by Ann Jacobus
Oh, yeah. Mom.
She’s heard nothing from Kurt. He’s probably fine. Obviously, he’s not concerned about whether she’s fine or not. Unfortunately, his fascinated stare, the strange negative electricity of him, his smell, and their freaking padlock on the Pont des Arts are all superglued in her brain. But even at her most crush-conquered, there’s something slick and jaded about him. He ditches her at the worst possible time.
“Mom?” She should be home now. Summer shuffles down to her room. Maybe in San Francisco she’ll just get a GED. Then figure out college.
Mom’s packing, about to go to the airport again. Her rosy perfume lingers in the air. She zippers her leather roller bag with determination.
“I got a call from the dean of students this morning,” Mom says coldly. “In the middle of a meeting.”
“Mr. Evans? He and I are best buds.” But Summer knows she’s busted.
“I told him you were sick.”
“I was. Thanks.”
“You have five unexcused absences in four weeks. The limit is four excused per semester. You lied to the school, told them I knew. He also said you were flunking five out of six of your classes.”
“Which one am I not flunking?” Being treated like a ten-year-old sucks, but she deserves it.
“Concert Choir.”
“There must be some mistake,” Summer says, grinning. “I never go to that class.”
Mom not only doesn’t smile, her lip quivers. She says, “You’re eighteen years old. You can obviously do whatever you want. If you fail this term, and don’t graduate”—her voice cracks and she shakes her head—“what are we going to do? I really don’t know what to do anymore.”
Summer stiffens. Oh, crap. Mom’s pulled strings, paid lots of bills, and just wants her to do her part. What Mom thinks is best for her. “I’m pretty much up-to-date now in all my classes. I would have turned in a bunch of stuff today if I hadn’t been sick. I’ll—I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“The terms of the will are very clear. You must finish the semester and get your diploma now.” Mom takes a big drag and blows the smoke out in a thin white stream as she stares out the tall double window. Like steam screeching out of a kettle.
Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Mom asks evenly, “What do you plan to do with your life if you lose the money? Live with me?”
Summer pauses. “No.” She doesn’t plan to do anything. She bows her head.
There it is. Schoolwork and her inheritance, let alone a plan for young adulthood, have all felt like a waste of time because she knows she won’t be around to suffer it.
Mom says, “Instead of going to Jonesboro, maybe you should stay here through the year. We could enroll you at ACP.” The American College of Paris. Mom sighs and rubs her eyebrows. “Then transfer to some San Francisco college or wherever the hell you want. But first, you have to graduate. This is not a problem for millions of other kids and I know you know how to do it.” She pulls the handle up on her bag with a violent thunk. “I’ll see you day after tomorrow. Go study, for god’s sake.”
She clip-clops out. Summer locks herself in her room and lies down gingerly on her bed. She comes from a long line of runners-away.
Mom’s right, of course, and she doesn’t know the half of it. She can’t run away again. Why is this ice rut of hers so deep and difficult to break out of? It’s more like a luge run. She has to deal. Buckle down. She could really lose all that money, be forced to watch it go into the bank account of some hardcore, good ol’ boy, right-wing charity. That would suck.
Maybe she should confide in Kurt. He might have some ideas to help her out. Mom would love Kurt, if Summer introduced them. He’s so presentable—looks, fancy Euro family, probably educated.
No. That’s a good example of a bad choice and one she’s made too many times already. With his help, she’s going to blow up majorly, again. By hanging out with him and calling him, she’s encouraged him way too much.
She can’t confide in him, she has to stay away from him.
Get a grip. This is where the rubber really meets the road, girlfriend.
She needs to talk to Moony.
THIRTY
Summer sits on her bed. That little fairy Hope kickboxes all her sore rib bones. She texts Moony after composing and deleting her message several times.
Are you speaking to me? If not, I understand.
