Bummer Summer

by Ann M. Martin

  “Well,” said Dad presently. He broke such a long silence that I jumped. Visibly. So I jumped again and scratched my back furiously, hoping I looked like I had a sudden, terrible itch.

  “Why don’t we,” he continued, “forgo the unpacking and redecorating this afternoon and do something fun together?”

  “That’s a great idea!” exclaimed Kate. You’d have thought Dad had just come up with a substitute for oil. Kate must not know him too well, I smirked, or she’d know he does this every time he’s faced with a large, unpleasant chore.

  “What shall we do?” she asked.

  “Go simming?” suggested Muffin. She surprised me. I guess I have a lot to learn about little kids. She’d been sitting quietly, sort of staring around. I had no idea she was following the conversation. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe “simming” didn’t mean what I thought it meant.

  “Swimming, baby?” repeated Kate. “Well, it’s not a bad idea. Is there some place nearby where we can swim, Robert?”

  Please, please, please say no, I pleaded silently. Not the Community Pool. Or please suggest the beach, even though it’s farther away.

  “Sure,” Dad said amiably. “Kammy and I always get a summer family membership at the Community Pool. We can all go. We can go every day this summer, if we want to.”

  I let out my breath in a slow, defeated sigh. Anywhere but the Community Pool. The problem with the CP was that it lived up to its name, and the entire community belonged. I was bound to see friends there, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain my enlarged family to everybody.

  “Sounds great to me.” Kate smiled. “I can’t think of anything more divine right now than submerging myself in a large body of cold water.”

  Dad grinned at her, then at me. “What do you say, Kams? We haven’t been yet this year. We can make a real splash there with our new family. Get it? Splash?”

  “Oh,” I groaned. “I got it, but I didn’t want it.” Dad is so corny. I was going to say I thought I’d stay home and read, but I knew he really wanted me to go. He wanted the five of us to be a family. He had said that several thousand times. So I didn’t make a fuss. Anyway, I hadn’t exactly acted enthusiastic about getting the little chair out of the attic, or carting all the boxes around in the heat, and I knew Dad’s patience was wearing thin. I said I thought the pool sounded like a pretty good idea.

  Dad and I had our getting-ready-for-the-pool preparations down to a science. We could go from fully dressed to suited up and in the car in ten minutes flat. Dad used to time us.

  So today, when Dad said “pool,” I flew into a whirlwind of activity and collapsed in the car nine and a half minutes later, gloating at having knocked thirty seconds off the record.

  After two minutes I was still the only one in the car.

  After five minutes I was still the only one in the car.

  I let another two or three go by before I slid out of the front seat and headed curiously back inside. I knew they had not left without me. We do not own another car.

  Upstairs I about fainted. The second floor was a shambles. I mean, half-unpacked boxes and suitcases never do much for a house anyway, but this was beyond a little untidiness and disorganization. It was chaos.

  Muffin was dragging around in a Snoopy bathing suit with the straps unbuttoned. She was whining. I cannot begin to tell you what whining does to my ears.

  Kate had managed to put on the top of her bikini but was still wearing her jeans and Nikes. She was carrying a squalling Baby Boy in her left arm and searching through a carton with her right.

  Dad was changed completely, but he was hovering over the diaper bag. He looked up when I entered the overflowing hall. “I was in my suit and on my way to the car in under eight minutes,” he told me sadly, “when Kate stopped me and indicated the mess they were in.”

  Dad and I exchanged worried glances.

  “Well,” I said, “there must be a way to speed things up a little. Otherwise it’ll be next week before we get to the pool. What’s holding everybody up?”

  “I’m not sure if I have this all straight,” Dad replied, “but it seems that nobody can button Muffin’s straps the way Kate can, and that Muffin has to have her straps done before she can get together everything else she needs.”

  “What does she need besides a towel and Rose-up?”

