Someone Else's Summer

by Rachel Bateman

She throws a rolled-up ball of socks at me. “I wore that shirt, like, three days ago. Besides, I gotta look hot tonight.”

  I join her at the chair and dig through the clothes. Piper doesn’t so much have a style of dress as she has every style of dress. Shiny minidresses and prim cardigans and faded band T-shirts. I pull one of these out of the pile now—soft, faded black with NIRVANA stenciled on the front in orangey bleach spray.

  “Anna—”

  “I know, hot. But look, it’s summer. It’s already hot out there. You want to look good, not sweaty, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Throwing the shirt at her, I say, “Then put this on. We can cut the neck out of it if you want. Wear it loose over a cami, and it’ll hang off your shoulder.” I dig a little deeper in the pile until I find a pair of light denim cutoffs. “There, wear these with it. You can glitz up your shoes.”

  She puts the outfit on, taking my advice on both the neckline and the shoes, choosing to wear shiny gold gladiator sandals. Like her hair, the outfit looks like she just threw it together, that she never has to try to look hot. I give her an I-told-you-so look, and we finally head to the party.

  Chapter 7

  “Where are we?” I ask when Piper pulls the truck to a stop at the side of the road. There are no sidewalks, no houses in view, but I can see a long driveway lined with cars, a single, crooked mailbox standing guard at the end—4597 SPRINGTREE scrawled in faded paint on the side of the dented white box.

  Piper pushes her door open, and the truck’s old hinges groan in protest. “Um, I’m not really sure,” she says around a giggle. “Taylor met these guys at some party with her cousin last week. I guess they all go to college and live here together. Let’s go.”

  I’m beginning to remember how badly I did not want to party tonight and regretting my choice to wear these shoes. They aren’t normally wobbly, but I’m also not normally bushwhacking my way down a potholed dirt road to get to where I’m going.

  We walk right down the middle of the driveway; we can’t see well enough to work our way around the edges of the cars without tripping. I hear the party long before I see the house, the steady thrum of bass vibrating its way through the woods. Light from the windows breaks past the tree line about the same time the haze of skunky smoke hits my nose.

  I raise an eyebrow at Piper. We go to a lot of parties, so it’s not like I’m naïve. I’ve been around pot, even tried it once or twice, though it never did anything for me, so I don’t see the point in trying it again. But this is different. A couple people smoking a bowl in the basement of a house party is one thing. Enough pot to permeate the air all the way around a house? That’s not the kind of party we go to.

  “Did Taylor tell you anything else about these guys?”

  “Not really,” Piper says. “Just that they are—and I quote—hotter than hot, and they throw the greatest parties, but super exclusive. We’re lucky we got invited. I got the impression that they don’t normally let high schoolers come.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Lucky us.”

  Linking her arm with mine, Piper says, “Come on, don’t be like that. This is going to be fun. You’ll see.”

  “I dunno. I’m just not feeling it.”

  She stops, turns to stare flat at me. “Seriously? You’re not feeling it? Are you ever going to be feeling it again? Where have you been this summer, Anna?”

  She could have slapped me and I wouldn’t have been more shocked. I know I’ve been distant, just going through the motions, but Piper understands. She has to understand. She was there, the first person I called after my parents told me what happened. She rushed right over, in the middle of the night, just to sit with me. She was next to me when I broke down after the funeral. Through everything, she was there, so how can she be asking this now?

  “Whatever,” I say, shaking my hair over my back. “Let’s just go.” I march toward the open front door, and Piper falls into step beside me, the moment past.

  The inside of the house is no better than the outside. The pot haze is stronger in here, and there are bodies draped over half a dozen mismatched, seventies-style couches, everyone in various stages of undress. I squint to see in the darkness. If I had to guess, nobody here is under twenty-five.

  “Um, where do you think Taylor is?” I ask.

  Piper’s already tapping out a message on her phone. “I’m on it,” she says. “Let’s go get some drinks.”

