Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  Wren shrugs, taking from her bag a thick, tattered paperback: a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. “It’s pretty obvious,” she tells me.

  “How?” I press as the conductor comes over to punch our tickets. “We don’t even look alike.” Mom and Aunt Lydia are brunettes, while I inherited Dad’s coloring—the blond hair and light eyes. Not that I really bear a strong resemblance to anyone in my family.

  Wren tips her head to one side, thinking. “You kind of do,” she says, accepting her ticket back from the conductor. “Something in your expressions. Anyway, it was more that Lydia knew your name on the first day of class, before she learned who the rest of us were. Also, she said that her sister was a philosophy professor. I remembered on Career Day in fourth grade, how your mom came in and told us about her job and I’d thought it sounded so cool.”

  “Oh,” I manage to say, shocked that Wren was able to deduce the truth. And that she remembers Career Day. Although I do, too. I’d wanted Dad to come speak to my class—in my nine-year-old opinion, painter sounded much cooler than philosopher—but he’d been in France for work. Wren’s parents had come, I recall; they were both lawyers, which had seemed oddly ordinary for the already-weird Wren. “I just didn’t—I didn’t want anyone to find out,” I add haltingly.

  The train curves, screeching, around a bend in the track. I hold tight on to the armrests. Does Hugh know, too? I wonder, my cheeks burning.

  Wren shrugs again, opening her book. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she replies. “And why should you care what people think?”

  I watch Wren as she reads. The sun flashes through the train windows and alights on her bright hair. Her long dark dress is shapeless and looks like a Victorian nightgown. Her nails are bitten down, and she has a clunky old leather watch on her wrist. Wren is like nobody else. It hits me then that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. Some people say they don’t care, but in Wren’s case, I can tell it’s true.

  I care, I realize, plucking at my woven bracelets. Ruby really cares. I’ve learned that about my best friend recently. I glance down at what I’m wearing—a white linen sundress that Ruby gave me when she cleaned out her closet last year. I’d packed the dress to take to France, and the airline finally returned my wandering suitcase to me. But now I almost wish I’d put on something else this morning.

  Reaching into my bookbag, I move aside my Nikon camera, and my notebook, and the cardigan Mom suggested I bring right when we were leaving the house, even though it’s already eighty-six degrees outside. I grab my phone from where it’s slipped down to the bottom of the bag and check the screen. No texts from Ruby.

  I sigh. What was I expecting? My best friend is now officially dating Austin Wheeler. She broke the news to me on Tuesday, when I’d stopped by Better Latte after my Photoshop lab. “It’s my summer of falling in love!” she’d squealed, hugging me, our tension from the day before apparently forgotten.

  That was the last time we’d spoken this week. Normally, in the summers, I’d see Ruby constantly. On weekends, we’d spread a blanket in Pine Park and spend a whole afternoon there. Or we’d sneak into the YMCA pool and swim until our fingers pruned and the chlorine had thoroughly soaked into our hair. We’d ride our bikes side by side, licking Popsicles that melted and ran and got our woven bracelets sticky. We’d movie-hop at the multiplex, feeling like we were allowed to because we’d worked there before. Ruby would sleep over at my house, and we’d turn up the air-conditioning in my room so high that our toes would become icicles.

  Last night, when we should have been doing any one of those things, I’d been home alone. Mom had gone out to dinner with a friend from work, and Alice was in California visiting Inez. I didn’t feel like reading, there was nothing appealing on Netflix, and I was avoiding Instagram, so as not to witness the Ruby-Austin “summer of love” story no doubt unfolding on there.

  So I’d sat cross-legged on the porch bench, eating cold leftover lo mein from Szechuan Kitchen. Ro, curled up beside me, had sent occasional hisses in my direction, to remind me that he was not a fan. The stars had winked overhead, and I’d wondered if this was it—the sum total of my summer here in Hudsonville. I’d felt a flash of anger toward Dad, whom I haven’t heard from once since the Fourth of July.

  Now I gaze sadly out the window. The train is winding southward along the Hudson River. Here, a good distance from Hudsonville, the wide river does look blue under the sun. I knew it; I knew my town is cursed with grayness.

  Beside me, Wren turns a page in her book. I glance at her again.

  “Is that good?” I ask, wanting to get my mind off Dad and Ruby and the ache in my chest. The train pulls to a stop in a station with a sign that reads TARRYTOWN.

  Wren nods. “I love Emily Dickinson. Like, look at this.” She flips the book around to face me.

  I read the typed words on the page, the beginning of a poem: I felt a Cleaving in my Mind— As if my Brain had split—

  “Um, yeah,” I say, even though I don’t really understand. Poetry mystifies me most of the time. That’s partly why I’d been so impressed by Hugh’s brilliant Robert Frost presentation that fateful day freshman year. My assigned poet had been Walt Whitman, and I’d had trouble parsing his strange poems about leaves of grass and astronomers. I’d fumbled through my own presentation, and I’d gotten a B-minus.

  “Did you know,” Wren says, turning the book back toward her, “that Emily Dickinson was a recluse? She never left her house. Or her hometown of Amherst, Massachusetts. She was considered a weirdo in her day.” Wren pauses, flipping another page. “It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? That she understood the world so deeply without having ever really seen it?”

