Say Yes Summer

by Lindsey Roth Culli

  Maybe she’s right.

  “It’s not all bad, this book. These past several weeks you’ve been carefree in a way you haven’t since you were small.” Nonna runs her fingers through my hair, starting a braid crown. “You think I don’t notice, that I don’t see, but I do. And I know that for such a long time you’ve been holding yourself together so that even if everything else in the world went wrong, at least your mom wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

  Nonna pulls the strands tight as she loops them into a braid around my head. She tugs me back with her as she leans toward my dresser so she can grab a band and a bobby pin without letting go. “My hope for you is that when you’re out on your own, you’ll finally feel freed from that burden. It was never yours to carry. And besides, your mom is in a good place now. We are all of us in a good place.”

  Great. I am full on crying again, trying not to move my head so that Nonna doesn’t have to start over. “You’re right,” I say between sniffles. Of course she’s right. I think part of the reason I worked so hard, stayed on the course, and said no to things was because I didn’t want to upset my mom or worry her. I couldn’t change what my father did, but at the very least, I could make sure I didn’t fail her. “I know we are.”

  That’s when someone clears their throat in the doorway: “There room for one more on that bed?” my mom asks, wiping her own damp face with the back of one hand.

  “Always,” Nonna says, letting out a quiet oof as she shifts on the mattress. “See?” she tells me, gesturing down at herself. “Old.”

  I ignore her. “How long have you been standing there?” I ask my mom.

  “Long enough.” She crosses the carpet and squishes in between Nonna and me, her corona of dark hair brushing my cheek. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I need you to understand that you were never, ever a burden. And you were not a mistake.” She grabs my cheeks in her hands. “You are one of the greatest joys of my life. I wouldn’t change my past, because as hard as that all was, it brought me you.”

  I swallow what feels like a balled-up pair of socks wedged at the back of my throat. “Really?”

  She smiles through her own tears. “Absolutely. And I’m sorry if you ever, ever felt like you had to protect me. I was the one trying to protect you.”

  And now we’re crying and hugging and Nonna wraps her arms around both of us, holding us all together in that way she always does. “I’m sorry about last night too. I hate that I made you and Dad worry,” I say between sniffs. “I promise that it won’t happen again.”

  Mom hugs me tighter to her chest. “I don’t know that you can promise that. But you can promise to try to make better choices, okay?”

  “And when you make mistakes, to learn from them,” Nonna adds.

  “Deal.”

  “So what’s this about a self-help book?” Mom asks, releasing me from the embrace. Nonna and I exchange glances and laugh, and I fill Mom in on everything that went down the last few weeks. To her credit, Mom doesn’t even wince when I tiptoe over some of the more embarrassing parts.

  “Wow. Well, I’m glad you learned these important life lessons before you were no longer under my roof.” She shakes her head. “But if you want to go back to saying no more often, I’d be okay with that.”

  Nonna clicks her teeth and nudges her shoulder into Mom’s. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Nut doesn’t fall far from the bush,” Mom counters immediately, nudging Nonna back. “So what happened with the boys, though?”

  Ugh. “Miles and Clayton?”

  Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Miles. As in Vandenberg?”

  “That’s the one.” I nod and throw myself back against the pillows. “I don’t think I’ll have to say no to either of them anymore.”

  Nonna shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.” There’s a suggestion in her tone, one that most anyone else wouldn’t pick up on but I know Nonna. And I know when I’m being chastened.

  “But I do need to apologize,” I say, answering the question Nonna hasn’t asked.

  Mom and Nonna nod together. “Oh, definitely. And no matter what you decide or how you proceed, be kind to both of them,” Nonna says.

  I sigh. “I know.” The trouble is, it doesn’t much matter which of them I want to be with. At this point, I’m pretty sure neither of them want anything to do with me.

  And I can’t say I blame either one.

  I’m pretty sure that when Dr. Paula was encouraging her readers to open themselves up to new experiences, she didn’t mean filling out gym membership forms with fake information as part of a top-secret recon mission. Still, I like to think she’d be proud if she wandered out of the locker room at Club Fit dressed in full ’80s Jazzercise regalia and saw me today.

  Let’s be clear, I have zero intention of joining this torture cult—physical fitness is a bridge too far, even for my summer of yes—but with only a few days before I’m due to pack up and leave for Northwestern, I am running out of options, and quick. Clayton hasn’t answered any of my phone calls. He won’t return any of my texts. I went to his house, but the driveway was empty, and while some—okay, most—people might argue that his silence is an answer in itself, I can’t face the idea of heading off to college without doing absolutely everything I can to try and repair things. Or at least explain myself.

  Which is how I wound up here—dutifully pretending to be even remotely interested in toning my biceps, dropping Clayton’s name as the person who referred me. “Do you happen to know if he already came by today?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can manage.

  A few keystrokes later and the front desk attendant—Jennifer, according to her name badge—looks back up. “He’s here right now, actually.” She glances around the front area, which is all cardio equipment. “If you don’t see him out here, he’s probably in the weight room.”

  Jackpot.

