Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  Her vagueness had further frustrated me, like an itch in the middle of your back you can’t reach. My tears had come loose, and I’d told her she was being unfair, and she’d told me she was only acting out of concern, which is an excuse parents love to trot out when they’re being unfair. I’d stormed out of the kitchen, and when Ruby eventually came to pick me up, I’d left the house without telling Mom good-bye.

  Now I take out my phone to see two missed calls and a text from Mom. I feel a mix of guilt and triumph; I guess she’d been the one to apologize first. However, all her text says is: Let me know when you get to airport, okay? Cool and clinical.

  With my free hand, I twist the bracelets on my wrist. How should I respond? My battery bar is red and dwindling. I’m probably at two percent. I suppose I could simply write back, Here, about to board, matching her tone. Ruby would recommend that, I’m sure. Although what I really want to say is I wish we hadn’t fought, Mom, and please tell me it’s fine that I’m going to France, because I’m actually a little scared. OK?

  Before I can write anything, I notice that the French mom and daughter have moved way ahead in the line, and I hurry forward to close the gap between us. In that moment, I see an enormous zigzag of lightning split the sky over the runway. I gasp, a dart of panic shooting through me. There are similar gasps around me. Thunder booms outside. Omen, omen, omen, I think.

  Did you see that? I text Mom, fingers trembling.

  No, she texts back instantly, making me wonder if she’s had the phone in her hand all this time, waiting. What?

  Hudsonville is a good ten miles from the airport, so it could be the storm hasn’t reached there yet. Everyone at the gate is murmuring and peering out the window. There’s a crackling sound over the loudspeaker, and the boarding agent calmly announces that all passengers should continue boarding, that weather conditions are safe to fly. My stomach twists and I grip my phone. I don’t want to alarm Mom by telling her what I saw. And if conditions were truly dangerous, I assure myself, the airline would cancel the flight. Right?

  What do I know? I’m not even sixteen.

  I try to channel Ruby—unruffled, mature Ruby. I lift my chin and step forward. The line is moving quickly now.

  Nothing, I write to Mom, fingers slightly more stable. Here, about to board.

  Fly safe, Mom responds immediately. Call me when you land.

  I study her words. Did she say fly safe because she knew about the lightning? Or am I reading into things, maybe grasping for a reason to—what? Not get on the plane? That’s insane. Even without Mom’s approval, even with my lingering doubts and nervousness, even with the storm, I want more than anything to go. I’m going to go.

  The French mom steps forward, scooping her daughter up in her arms. I watch as the mom hands their boarding passes to the agent and walks through the open door that leads to the plane. The little girl eyes me cautiously over her mother’s shoulder.

  It’s my turn.

  I feel a jolt of excitement as I take a step forward, my boarding pass in one hand, my phone still in the other. No backing out now.

  Then my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

  I pause and look down. It must be Mom. Or Ruby.

  But no. The words on the screen read UNKNOWN CALLER.

  I hesitate.

  Who could it be? A wrong number? Mom, calling from a different line?

  Should I answer? Or ignore it?

  A decision. I am terrible at making decisions.

  Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.

  A portly man with a suitcase gives a loud huff and walks around me. He holds out his boarding pass to have it scanned, then heads through the open door. More and more people begin to stream past me. I remain motionless, like a pole planted in rushing water.

  Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.

  “This is the final boarding call for flight 022!” The boarding agent speaks into the microphone at her desk, but her eyes are on me. She’s wearing too much makeup, a trim navy-blue suit, and super-high heels. “I repeat, the final call.”

  My phone keeps buzzing. I should silence it. Ignore it. The battery is almost gone. There are only two minutes left until the scheduled takeoff time.

  But …

  What if? What if it’s important? What if answering this call will swing the wheel of my life in a new direction?

  The boarding agent looks at me with her eyebrows raised. My phone buzzes. My heart races. The thunder cracks outside.

  And—

  Monday, July 3, 9:43 p.m.

  I don’t answer the call.

  I hit a button to silence the buzzing, and stuff my phone in the pocket of my hoodie. Then I stride forward, boarding pass extended. The agent smiles at me with her lips closed. As I step through the open door, I glance over my shoulder. The gate is empty; I’m the last passenger.

