Summer Days and Summer Nights

by Stephanie Perkins

  The other passengers continued to laugh.

  Marigold gave North an exaggerated pout.

  “I know. It’s hard.” His mischievous gleam intensified. “This is a magnificent mountain. It’s tall and stately and—some might say—incredibly handsome.”

  Marigold covered a snort with her hand.

  “The other mountains you’ll meet on future road trips will have far less appeal, but … you had your chance.” North gave a rueful shake of his head. “You chose to come down. There’s no going back up.”

  The rest of the car still didn’t realize anything out of the ordinary was happening, until Marigold’s voice rang out, loud and clear: “But what if we like this mountain? What if we can’t even see the other mountains because we’re so infatuated with the one standing right before us?”

  She felt a growing number of eyes on the back of her head, but she kept her own eyes on North. The lines of his face were solemn. Mock, at first. And then something more genuine. “It sounds like you like this mountain a lot,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “I see.”

  “Today wasn’t my first visit. When I left the last time, it destroyed me, but I didn’t understand why. I just … couldn’t stop thinking about it. The mountain,” she clarified. “So I returned to uncover the reason.”

  North paused. “And what did you discover?”

  “That my feelings were stronger than I’d realized.”

  “Exactly … how strong?”

  “Very strong.”

  “I see,” North said again.

  Their audience oohed behind them. No one was looking at the view outside as Marigold placed a hand on the center of her chest. “And now my heart is breaking to be back in this same position. Leaving.” Her tone turned pleading. “I wish the mountain would come with me, but even I know that’s impossible. It takes millions and millions of years to move a mountain. It takes shifting plates. Violent earthquakes.”

  “Dynamite helps.” He’d forgotten to use the intercom.

  She smiled sadly. “I’m all out.”

  “You might’ve used more than you realized.”

  Marigold’s veins throbbed as North reached out and gently touched her elbow, which was still hanging over the back of the bench. His fingers were warm.

  “Besides,” he said, “this isn’t that big of a mountain. It’s not like it’s Denali or anything.”

  Marigold moved her arm and took North’s hand. She squeezed. He squeezed back. They were both smiling.

  North picked up the intercom with his other hand and returned his attention to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, in case you were wondering: Yes. This does happen on every descent.”

  “Give her a kiss!” someone shouted.

  “As you can see from the patch on my shirtsleeve,” North said, “I’m a volunteer. Providing that level of entertainment would be above my pay grade.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  As North launched into his regularly scheduled monologue, he was in a dazzling mood, engaging them all in jokes and debates. They passed the other car, empty except for its driver, and North gave the Maria’s bell a hearty ring. The driver of the Elisha followed suit. Marigold basked in North’s glow. A soft wind drifted in through the open windows, and the car wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it had been on her ascent. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

  North didn’t let go of her hand until they reached the bottom and he had to help the others disembark. Several of them teased her as they passed by. At last, North reentered the car. He removed his hat and knelt beside her, eye-level. “Hi,” he said.

  Heat rose to Marigold’s cheeks. “Hi.”

  “I’m glad you waited for my car.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad. Are you done for the day?”

  “I saw you,” he said, ignoring the question, “right after I left you on top of the mountain.”

  Marigold cocked her head. She didn’t know what he meant.

  “I saw the drawing you gave to that boy. He was sitting in the second row, and he was holding it in his lap. Holding me in his lap. It felt like a sign.”

  “A good sign or a bad sign?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  She smiled. “You’ve always been my favorite character.”

  North held her gaze, a smile forming on his own lips. “I’m almost ready to go.” It was the reply to her earlier question. “There’s only one last thing I need to do.”

  Marigold leaned forward. Her heart pounded like a timpani, and her eyes closed—as he jumped to his feet with a thunderous clang. Her eyes shot back open.

  He grinned and reoffered his hand.

  “You’re a tease,” she said, blushing harder. But she took it.

  They strolled out of the funicular. Unlike summer afternoons, summer evenings were magical. The rays of the sun stretched onward and outward in a mellow caress, the cicadas clicked and hummed in an insect orchestration, and the asphalt shimmered in a lazy and delicious heat.

  North nodded toward the far end of the lot where her car was parked. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I need to stop by the park office first.” His warm hand squeezed hers once more—tightly, reluctantly—before he vanished into the building.

  Marigold ambled to her car and unlocked the door. When she opened it, a wave of hot air blasted her with the force of a nuclear explosion. She rolled down the windows and slammed the door shut again.

  A split-rail fence ran along the edge of the lot, so Marigold hopped up and sat there instead, feet perched on the bottom rail. The sunshine felt like a tonic. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the breeze. Marigold still didn’t know what was about to happen, but at least now she understood why she was here.

  Ten minutes later, North appeared. He wore the plain white T-shirt, and he’d changed into jeans. The shorts were gone. Did that mean he was still accepting the pants? The new job? Fresh panic struck Marigold with as much force as the air inside her car.

  North headed for her in a straight line. The lot had emptied, and they were alone. Her heartbeat flew into an erratic state. His reluctance to kiss me. His reluctant release of my hand.

  Was this the beginning or the end?

