Cool for the Summer

by Dahlia Adler

  I don’t wanna give up my secret, though. “Oh, I can. The question is whether you want company that early. You don’t seem to enjoy the presence of others before coffee.”

  Her teeth flash in the dark interior of the car. “You’ve noticed.”

  “I’m very observant,” I say with a flip of my hair.

  “You are.” Her voice is more serious than I anticipate, and I’m not ready for it. “I like this about you. You know when to talk and when not to. It’s a rare skill.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” It strikes me then that it’s the first time we’ve driven without music. “Especially since you can be a hard girl to read.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up. “Not many people bother to try to read me.”

  Outside, it’s relatively quiet, and with our windows down, we can hear the ocean lapping at the shore during the pauses in our conversation. The peaceful rhythmic interlude makes it less glaring that it takes me a minute to figure out how to respond.

  “I don’t know about that. We just left a whole house of people sick of losing to you at poker.”

  She laughs. “Touché. But none of them like to work for it.”

  “Have you ever considered not making people work for it?”

  “Literally never.”

  “Well, at least you’re self-aware.”

  My phone beeps, and I know before I look down that it’s gonna be my mom, asking where we are. I quickly tap out that we’ll be home in two minutes, and Jasmine says, “I didn’t really make you work for it, did I?”

  I think of how quickly she invited me to the pool, to meet her friends, to join in on her photo shoots. I press send on my reply and say, “No, you didn’t, I suppose.” Although all of that was superficial; there’s still so much I don’t know. But I like the idea that I’m a standout. What can I say? I’m vain. “Am I just special?”

  Her lips twitch. “I guess you are.”

  “I feel special,” I say seriously. It’s meant to sound like teasing, but I do. I’m grateful for how much she’s helped me love it here, for how generous she’s been with her time, with her life. Hell, I’m even grateful that she listened to me tonight about not wanting to be spotted and found another way to make it work. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  “Obviously.”

  She pulls us into the driveway and shuts off the car. “You cut through bullshit really, really fast. I cannot even tell you how refreshing that is.”

  I definitely owe that to a combination of my mom, who has zero time for bullshit, and Shannon, who taught me not to bother since she’ll see right through me anyway. But I don’t feel like giving anyone else credit. I’m enjoying feeling special—unnervingly so. I’m not gonna say that either, so instead I deflect like the wind. “Well, as long as I’m doing that: I thought you’d want to stay longer tonight. Hang out with Carter.” I let the rest go unsaid.

  She glances at me, her usually golden eyes impenetrably dark. “Can I tell you something, only because I think you’ll get it and not think I’m extremely weird?”

  I have no idea what’s coming, but there’s only one right answer to that question. “Of course.”

  There’s a tear in the thigh of her jeans, and she picks at it, concentrating her gaze downward with the same intensity she gives to capturing perfect shots of butterflies. “I don’t really love the whole partying thing. I mean, sometimes I do. But being surrounded by people is just … a lot. And it’s not that I don’t like hooking up with Carter, but it’s like … I don’t need it in the same way when there aren’t a ton of people there.”

  My first thought is that she means she wants other people to see it. After all, how many times have I dreamed of the feeling of a million eyes on me as I stand with Chase under the spotlight at Homecoming or prom? But that isn’t the vibe I get from Jasmine. And then I do get it.

  “You don’t need the escape, you mean?”

  The smile on her lips is faint, but I see it because I’m looking for it. “Yeah.”

  It isn’t something we have in common. I like to be kept busy, to be surrounded, entertained. As much as I love my mom, I suspect it’s from growing up in a quiet house of two. But sometimes always having to be “on,” having to abide by Shannon’s “rules,” having to balance school and work and, yeah, even my high-maintenance crush can get exhausting and frustrating and I just want that feeling of taking your bra off at the end of the day more than I want anything else in the world.

  Even if it feels like I’m not allowed to admit it.