  I break into a run down the carpeted corridor, my flip-flops thwacking. The walls are covered with advertisements for FedEx. THE WORLD ON TIME, they read, over and over.

  I step from the corridor onto the plane, inhaling sharply. The cabin smells like stale coffee, and French and English conversations overlap. The flight attendants scowl at me, late, bedraggled girl that I am. Everyone is either seated or struggling to stash carry-ons in the overhead bins. I’m glad I have just my trusty tote bag, which I press close to my side as I head toward my row.

  My stomach sinks. I’m in a middle seat, squished between the large man who’d walked around me earlier, and the French mom and daughter. I notice that the mom wears her hair in a neat brown bob, like my mother does. And the daughter’s hair is dark blond like mine. Except the daughter is wearing two tidy, adorable braids, and my hair is spilling out gracelessly from its topknot.

  I try to get comfortable in the seat, crossing my legs, unzipping my hoodie while the flight attendants begin their safety instructions. Then, from within my hoodie pocket comes the mournful spiraling noise that means my phone has died.

  I pull out the phone and stare at the blank screen, feeling a drumbeat of curiosity. I wonder who was calling me before. Even if the mystery caller left a voice mail, I won’t be able to listen to it until I get back to America in August.

  The plane begins taxiing, slowly at first, then picking up speed. If I crane my neck, I can see out a window onto the runway. It seems the storm has passed; the night is calm, puddles reflecting the moonlight. Strange how quickly that shift happened.

  “Flight attendants and crew,” the captain announces. “Please prepare for takeoff.”

  I settle back in my seat. The large man beside me nudges my elbow, and the little French girl lets out a wail, a harbinger of things to come. But I don’t care. The plane is zooming now. I am leaving it all behind—dull upstate New York, Mom’s recent strangeness. My pointless pining for Hugh Tyson. My wistful watching when Ruby effortlessly flirts with boys. And most of all, my wanting to know Dad better.

  The engines roar. The plane seems to move faster than time can measure. As we lift off the ground, my hopes rise. I remember what Ruby said in the car, and I smile with sudden sureness. This is my destiny—to have the best summer ever.

  Tuesday, July 4, 11:32 a.m.

  This is the worst.

  I stand in the baggage claim of Marseille Provence Airport, my suitcase in hand, my tote bag digging into my shoulder. I am cotton-mouthed and crick-necked from the long, sleepless flight, and my spirits are falling by the second.

  Dad is not here.

  In our last email exchange, he said he’d pick me up at the airport. So as soon as I’d exited the plane, I’d been on the lookout for his ash-blond hair and tall frame. Maybe he’d even be playfully holding up a sign that read BONJOUR, SUMMER! and I’d hug him, laughing. But there’d been no such sign, and no sign of Dad.

  All around me, people are shrieking with joy and rushing to embrace loved ones. I watch numbly as the French mother and daughter run over to a man who wraps them in his arms. I glance away, curling my fingers tight around my suitcase handl
e. Fear and annoyance tango in my stomach. Did Dad forget when my flight got in? Did he forget about me, period?

  Don’t think of what Mom said. Don’t think of what Mom said.

  But the crowd is thinning. Time is passing. Feeling desperate, I reach into my tote bag and push aside my useless cell phone. I snatch up the printout of Dad’s email with his address and phone numbers. Should I call him? Are there payphones around here? How do payphones even work? I feel drained from already having done so much on my own, from being so bold and capable at the airport back home. I have reached Peak Maturity Level in this game and I am out of new lives.

  Ruby, I think like a prayer, fighting the mounting urge to cry. I remember how, over winter break, she and I took the train to New York City, two hours south of Hudsonville. When we’d emerged from the station into the whirl of traffic and noise and fast-walking people, I’d wanted to curl up and hide. But Ruby had waved a gloved hand in the air, and a yellow taxi had slid to a stop for us, as if by magic.

