Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  “Hold on,” I interrupt, disbelief making me dizzy. “Skye? Skye Oliveira? The girl you once said was the essence of evil distilled into human form?”

  “I said that?” Ruby half laughs, sliding on a tall stack of woven bracelets. My own bracelets feel snug on my wrists. “I mean, yeah, she can be brusque sometimes … ”

  “I think she wasn’t hugged enough as a child,” Alice announces, folding herself into a lotus position on Ruby’s bed.

  “I wish she’d been hugged by a boa constrictor,” I mutter.

  My head swimming, I plop down beside Alice on Ruby’s paisley bedspread. I don’t get it. Skye has been our Enemy Number One ever since she arrived in Hudsonville two years ago, all super-long hair, sports prowess, and snide comments. She’d quickly amassed an army of clones to prey on the weak and defenseless. Ruby, Alice, Inez, and I were never direct targets, but we were still treated with casual scorn. “Ewww, Sum-mer!” Skye and her cronies would chorus when I inevitably failed to serve the volleyball over the net in gym class. Freshman year, just for kicks, Skye stuck out a foot and tripped Ruby in the hall, sending Ruby’s textbook flying. Ruby, cool as ever, had simply retrieved the book and laughed, “Your soccer skills are kinda weak, Skye.”

  And now Ruby wants to go to her party?

  “I thought it might be fun,” Ruby explains. She meets my gaze in the mirror above her dresser. “We always do the same thing, year after year—”

  “Pine Park!” I interrupt, my throat tightening even more. “We love Pine Park. Don’t you love Pine Park?” I ask Alice, trying for an ally.

  “I love being in nature,” Alice replies dreamily, unfolding her legs from her yoga pose and slipping off the bed. She drifts over to stand next to Ruby at the dresser, idly picking up a lipstick. “But the party will be in Skye’s backyard, so … ”

  I struggle not to roll my eyes. “How did you guys even get invited?”

  Ruby fiddles with her necklace, zipping the R pendant up and down its chain. “Skye stopped in at the coffee shop the other day and mentioned it,” she explains lightly.

  “Since when do you and Skye have little chitchats?” I ask, hearing the accusation in my tone. What I really want to ask is: Since when do you and I not tell each other everything?

  “Ooh,” Ruby says, not answering me. She grabs her cell phone off her dresser. “Let’s take pictures before we go!”

  “You too, Summer!” Alice calls, waving me over. She poses next to Ruby, holding the lipstick to her mouth, the two of them grinning up into Ruby’s phone.

  I feel like I’m moving through molasses as I drag myself off Ruby’s bed and go join them. I stand on Ruby’s other side, smiling in a way that I know looks hollow. Ruby snaps shot after shot, her cheek pressed against Alice’s, and I can’t help thinking that I don’t belong in this picture. It’s like I’ve been cut and pasted in—a bad Photoshop job.

  Satisfied, Ruby lowers her phone and begins posting to Instagram, and Alice returns to the mirror to check her lipstick. I turn away and swallow the tears that threaten. How annoying. I thought I’d gotten all my crying done last night. I study the colorful tapestries that hang on the walls; Ruby bought them on a trip to India years ago. Her room has always had an international, sort of glamorous vibe, which was why coming here always felt like an escape. It was—is—my second home.

  “Hey, babe.” Ruby touches my arm and I stiffen. “You okay?” she asks softly.

  “Tired,” I lie, swiping at my eyes. “I don’t think I’m up for any parties,” I add in a rush, which is true. I cannot begin to imagine traipsing over to Skye’s house now, carrying with me the weight of the canceled trip, and this sudden tension—is it tension?—with Ruby. Nodding and smiling at all the kids from school I don’t like, feeling even more awkward than usual. No thanks.

  “Are you sure?” Ruby asks, but she sounds distracted, looking down at her phone to see if the new photo has gotten any “likes” yet.

  “I’m not even dressed for it,” I say, which is also true. I’m wearing my ratty YMCA Day Camp T-shirt and old denim shorts. Everything nice I own is in my suitcase, supposedly winging its way back to me within three to five business days.

  “Borrow something from Ruby!” Alice protests. But I’m already shaking my head, telling them that they should text me all the details, even though I don’t really want to know anything. I hug Alice good-bye, then turn to Ruby.

