The Summer of Letting Go

by Gae Polisner

  Relief. He’s going in to his office, then.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ve just got to get my things.”

  As I run upstairs, I hear him singing some dumb old song about San Jose. Well, good then. Whatever. As long as he’s going to work.

  In my room, I grab my backpack and a bathing suit in case it clears up and head back to the stairs. On the landing, I change my mind, double back, and walk to Simon’s room.

  I open the door, go to his bookshelf, and take down the three books about Frog and Toad. I press the other books together to close the gap and slip the ones I took into my bag. On the way out, I grab Fisher Frog and quickly shut the door behind me.

  I run back to my room and sit Fisher Frog on the bottom of my bed, then toss a blanket over him, and close my door as I leave.

  • • •

  It’s been weeks since I’ve been in Dad’s car. He got a new one a year ago, unlike my mother, whose is still the same one from Before.

  As always his car is neat, but today it seems neater. It smells like leather and rug shampoo and air freshener. There’s one of those cardboard pine trees swinging from the rearview mirror.

  My head swims with accusatory questions: Why is your car so clean? Why do you have an air freshener? What are you hiding in here? I feel like the Spanish Inquisition. Maybe I should just ask him straight out: So are you or are you not having an affair with Mrs. Merrill?

  Of course I won’t, and I don’t, but part of me relishes the look I’d get if I could. But then, I’d upset him, and I don’t want to alienate my father. Who would I have left?

  I reach into my backpack and pat the Frog and Toad books. I’m excited to read them with Frankie, someone who wants to be with me. So be it if I’ve resorted to stealing things from my own home.

  I turn up the music—Dad’s got some lame oldies station on—and scope around for evidence. I pop open the glove box and close it, pop it open and close it, like I’m fidgeting rather than snooping. Each time, I let it gape open just a few seconds longer, but nothing seems out of the ordinary in there. I slip my fingers into the door pocket, then pretend to drop something and lean down to peek under my seat. I pull the lid to the console between the seats up, but don’t see anything of note in there.

  Of course I have no idea what I’m looking for. Tissues with lipstick, maybe? A lost earring? As I’m about to close the console, I see Dad’s eyes shift ever so slightly. The movement is small, but I catch it, and there’s something suspicious about it.

  “What do you need, Frankie?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Because you’re rummaging. Like a squirrel looking for nuts or something.”

  I laugh because he’s funny. “I thought maybe you’d have a mint,” I say, because I know I saw some in there. “Oh look, you do.”

  I pull out the tin of Altoids, snap the lid open, and place one on my tongue. It burns there, way too strong for this early hour of the morning. I want to spit it out, but need to kill time, so I take another few out and slip them in my pocket, my eyes darting back to the console. To the spot beneath where the tin sat.

  Something glints there. A small silver key against the black bottom.

  I start to put the tin back, but Dad says, “Just keep them, Frankie,” and bangs the console shut with his elbow.

  He’s mad. Does he know I saw it?

  “Thanks, you sure?”

  “Yes. I have more. Is there anything else you need?” I shake my head, my mind swimming. “Good then.” He turns onto Sycamore, I point out the house, and he pulls over at the curb. “Have a good day, Francesca.” He calls me Francesca, a warning, and pulls away before I’ve barely stepped out of the car.

  After Dad drives away, I sit on the Schylers’ front stoop under the overhang. I’m early and don’t want to wake anyone.

  I stare through the raindrops at the house across the street and wonder whose key that was in Dad’s car. Is it possible it’s just some random and meaningless key? Lots of people have random keys that go to nothing, right? Keys that went to something once, but don’t now. Or maybe it goes to Dad’s office.

  At nine o’clock, I stand and ring the bell. Frankie answers in two seconds flat. Potato slips between his feet.

  “Hey, Beans. I was waiting and waiting, but you just stayed there sitting.”

  He’s in shorty pajamas with airplanes on them, just like a pair Simon used to have. It makes my heart skip, but then everything these days does. I mean, all little kids have pajamas with airplanes on them.

  “If you saw me, Frankie, why didn’t you open the door?”