  He stopped several feet away, sensing her fear. Or maybe he was afraid, too. “I had to turn in my uniform. I’ll really miss those shorts.”

  Marigold tried to steady her voice. “Because … the pants. The promotion.”

  He shook his head. A small smile appeared.

  “Because … you quit? Did–did you just quit?”

  His smile grew bigger. He nodded.

  Marigold burst into tears. North sprang forward, enfolding her in his arms. She was still sitting on top of the fence, and her kneecaps jammed into his ribs, but he only crushed her against his chest tighter. She was still crying. She was also laughing. “You are such an asshole,” she said against his neck.

  “I’m sorry.” He was laughing, too. “I thought it would be obvious.”

  “Well, it wasn’t!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I am, too.”

  North pulled away to look her in the eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I needed you to come here. I did need you to rescue me.”

  Marigold smiled as she wiped away her tears. She widened her stance and he slipped forward into the empty space, pressing against the rails. Pressing against her. “It feels good to be able to pay you back,” she said. “You rescued me first, you know.”

  North’s hands slid onto her bare legs, and his smile changed into a grin. “You know … this is the first time I’ve seen you in shorts, too.”

  She laughed.

  “Summer looks good on you.”

  Marigold sighed, relishing his touch after such a long drought. Her slender arms wrapped around his strong shoulders. “It looks good on you, too.”

  But as they stared at each other—up close, in wonder and amazement—North’s expression sl
owly collapsed into vulnerability. She tilted her head in silent question.

  “Marigold,” he said. All traces of joking had disappeared. “Before this goes any further—before I move in with you—there’s something I need to say. Out loud.”

  She nodded. Her heartbeat rushed into her ears.

  “Just in case it wasn’t absolutely, unequivocally clear when I said good-bye to you on top of the mountain…”

  She nodded. Once more.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. So if that’s too much for you, if that’s too far—”

  Marigold pulled him into a kiss, and they sank into the embrace with a sense of openness and exposure and passion that they’d never experienced before. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him into place. His hands slid underneath the back of her shirt, hers underneath the back of his. They were hungry. They devoured each other. Their bodies were hot with sweat, but there was something both honest and revealing about sweating together.

  She pushed away from him, panting. “North?”

  “Yes?” He could barely get the word out.

  “Before this goes any further, there’s something I need to say. Out loud.”

  He nodded. Smiling.

  “Just in case that wasn’t absolutely, unequivocally clear…”

  He nodded. Once more.

  “I’m in love with you, too.”

  And then North was kissing her again. And when, at last, they pulled apart—minutes, hours, days, years, a lifetime later—it was clear. They were finally traveling in the same direction.

  “Home,” Marigold said. She was filled with happiness and sunlight.

  Between the evergreens, the first fireflies of the night materialized. They blinked in the dusk of the setting sun, a reminder that light was a recurring state.

  North helped her off the fence. “Let’s go home.”

  Maybe I’ve just been reading too much Charles Dickens recently, but today doesn’t seem dreary enough for a breakup, you know?

  Yeah, about the Dickens thing: Not my choice. It’s on our AP summer reading list, and I want to get into a good college, and summer’s almost over. That said, the breakup thing wasn’t exactly my choice either. But today’s the day—breakup day—that Kieth and I agreed to, that we’ve been circling all summer like two gay buzzards. Unless, wait, maybe I mean vultures? Are those the same thing? Which one is the bird that waits until something’s dead before it swoops down?

  If that sounds dramatic, blame Kieth. He’s kind of rubbed off on me this summer. He’s an actor. For God’s sake, he spells his name Kieth, even though he was born regular old Keith. Not that my Kieth is any kind of regular.

  It was his idea, for example, to pick out our breakup day in the first place, the way some couples might look forward to an anniversary or a camping trip. I don’t really know. It’s all new to me. He’s my first boyfriend. (I’m his third, which he likes to remind me.)

  Customers!

  A mom in a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat approaches my booth, followed by two girls in identical teal tank tops. They’re local—but then, they’re all locals here. Nobody drives more than forty miles to come to Wish-a-World. We are as regional and rickety as it comes, one degree removed from a traveling carnival.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, doing my best to act casual. “Can I help you?” I’ve been back here thumbing my copy of A Tale of Two Cities, pondering how a book so heavy could be considered so classic.

  “We were just wondering,” this lady says to me (she’s about to ask where the bathroom is), “if you knew where the bathr—”

  “Head past the log flume,” I say, “and duck under the sign for snow cones, and then make a hard right past the gazebo where everyone smokes, even though they’re not allowed to. Can’t miss it!”

  Already, poof, they’re gone. At the beginning of the summer, I would’ve tried to upsell them on a key chain, a hat, an anything. That’s my job, and I like to do a good job. But one thing you learn when you man a souvenir stand at a regional amusement park is that mostly what people want is bathroom directions. What they rarely want is a twenty-dollar T-shirt, let alone a thirty-dollar sweatshirt, and who can blame them? The average temperature around here is hell with a chance of thunder.

  I scan the sky for that cloudy, Dickensian day that doesn’t seem to be showing up. “The good news,” I mumble at a seagull, “is that I’ve gotten over love before.”