  “Love you times two,” we say at the same time, and we both start laughing. Ruby orders me to keep her posted on Operation Convince Dad, and I promise I will. For a second, things seem totally normal, like I was imagining the strangeness earlier.

  Then I leave the room, listening to Ruby and Alice talk as they continue to primp for the party—Skye Oliveira’s party. And I realize that things couldn’t get stranger.

  Outside, the afternoon sun makes me squint, and I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. I’m tempted to go back home and curl up in my room. Hide. Mom teases me for believing in astrology, but my sign is Cancer, and I can be crablike; I retreat into my shell when the world gets overwhelming.

  But, as I climb on my bike, I feel sort of restless. Antsy. So I coast down Deer Hill. The delicious, mesquite-y scent of barbecue drifts out from backyards. A group of little kids waving red, white, and blue sparklers dart across the street. I have to brake abruptly and I yell at them to be careful, like some old lady. They ignore me.

  I pedal onward, passing houses and sidewalks that I know by heart. I pass the hospital where Ruby’s mom works, where I was born. Where, at age eight, I went to get stitches when I fell off my bike. Dad had squeezed my hand while the ER doctor sewed up my knee. It’s weird to think of Dad being around back then. Though he wasn’t around that much. He was already traveling to Europe a bunch, entering art shows, trying to get his paintings sold. Maybe things between my parents were starting to break well before the divorce, the way the ground has a fault in it before there’s an actual earthquake.

  Reaching the bottom of the hill, I turn onto Greene Street, our main street. It’s an ill-suited name, I think, because the prevailing color of the town is gray. Gray pavement, gray streetlamps, gray-trunked elm trees. Even the Hudson River, which runs alongside the street, is always a choppy gray, regardless of any blue-sky weather.

  Today the town is dead, of course—well, deader than usual. No one is out walking, and I only have to contend with a couple of snail-paced cars. Everything is closed: Get Well Pharmacy, Hudsonville Bank, Orologio’s Fine Italian Dining, Miss Cheryl’s Antiques, PJ’s Pub, Szechuan Kitchen. In the distance, I hear the lonely whistle of the Metro-North train.

  I pedal past Between the Lines, the bookstore where I worked last summer. It seems the owner, Mr. Fitzsimmons, has let his hoarding tendencies get the best of him: The books are stacked so high that I can’t see through the window. Next to the bookstore is Better Latte Than Never, the coffee shop where Ruby works. I realize I forgot to ask her about job openings there. But do I still want to work with Ruby? I pluck at the woven bracelets on my wrist. Maybe I should take Aunt Lydia’s class instead.

  I feel a tingle in my stomach that could be excitement. Or is it hunger? I haven’t eaten anything besides that handful of Cheerios. And I know where I can get some good food now.

  There’s a stubbornness stirring in me as I pedal to the end of Greene Street, make two sharp lefts, and arrive at my destination: Pine Park. Who cares what Ruby said? This is the place to be today. I defiantly lean my bike against the fence, tuck my sunglasses into my back pocket, and walk onto the wide expanse of grass.

  Families are spreading their blankets on the lawn, securing spots for the fireworks display later. I breathe in the crisp scent of pine that mingles with the fried-food, carnival-y aromas drifting over from the vendors who circle the perimeter.

  I see Mr. Fitzsimmons, my white-haired old bookstore boss, settling himself into a lawn chair with a big can of bug spray. I also spot Raj, Ruby’s brother, tossing around a Frisbee wi
th some friends; it’s funny to think I just saw him at Ruby’s—when? How long ago was that? I veer to avoid him; I don’t want Ruby knowing I was here.

  On the band-shell stage at the front of the park, the mayor of Hudsonville is adjusting the microphone stand. Mayor Rosen-Tyson is an elegant blond woman who wears fashionable tailored suits, and who also happens to be Hugh Tyson’s mother. The tall, handsome African American man standing next to her is Hugh’s father, and also her chief of staff. Most years, Hugh is here, too—either onstage with his parents, or sitting off to the side in the grass, writing in his Moleskine notebook. I’ve never interacted with Hugh at the Pine Park fireworks, of course; I’ll always just death-grip Ruby’s arm and observe him from a safe distance.