  A man directly across the room is staring at us, his gaze penetrating my skin. He looks to be in his late twenties maybe. He wears his dark hair slicked back in what I imagine is supposed to be a James Dean pompadour, but looks more like just-got-out-of-prison. A tattoo curls up one side of his neck and disappears into his hair behind his ear. He hooks the index finger of one hand at me, calling me over.

  “Um”—I grab Piper’s hand and try to force a fun, light smile onto my face—“why don’t you grab me something. I’m, uh, gonna go look for Jo, okay?”

  Her face lights up at this, and she waves me away. “I’ve got my phone if you get lost,” she teases.

  I can’t get through the house fast enough. It’s a maze of rooms, each one leading to another with no hallway, no real division. There are couches everywhere, old, brown tweed ones that you see on the side of the road at the end of a semester—a free sign tacked to one of the cushions. There are no beds, no chairs, no decorations of any kind. Just dark paneled walls and dozens of couches. I focus my eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the activity happening around me—the deeper into the house I go, the darker it gets, and pretty soon I’m surrounded by couples making out, some two or three to a couch. I have to get out of here.

  Finally, I stumble into the kitchen. The bright light burns my eyes after all the darkness, and I have to squeeze them shut against it. Opening them slowly, I spot a door, and I run to it, knocking into a girl leaning against the fridge.

  “Hey!” she yells.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. Or try to mutter—I’m not sure I actually say anything. I push out the door and onto a wide deck looking out over a tree-covered lawn. I gulp in air, not caring about the marijuana smell. Anything is better than the stagnant, sweaty air of that house. I pull my phone from my bra and send Piper a text: BACK DECK.

  A couple comes outside, and I press myself against the wooden trellis to let them pass. Maybe I shouldn’t have messaged Piper yet. I could ride the party out back here, sitting in the dark by myself until she’s ready to go.

  But here she is now, stumbling through the door. The drinks she’s holding slosh over, splashing sweet, fruity something onto my shoes. She looks wasted already.

  “Are you high?” I ask her.

  She pushes one of the cups into my hand. “I took a couple hits with this guy Trevor. I’m fine.” As if to prove her point, she stands up straighter, pushing her shoulders back. “What are you doing back here, girl? Party’s inside.”

  I set my drink on the porch rail. The odor makes my stomach roll. “I thought maybe I’d find Jo out here,” I lie. “You know he hates a big crowd.”

  “Did you try his phone? It’d be faster, and I know you want to get to him fast,” she singsongs.

  She’s right about the phone. I send him a message.

  ME: Where are you?

  JOVANI: At Luke’s shooting some pool. Why? Wanna come over?

  ME: I thought you were coming to the party?

  JOVANI: What party?

  My throat tightens, and the tips of my fingers grow tingly. I wave my phone at Piper, who struggles to focus on the moving screen. “Jovani doesn’t even know about the party, Pip. I thought you said he’d be here!”

  “Chill, lady. Taylor said she was inviting him. She must’ve forgotten. Oh well. Let’s just go inside. We’ll hang out with him tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Go ahead,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to stay out here a bit.”

  Her eyes flash, and I brace myself for the tirade that’s coming. But she surprises me, shrugging a
nd throwing her arms around me in a hug. Her drink sloshes again, and I shudder as the sticky liquid slides down my back. “Whatever, girl. I’ve got my phone.”

  Then she’s gone, breezing back into the house. This whole place grosses me out. I cross the deck and drop into the single plastic chair sitting watch over an empty hot tub. Pulling Facebook up on my phone, I hope I can entertain myself until she’s ready to leave. A message pops up.

  JOVANI: Anna? What party?

  ME: Never mind. I thought you were coming, but I guess not.

  JOVANI: I can probably come now if you don’t mind me bringing Luke.

  ME: Don’t bother. It’s lame.

  JOVANI: K. Talk later?

  ME: Sure.

  A giggle sounds shockingly close to my ear, and I jump. I squint in the direction of the noise. There, in the hot tub, is a couple. I don’t know how I didn’t see them before, because they aren’t trying to hide at all. The girl is straddling the guy’s lap, her arms wrapped around his head, pushing his mouth down to her chest. She bobs in the water, fast enough now to make waves splash against the side of the tub, her head thrown back, lips parted slightly. She groans, loud.