  “A second towel—and apparently only her farm-scene towel will do—her noseplug, her Mr. Bubble, her Horace the Inflatable Horse, and three or four other things I’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, wow,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “And that’s not all. We have to get the diaper bag together—that’s what I’m supposed to be doing—and Kate can’t find her bikini bottom or the baby’s bathing suit, and Muffin just squirted suntan lotion all over the bathroom floor and she’s supposed to be cleaning it up, but I don’t think she is,” he wound up. He was out of breath.

  “Couldn’t we leave Baby B—, I mean the baby, here?” I suggested.

  “No, I don’t want to do that to poor Mrs. Meade just yet.”

  I could see what he meant.

  So I heaved a huge sigh and pitched in. We were on our way in just under an hour and a half, far past the shank of the afternoon, as Dad would say, but I was not terribly concerned. Only bored. At least it was late enough so the pool crowd would be thinning out and I was less apt to run into someone I knew.

  Dad also seemed pretty composed, considering he’d had to give up setting his new record and everything. He drove to the pool with a smile on his face, reminiscing about how harried life had been when I was little (although I personally did not recall ever being such a pain as Muffin) and declaring it would be just a matter of time before he could do Muffin’s straps as well as Kate.

  At the pool I scrambled through the gate and made a dash for our favorite spot, which is next to the diving pool, at a convenient distance from the snack bar and the water fountain. However, before I got halfway there, I heard Kate calling me.

  I turned around.

  “Kammy? Where are you going? Don’t you want to sit with us?”

  I walked back to them and looked from her to Dad.

  “We usually sit by the diving pool,” I said pointedly.

  “Oh, but honey, it’s much more convenient here. We’re near the baby pool and the bathroom. We have to be near the bathroom. Muffin swallows a lot of water.”

  Dad shrugged his shoulders.

  I was outnumbered.

  So we spread all our stuff under a huge tree. (We weren’t even in the sun, for pete’s sake. How was I supposed to get a tan?) And we were next to the baby pool, where the average age of the swimmers was two and a half.

  I wished harder than ever that no one would see me.

  Kate took the kids (and Mr. Bubble and Mr. Inflatable Horsie and Mr. Diaper Bag) over to the little pool, and I lay on the grass with my entire body, including my head, covered by two large towels. Dad sat next to me in a lawn chair, reading a book that must have weighed thirty-five pounds.

  “Kammy?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled from between the grass and the terry cloth.

  “You don’t have to hide, you know. And you don’t have to stick with us. You can go on over to the diving pool for a while.”

  “Are you sure Kate won’t mind?”

  “Yes. And if she does, she’ll just have to accept the fact that you’re almost a young adult, not a baby like Muffin, and you’re entitled to certain privileges.”

  I uncovered my face and peered over at Dad.

  “What privileges?”

  “Well,” he said, “you’re entitled to your privacy. And you’re entitled to any activities, friends, plans, and pets that were part of your life before Kate and I got married.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course, pumpkin.” Dad heaved his tome onto the lawn and turned to face me.

  “Sweetie, Kate married me, and she and Muffin and Baby Boy have become part of our family, and yes, we’re all going t
o have to make some concessions and do some adjusting. Even Baby Boy, and Simon, have to adjust in their own ways. But it does not mean our old way of life has ended. It’s just sort of expanded. Kind of like”—he paused—“kind of like the difference between potato salad for two and potato salad for eighty-two. It takes more work to make it, and you might have to change the recipe a little, but it comes out tasting the same.”

  I eyed Dad carefully, trying to tell if he was kidding. Then I caught that funny wrinkle in his forehead that meant he was hiding a smile.

  “Oh, Dad!” I laughed. “That was a terrible analogy.”

  “I know. I hope you understand what I’m saying, though.”

  “I think I do. Thanks.” I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “I guess I will go to the diving pool. I see Jana and Rick there.”

  “O.K., Kams.” He struggled to get the book back on his lap.

  “You know what else I’ve learned from you?” I said.

  “What?” he puffed.

  “Never read anything you can’t lift!”

  Dad let out a guffaw, and I dashed off with my towel.