  “So why do you keep going out?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t wanna be alone either. There’s no real compromise here—you either hang out with everyone, or no one.”

  “Well,” I say, a brilliant idea sparking in my brain, “maybe that was true before, but it isn’t now. Now you have a housemate! How about tomorrow night we stay back and hang out? We can have an incredibly cheesy and stereotypical girls’ night. Heavy on the ice cream. Hair curlers optional.”

  Jasmine laughs with a rare fullness that I’m way too proud of eliciting. “Deal.”

  We shake hands before going inside.

  * * *

  I think about that handshake a lot, because it reassures me that it was clearly just a friendly suggestion.

  I had no idea what it would spark.

  Chapter Eight

  NOW

  There was a time when I always put up with Shannon’s shit because it was easier than fighting with her, but it turns out that was completely pointless—I’ve been mad all week, and she doesn’t even notice. When I grunt in response to her questions or bail on lunch to work on a lab report, she acts like that’s nothing out of the ordinary and goes on chattering about the shopping trip she’s taking with her mom in SoHo for her birthday and this guy she hooked up with in France who keeps sending her pictures of himself making sad faces over missing her.

  I try to make eyes with Kiki and Gia, but as usual, Gia’s hanging on every word and piping up with ways Tommy either is or should be more romantic, and Kiki couldn’t care less, because some huge YouTuber named Kiki on the Case as his newest bonkers obsession. She’s managing a wild increase in followers and subscribers, so her only contributions to conversations this week have been things like “What do you think about a series on celebrity death conspiracy theories, starting with Marilyn Monroe? I need to appeal to a bigger audience now.”

  I would be thrilled when things are shaken up with a new face at our lunch table on Friday, except that face belongs to Jasmine.

  “Yay!” Shannon claps her hands together as Jasmine takes a seat, setting down a tray of chicken fingers and tater tots with extra hot sauce. “Excited you finally made it.”

  Finally made it? Ugh. If I weren’t already annoyed at Shannon, knowing she’s been inviting Jasmine to lunch every damn day would certainly do it. Shannon only tries this hard with people when she thinks they have something of value to add to our group. I wonder whether it was Jasmine’s gorgeous house or killer party that did it. Both are sort of weird options, since Shannon has every bit as nice a house, and plenty of kids around here throw good parties, but what else could it be? It’s not like she knows that Jasmine has gorgeous photography skills and amazing taste in books, or that she’s the most fun person to road-trip with because she’ll howl the most ridiculous lyrics out the window and make up the best and most filthy backstories for strangers in the cars next to us. And I’m reasonably certain she doesn’t know that Jasmine is an excellent kisser.

  Does she?

  Suddenly, my own tater tots look way less appealing. I grab a cucumber slice from my salad and nibble that instead.

  “It’s been a busy week,” says Jasmine with all the apology in her voice she can muster, which frankly isn’t much. “It’s not exactly the same curriculum as in Asheville. I have to catch up on some stuff.”

  “Why did you move for senior year again?” Kiki asks, and I
can practically see antennae rise out of her messy bun.

  “Custody stuff,” Jasmine says as if it’s nothing, like being shuffled between parents at a whim doesn’t bother her, but it’s bullshit. There’s no way she isn’t missing her mom’s lavish Shabbat dinners. There’s no way she feels at home in a bedroom with no pictures on the walls.

  But everyone else accepts it with a nod—a slightly disappointed one, in Kiki’s case—and she bites into a chicken finger while motioning “Can’t possibly speak on this further as my mouth is currently full.”

  “Well, you have perfect timing for joining us,” says Shannon, “because our little Larissa is going on a big date tonight, and I wanna hear all about it.” Her lips twitch into the tiniest of smirks. “I’m allowed to reveal that now, right?”

  Fucker. She did know I was pissed all week.

