that Uncle Jasper likes to cook. Not like at home, or at least the kitchen that used to be at home before Mom started the makeover. At home, grocery lists used to overflow with ideas for the next fabulous meal, stacks of cookbooks lined a brown shelf, and Dad always had some cooking utensil out on the counter. The gadgets, he called them. And there was always something cooking. It didn’t matter the time of day. Dad cooked fabulous cheesecakes from scratch. Or he’d chop onions and green peppers and throw it all together with spices.

  I pull open a cabinet drawer and grab a slice of bread, then slip it into the toaster. I stare out the small kitchen window into a backyard of tall evergreens and what looks like grass with a lot of wildflowers. The toast pops. I yank it out and dab chunks of yellow butter on the top. Balancing my toast in one hand, and my art bag on my right shoulder, I head out the back door.

  “Uncle Jasper!” I call as I walk toward an old shed with a moss-covered roof.

  “Come on in,” Jasper yells. He waves an arm out the window. “Around this way.”

  I push past blackberry vines that scratch at my bare legs. I pick one of the ripe berries and hold it between my fingers. The purple juice rolls down my ring finger, and I lick it before it touches my silver ring.

  “Morning, Jasmine.” Uncle Jasper stands in doorway. He wears another flannel shirt and holds a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Morning.” I step past Uncle Jasper and walk into the shed. I hope he and I can work together like Dad and me, but it’s dark inside, and there’s no way I’ll be able to do art in the dark. My eyes try to adjust. I squint and ask, “Why is it so dark?”

  “Trees,” Uncle Jasper says. “They cover the light. I’ve got to get them cut, but I haven’t had a chance yet.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “The contest is announced today. Need a ride to town for the picnic and celebration?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I can ride my bike.” I’ve gotten so I kind of like riding my bike. Plus, maybe Cole and I can ride home together.

  “Did you have a nice time with Cole and the orcas?” Uncle Jasper asks as he sets his coffee on his worktable.

  I flush. “You can’t swim with the orcas,” I say. “It’s too cold.”

  “Mmm…” Uncle Jasper says. I think I hear the smile in his voice.

  “But we took some pictures,” I say. I reach into my art bag. After I’d stopped laughing at ending up on the bottom of the boat, Cole had surprised me and pulled out a small camera from the side seat pocket. We’d spent the afternoon snapping pictures of the orcas, the tourists, and a couple of ourselves. Afterward, we’d ridden our bikes over to the pharmacy.

  In the shed, I reach inside my bag and grab the camera. A piece of paper falls out with the pictures.

  “Dropped something.” Uncle Jasper takes the pictures from my hand.

  I pick up the paper as Uncle Jasper begins to flip through the photos. “Pretty good eye,” he says. “Some of these came out quite well.”

  As Uncle Jasper looks at the orca photos, I unfold the paper. It’s the listing of the Summer Art Exhibits that the Art Palace had sent. The one from the e-mail that I’d printed at the library. I read quickly. I know most of the artists; they’re Dad’s friends. Samantha Parkinson, Sculpture. Gregory Baker, Design.

  And then, halfway down the page, I freeze. William Baast, Photographer.

  The words blur. I have to reread. Am I seeing things?

  But no, when I read again, there it is. William Baast. Photography.

  Dad is showing his photography? In Chicago? I check the dates. In two weeks? It has to be a mistake. Dad is gone. In Africa. I clutch the paper. It’s all a misprint. A mistake. Someone used the same flyer from last year and just transferred his name. Or maybe he was supposed to show his photography, and the Arts Council signed him up for the show before he went to Africa, and he hasn’t been in touch with them. Just like me.

  “Everything okay?” Uncle Jasper asks as he hands me back the photographs. I take the pictures and drop them into my bag.

  “I gotta go call Mom, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I run back to the house. I drop my art bag on the table and dash toward the hallway table and the phone.

  I dial our number. My hands shake.