  “I seed you from the window,” he says, as if that explains anything, closes the door, and pulls me toward his bedroom. Potato follows. As we pass Mrs. Schyler’s room, he puts his fingers to his lips and whispers loudly, “Shush, she is sleeping, so we have to be quiet in my room.” We sit on his bed, and Potato jumps up and curls in a ball on his pillow.

  I haven’t been in his bedroom since the day Mrs. Schyler showed me the statue of Saint Florian. Now I pick it up and hold it in my hand. It’s lighter than I expected because it looks like real stone, but, really, it’s just cheap old plastic.

  I study the man’s funny hat with the feather and his robe with all the folds and the flag with a cross on the front. Around the base, etched in fake gold, are the words Non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus. Latin, I’m guessing. I have no idea what it means.

  I pull out my cell phone and type in the words so I can look them up later, though I’m not sure why I’d want to know. Maybe all this endless sleuthing is finally getting to my brain.

  “Frankie,” I blurt, “when exactly is your birthday?”

  “June,” Frankie says. “When Grandpa gotted me the tractor.”

  Simon died on June fourteenth.

  “But which day, Frankie? Do you know which day you were born?”

  He nods and holds up his pointer fingers on each hand, side by side. Either a two or an eleven.

  “The second, Frankie, or the eleventh?” I ask, impatient. “Is your birthday June eleventh?” I feel oddly relieved, but then he shakes his head, looks at his right hand, and pops three more fingers up on that hand. One on the left. Four on the right. Fourteen.

  “That is the right way,” he says, nodding.

  “Fourteen? June fourteenth, Frankie?”

  “Yep, June fourteenth. That is Frankie Sky’s birthday.”

  I try to steady the room from spinning out from under me. I need to keep focused, to get more answers, or I’m going to drive myself crazy.

  “Frankie,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “do you know Simon?” The words, out in the air, feel dangerous.

  “Yep, sure I do, Beans. I knowed Simon.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I don’t know what to do, how to feel. Everything’s gone swirling in my brain. Maybe this is what I knew from the first second I met Frankie, but just couldn’t let myself believe.

  He stands in front of me, tugs on my knee. I try to see his face, not Simon’s, but it’s impossible. His face is the same as my brother’s.

  “Do you want me to show you how, Beans?”

  “Yes, Frankie,” I breathe. “I want you to show me how.”

  “Okay. Is easy.”

  He lets go of my knee and walks across his room to his bookshelves. What does he have? What kind of proof of my brother’s existence will he bring and place in my hands?

  He stands on a plastic step stool in front of his bookcase and rummages. It takes forever till he finally jumps down. “Here, Beans,” he says, placing an old DVD in my lap.

  I stare in disbelief at the case. Alvin and the Chipmunks, it says.

  “See, this one.” He points to the chipmunk wearing a red sweater with an A on it. “This one is Alvin, and he is the most famous one. And this is Theodore. And this one, here, is Simon. I like Simon. He is smart. He is my favorite one.”

  My eyes, fill with happy or sad tears, I’m not sure. But I st
art laughing, too, because how can I help it? Because sometimes it’s all you can do.

  twenty-six

  Somehow, Saturday gets here. Way too early, I put on my pre-chosen outfit and my green Converse sneakers, pin my hair back in barrettes, put a little eye shadow and lip gloss on, and study myself in the mirror. I look as good as I ever will.

  Mom and Dad are in the living room on the couch, engaged in some sort of serious conversation. They shut up the minute they see me. Dad gives me a fatherly once-over.

  “Hey, Beans, you’re headed out, then?”

  “Yes. The mall, remember? And a movie, maybe. With Lisette and her boyfriend and his friend.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows. “Well, that sounds awfully like a date. Good for you! You look beautiful. So, perhaps it actually is?” He winks.

  I roll my eyes at him. “Just friends. Like I said.”

  “Well, have fun anyway. But check in. And be home by eleven.”

  “I will.”

  “No later than that,” Mom says.

  When the horn honks, Dad cuts me off at the door and heads out first, so I’m already feeling self-conscious. I trail behind, my eyes searching frantically for my date. The top is down, Alex is driving, Bradley’s in the passenger seat. My heart starts up at the sight of him.