  I don’t need Jasmine knowing how bothered I am by their random-ass friendship, nor am I letting Shannon win this one. “Duh. About fifty people already asked me about it today, so.” Insert modest shrug, as if I don’t know that the idea of me and Chase being the center of Stratford conversation drives her nuts. “I’m glad we decided to just see a movie instead of going out in public. Who needs all those eyes on us?”

  “A movie,” Jasmine says sweetly. “That sounds … romantic.”

  Is she trying to make me feel the weight of her hand on my thigh, the way it pressed my skin into the scratchy velvet of the movie theater seat? Because it’s definitely not working.

  “Ooh, especially at the multiplex,” says Gia. “They have those reclining seats that are so big, they can fit two people. It’s very romantic,” she adds in a tone that makes me want to bring bleach to the theater.

  “So, start from the beginning,” says Jasmine, smiling like this is normal girl talk and she’s enjoying it and aren’t we all enjoying it? “How did he ask? What are you wearing?”

  “You still have my really cute halter,” Shannon points out, as if my favorite blue tank top isn’t buried somewhere in the depths of her walk-in closet. “It’s so cute with jeans.”

  “Jeans are so boring!” Gia protests. “Jasmine, tell her she has to wear a dress.”

  “I have some cute dresses you can borrow.” Jasmine’s voice is light and playful and a flush starts creeping up my skin. I’m familiar with her cute dresses. I’ve borrowed a couple that don’t require her considerably more ample cleavage. And I know exactly which ones give easy access in a movie theater too.

  I hate this conversation. I hate that she’s here. I hate that my brain won’t let this summer go.

  I hate that I don’t know if she’s thinking the same things I am or if the offer to borrow a dress is really just an offer to borrow a dress.

  “Thanks, but I think Shannon’s right about the halter and jeans,” I say, my words coming out in a mumble. “Don’t wanna give him any ideas just yet, right?” I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.

  “Right,” Gia says. “Make him work for it. I wouldn’t even let Tommy touch my boobs for three months.”

  “We know, G,” Kiki says on a huffy sigh, refreshing something on her phone screen. “We know.”

  “What are you doing besides a movie?” Jasmine asks, resting her chin on her palm. “Are you going out to dinner too? Or just gonna make out in his car a lot?”

  The other girls laugh, and I can’t tell if it’s mean-spirited, on her end or on theirs. I don’t know how to feel about any of this except that I want Jasmine to stop asking me stupid fucking questions about my date with Chase.

  The truth is that I haven’t really thought about it. Despite a movie date with Chase being item number four on my high school bucket list, I’m not obsessing; I’m just plain old looking forward. I’d picked an outfit (yes, I’d already been planning on wearing the halter top and jeans before Shannon ever opened her mouth), and I’d let my mom know I was going out and might be a little late, but would text her before curfew.

  It’s a movie. What more is there to say about a movie?

  A lot, apparently.

  Well, if that’s the game Jasmine wants to play.

  “I’m pretty sure there’ll be plenty of making out wherever we go. Who’s got time for dinner when Chase Harding is on the menu?” I flash a sly smile and take a sip of my Diet Coke while the other girls whistle and laugh. I’m gratified to see Jasmine purse her lips a little bit, just enough to know she’s done with the question portion of our meal. “What are the rest of you doing tonight?”

  * * *

  In the end, I wear a short red skirt with a black-and-white polka dot top—neither Shannon’s suggestion, nor Jasmine and Gia’s—and I don’t give a damn what ideas Chase gets; I’ll do what I want. I also wear red lipstick, even though Shannon’s told me a million times that it scares guys off from kissing you, and the black leather sandals she once told me to burn because they made me look stumpy. (They make my legs look athletic, thank you very much.)

  Judging from the look on Chase’s face when I answer the door, I look just fine. Better than. Or, if I wasn’t sure, his “Wow, you look gorgeous” helps.

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting a kiss on the cheek. I call back to my mom that I’m heading out and wait until I hear her “Have fun!” before following him out to his car.

