Unforgettable Summer Read online

  “So, Fleming, if you want to come by the salon, I can give you a free cut maybe—I’m learning,” the girl says.

  “Hey, uh, thanks,” I mutter. “And if you ever want free coffee—you know where to find me.” I quickly run off and find Charlotte and tell her we’d better get going or I’ll miss my curfew.

  “You look weird, Fleming. Your eyes are too bright or something. What just happened?” she asks.

  “There’s Steve—and that IHOP hostess again,” I say, discreetly pointing in their direction. “And for some reason they have to kiss repeatedly in public.”

  Charlotte narrows her eyes at them. “Pig. But don’t worry, you’ll get him back.”

  “I can’t get him back,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?” Charlotte says. “God, you’re a hundred times prettier than she is.”

  I blush, hoping that’s somehow true. “No. I mean, I can’t get him back because I never had him in the first place,” I admit. It was one thing when he wasn’t seeing me, but he wasn’t seeing anyone else, either. Then I could come up with theories about how he was a free spirit. Now he’s happily chained to someone else.

  “Oh. Well, that sucks.” Charlotte pops her gum. “Forget him, okay? We’ve got FENs all over the place here.”

  “We’ve only seen one,” I point out.

  “Come on! Where there’s one, there’s more,” Charlotte says. She puts her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get out of here. We’re done studying. Right?”

  “Considering that we never really started? Yeah,” I say with a smile.

  “We can do it on Sunday,” Charlotte declares. “It’s not like we have anything else to do on Sunday.”

  I think I’m supposed to go to a childbirth class with my pregnant mother on Sunday. Case in point.

  “Anyway, if I don’t get the car back on time, my mom won’t let me have it next month,” Charlotte says as we amble back toward her car.

  As we start to pull out of the Lot, Mike and Steve come up beside us and pass us, peeling out onto Twelfth with squealing tires. I can’t see if that Jacqui girl is with them. Maybe they ditched her, I think hopefully. Maybe Steve’s realized that she’s plastic, that he’s made a terrible, horrible mistake. I can dream, for at least the next few seconds anyway, until we catch up to them at the next stoplight and I see her blond head in the rear window.

  Your Love Is Like Roadkill

  Saturday morning, Dad is busy getting three For Sale homes ready for their open houses—which means he makes sure the places have been vacuumed and de-cluttered, and he buys large floral arrangements. Dad’s into flowers. I think he misses having them thrown onto the ice for him.

  Mom has to do a radio remote from Gabe’s Auto World. “I promise, Peggy, this is the last one,” she said last night, which is what she said after the previous one. “I keep telling Bill, but he keeps saying they can’t get by without me.” And they can’t, because Mom is great at remotes where she has to pitch products and run contests and interview shoppers. She has this gift. She can talk to anyone and never has dead air time.

  I take Dorothy, Torvill, and Dean to the neighborhood playground, two blocks away. Because I’m the tallest person there, I end up holding all the neighborhood kids up to the overhead bar, which has a pulley that lets them slide to the other end. The kids scream my name and climb on me. They call me “Peggy the Gentle Giant.” They don’t get tired of doing this, but my arms get tired after fifteen minutes. Mrs. Klipp, from across the street, comes over to ask me how my summer’s going, as if it’s not obvious.

  Mom gets home before Dad. She comes into the house, gets the kids started on lunch, and then turns to me. “So you’re going to be here tonight, right?”

  I’m in the middle of eating a banana so I have to swallow before I can ask, “Um, what?”

  “You’re going to be home tonight—to watch the kids?” she asks.

  “Excuse me?” I say. “I am?”

  “We’re having dinner out with Laurie and Brandon, remember?” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “I left you a note,” she says. She rifles through a stack of library books on the counter and a small piece of pink paper flutters to the floor. “Didn’t you see this?” she asks as she struggles to bend down and pick it up.

  “No,” I say. “Nobody could have seen that.”

  “Oh, well.” Mom hauls herself back up by the oven door handle. “We wanted to go out tonight, and I just thought—well, I didn’t think you had any plans. So I figured you could watch the kids while we’re out. We might be home kind of late—around midnight.”