  In the back is Lisette. Lisette and my mystery date.

  I stop in my tracks.

  My heart sinks.

  My mystery date is Peter Pintero.

  Not Michael Peach.

  Not even close to Bradley Stephenson.

  I want to turn back, go inside, but I force my legs to walk forward, fighting the tears that want to come. It’s not like he’s a bad guy or anything. He’s just not who I was hoping for.

  Bradley smiles as I approach. “Hey, Frankie, good to see you.”

  “Hey.” I keep my head down so as not to give away my crashing heart.

  From the backseat, Peter parrots him. “Yeah, hey, Frankie, good to see you.” He laughs like it’s a joke or something, but if it is, I’m not in on it. Still, I need to smile and suck it up and not ruin the day for Lisette. She was trying to do a good deed. And it doesn’t have to be a date if I don’t want it to be.

  Bradley opens the door and gets out, holding the seat forward for me. I slip past him into the back, my arm tingling where it brushes him. Next to me, Peter smiles dumbly, punches my arm all friendly, like the stupidest sort of hello.

  Dad stands at the driver’s side talking with Alex. My parents have known the Sutters forever. I stare down at the floor wondering if Lisette realizes that I know Peter from the club. She must, but if she did, wouldn’t she think to ask me if I liked him? It’s not like I’ve mentioned him at all.

  Then again, I’ve been close-lipped about everything lately, so I know it’s my fault, not hers. I still feel blindsided, though. I begged her to tell me who my date was. If she had, I could have said no.

  “Okay, kids, not too late. And try to have fun.” Dad winks at me and pats the car in permission for us to go, then starts back toward the house. The smell of suntan lotion fills my nose. Has it only been two weeks since I went to the beach with Lisette? It feels like a century ago.

  “So, fancy meeting you here, huh, Schnell?” Peter cracks up like it’s hilarious. Whatever. It’s not like there are guys lining up for me.

  “Hey, Frankie!” Lisette leans forward, and Peter’s eyes dart down her shirt. I want to tell him to put his tongue back in, but it’s not like I even care. “No hello for your BFF?” She reaches across and squeezes my bare thigh, a trace of alarm on her face.

  I try not to look her in the eyes, because I’m afraid if I do she’ll see how disappointed I am.

  “Okay, everyone set, then?” Alex asks, turning the radio to blasting and taking off in the direction of the beach.

  • • •

  Between the music and the wind, there’s not much chance to talk. Fine by me; I don’t have much to say.

  Lisette sings, and Bradley alternates air guitar and dashboard drums in the front. I can feel Peter watching me, so I just keep my eyes straight ahead.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I check out Lisette. Her outfit is similar to mine: little black micromini with a pink T-shirt. Not that it would matter what she wore. Her bikini straps show through, which makes me realize I should have worn one, too. I guess I wasn’t thinking about swimming.

  When we reach the beach, Alex drops us at the steps. “What time, guys?” he asks, and Lisette says, “Not sure if we’ll skip the movie or not. I’ll text you later, around six, okay?” Alex salutes her and speeds off.

  Lisette slips her hand in Bradley’s and the two walk ahead of us, laughing and kissing as they head up the steps and across the walkway that crosses the dunes. Peter hangs back with me. I can barely get my legs to move. I pray he doesn’t try to take my hand.

  “So, Schnell, a little weird seeing you like this, huh?”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “It was Brad’s idea. When I told him you work at the club, he was like, let’s all hang out. Since you and Lisette are best friends.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Best. But I didn’t realize you and Bradley were friends.”

  “We don’t hang out all that much, but Coach holds a few summer practices, and since we’re on the team together . . .” He bends and picks up a rock in the sand and chucks it. “Though, not in the same league. He’ll play for college, for sure; he’s that good. Me, I mostly sit. At least I made varsity.” He shrugs. “I’m a better swimmer. Went eight and two in ’fly this season. Pretty good.”

  I feel a little bad for him now. I guess that’s why I didn’t realize he was on the team.

  “So, what about you? How’s the job with the Schyler kid?”