  There’s no movie theater in Stratford, but the multiplex with the awesome seats is only a fifteen-minute drive, so we buckle in and make small talk about school and the movie’s reviews and work and the football team. More than once, I catch him checking me out at a red light, and by the time we get to the theater, I’m bursting to ask him the thing that’s been bothering me since the first day of school.

  “Hey, can I ask you a weird question?”

  He shuts off the engine. “How weird are we talking?”

  “It’s … you’ve known for a while that I like you, right?” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “Like, it hasn’t exactly been the best-kept secret at Stratford.”

  He grins, and I wish the overhead light hadn’t gone off so I could see him in better light. “A little while, maybe. But I like you too.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” I say, and we both laugh. “I guess I’m just wondering … why now? Is it really the haircut? The blond? I hope it’s not the tan, because that’s already on its way out.”

  “Those things don’t hurt,” he says, reaching out to lightly yank a golden curl, “but no, it isn’t that you’re prettier than before. You just seem different. You kinda … glow. I mean, you walked into school that first day straight-up strutting.” He laughs, more sheepishly this time. “God, that sounds dumb. But do you know what I mean? You seem happier, a little more fearless, a little less like…”

  “Like…?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound awful.”

  My stomach tightens. “Well, it can’t sound worse than this.”

  “Fair enough.” He meets my gaze full-on, his eyes glowing with the reflection of the neon lights. “You seem less like you’re in Shannon Salter’s shadow. Like you somehow came into your own this summer. If that’s not a really stupid and terrible thing to say.”

  I shake my head slowly. “It isn’t either of those things.” I hadn’t really put it into those words, but I think I felt some of that too.

  The only problem was that sure, I hadn’t spent the summer in Shannon’s shadow, but maybe I’m in Jasmine’s shadow. Only no one knows it.

  Jasmine is the one who inspired my haircut, who gave me the bravery for my piercing. Jasmine is the one who took me all over the Outer Banks, showed me how to find beauty in places I didn’t see it, including—cheesy as it is—myself. Jasmine is the one who showed me the real fun was never in following the crowd, and that sometimes the best things are the scary and the unexpected.

  God, a part of me hates her so much.

  But it hits me with a bolt that what Chase is seeing is that I love myself more after this summer, and for that, I will
probably owe her forever.

  “Good,” he says, and it isn’t until he says it that I remember where I am and who I’m with. “So, should we get some popcorn?”

  THEN

  We did hang out by ourselves the night after the poker game, but there was no ice cream; instead, we stocked up on graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows, and made good use of the fire pit in the backyard.

  “What do you think happens if you leave a marshmallow in a bottle of soda?” Jasmine asks, holding up one of the many bottles of Coke we’d bought to accompany our s’mores, determined to taste test every one of its sweet varieties. “Do you think it explodes?”

  “Uh-oh. Do you think having both in our stomachs at the same time will make them explode?”

  Jasmine laughs and whacks me on the arm. “Shut up! This is serious. We should experiment. For science.”

  “For science, you want to waste a perfectly good marshmallow by dropping it into a bottle of cherry Coke.”

  “Would you prefer I waste a perfectly good marshmallow by dropping it into a bottle of orange vanilla?”

  “Don’t you dare. Orange vanilla’s my favorite.” I grab the bottle of carbonated Creamsicle and chug it while using my other hand to throw a marshmallow square at Jasmine’s nose.

  “Now who’s wasting a perfectly good marshmallow, Larissa?”

  The combination of her using my full name and her mock-angry tone cracks me up, and my sugar high doesn’t help. This is so gross but also so delicious, and even without everybody else, even though we already spent the whole day together going through pictures and analyzing tedious details to pick the best shots, this is the most fun night I’ve had since we came down here.

  “You’re such a dork,” I say, grabbing stuff to make another s’more. “But I’m glad we stayed in. It’s nice to chill out and wear comfy clothes and let my hair get all rat’s nest-y.”