  “I guess,” I say. I look at the cover of the book—a daguerreotype (I know this now!) of the poet, a pale, solemn-eyed young woman in a dark dress, her hair pulled back in a bun. I wonder if Wren relates to Emily Dickinson, the “weirdo.” But I see now that Wren isn’t actually that weird. Or, rather, she’s weird in a good way. And super smart.

  Is that why Hugh likes her? I find myself thinking. I frown. Does he like her? They do seem like they’d be an intellectual match. I fight down a pang of jealousy.

  “My boyfriend lives in Amherst,” Wren goes on, idly turning another page, “so when I visited him over spring break, I got to see her house. I also went to her grave, which is maybe sort of morbid, but it was really cool.”

  Nothing else Wren said has registered except for the words my boyfriend.

  “You have a boyfriend?” I blurt. I realize that sounds cruel, à la Skye Oliveira: Typhoid Wrenny has a boyfriend?! But that’s not what I meant. “I thought you were, like, dating Hugh or something,” I add. My face flames. That’s even worse. Shut up, Summer!

  Wren’s mouth curves into that smirk I’m beginning to recognize. “I’m not dating Hugh,” she answers, her violet eyes regarding me thoughtfully. I feel my stomach jump. “Why would you think that?”

  “I—um, you guys are always talking, and leaving class together, and stuff,” I say in a rush. Oh God. If Wren has Sherlocked out the fact that Lydia is my aunt, then she will surely be able to tell from this little exchange that I like Hugh. We’re pulling into another station—YONKERS—and I give some serious thought to getting up and casually strolling off the train, maybe starting over with a whole new life in this Yonkers place.

  Wren chuckles, closing her book. “We’re friends,” she tells me, as if I’ve overlooked the most obvious thing in the world. “I got to know him this past year because my mom started working as a lawyer for the mayor’s office, and Hugh and I were always winding up at boring events together.” She stuffs the book back into her fringed bag and begins rooting around in there again. “Hugh’s awesome, but he’s not my type. And besides, he’s into another girl.”

  Another girl? My pulse is pounding. Who? I’m debating whether or not I want to preserve any dignity, or just ask, when Wren pulls a phone out of her bag.

  “This i
s Will,” she explains, her voice softened with affection. She’s showing me the picture on her screen, of a grinning guy with green hair that’s shaved on one side and floppy on the other. He’s holding his hands forward in a heart shape, and he has words scrawled on his arm—they look like song lyrics—just as Wren often does. Maybe that’s, like, some sweet, couple-y thing they do. Who would’ve guessed? “Isn’t he cute?” Wren asks me.

  “Very,” I lie. Mostly I’m relieved to know that Hugh isn’t Wren’s type.

  “We met at a Walk the Moon concert last summer,” Wren explains, smiling down at the photo, “and even though we’re long distance, it works. We Skype all the time.”

  I nod at her, floored. The fact that Wren has a cell phone—and Skype—feels more noteworthy than the boyfriend revelation. I’d assumed she shunned all technology. But that was only because of cruel comments made by Skye and her clones over the years. It’s turning out that I knew nothing about Wren D’Amico. What was the phrase Aunt Lydia used in regard to Dad? Shocking surprises. Wren, it seems, is full of shocking surprises herself.

  “Are you on Instagram?” I ask her, curious as to what else I might not know.

  Wren rolls her violet eyes. “Nah. It can be so fake. People just post things that make them look good. You never get the whole story.”

  I look at my phone in my hand. Pics or it didn’t happen! Ruby likes to say. I think of that picture I posed for with Ruby and Alice before Skye’s party. Even though a photograph might exist, it isn’t always evidence of what really happened.

  “I guess it depends what kinds of pictures you post,” I say. I haven’t put anything up on Instagram all summer. Maybe I’m waiting to post something real.

  “Hey, photographers?” Aunt Lydia calls, turning around in her seat to face the class. “Next stop is Grand Central Station. That’s us.”

  Dazed, I peer out the window. The trees and rocks and water have given way to the bridges and buildings of the city. The train ride flew by. I glance down at my phone again, and imagine texting Ruby: Wren D’Amico is really fun to talk to. I imagine how Ruby, especially this new Ruby, would respond.

  “What about you?” Wren asks me as the train dips belowground into a tunnel.

  “Yeah, I’m on Instagram,” I say distractedly, returning my phone to my bag.

  Wren laughs. “That’s not what I meant. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks matter-of-factly as she zips up her bag.

  “Oh.” I shake my head, and I can’t help but laugh myself. “Not on this planet.”

  The train judders to a stop inside Grand Central and we all stand up, gathering our things.

  “Huh,” Wren says as we follow Aunt Lydia, our classmates, and the other commuters off the train onto the platform. “I would’ve pegged you for someone who has, like, a secret, sophisticated boyfriend somewhere in Europe.”