  “Frankie? It’s good. He’s funny.”

  “You seem good at it.” My ears turn hot at the compliment.

  We walk up the narrow steps to the dunes. I stay pressed against the railing, careful not to brush against him, which is dumb. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Peter’s actually nice. I’m the one being a jerk here.

  “His mother seems a little nuts,” he’s saying, “and she drinks, which is why the kid’s always running amok. But, of course, she’s friends with Mr. H, or they probably would have banned her long ago.”

  “Really? She’s nice,” I snap. “I feel bad for her.”

  He shrugs. “She’s hot, that’s for sure. Anyway, you must be doing okay, because the kid hasn’t drowned yet.” I flush bright red and look away. “Shoot. I’m really sorry, Frankie. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I’ve had to fish him out of the pool more times than you can count . . .” He stops and jams his hands into his pockets. “And, well, about your brother, I really didn’t mean that drowning thing like that.”

  I look past him, down to the water where Lisette stands in the surf with Bradley. I wonder how much she’s told Bradley about Simon, and what he’s told Peter in turn. There are things she promised to keep private. But she wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t tell him it was my fault.

  “It’s okay,” I say, walking again. “Let’s just catch up to those guys.”

  We stop short of them, where they stand with their backs to us in the surf, dark silhouettes haloed in golden sunlight. Bradley has his arm around Lisette’s shoulder, the water sparkling beyond them. They look like cheesy models on a Hallmark anniversary card.

  Bradley turns around and sees us and nods.

  “Hey,” Lisette says, turning, too, “you guys good?”

  No! I want to say, I am not good. I am very, very bad. I can’t even begin to believe you’d think I’d like Peter Pintero. He’s a total insensitive dork. And, by the way, what did you tell Bradley about my brother? But instead, I say, “Yeah, sure, fine,” although I can tell I don’t sound too convincing.

  “Dude, the water’s kind of rough,” Bradley says. “You guys want to walk down to the inlet instead?”

  I’d forgotten all about the inlet about
a half mile down the beach, a narrow strip of water that runs perpendicular to the ocean along the dunes. When the tide isn’t too low, there’s a tide pool that collects at the entrance, and you can wade in and find all sorts of cool things in there. We used to go down there with Simon.

  As we walk, my heart aches for Simon, though in my mind I’ve started confusing him with Frankie Sky. I stay quiet as Lisette, Bradley, and Peter gossip about the usual stuff—who’s dating who, which teachers suck, and what they’ve been doing so far this summer. In his defense, Peter tells some pretty funny stories about the club and lifeguarding, and some hilarious ones about Mr. Habberstaad. Apparently, his enormous distaste for the paper umbrellas is a well-known fact around the club.

  Peter includes me in the stories, too, making it sound like I actually have a social life, saying things like, “Right, Frankie? You know, the weird dude who works in the pro shop, who looks like Mr. Magoo?” which makes me feel somewhat connected and good.

  We reach the inlet. The water is thigh-high and crystal clear. Lisette strips off her T-shirt and skirt and tosses them in the sand. I don’t have a bathing suit on, so I just slip off my Converse sneakers and wade in.

  The tide pool brims with sea life. Horseshoe crabs, minnows, even a few harmless moon jellies. Still, Lisette is squeamish and wants to get out. She suggests we go in the ocean instead. “At least we can swim there,” she says, wading out gingerly. “Something’s going to bite me in here.” I remind her that the same sea life is around her in the ocean as is here. “Yeah, but I don’t step on it in there.” She shudders, making her way back out. “I’m telling you, Frankie, there are freaking crabs all over the bottom!”

  Peter, who hasn’t taken his eyes off her bikini’d body, says, “I’m game!” and follows her out like a puppy.

  I wait for Bradley to go with them, but he stays here, in the inlet. In fact, he’s not even watching Lisette. He’s bent over, swishing his hands through the water. “Man, look at this one. It’s enormous,” he says, hauling a horseshoe crab out by its tail.

  “Come on, guys!” Lisette says, then looks back at me and cringes apologetically. She doesn’t know that I’ve been in there, in the ocean, swimming with Frankie Sky.