  She offers me a tour, but I shake my head. “You know, on second thought, I’m going to pass on the membership. Thanks, though!” I offer her my brightest, sanest smile before darting out of the gym before she can process what’s just happened. It’s the most running I’ve done all summer, and by the time I flop down on a nearby bench to wait I’m breathing hard.

  I brought a book—fiction this time, thank you (I’m done with self-improvement for a while)—but I keep having to read the same line over and over again, glancing up every thirty seconds to see if he’s coming. I scratch at a mosquito bite on my ankle. I think for the hundredth time about giving up and going home.

  I’ve been lurking on my bench for the better part of an hour when finally the sliding doors of the gym whoosh open and Clayton and Ethan stroll out, both of them dressed in mesh shorts and T-shirts with their backpacks slung over one shoulder. They look like an American Eagle ad, poster boys for the fresh air of Western Michigan and genetically modified corn.

  God, what do I think I’m doing?

  Ethan sees me first, a knowing smirk spreading across his face as he nudges Clayton with one elbow. “Gotta go,” he says cheerfully, offering an exaggerated salute before peeling off in the direction of the parking lot. Then, more loudly: “ ’Sup, Walls?”

  Clayton looks in my direction at the sound of my name, his face going on a real emotional journey at the sight of me: surprise, annoyance, trepidation. Back around to annoyance again. He glances at Ethan’s retreating back, like he’s hoping for reinforcement. Then he scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “What do you want, Rach?”

  It’s a simple question with a complicated answer. I could just let Clayton go off to Milwaukee hating my guts. He doesn’t owe me absolution. But I owe him. Even if he won’t hear me out. “You’re ignoring my texts,” I tell him, springing up off the bench and crossing the distance between us, choosing for the moment to focus on the nickname and not the tone behind it.

  “I wish you’d
just leave me alone.”

  “I’m going to, I promise. I just needed to talk to you first, and I couldn’t get a hold of you any other way.”

  “Yeah, well.” Clayton starts walking again, crossing the patch of grass that leads toward the sidewalk and heading down Main Street in the opposite direction of DiPasquale’s. Oh my God, did he walk all the way here from his house? Is he one of those people who runs to the gym? “Most people would take the hint.”

  “That…is true,” I agree, jogging a little to keep up with him. “But I’m not most people.”

  Clayton snorts a little. “That’s a fact.” He’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of cars on the road and a baby crying on the Ground Up patio. Then he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “So,” he says without breaking his stride, “talk.”

  “Oh!” Holy crap, this guy is a fast walker. Already I’m a little out of breath. “Okay. Um. Well, first of all, I wanted to apologize,” I tell him, trying not to sound like a fish gasping for water. “For lots of things, but especially for being a hypocrite and for not being honest about, well, a lot.”

  Clayton nods, just barely. “Okay,” he says, still not slowing.

  “I’ve liked you for forever, Clayton,” I say, keeping my brisk pace. “I mean, you have to know that. You basically told me you knew that. I liked you so much that when it seemed like maybe you actually liked me back, my brain just shorted out with all the reasons why that probably couldn’t be a real thing that was happening. I acted like a maniac, just to try and keep myself from getting hurt. And at the same time I was reading this demented book and trying to say yes to everything, even when it started to feel like maybe all the yes-saying was making me do things I didn’t want to do and forget who I actually was, but the truth is I’m the same person I’ve always been.”

  Clayton glances in my direction, raising an eyebrow. “And who’s that, exactly?”

  “Kind of a no person,” I admit, fully wheezing now. Ugh, I should have joined the gym after all. “Kind of awkward. Kind of a mess.”

  In the back of my head, it occurs to me that I’m feeling a little bit light-headed; dark spots dance in front of my eyes. Still, I’m determined to get this all out. “For the longest time, I had this idea of you in my head, and I thought there was no way you’d live up to it. But then the real person turned out to be even better than I’d imagined. And he—you—didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you.”

  Clayton slows and finally stops where he’s standing; he looks at me for a long moment. “Rachel,” he says, just the two quiet syllables.

  That’s when I keel over in the grass in front of the village hall.

  * * *

  When I open my eyes, Clayton’s kneeling beside me on the grass, a bottle of water in one hand and a granola bar in the other. “Drink this,” he instructs, holding the water up to my lips.

  I take a messy gulp and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still dizzy. “I think my heart exploded,” I announce.

  Clayton looks at me. “I…don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “It might be,” I argue.

  “I doubt it,” he says.

  “You’re a fast walker.”

  “I’m impressed you kept up.”

  “Yeah, well.” I take a deep breath, another sip of the water. “It was important. Because I really am sorry. And I couldn’t stand the idea of you leaving without knowing that.”

  Clayton stands and reaches out his hand to help me to my feet. I know I must look like a horror show, red-faced and sweaty. Still, I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t seem to mind. “So when do you take off for Evanston?”

  “Soon.” But not soon enough, honestly. “You still leaving next week?”