  I draw in a deep, shaky breath. Maybe I have one final ounce of capability left in me. Slowly, I walk toward the exit doors, dragging my suitcase behind me, along with my uncertainty. I’m not sure I’m doing remotely the right thing.

  As I step out into the cool, blue-sky morning, I glance left and right, still searching for Dad. The curbside here looks eerily similar to the one back home, with its cabs and luggage carts and harried travelers. I tentatively wave my hand toward the oncoming traffic, half expecting Dad to materialize from somewhere and rescue me. Instead, a dented silver cab comes screeching to a stop. I actually hailed a cab?

  The gray-haired driver, a cigarette dangling from his lips, helps me cram my suitcase into the trunk. Then I climb disbelieving into the backseat, and we peel off.

  “Alors,” the driver says, lighting his cigarette with one hand and steering with the other. “Where are you going, mademoiselle?”

  I’m both surprised and relieved that he can tell I’m American. “Um,” I reply, unfolding the email printout. “Thirteen Rue du Pain,” I read out loud. My stomach squeezes. Talk about bad omens. Street of Pain?

  The driver chuckles, swerving to avoid a guy on a moped. “It is pronounced pehn,” he tells me in his heavily accented English. “In French, pain means ‘bread.’ ”

  “Oh,” I mumble, embarrassed. Of course. Like Au Bon Pain.

  “But what is the town?” the driver demands, careening out onto a highway. “In Provence, we have many towns. Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, Cassis … ”

  “Right. Um. It’s called … Les Deux Chemins,” I read out loud again, certain that I am butchering the pronunciation. Again.

  “Très bien,” the driver says, exhaling smoke. “C’est une belle ville. A beautiful town. You will see.”

  But all I see, as we continue at breakneck pace down the highway, are road signs and flat landscapes that could easily double as anywhere in America. I peer out at the passing cars as if I might catch sight of Dad on the opposite side of the highway, on his way to the airport to get me. Then I give up. It’s warm in the cab, so I take off my hoodie and stuff it into my tote bag.

  When I lift my gaze again, the scenery outside has changed. Dramatically.

  Green-brown mountains rise up gently around us, and majestic trees—they look like dark emerald pines, but with wild, jagged edges—point toward the sky. Cypress trees, I think, remembering a famous Van Gogh painting. We drive past a field full of swaying golden sunflowers: another painting come to life.

  For the first time since I landed, I smile. I can feel my stresses about Dad, and Mom, and everything, starting to ebb. What is this spectacular place? I roll down my window, and the fresh air floats inside. It smells sweet and earthy, like lemons. And olives. Maybe also lavender? Yes, lavender: I spot a hillside carpeted in purple.

  I grab my new Nikon DSLR from my bag, and I carefully twist the black cap off the lens; I’m still figuring out how to use this professional-grade camera. My aunt, Lydia, who’s a photographer, gave it to me last week, insisting—over Mom’s protests—that she had plenty of extra cameras on hand, and that I should consider it an early birthday present. “I see you always taking pictures on your phone, kiddo,” Aunt Lydia had said, reaching over to tug my ponytail, “which is all very well and good. But for your first trip abroad, I thought something a little more special might be in order.”

  Now I feel a rush of gratitude toward my aunt as I lift the lens to my eye. There is a pink stone cottage perched high above a vineyard. I manage to zoom in, and my heart jumps: I can make out the fat green grapes, shining in the sun. I snap the photo, even though it might come out blurry—the cab is going fast. Wind whips inside, undoing my topknot. My hair falls free and gets in my mouth and eyes. But I keep taking pictures—of thatched red rooftops, and rugged cliffs, and more fields that look like thick seas of lavender.

  When I’d thought of France before, I’d imagined Paris: the Eiffel Tower, the romantic bridges. But Provence is clearly a whole other kind of enchanting. It seems impossible that this sun-drenched countryside occupies the same planet, the same universe, as Hudsonville, New York.

  “Et voilà, we have arrived in Les Deux Chemins,” the driver tells me, making a hairpin turn onto a wide avenue. I set down my camera and grab hold of the car door handle so I don’t fall over. “This is the—euh, how do you Americans say it?” he continues. “The … main drag?”