  Jana and Rick were pals of mine from a couple of years ago when we all landed in the same advanced diving class at the Y. They live clear across town, in the other school district, so I never see them except during the summers, when we practically live in the diving pool. It had been exactly nine and a half months since we’d been together—the day the CP closed last year.

  “Jana!” I called, running up the concrete path and waving like mad. “Rick! I’m here!”

  “Kammy!” they shouted. Rick rose from his towel, where he’d been turning himself a nice shade of brown, and Jana hoisted herself out of the water, pulling off her bathing cap at the same time and shaking out her mane of black hair.

  “Hey,” we all cried, laughing and slapping each other on the backs.

  “Look what I learned!” yelled Jana. In a second her cap was back on and she was flipping herself off the low board. Rick ran after her to try the dive, too, and I was right behind him.

  We twisted and somersaulted and turned and jack-knifed and laughed and dripped. Finally we lay down in the sun, exhausted and steamy.

  The last thing I was prepared for was a little voice near my left ear whispering, “Kammy, Kammy, Mommy wants you.”

  I sprung off my towel so fast I nearly toppled Muffin over. “I—I have to go,” I said hastily.

  “Now, Kam? Why? Who’s that?” asked Rick, shading his eyes and squinting up at us.

  “Nobody,” I gulped. “Just—just a little kid from our street. I’ll see you guys later.”

  I grabbed Muffin’s wrist and trotted her off at a pace that was definitely too fast for her. I didn’t stop until we were almost at our tree again.

  Kate managed to tear herself away from some biology article she was reading long enough to say, “Oh, there you are, Kammy. I was wondering if you’d take over pool duty with Muffin for a few minutes. I’d like to go swimming for a bit while your dad stays in the shade with the baby.”

  I glared fiercely at Dad, but he was concentrating on diapering Baby Boy and didn’t see me.

  Before I could answer, Muffin, looking around uncertainly at all the adults, said, “Mommy? I don’t want to go with Kammy. I want to go with you.”

  Honestly, it’s amazing how she always figures out what the adults are discussing. Maybe she’s just lucky. Whatever it was, she was solving my problem of having to be seen in the baby pool.

  “Yes,” I said, “why don’t you and Dad take Muffin in the big pool, and I’ll stay here with the baby?” I was being crafty. I had a pretty good idea Kate would allow no such thing.

  She laughed nervously. “Oh, no, that’s all right. You’re off pool duty, I guess.”

  I felt like picking a fight. “Come on, Kate,” I pressed, “you let me take care of Muffin but not B—, the baby.”

  “Kammy, you’re off pool duty, O.K.?” she repeated.

  “You already said that.”

  “Kamilla.” That was Dad. It was his low, you’re-overstepping-your-bounds voice. He was such a stickler for manners. And he hated unpleasantness. He’d rather get an ulcer than fight with anyone. Mr. Mild-Mannered.

  “But she doesn’t trust me,” I whined to Dad, realizing somewhere in the back of my mind that I sounded like Muffin.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Kate butted in, even though an idiot, probably even Muffin, would have known I was addressing my father, not her. “It’s just that he is still so tiny—an infant. Infants are not toys or dolls. They need special care.”

  “And you don’t trust me,” I said again.

  “Well…maybe I don’t. You’re only twelve. You haven’t done any serious baby-sitting…” She trailed off and looked questioningly at my father.

  Dad considered things for a few seconds and then broke into this huge, false grin. “Let’s all go to the big pool,” he suggested, standing up with Baby Boy in the crook of his arm. Kate rose, too, but more slowly, and took Muffin’s hand.

  “I’m staying here,” I said loudly, and watched them walk off together, all hand in hand.

  I was so mad I sat and just fumed for a few minutes. Then I took a cheap plastic rattle out of the diaper bag, set it on Dad’s book, put my shoe on top of it, and very slowly crushed it into fragments. I looked at them, brushed them all into the grass, and stalked off to the refreshment stand.