  Clayton nods. “Going to be weird, you know? Not being here.” He glances around the lawn of the village hall, the place where he, like me, has spent every childhood Fourth of July stretched out on a picnic blanket eating bomb pops and watching the annual parade.

  “Will you miss it?” I ask.

  “Some things, yeah.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “But also, I think I’m ready to move on.”

  I nod, thinking how this could be the last time we’re ever together like this. “Well, I’m glad I finally got to know you, Clayton Carville.”

  Clayton looks at me for a moment. “Me too,” he says softly. His face breaks into a grin. “See you around, Rachel Walls.”

  Miles calls in sick to work the following day. “Stomach flu,” my dad reports, keying an order into the register before calling over his shoulder: “Two boats! Italian combo with hots, plus a pig and Swiss.” He turns back to me. “Can you handle the Cream Cart on your own?”

  “Sure thing,” I promise, though it turns out the shift feels endless without Miles there to crack jokes and benignly annoy me the whole time. I think about texting him—having a shitty time, wish you were here—but something tells me he probably wouldn’t answer.

  Once I’m finally done, I walk home to shower off the gelato, taking my time as I pass by the shops along the strip near DiPasquale’s: Mr. Thompson’s antique store, Ground Up, that dicey bar on the corner of Main that’s always open when it seems like it should be closed and closed when you’d think it would be open. It’s weird to think that these are all places I’ve known forever, places I’ve seen every day for basically my entire life, and in a few short weeks, I won’t see them anymore. For years I’ve been counting down the days until I could leave, and now that it’s actually almost here, I realize how badly I’m going to miss all of it.

  Once I’m showered and dressed, I fuss with my hair for a while in front of the bathroom mirror, pick at the beginning of a zit on my chin. It’s only when I’m wondering idly if I should get highlights that I realize I’m fully stalling. I take a deep breath, then head downstairs and out the front door toward Miles’s.

  It takes less time than I expect to get over there, and I stop short a few houses down—stretching my arms and legs like a runner about to start a marathon, trying to psych myself up a little. This is a new experience for me. One by-product of never really doing much of anything is that you never really do that much wrong, either. When it comes to apologizing—just like basically everything else in life—I don’t have a ton of experience. There’s never been that much of a need.

  Until now.

  Now I’m doing it for the second time in as many days. Finally I tell myself to stop being such a weenie—after all, no matter what else has happened between us or what will happen, it’s still Miles—and knock on the Vandenbergs’ front door. It feels like ages before I hear Miles’s footsteps on the other side, cautious; he’s obviously hesitating, so I knock again. “I know you’re in there,” I say.

  Finally he opens the door halfway, staring at me from the threshold. “We don’t want any,” he says flatly.

  “Very funny.” I shrug then, a little bit helpless. “I messed up.”

  Miles tilts his dark head to the side, considering that for a moment. “I mean, yeah,” he says, not quite looking at me. “Pretty much.”

  “I didn’t respect you. I didn’t think about your feelings. I wanted so badly to say yes to everything this summer that I, like, turned into this experience-gobbling monster, and you were just, like…one of the things that got gobbled up.”

  “Seriously?” Miles looks almost amused by how bad I am at this. “ ‘Sorry I gobbled you up like a giant monster’?”

  “I’m trying, okay? I’m not good at this!” I protest, laughing a little, but then the laugh turns into something else halfway out and suddenly it feels like I might burst into tears right here on Miles’s front porch, site of any number of lemonade stands and snowsuit adjustments and homemade ice pops consumed side by side.

  “Look,” I tell him, “I made so many stupid mistakes this summer. Honest
ly, I was trying to figure out a lot of things. Things about myself. Things about life in general. But none of that is an excuse, because the biggest mistake I made was hurting you. I hate that I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.”

  Miles crosses his arms over his chest, his attention wandering across the street. I turn around and follow his gaze. A car is pulling into Bethany’s driveway. We watch as Mrs. Lewis—at least, a woman about Julie’s age who I assume is Mrs. Lewis—pulls a couple of grocery bags out of the trunk, running her fingers through her ashy blond hair before straightening her shoulders and heading inside. Even from all the way across the street, she looks gaunt and exhausted.

  “Okay.” Miles blows a breath out, his shoulders slumping. “As long as we’re being honest about our monstrous tendencies here, I guess I should probably tell you something too.”

  I raise an eyebrow, tuck my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. “Okay?”

  He pauses a minute and sits down on the stoop. “The truth is…it’s possible I knew more about what was going on—or, like, what wasn’t going on—between Bethany and Clayton than I necessarily told you.”

  I blink. “Meaning what, exactly?” I sit down next to him.

  He nods toward Bethany’s house. “I mean, I don’t know everything, but obviously there’s some kind of giant domestic implosion happening over there. That night Clayton came over, there had been all kinds of theatrics—like her dad’s clothes getting thrown out on the lawn, my mom all worked up about whether she should call the cops, that kind of thing. And then later on I saw Bethany and Clayton hanging out on the porch, and…I don’t know. It didn’t seem particularly romantic. They weren’t, like, canoodling or anything. They basically just sat out there eating chips.”