  I can’t say anything because I’m actually sort of stunned. Let me get this straight: I was here all morning watching the kids, and now they want me to be here all night, too? What if I had plans? What if I wanted to go out on Saturday night like most normal sixteen-year-olds?

  I want to tell her that I can’t, that I have plans, that it’s going to be absolutely impossible. But it isn’t. And besides, Mom has dark circles under her eyes where her makeup has sort of caked, and she looks exhausted. I’m not sure how going out with friends will help, but maybe it’s what she needs. “I guess I could do it,” I say.

  “I knew you could! Did you hear that, guys? Peggy’s going to hang out with you tonight,” Mom says as she doles out sugar cookies. She doesn’t even say “thanks” or “that’s nice.” She just says, “How about renting a movie?”

  “Little Mermaid! Little Mermaid!” Torvill says.

  “We don’t have to rent that; we own it,” Mom says, interrupting her before the third “Little Mermaid.”

  Do we ever, I think as I head up to my room, close the door behind me, and savor my few minutes of solitude. I turn up the radio and lie down on my bed, completely exhausted. I stare at the giant poster of New York City beside my bed, which is next to the poster of Boston, which is next to San Francisco. The other side of my room has framed prints of Provence, Rome, and London. The ceiling is a world map covered with neon-bright stickers to mark the places I want to go. Occasionally the stickers dry out and fall on me when I’m asleep and I wake up with DEFINITELY! or DUBLIN on my face.

  I close my eyes and try to picture that it’s a Saturday somewhere else. I’m shopping on Fifth Avenue. I’m standing by the ocean—no, I’m surfing in it. I have tickets for the ballet. I’m visiting ancient ruins or Buckingham Palace.

  I’m not staying home in Lindville watching kids’ videos I’ve seen a hundred times before.

  Around three o’clock I skate to Gas ’n Git.

  Denny is there, writing in his notebook between gas transactions, and wants to know what I’m doing. “You’re here on your day off. Why?” He puts down his pen and looks up from his notebook.

  “To pick up my check. And I’m getting presents for a friend.” I want to send Suzanne a care package.

  “You mean gitting, don’t you?” Denny asks. “Please use the trademarked phrase while in the store. Jamie’s here today, you know—better not do anything un-employee-like.”

  I shrug. “Okay. So how’s it going?”

  “Everyone’s grumpy because the pay-at-the-pump receipt printers aren’t working, and apparently it’s a tragedy.” Denny rolls his eyes.

  “Devastating,” I agree.

  “Jamie’s trying to fix them. She’s on the phone with Gas ’n Git Central. In the meantime, no one has to prepay, but everyone still comes in here in a bad mood,” Denny says. There’s a little crackle on his gas-pump monitor, and Denny clicks the speaker and says, “You’re okay on seven . . . Kevin.” He looks out the front window and waves at a guy who’s filling up. “See, I know him, and that rhymes, so it’s sort of cool.”

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “Hey—while you’re here, you mind listening to some lyrics? I’m sort of stuck,” Denny admits.

  “Um. Okay,” I say. I can see how he would be stuck, if seven and Kevin are what he’s working with. I’m actually very curious to he
ar what Denny writes about. His motorcycle, I’m guessing—and his accessories. Or about the cruelty of wanting a mustache and not being able to grow one.

  Denny clears his throat. “This town has no soul, it’s a hollow shell with nothing to fill it,” he begins to sing. It sounds suspiciously like a familiar U2 song, but with different lyrics. “But with you by my side—no, wait, that wasn’t it.” He peers at the words on the page. “But you won’t give in. You won’t give in. And your life has gone . . .”

  “Country?” I say.

  He frowns at me. “No. Your life has gone—”

  “To the dogs,” I suggest.

  “Shut up,” he says. “Your life has gone around the bend, and your love is like a . . . well, I wanted to put in something about the road. Your love is like a stop sign?” he asks.

  “Speed bump,” I suggest. “Or how about roadkill? Your love is like roadkill.”