  I jump out of my chair. I have to get out of here. My phone is pressed to my ear before I’m even to the bottom of the porch steps, dialing Jovani. Voice mail picks up, and I mash the end button. Dial again. As it rings, I make my way toward the front of the house. “Come on,” I mutter. “I was just talking to you. Pick up.” Voice mail again. I try a third time.

  The side door cracks open, spilling light across the lawn. I try to duck away from it, to avoid being seen, but it’s too late. The light from the kitchen hits me square in the face, and I hear a gravelly voice say, “There you are. I’s wondering where you ran off to.” It’s the guy from the living room, the one with the greasy prison hair, and the way he leers at me makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

  My phone hangs in my hand at my side; I can hear the tinny ringing and beg silently for Jovani to pick up. His voice drifts through the putrid air to my ears: “Hi, it’s Jo. I probably lost my phone, so—” I end the call with a swipe of my thumb. Crap. Ignoring Jailbird, I keep walking to the driveway.

  Suddenly a sweaty hand wraps around my upper arm, pulling me to a stop.

  “Hey now,” he says, right in my face. He’s standing too close; I can smell his sweat mixing with stale smoke and sour beer on his breath. “Where you going in such a hurry, cutie?”

  My stomach rolls, and I try to pull away from his grip, but his hand holds tight. I jerk my arm, wincing when his fingers bite into my bicep. He steps even closer, pressing his hot chest up against me while he wraps his other arm around my waist. His hand presses flat against the small of my back, burning me through Piper’s dress. Acid bites the back of my throat. I push against his chest.

  “Aw, why you gotta be like that, sweetie?” His face is right in mine. Hot breath on my skin about makes me puke. This guy is seriously like a walking stereotype. I push his chest again, and when he doesn’t loosen his grip, I throw my elbow into his jaw. Followed immediately by my knee to his crotch.

  He curses, and for a second I think he’s going to hit me, but instead he lets me go so quickly I stumble and almost fall. The man doubles forward. “You dumb bi—”

  My phone trills, cutting through his words. About time. “Jo, what happened? Can you—”

  “Anna?” Dad’s voice interrupts. “Are you okay?”

  I walk away from the man as fast as I can, wobbling on these tall shoes. Forcing my voice not to shake, I say, “Yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

  “Just making sure you have your keys. Your mom and I are going to bed.”

  “Yeah,” I say, then, “wait. No, I don’t.” They are in my bag stuffed in Piper’s trunk. And there’s no way I’m going back in that house for her car keys. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll leave the side door open.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.”

  I press the end button then immediately dial Jovani again. His voice mail starts to play when I’m halfway down the driveway. Then, “Jo, it’s me. Can you—this party isn’t lame, it’s awful. Can you come get me?” I’m surprised to find tears streaming down my face. My voice shakes. “Piper doesn’t want to leave, and I just can’t… I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m at”—I’m halfway to the road now—“crap, I can’t remember the address. I’m gonna start walking. Please call me back.”

  I hang up and shoot a quick text to Piper.

  ME: I’m leaving, so don’t freak when you can’t find me.

  PIPER: what the eff?

  ME: I’m just not in the mood tonight. Sorry.

  PIPER: just stay another hour, K?

  ME: Don’t worry about it. Jovani’s coming to get me.

  I hate lying to her, but it’s easy when I know she’ll let me go without argument for this. Sure enough, another message comes in almost immediately.

  PIPER: ooo la la. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do. and tell me EVERYTHING.

  At the end of the driveway, I read the address on the mailbox, committing it to memory in case Jovani calls back. Then I pull up my phone’s GPS service and type in my address: 4.3 miles. I dial Jovani again. Nothing.

  I shove my phone into my bra and start walking.

  Chapter 8

  When I get home an hour and a half later, I’m a complete mess. My feet are killing me—blisters have grown, popped, and regrown where the straps of my shoes lay. I tried taking the shoes off and walking barefoot for a while, but the first jagged rock I hit ended that experiment. The bottom of my left foot now sticks to the sole of Piper’s shoe where my blood has dried, fusing the two together.