  “Yes, um, oui, the main drag,” I reply with a laugh, righting myself again.

  The driver nods, pleased. “It is called Boulevard du Temps.”

  The boulevard is lined with plane trees; their branches meet overhead to form a lush, leafy canopy. The plazas and streets are all cobblestone, and the low buildings, with their rounded corners, are all in shades of cream and ochre. We drive past a sidewalk café full of people sipping coffee from tiny white cups, and a shop with colorful dresses in the window. We pass an ornate stone cathedral, its bells chiming noon. Everywhere there are fountains spraying arcs of water. My breath catches. I’m not sure I grasped what the word charming meant until now.

  Up ahead, next to a fountain carved with cupids, a boy and girl about my age are standing close together, kissing. They don’t seem to care that everyone can see them. I blush, thinking of Hugh Tyson back home. Not that I’ve ever kissed Hugh. Or any boy, for that matter.

  I’m still watching the couple out the back window as the driver turns off the avenue and onto a narrow street. Then he jolts to a stop.

  We are in front of a rambling, peach-colored house with pretty green shutters. I squint, and see that the number 13 is carved above the wooden door. My pulse quickens. Somehow, improbably, I have arrived at Dad’s house.

  I fumble in my wallet for the euros Mom made me get from the bank last week, and I pay the driver. He helps me remove my suitcase from the trunk, I mumble merci, and he tears off, leaving me standing alone on the cobblestones.

  There is a delicious scent in the air—fresh-baked bread. I turn to see a small, old-fashioned bakery across the street. The word BOULANGERIE is painted on its window, and browned loaves and long baguettes are on display. Aha. Rue du Pain. Street of Bread.

  My stomach growls as I make my way toward Dad’s front door. I could go for some pain right now. But really I’m too nervous to eat.

  I push my hair out of my eyes, take a breath, and knock on the door.

  Silence.

  I gaze up at the house, at the curls of ivy climbing its sides. The windows look dark. Is no one here? Oh God. Where is Dad?

  Don’t think of what Mom said. Don’t think of what—

  There’s a flash of movement. Up on the second floor, a lace curtain flutters aside, and a pale face peers down at me. After a split second, the curtain falls back into place.

  I shiver. Who was that?

  I remember that in Dad’s first email, he’d said that there were “artist friends always spilling in and out” of the house. Great. I’m in no mood to meet new people now. That’s
not my favorite activity in general.

  I’m debating whether or not to knock again when the door swings open.

  A woman about my mom’s age stands there, staring at me in confusion. She has reddish hair in a low ponytail and bright blue eyes, and she wears a striped shirt with cropped black pants. She holds a dry paintbrush in one hand. Definitely an artist friend.

  “Um, hi,” I squeak out. “Bonjour.” I feel my reliable shyness creeping over me. “I’m, uh, Ned Everett’s daughter? I’m—”

  “Summer,” the woman says. She studies me closely, her eyes widening. “You are Summer.” Her French accent makes my name sound like Some-air.

  I nod, relieved to be known. “Is my father here?” I ask, taking a tentative step forward. “He was supposed to meet me at the airport … ”

  The woman frowns and shuts her eyes, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. I wonder if she doesn’t understand English that well.

  “Pardon,” she says after a long moment, looking at me again. “Your father, he did not reach you? He did not tell you?”

  I freeze. “Tell me what?” I ask, dread twisting inside me.

  The woman sighs and shakes her head. “I am afraid your father is in Berlin,” she explains, still frowning. “He had to go there at late notice, for a museum opening.”

  Hold on. What? My mind reels. Berlin? Dad isn’t even in this country? I’m here, in France, all alone? Something like panic rises in my chest, and my mouth goes dry.

  “Do you—do you know when he’ll be back?” I sputter. My voice sounds small and frightened to my ears.

  “Perhaps next week?” The artist woman shrugs with her hands. “I am not sure,” she adds, her tone apologetic.

  I gaze at her numbly. Across the street, I hear the door to the bakery open with the ring of a bell. Why didn’t Dad tell me he was going to be in Berlin? How could he put me in this position? What am I supposed to do now?