She hopes with a burning, aching pain, like thawing frozen extremities, that he will forgive her. Again. She didn’t argue with her other friends once they got fed up with her.
Moony expects the most from her. And even though she disappoints him like everyone else, maybe he hasn’t given up yet. Fingers crossed. Anyway, she’ll keep asking him.
Five minutes later he replies:
I am. But home sick today.
She pumps the air with her fist, falls back on her pillow and breathes out in relief and frustration. Another chance, thank heavens. But Moony’s sick! Through the fog of her own problems, she hasn’t focused on him. His physical health makes her more anxious than she already is.
Sorry! Get well quick. Check with you later.
Summer goes to school the next morning, but doesn’t see Moony. Afraid he’s still sick, she texts him.
I’m at school. Are you here?
Yep. I’ll catch you later.
She collects all her assignments, talks to her French teacher in bad French, and turns in an English Lit essay, even though it’s weak. She learns she missed a major math project and has to make it up before finals. She goes to the library at lunch and tries to concentrate on trigonometry, sneaking only one gulp from her half-liter plastic Evian water bottle-cum-flask.
That afternoon, several kids surround Moony at his locker, so she waits and approaches him after they leave. His face is pale and haggard, and he coughs from deep in his lungs.
“Gosh, that sounds good.” She gently touches him on the arm and almost asks if he’s okay, then stops herself. She’s going to have to find out about his health some other way since he won’t talk to her about it.
He answers anyway, “I’m okay. You?” He’s squinting at her. “You look … tired.”
“I look tired? I’m great,” she says, managing a cheerful smile. Too bad she went the low-hygiene, absolutely-no-makeup route this morning. “Really, fine. But wondering why you sound like a tubercular street person.”
Moony’s face goes stony.
Summer says quickly, “I’m really in need of academic bolstering. Trig. Tomorrow. Help.” She does need his help—desperately—but to ask just occurred to her. She hopes she doesn’t sound opportunistic.
He relaxes into a smile. “No sweat. Trig, huh?”
“Yeah, I know. You aced it years ago.”
“After school?”
“No rehearsal, right?”
“Not today. And Miranda canned you. Three no-shows. Sorry.”
“Oh, crap. That’s terrible. Guess that’s the way it goes.”
“Can tell you’re broken up.”
She smiles, then says in all seriousness, “But I am sorry to let you down.”
He puts his good hand on her shoulder. “Thanks. You ruined my credibility.”
“Really?” She’s alarmed.
“No.” He gives her a weak smile. “Meet me at my locker after seventh.”
* * *
After last period they head across the wide courtyard toward the lower school. Moony invites Summer to ride home to his apartment with his mom. She’s honored, but is a little worried about meeting Ms. Butterfield.
They walk in amiable silence. She wants to tell him about the catacombs, still so painfully fresh in her mind. And Kurt. That she’s keeping him mostly a secret from Moony gnaws hard at her. Where to start?
Moony stops, convulsed with coughing, and she pounds him on the back. He shakes his head in an I’m all right kind of way, or maybe it means Thanks but don’t say anything. Then they enter the lower school.
Ms. Butterfield’
s third-grade classroom is bright and cheery, festooned with colored construction-paper chains, student artwork, plants, and posters. Moony’s mom has shoulder-length brown hair framing a gently plump, fair-skinned face and blue eyes. She’s putting on her coat and smiles hugely when she sees Moony. It fades when she notices Summer.
“Mom, this is my friend Summer, coming over for tutoring. Summer, my ma, Karen Butterfield.”
They shake hands. Summer’s smiling too big and stops.
In the parking lot, Summer squeezes into the back of Ms. Butterfield’s compact hatchback, ignoring the pain from her ribs. It’s tight but she realizes proudly it would have been worse at her old weight. She feels Moony’s mom’s appraising and disapproving gaze in the rearview mirror and can’t keep from wiggling her nose ring. Moony’s mom peels out of the parking lot.