  Yep, I love Kieth. Or I think I do. But, hey, I loved pizza once, too, before I became lactose intolerant—and now I barely even miss it. I barely even think about pizza, I mean.

  A cluster of tweens screams past my booth without stopping, one of them holding a Mylar Wish-a-World balloon that flits behind her like a metallic kite. I crack open A Tale of Two Cities and attempt to read the same paragraph I’ve been attempting to read for about three days now. Maybe four.

  But then: “Excuse me—sir?”

  And against all odds, I’m smiling.

  It’s Kieth, sneaking up on my booth. Who else would call me sir? Sirs don’t have zits. Sirs can grow respectable sideburns.

  “Could you,” he continues, “direct me to the Tunnel of Love?”

  I shut the book. My eyes are already watering. Basically, my eyes are Pavlov’s dogs, and Kieth’s voice is the bell.

  “We don’t have a Tunnel of Love,” I say, just like I did on the day we met. He’s recreating the whole scene—the way he tiptoed up to my booth “looking for the Tunnel of Love” after a full week of us stealing quiet glances at each other in the moldy employee locker room. Even under those harsh fluorescents, he was adorable. And unlike guys in my PE class at school, Kieth actually looked back. I was smitten.

  “What kind of an amusement park is this if you don’t have a Tunnel of Love?” he says, putting on a show here. Always putting on a show anywhere. “I’d like to speak to management.” Kieth places his hand on my book, but I jerk it away from him, for secret reasons.

  “Ha-ha,” I say, “you can stop now.” He’s in his show costume. Against park regulations. This is my in. “You’re not allowed out here wearing that!” I only say it to change the subject, to get mad at him about something. When I’m mad at Kieth, I love him less.

  I glance at the time on my phone. His next show starts in ten minutes. “You don’t even have your makeup on!”

  Three times a day, Kieth performs in a spirited theme park revue. It’s a really cheesy show. Wish-a-World couldn’t get the rights to any good songs, so it’s this oddly generic mash-up of different knockoff styles. The fifties medley contains no hits from the fifties. The seventies medley sounds just like the eighties medley. Only the wigs offer a vague clue to the era.

  “Eh.” Kieth rubs his chin like he’s checking for bruises on a peach. “It’s the last day. I’m gonna skip the makeup and give my skin a break.”

  He already has perfect skin.

  I cross my arms. A small line has formed behind Kieth.

  “People need to know where the bathroom is,” I say, gesturing at the antsy park patrons fanning themselves with our famously outdated park maps. “And you have a show!” I look at my phone again. “In seven minutes!”

  But he doesn’t budge. He touches my hands and makes them stop playing this made-up song that I’ve been thumping into my glass stand. Every time Kieth touches me, I feel the same jolt I felt in the second grade when I plugged in my mom’s hair dryer and got my finger caught between the prongs and the outlet.

  “Actually, Matty,” he says, “I wanted to invite you to this little wrap party the cast is having. Backstage.”

  Ugh. I’ve avoided going backstage all summer. All those theater people in one room, all those loud voices, all that hugging—it’s a lot. Kieth is enough. Kieth is, I remind myself, almost too much.

  “Why didn’t you just text me?” I ask. Because, really, it’s a big deal to be in costume outside of hi
s amphitheater. Kieth could get written up. I’m no goody two-shoes, but I hate breaking rules for no reason.

  “I had a feeling you’d put up a fight, is why,” Kieth says. “You know, all those theater people … So I thought I’d ask you to the party face-to-face. Plus, I like your face.”

  I hate that he knows me so well. No—I love that he knows me so well, and I hate that today it’s over.

  To catch you up: Tomorrow, Kieth’s off to freshman year in college and I’m off to senior year in high school, both of us traveling in opposite directions on a map. You couldn’t mastermind a more geographically literal breakup.

  Ba-da-boom, ba-da-boom, ba-da-boom.

  This canned music starts pumping from inside the half-tented amphitheater, twenty feet away across our faux-cobblestone Maine Street. It used to be called Main Street, but Disney apparently sued us in the nineties, so the owners painted an e onto the word Main—even though nothing about Maine Street is evocative of Maine. There are no lobster shacks. There are no fishermen. We are in Pennsylvania. There’s just my souvenir stand and the amphitheater and a dozen “shoppes” with faded striped awnings, all of them selling the same Wish-a-World candy.

  “Can we move it along, guys?” this dad type calls out from my line.

  “I gotta work the booth,” I say to Kieth.

  He releases my hand. “So? The wrap party, at lunch? Be my plus-one?”

  Please note that he can’t even say “Be my date,” after five weeks and two days of, you know, dating.

  “I thought we were having lunch together,” I say. “Just us. For the last time.” This all comes out more emphatic than I mean it to, LIKE WHEN YOUR BEST FRIEND TEXTS YOU IN ALL CAPS.

  Buh-du-beeeep, buh-du-beeeep, bu-duh-beeeep.

  The music has switched to this annoying bleep, which signals the three-minute countdown to the top of Kieth’s show. Several potential patrons leave my line altogether, openly scowling at me as they hightail it to find bathrooms unknown. There goes my commission.