  “You’re really awful at this,” Denny says. “Come on, just actually try to help me, okay? How about . . . Your love makes me yield. I can’t yield to your love. No—I can’t stop for your love.”

  “But you can at least slow down and let me jump out of the car,” I say. “Right?”

  Denny frowns at me.

  “What—I was serious,” I say, thinking of Kamikaze Bus Driver, how this song could be his theme.

  “Okay, then. Next song.” Denny tears the sheet of paper out and crumples it into a ball and then flips to a fresh page in his notebook.

  “Your love is a crumpled page,” I say.

  Denny taps his pen against the counter. Then he looks at me. “That’s not bad.”

  “And I can’t throw it away,” I add.

  “Okay, that is bad.”

  “Fleming!” Jamie says. Our boss walks out of the back office and dumps a stack of receipt-paper rolls on the counter. “How are you? What a coincidence that you dropped by. I need to talk to you.”

  “Coincidence?” Denny scoffs. “Not exactly. Our paychecks are ready.”

  Me, I’m worried that she needs to talk to me. She’s not going to fire me. Is she?

  “I have a problem, and I was wondering if you could help out,” Jamie goes on. “I’ve lost my Saturday-night coffee person.”

  “Thank God,” Denny says as he swipes a customer’s credit card. “That guy was—”

  Jamie clears her throat loudly and we move away from the counter a bit. “Anyway, I was wondering if it would be at all possible for you to pick up the shift.”

  “You mean . . . permanently?” I ask. Can my summer get worse? I have to work on Saturday nights now?

  “Yes. We could trade it for your Friday day shift, because I have someone who can cover that,” Jamie says. “So what do you think? The shift is from three to eleven, and you’d be working with Denny.”

  I stare at the freezer and contemplate my options. Working with Denny isn’t bad, because he’s a known quantity. And I can either work here or risk being stuck at home. And I know that Steve has worked Saturday nights forever, so I wouldn’t be missing anything there. And I do have to keep this job. “I’ll do it, but I can’t start tonight,” I say.

  “That’s fine. That’s perfect. You’re a lifesaver,” Jamie tells me. Then she goes over to replenish the coffee tanks.

  I wander around, shopping, while Denny rings up gas sales. As soon as Jamie goes back to the office, Denny rushes over and shuts off the coffee machines. He dumps more coffee into the filters, then presses the “Resume” buttons.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “She makes the worst coffee. God. Undrinkable. She doesn’t use enough, and it comes out tasting like dirty water,” Denny says.

  “So why do we sell Jamie’s Java Blend?” I ask. “And why is she here making coffee when she doesn’t usually?”

  “Rick didn’t show up for like the hundredth time, so she fired him. So, you taking the Saturday-night shift?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Cool. So you’re here to buy stuff. Why aren’t you shopping at the mall?” he asks.

  “Employee discount. Plus, it’s too far away,” I say. “Plus, there aren’t any good stores there.”

  “True. Very true. I long for a decent store in this town,” Denny says.

  “You could write a song about that,” I say.

  Denny smiles. “Right.” He comes out from behind the counter and follows me around the store.

  There are only three aisles of food and auto supplies. I grab a rain bonnet and two packets of ibuprofen. I get a plastic coffee mug with the Espress-Oh-Yes logo for Suzanne, and then head for the candy aisle. I stack chocolate bars and bags of fruit-flavored candies in my arms.

  “So what is all this for?” Denny asks.

  “It’s a care package,” I tell him. “My friend’s a camp counselor, and you know how camp food sucks.”

  Denny shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve never gone to camp. I’m not exactly a camp-type person.”

  “What kind of person is that?” I ask.

  “You know. The kind of person who likes living in a cabin with a bunch of other people and hiking and sitting around a campfire. Roasting marshmallows. Singing. All together.” Denny shudders.

  “You sing,” I say. “You like singing. You write songs.”

  “They do skits, okay? I don’t think I need to say any more.” Denny rushes over to ring up another gas sale.

  A few minutes later I carry my stash of gifts to the counter and drop them in front of him. “Ring away.”

  He starts scanning the items and asks, “What are you doing tonight?”