“Summer, what brought you to Paris?” she asks at a red light, her tone revealing that she already knows full well.
“Um, Air France.”
Moony laughs, then coughs, but Ms. Butterfield is not amused. Summer watches her in the mirror.
“Just kidding,” says Summer. Don’t be defensive, she tells herself. “My mother lives here most of the year.”
“Where were you before?”
“At St. Jude’s School.”
“But you just arrived. In the middle of the semester.” Moony must have told her.
“Yep. I was expelled.”
“What for? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Mom,” says Moony, frowning.
She sighs. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“No, it’s okay,” says Summer. “For substance abuse infringement.” She doesn’t mention it was the third time at the fourth school in five years.
“That’ll do it,” Ms. Butterfield says. But she seems satisfied and launches into a story about a third-grader who wanted to know what “tempted by the fruit of another” meant, and they all laugh. Summer knows she got off easy and crosses her fingers after the fact.
Ms. Butterfield parks and they walk half a block down a market street that smells like fresh-baked baguettes. Fruit and vegetable hawkers, blue-coveralled Frenchmen, bleat out the day’s specials. This afternoon, at least at one stall, it’s haricots verts.
Moony’s building is off a side street, and only four stories high instead of the usual six. He punches in the code, and they climb the narrow staircase to the top floor since they won’t all fit into the miniscule elevator. Summer has to catch her breath. Moony does, too, and he looks mad about it.
Inside, it smells faintly of lavender air freshener and burnt toast. Moony and his mom remove their shoes, so Summer takes her boots off and leaves them next to the shoe rack by the door.
The small apartment is lined with windows and skylights. A scratchy living room couch sits on dark red and blue Oriental rugs, and a brass Arabic coffeepot perches on the shelves lined with books. In one corner of the room is a heap of crutches of all sizes, and contraptions—probably leg braces.
“Work in my room,” he says. “Snack?”
“Whatever you’re having,” Summer says. “Bathroom?”
Moony shows her, and Summer pulls out her water bottle as soon as the door is closed, and pours all the vodka into the toilet.
THIRTY-ONE
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” says Moony, leaving the door to the hallway partially open. A single bed with a dark-green-and-white-striped spread is tucked into the corner of his small room. An armoire fills the other corner. A brass lamp glows. Everything is in military order.
His desk and bookshelf take up the other end of the space. On a shelf sits a photo of Moony when he was about eight, before his accident. A perfect little boy with large new front teeth stands beside a man in a white Arabian headdress with the black cord coiled around his crown.
“Your dad,” Summer says, leaning closer to study it. The man looks intelligently through wire-rimmed glasses with a hint of mischief in his eyes, and probably a good sense of humor. He grins into the camera, gripping and clearly proud of his handsome, big-toothed son.
“That’s him.” Moony offers her some pistachios.
“Thanks. What do you call the headdress?”
Moony leans in over her just as she straightens up. His head dodges hers as their faces come within inches and her breast brushes his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says. “A ghutrah. In the Gulf.”
Summer steps back. “Gu-tra. Cool,” she says. Is her breath okay? “Lawrence of Arabia–like.” She really should have worn one of her new tops and put on some zit cover-up, at least.
Moony shakes his head. “Lawrence of Arabia was an imperialist interloper.” He crunches some cracked pistachios.
“Whatever you say. Do you see your dad very often?” She eats a couple, too.
“Not really. We talk, he sends YouTube links, money.”
“Is he rich?”
Moony smiles. “No. But not poor. Works for the Ministry of the Interior.” He pauses. “Go to Kuwait every year, usually Christmas break. Not this year.”
“Why?” She backs up against the armoire.
“Operation.”
She grabs her opening. “So what kind of operation are you having?”
“It’s boring.”
“Not to me.”
He plops down stiffly in his desk chair that’s only a couple of feet from the bed and frowns. Says nothing.