  I stink. I’m sticky and sweaty and need a shower. The top of my dress is soaked, though I can’t tell if it’s more sweat or tears. As I turn up the front walk, I check my phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from Jovani.

  I round the house to the side door, turning the knob slowly then swinging the door as fast as I can control it, forcing it to breeze past the squeaky spot. I creep up the back staircase so I don’t have to cross by Mom and Dad’s bedroom. If they wake up now and see me like this, they’ll freak. I can still smell the faintest hint of pot clinging to my dress. When I make it to the bathroom, I peel off the fabric and shove it deep in my hamper. I can’t take a shower—the groan of the pipes might wake Mom, the world’s lightest sleeper—so I wet a washcloth instead, wiping the cool water across my face and chest. Once I’m cleaned off as much as possible, I wrap myself in my bathrobe and head to my room.

  I don’t know what makes me stop. I pass the door every day, every time I walk between the bathroom and my bedroom. I’ve avoided this room since the accident—we all have. As far as I know, the door hasn’t been opened since we left the house that morning. But now, as if I’m being sucked in, I turn the knob.

  Even in the dark, the room looks exactly how I remember it—neat and orderly, with dozens of Polaroids tacked up in a precise grid on the wall. Faces stare down at me, Storm’s messy calligraphy scrawled over each picture, obscuring the images with captions. We met that night, reads one. Another says, I took this on July 4. I squint against the dark and scan the wall, picking out her face, smiling and bright, in picture after picture. In this room, it’s like she’s still alive.

  I lie on the bed and pull a stuffed bear to my chest. It still smells like Storm. Shoving my face into its soft fur, I breathe her in. Wonder where she is.

  My muscles relax, melting into the bed. My feet still tingle, and my legs twitch as they wind down from the walk. Sleep threatens me, my eyelids pulling toward each other. Suddenly, my room, just next door, seems too far away. I stretch my arms and fold my hands behind my head to settle in for the night.

  My left hand bumps something under the pillow. I pull it out—some kind of book. It’s small and colorful, the kind of notebook I used to find lying around the house with random scri
bbles in them. I click on the bedside lamp and turn the book over. The cover is one big doodle, black Sharpie against rainbow background. Swirls and dots all spiraling around three words: My Perfect Summer.

  My heart speeds up, kicking into high gear, and suddenly I’m wide awake. Slowly, hesitating—for a moment, wondering if I’ll actually do it—I open the book. The pages, just like the cover, are filled with doodles, different colored markers making beautifully ordered chaos across the paper. On the first page, staring right at me, is the number one.

  I flip through a few pages, unable to focus on the words, before it hits me. It’s a list—of course it is. How many times over the years would I find a scrap of paper, a shoebox lid, or a napkin with a list scribbled on it? Lists littered our house; they ruled our summers as we rushed to check off one random activity after another before school started in the fall.

  When was the last List Summer? After eighth grade, maybe ninth? Looking back now, I realize that the summer lists stopped when I got too busy for them, spending my days with Piper and the squad instead of with Storm and Cam. It never occurred to me that maybe Storm kept writing them.

  I flip to the first page and read each item, one at a time.

  1. Watch the sunrise.

  2. Take pictures of EVERYTHING.

  3. Get a tattoo.

  4. Go inside a lighthouse.

  5. Meet my soulmate. Fall in love.

  6. Go skinny dipping.

  7. Kiss in the rain.

  8. Put a secret in a balloon & let it fly away.

  9. Road trip!

  10. Crash a wedding.

  11. Go to a dive-in movie.

  12. Speak in a British accent all day.

  13. Sleep in the UNCW dorms.

  14. Go parasailing.

  15. Be brave with my life.

  When we were kids, our lists were filled with random, silly tasks: sleep in the tent in the backyard, play Frisbee, count all the stars we can see through the kitchen window, eat ice cream for dinner, have a water fight. This list is different. Heavier somehow, more grown-up, almost sad. I run my fingers over the ridges her pen made in the pages, trying to imagine what she was feeling when she wrote this.