  I really hope he isn’t trying to ask me out. I know he isn’t—that he wouldn’t. But the question always makes me think that, anyway. “Hanging out with my sibs,” I say. “Technically you could call it baby-sitting, except I’m their big sister.”

  “Baby-sitting. On Saturday night,” Denny says.

  “Yes.”

  “You are exciting,” he says. “Do you know that?”

  He’s acting like this was my idea. “At least I won’t be working here. Yet.”

  “And at least I’m not at camp. Give your friend my sympathy, okay? Here.” He grabs a few packs of spearmint gum, pays for them, and tosses them into the plastic bag. “She’ll need these. They don’t let you brush your teeth much when you’re at camp. You have to go down to the river or whatever.”

  “Thanks,” I say, surprised by his generosity.

  “No problem. Rvoyr,” Denny says.

  I stare at him for a second until I realize what he’s saying. “Yeah. Au revoir to you, too.”

  On my way home, an eighteen-wheeler veers into the bike lane and nearly dusts me.

  This town has no soul. And nobody yields to your love. Nobody yields, period.

  Maternity Moments

  I am sitting on the floor of the Lindville Medical Center’s Lamaze Lounge. I am the only female in the room with a flat stomach. My mother is fifteen minutes late for our first childbirth class. The other people sitting in our circle are mothers, and fathers, and unborn babies. People are looking at me and wondering why I’m not “showing” yet, why I don’t have a partner, why I’m in this class when I am so obviously not pregnant. “People!” I want to say. “It’s not me!” I cannot believe Mom isn’t here yet. I can’t believe she’s doing this to me. This is so embarrassing.

  I’m only here because Mom wants us to “bond” by having me there for her next—and she claims her last—baby delivery. I don’t know how I feel about it. Most of the time I’m either scared or disgusted, but every now and then I’m sort of flattered. Only . . . what if the next baby comes out kicking like Dean?

  The Lamaze Lounge is on the fifth floor of the hospital, just past the nursery. I’d think just being here for the first time could make you need some deep-breathing techniques. Just to walk past the maternity ward and hear some of the screams coming out of those rooms. What really gets to me about being in hospitals is the smell, a disgusting mixtur
e of chemical cleansers, disinfectants, hot cafeteria food . . . and things you don’t want to think about.

  If Mom doesn’t show up, maybe I’ll check into the ear, nose, and throat ward, see what they can do about my heightened sense of smell. Maybe they could use plastic surgery to rebuild my nose, take out all the sensors while simultaneously making it perfect and cute, like plastic hostess-girl Jacqui’s.

  I’ve never been to the hospital for myself, but I’ve been here on the fifth floor twice before. Torvill and Dean took a while to arrive, so Dad and I camped out here together in uncomfortable orange chairs. Dorothy was born more quickly, and I stayed home with the twins and my grandparents.

  We’re in this class basically for me. Mom knows everything already. She knows the doctors, the nurses, the procedures, the gift-shop hours, and even the best vending machines.

  “Peggy! I thought we were meeting at home,” Mom says as she rushes into the lounge. She looks like she just got off a bike. She’s wearing black Lycra shorts, a yellow jersey, and her hair is wet with sweat. She looks like she is fresh off the Tour de Lindville.

  “Mom, you left me a note telling me to meet you here,” I say. I look around at everyone in the room. See? I want to say to the rest of the class. It’s her we’re here for. Not me. You can save your lectures on teen sex. Believe me. I have nothing going on, so they’d be wasted on me.

  “I did? Really? Wow. Is it me, or am I going straight from having babies to having memory loss? It’s like one minute you’re having maternity moments . . . you know, where you can’t get out of a chair . . . to senior moments, where you can’t remember where the chair is.” She sits down carefully on the carpeted floor, her round belly stretching the yellow nylon top, her belly button showing through the fabric.

  She’s just so clueless when it comes to maternity clothes that it’s almost cute. Almost. She just starts wearing Dad’s clothes and lots of XLs. When she was pregnant with Torvill and Dean, she bought some XXLs. Friends always try to give her their old maternity clothes, but she won’t take them, unless they’re maternity sportswear.