“But it would be good if he were here for it, wouldn’t it? Won’t he come visit you?” She hears that she’s talking all fast.
“Can’t this time.”
“Oh.”
“Not crazy about his second wife. Treats me like a freak.”
Her mouth falls open. How could anyone treat Moony like a freak? “That’s ridiculous! I’d like to gore her with my tusks.”
“Ha!” he says, then coughs.
Balancing on the narrow bookshelf crammed with books is a red felt board paved with Cub Scout patches, a signed baseball, a photo of the Paris-St. Germain soccer team, and a model of some molecule. And dozens and dozens of medication boxes and bottles. He presses two pills out of a blister pack as she stares, then swallows them without water.
“Meds,” he explains needlessly. “Have a seat.” He indicates the bed. “You’re pacing.”
A small photo of a full-faced, pretty but serious-looking twenty-something woman with glasses sits behind a yellow model Ferrari. A slight mustache shades her upper lip.
“Is she a relative?” Summer asks, sitting and crossing her legs.
“No. Old friend.”
“Hmm. An older woman.”
“Maybe. Time to work.”
Textbooks are lined up on his desk, along with his computer, calculator, stacks of notebooks, and index cards. Blue and red flyers from his part-time Web site design and computer trouble-shooting business, are stacked in the corner.
She pulls out the trig book and winces from the pain in her side. Moony looks at her funny.
“Sore rib,” she says.
He sits beside her on his bed and explains the chapter the test was on, drawing rough equations. He makes it easy. He smells like spring breezy soap, and … golden wheat. While he leans over their work and talks, she tries not to get distracted by his close warmth and how incredibly cute he is. How smart and patient. His brown eyes study her hair, and her neck, and her hands with the nails bitten to the quick, which she then folds into fists. He prolongs any closeness, pulling away slowly.
“What are you, like first or second in the senior class?” she asks, after successfully completing three problems for him and getting rewarded with gummy bears.
“Second.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Summer asks.
“Help kids with rehabilitation.” Side by side, now their shoulders press together.
“A juvenile prison guard?” She grins. Body contact is so awesome. It’s weird she almost never touches anyone. With the unsettling exception recently of Kurt.
>
He laughs. “Physical rehabilitation. They’ll know if I can do it, anyone can.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m up for full scholarship,” he says. “University of Missouri.” His knee bumps hers and doesn’t leave.
“Moony, that’s fantastic! Congratulations.” She pats him on the back.
“Don’t have it yet. Will let you know.”
“I certainly hope so,” she says.
“You?”
“What?”
“Said you have to finish college by twenty-two. Then what?”
She scoots back on the bed. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought. I need to. Um, I guess I can do whatever I want.”
“Chicken business?”
“No way. Couldn’t even if I wanted to. It was sold.”
“So…?” He waits. “Interested in…?”
She pulls her knees up. “I don’t know.” She’s not going to say studying death across cultures. She snorts. A deathologist.
He nods, like that’s okay with him. He moves to his desk chair. “Truth or dare.”
“Goody. Truth,” says Summer.
“How many boarding schools have you gone to?”
“Uh, four,” she says. “Not counting PAIS.”
“Since ninth grade?”
“Since eighth grade. Truth for you?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s the lady in the photo?”
“My favorite nurse.”
“That is so sweet.” Summer could sit on her and squash her, too.
“My turn. Why five schools?”
She hugs her knees. “I was asked not to come back the next year, or I was kicked out.”
“Why?” he asks again.
“That counts as a separate question. But I’ll answer it. Getting caught with alcohol or drugs, failing grades, or all of the above.”
“Had a drink recently?” He raises that scarred eyebrow.
She hesitates, but decides against arguing with him about the rules of the game. “Define recently.” She glances at him. “Okay, scratch that. One gulp at lunch.”
He can’t hide his concern. “At school?”
“Um, yeah.”
Moony beams his good eye at Summer. “You don’t need help with trig,” he announces.