  Even though it was four-thirty and even though I knew how Kate felt about red meat, I bought a foot-long hot dog and ate it under the tree. Kate caught me with the end of it and scolded me. But it didn’t do her much good because I didn’t answer her, and it’s hard to yell very long at a person who doesn’t fight back (another thing I learned from my father).

  A good adjective to describe the entire pool outing is rotten. It was topped off during the ride home when Muffin threw up all over the back seat because she’d swallowed so much chlorinated water. I was never so glad to retreat to the safety of my bedroom.

  Chapter 3

  “I Can’t Stand It!”

  THE NEXT DAY WAS Sunday, Mrs. Meade’s day off. I woke up at eight-thirty and staggered into the kitchen to fix breakfast. I have done this for Dad and me as long as I can remember, and I know just where everything is, and exactly what to do when, and how Dad likes everything.

  This morning would not be quite the same, of course, with my “new” family, but I tried to keep Dad’s words in mind—about how our life was more expanded than different. I set the kitchen table for four, put coffee mugs at two places and a milk glass at Muffin’s, and set up Baby Boy’s infant seat next to Kate.

  By the time Kate came in, breakfast was ready. The coffee was perking, the orange juice was poured, and the whole wheat bread was waiting to be popped in the toaster.

  I smiled at Kate, feeling a little guilty about having started the argument yesterday. “Good morning!” I said.

  “Good morning, Kammy.” Kate planted a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re a sweetheart,” she declared.

  I grinned proudly, surveying my breakfast work.

  “Thank you for starting breakfast. I’ll finish up now. You run along.”

  “Starting breakfast? But Kate,” I protested, “I’ve done everything. It’s all finished. We just have to wait for Dad and Muffin.”

  “Don’t you want eggs? Or cereal? Or fruit? I bought two beautiful cantaloupes yesterday. You need a healthy breakfast to start off the day.”

  I left in a huff and went sputtering off to find Dad. It wasn’t hard. I followed a trail of Kleenexes and socks out to the back porch, where he was sort of collapsed on the chaise lounge, surrounded by the Sunday paper. He was still too bleary-eyed to read it. I couldn’t tell whether he was fit to hold a conversation yet.

  “Dad?” I asked uncertainly. I waited for his eyes to focus.

  “Oh, good morning, Kams. How’d you sleep?”

  “Just fine.” I decided he was awake enou
gh for a talk. “Um, Dad? You know how I always get breakfast on Sunday?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Kate’s in the kitchen now, making this big production out of it, and she’s fixing all these eggs and this melon and everything. Don’t you like my breakfasts?”

  “Oh, Kams,” said Dad, wide awake now, “your breakfasts are fine. Kate’s just adding to them. I’m going to have your toast and coffee and her eggs and melon—if I can fit it all in! I hope you’re not going to stop doing your part, either. Kate makes dreadful coffee!”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really,” he said firmly, and added, “putrid.”

  I giggled.

  I didn’t mind going in to breakfast then. And nobody said anything when all I ate was toast and juice. I was quite grossed out when Muffin laughed at something my father said and sprayed corn flakes all over the table, but in time, I hoped, I would learn to ignore things like that.

  If I could have seen what the rest of the day was going to be like, I might have been less cheerful. Looking back on breakfast, I understand now what is meant by the term “a false sense of security.” Also the phrase “the calm before the storm.”

  Later that morning I rounded the corner from the front hall into the living room and fell over Muffin, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with poor Simon in a headlock. Her free hand was patting him so hard his tummy was bouncing up and down. She was singing “Rock-a-Bye Baby.”

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  Muffin released Simon guiltily, and he practically flew out of the room.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “Do you want to kill him?” I screeched. “He’s only a kitten. You can’t squeeze him and hit him.” I had grabbed her arm and was shaking it with every word.

  “I wuh-wasn’t,” Muffin wailed. A full-blown howl. “I was singiiiiiiing.” She drew out the last word long enough to attract Kate’s and Dad’s attention.

  They ran in to find us face to face on the floor, Muffin bawling and me shaking her.