  This year, I know Hugh isn’t here; last night, in between texting Ruby, I’d scrolled through Instagram. Hugh had posted a photo of the Empire State Building, and his caption said that he was in New York City visiting his cousin. Social media is a very handy tool for gathering intel on your crush without ever having to speak to the person.

  I head over to the vendors, bypassing the guys selling glow sticks and miniature American flags, all the trinkets Ruby and I would buy and then discard by night’s end. I stop at one of the food stalls and order a hot dog with the works—mustard, ketchup, relish, and fried onions, piled high. I also get a large Coke and then, going for broke, a vanilla-chocolate-twist ice-cream cone. When I pay, I notice the euros in my wallet and feel a pang. What a waste.

  Balancing everything in my hands, I carry my feast over to a bench. I scarf down the hot dog first, enjoying the familiar salty taste. I remember how one year Ruby and I had two hot dogs each, plus corn on the cob, ice cream, and cotton candy, and were still surprised when our stomachs ached all night. I smile and sip my Coke, full of nostalgia. I’m starting on my ice cream when I see them—two little blond girls, maybe sisters, turning barefoot cartwheels between the pine trees.

  I watch as the girls flash their grass-stained soles, and then land on their butts, laughing. One of them pops up and races toward the vendors, shouting something about corn dogs, and the other girl follows in her wake, still laughing.

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat with a gulp of Coke, but it doesn’t work. Ruby and I were those girls. Were. Past tense. Time has passed, but I’m still stuck in Pine Park. Suddenly, I feel sort of gross and sad, an almost-sixteen-year-old, my hands sticky with melting ice cream, my mouth stained with ketchup, like a child. No one else at the park is my age. It’s all kids like Raj, or old folks like Mr. Fitzsimmons. Ruby understood it before I did: We don’t belong here anymore.

  “Happy Fourth of July, Hudsonville!” Mayor Rosen-Tyson is announcing from the stage as I stand up. “My husband and I are so happy to welcome you … ”

  I throw what’s left of my cone into a garbage can, along with my Coke. Then I maneuver past the crowds streaming into the park, and get back on my bike, wondering where I do belong.

  A dark kind of curiosity drives me forward, and I find myself pedaling over to Argyle Road. Argyle is known as the “fancy” street in town because all the big, stately, multistory homes are here. This evening, the houses look like white elephants, sleeping under a sky that’s turning a faint orange.

  It’s easy to spot Skye Oliveira’s elephant; silver balloons are tied to her mailbox, and loud music pours from the backyard. I recognize a couple of kids from school walking up the pebbly driveway.

  Hugh Tyson’s house is across from Skye’s. In Hudsonville, everyone pretty much knows where everyone else lives. (I also may have dabbled in some light stalking by casually bicycling past Hugh’s house on weekends.) Even if Hugh weren’t in New York City now, he wouldn’t be at Skye’s party; he’s not remotely cool enough. Then again, Ruby and Alice are going, so anything’s possible in this topsy-turvy world.

  I slowly get off my bike. What exactly is my plan here? I’m hot and sweaty, my legs are sore from biking around all day, and I can feel curls escaping my ponytail. I must look dazzling. There’s no way I can simply stroll into the backyard—no way that I want to. I’m not that courageous, or stupid. Still, I want—something.

  I guess I want to look. To see. Maybe, to understand.

  I try to noiselessly push my bike along the pebbly driveway. I walk on my tiptoes, feeling like a burglar, like I’m about to be caught at any minute. I make it around the house and stand hidden in the shadow of two large hedges. Holding my breath, I peer into the backyard.

  I needn’t have worried; no one looks my way. Everyone is too absorbed in this fabulous-seeming party to consider that there might be a random girl lurking on the outskirts, watching.

  A live band is playing, and a professional-looking chef is grilling steaks and shrimp. Girls in shiny, tight dresses step carefully across the manicured lawn in their high-heeled sandals, clutching the arms of boys with gelled hair. A long table boasts a red, white, and blue cupcake tower; a red, white, and blue macaron tower; and a bowl of chips, which I guess would be hard to put into a tower shape.

  For a moment, I do understand why Ruby and Alice wanted to come here. Why anyone would want to come. It’s like peeking into a wonderland, an alternate version of life where everyone is pretty and polished and dines on steak instead of hot dogs.