  The phone rings once. Twice.

  “Hello?” Mom answers.

  “He’s back!”

  “Who is?” Mom asks. She sounds distracted.

  “Dad.” I clutch the phone. “He’s back.”

  “Jasmine?” Uncle Jasper steps up behind me and places his hands lightly on my shoulders.

  “No,” Mom says. “I mean, yes, he’s back in Chicago. But no, he’s not back at home.” Her voice is soft and I have to strain to hear.

  “But have you talked to him?” I twirl the cord into a tight ball.

  “Yes,” Mom says in the same soft voice. “I talked to him.”

  “And you told him I’m on the Island?”

  “He didn’t ask,” Mom says in a voice so sad it makes me hurt for both of us.

  Uncle Jasper squeezes my shoulders gently as I stand like a statue.

  “He didn’t ask about me?” I can barely speak into the phone. “What has he been doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom says. “His art, I imagine.”

  “His art?” His art is more important than me? I can barely breathe. I hoped Dad missed me. I thought he was just busy. But the truth is Dad doesn’t want to see me. And if he doesn’t want to see me, then I have done something terribly wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  My throat closes and I can’t talk.

  “Let me talk to her.” Uncle Jasper lifts the phone from my hands.

  My legs crumble and I slide down the wall. I can’t even cry. The pain is too deep.

  “Jasmine?” Uncle Jasper replaces the phone and slowly kneels down beside me. “I’m sorry.”

  Mutely I nod.

  “I’m leaving for the picnic in about thirty minutes, okay?”

  Again I nod without speaking.

  Dad is home.

  “Salmon?” Uncle Jasper twirls the silver barbeque spatula. Splatters of red sauce dot the front of his black and white checkered apron and his tall chef’s hat. I still feel like I’ve been shot by a stun gun, but I try to put on a happy face at the picnic.

  “I’ll just take a plate.” My stomach feels tight, and I don’t think I can eat. A flock of white and gray seagulls soars above my head. Their cries echo across th
e inlet. I want to fly with them and cry too.

  “Italian sodas are over there.” Uncle Jasper waves toward a drink stand set up on the edge of the beach park.

  “Okay,” I say, and try to smile at Uncle Jasper. “Maybe later.”

  I scan the park for the blue and white Port-O-Potty. The last thing I want is to kneel over a toilet in the ground, but I need to know where it is—just in case. I shiver as I imagine throwing up in a Port-O-Potty, and afterwards having to face Cole with breath that smells like throw-up. Where is Cole? I search the far end of the park, where a game of baseball is taking place.

  “Potato salad!”

  Sammy’s small voice interrupts my thoughts. I step out of the line with my empty plate. Even as nervous and upset as I am, Sammy’s voice makes me feel better. I scoop up a bottle of water from a blue cooler and look around for a place to sit. It’s crowded at the park. I think the whole Island, and then some, has turned out for the picnic. Most of the benches are filled with groups of people who don’t seem to notice a twelve-year-old girl needing a place to sit.

  As I step around families sprawling on red and black checkered blankets, the ache throbs inside me. I once tried to convince Mom and Dad to go to a school picnic. Mom had said, “Why do I want to sit outside when I can sit inside and eat my salad without bugs?” Dad said that he had work to do.

  A group of squealing children pulls me out of my thoughts. Down the steep grassy hillside, on the rocky beach where the dark waters of the Sound lap at its edges, four girls move small gray and black rocks into the shape of a castle. I wonder if they’ve ever seen a beach with sand, or if they think all beaches are rocky like the Island’s beaches.

  I finally find a picnic table to the right of the stage, where only one person sits. As I step closer, I see it’s Alexa. Grateful for a familiar face, I head toward her. I pass the stage and take a quick inventory of the stained glass pieces. The pieces sparkle in the sun and throw red, yellow and blue lines across the dead brown grass. None of them have ribbons. Yet.