  I notice Skye Oliveira posing for a picture with a couple of her clones. The girls all stand identically: hand on one hip; head tilted to one side; long, wavy hair spilling over one shoulder; body angled slightly; smile not too big. Creepy. I almost want to take out my phone and snap a picture of that picture. I think of Aunt Lydia’s photography class again, and I half smile to myself.

  The photo shoot breaks up, and Skye turns to flirt with a handsome dark-haired boy I recognize as Genji Tanaka, who will be a senior next year. I glance away from them, disinterested, and my gaze lands on Alice. She is watching the band, swaying to the music, and eating a blue cupcake. Alice is so mellow that she can adjust anywhere; she looks perfectly at ease. My stomach twists. She really did it: She came—which means that Ruby did, too. Right?

  I begin to search the crowd, my heart in my throat. And then I see her—striped tank dress, gold R necklace. My best friend is standing at the far end of the yard, by the drinks table. The tall guy next to her—gelled blond hair, blue button-down shirt—is ladling punch out of a bowl and into two cups, one of which he hands to Ruby. The guy is our classmate, Austin Wheeler, he of the basketball stardom and vacant eyes. I’d thought Austin was dating one of Skye’s clones, but I’m not really caught up on the love lives of those in the upper social echelons.

  I watch as Ruby laughs at something Austin says, her eyes sparkling. Austin laughs, too. I feel my chest constrict. I know that Ruby has long thought that Austin is cute—everyone thinks that; his cuteness is an objective fact. But does she like him? She leans closer to him, putting a hand on his arm. I remember how she told me she wanted this to be the summer she fell in love. Was she thinking of Austin already? Why did she keep that from me? What else is she keeping from me?

  I’m suddenly chilled in the hot evening air. I’m used to seeing Ruby flirt with boys, and I’m used to feeling envious of her ability to do so. That’s not what has me rattled now. It’s that Ruby—and Alice—seem so at home at this exclusive party, among these exclusive people. And what is wrong with me, that I don’t want this—this popularity and privilege?

  It hits me then, like it did in Pine Park: I don’t belong here, either.

  The sensation that I’m going to cry—again—sweeps over me. I hurriedly back away, clutching the bike handlebars, my flip-flops crunching over the pebbles. I bump into some arriving guests—more gelled-hair boys, more tight-dress girls—but I don’t apologize, I just jump on my bike and start pedaling as hard as I can.

  A couple of tears slip down my cheeks and I make a blurry turn onto College Avenue—not the direction I’d planned to go, but close to home, at least. My mind is jumbled, my thoughts leaping from Ruby to Austin to Pine Park to Hugh Tyson to
Dad to, of all things, that cold French girl on the phone.

  The gray stone gate of Hudsonville College looms to my left, and I pause in the middle of the street. I am all alone: Everyone is at a barbecue, on a porch, on a rooftop, waiting for the fireworks to start. The sun hasn’t set yet, but the sky is darkening. I squint through the gate at the quiet campus. Maybe it’s a sign that I happened to bike this way, at this moment. Maybe it means I should try something new after all.

  I’ve stopped crying by the time I reach Rip Van Winkle Road—my street. I toss my bike down on our tiny lawn and run up to my house, out of breath. Mom and Aunt Lydia are sitting on our porch, sipping their smoothies from plastic cups.

  “Summer! Why aren’t you at the park?” Mom cries.

  I shake my head, not in the mood to explain, and I collapse next to her on the cushioned bench. This is where we sit on those nights when we study the stars and talk about crazy theories like parallel worlds.

  Aunt Lydia, on Mom’s other side, leans over and hands me her cup. “The view’s better here than in Pine Park,” she scoffs, and I smile at her gratefully.

  I take a long sip of the cold, thick drink, and then I say, “Aunt Lydia?”

  “Yeah, kiddo?” she asks, her face tilted up, even though nothing is happening yet. The sky is a calm navy blue. Funny to think it will soon be lit up, transformed.

  “I think—if I still can—I’d like to take your photography class,” I say.

  “Really?” Mom asks, glancing at me, surprised. I’m a little surprised myself.

  “Of course you can,” Aunt Lydia says. She shoots me a grin. “Monday morning, nine o’clock, Whitman Hall. Don’t be late.” Then she looks back up at the sky. I do, too, and after a moment, so does Mom.

  The three of us sit there in silence, gazing up, holding our breaths. Waiting for the sky to explode with colors, for everything to change.