  “Me?” I’m so astonished that I almost crash into a passerby. “That is insane,” I tell Wren as we walk up the platform toward the main hall. It occurs to me then that perhaps Wren also saw me in a certain way. And we were both off base about each other. I want to laugh again, at the notion that I seem like someone with a European boyfriend.

  But what if …

  I let my mind wander. What if I had gone to France, and Ruby’s prediction had magically come true? What if I’d met a gorgeous French boy—

  No. Don’t be ridiculous.

  We’ve arrived in the station’s main hall, and I tip my head back to admire the beautiful vaulted ceiling. It’s a deep blue-green, decorated with drawings of the constellations. There’s Orion, and Pegasus, and Aquarius. And Cancer the crab—me. I reach into my bookbag for my Nikon and take a picture of the indoor sky.

  “Everyone, please put down your cameras,” Aunt Lydia says, sounding amused.

  I notice that all my classmates are also standing still in the mad whirling rush of the station, their cameras pointed up. I smile, feeling an unfamiliar flash of belonging. Aunt Lydia motions for us to follow her to the famous bronze clock, the one with four identical faces. We stand in a clump as she starts speaking.

  “Here’s the game plan,” she tells us, adjusting the chopsticks in her messy bun. “We’re going to walk up to the Museum of Modern Art, and I want you all to observe the sights and sounds and shapes of the city. Feel free to take pictures, obviously—just don’t get so distracted you get lost.” She grins, and I feel a twinge of nervousness. “Then, at the exhibit,” she adds, gesturing enthusiastically, “you can compare your visions to those of the masters. After that, we’ll get lunch. Any questions?”

  One of the college kids asks a question about the museum. I bite my lip, gazing over at the clock. When Aunt Lydia told us on Tuesday that we’d be taking a field trip to see a photography exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, I’d thought instantly of Dad. His painting of a mailman, The Deliverer, hangs in the Whitney Museum: a quick cab ride downtown from here. I’d wondered if I’d have a chance to break away from my class and go see the painting, even though I’d recently visited it with Ruby, in December.

  Now, as Aunt Lydia leads us to the exit, I realize that I don’t want to interrupt this day for my father. He decided I shouldn’t be a part of his summer, so why should he be a part of mine? A stew of hurt and regret swirls in me as I step out onto the street.

  Horns honk and sirens wail. The air is thick and sticky—the temperature feels hotter than it did back in Hudsonville, and not just because it’s later in the morning. Heat seems to rise up from the sidewalk in waves. People swarm everywhere, shouting at one another and staring at their phones, juggling sweating cups of iced coffee, hailing yellow taxicabs.

  I remember how scared I’d been when I’d stood in this same spot with Ruby. This time, though, I don’t have the urge to hide. In fact, I feel a swell of excitement, breathing in the scent of pretzels and mustard coming from a cart on the corner. The city crackles with energy, and I’m energized, too, holding the solid heft of my Nikon in my hand.

  As the class starts walking west, I point my camera up, taking dizzying shots of the skyscrapers, their spires glinting in the sun. Someone bumps into me and I stumble. Wren grabs my arm, steadying me, and I thank her. It’s tricky to maneuver around the constant stream of passersby and cars. But there is so much to look at, and capture.

  There is the huge library on Fifth Avenue, with its two stone lions out front. There are the revolving doors of department stores, which suck in and spit out people at once. There are elegant women in tall heels and pencil skirts and big sunglasses, and children eating dripping ice-cream bars in their strollers. We pass a perspiring man selling handbags on the sidewalk, and carts hawking hot dogs and sodas. I recall the vendors at Pine Park; that seems like another world. Strange to think it’s only two hours away.

  We walk past Rockefeller Center, with its colorful flowers and flags, and the statue of the Greek god, Atlas, holding the earth on his shoulders. We are turning onto 53rd Street when I spot a mailman pushing his blue cart. I stop and stare, recalling Dad’s painting. Could this be the same city mailman Dad saw all those years ago? It seems impossible. Still, I snap the mailman’s photo—he scowls at me—and then I hurry to catch up with my class.

  I see that they’ve already gone inside the museum, a glass building with a banner reading MOMA—Museum of Modern Art—out front. As I enter the cool, airy lobby, I wonder what it would have been like to visit that gallery in the South of France this summer. To finally see my portrait, Fille, hanging on the wall. I swallow down my bitterness, and join Wren and the others by the ticket counter.

  “Sorry,” I say to Wren, stashing my Nikon inside my bag, “I was taking a picture of—” I pause, my heart leaping, when I notice who’s standing next to her.

  Hugh.

  “Oh. Hi,” I mutter, blushing while also attempting to put on my “Hugh face.” I’d forgotten that he would be meeting us here. I feel the weight of my notebook in my bag—the notebook with the embarrassing letter I wrote to Hugh
on the first day of class.

  “Hi,” Hugh replies shortly, his hands in his jeans pockets. He looks really handsome in a green-checked button-down shirt with the sleeves half rolled up. He has his Nikon on a strap, slung over one shoulder, and this gives him the appearance of a rugged photographer about to go shoot wildlife or something.

  I suddenly have the funniest desire—to walk right up to Hugh and twine my arms around his neck. My stomach flips. What am I thinking? I wouldn’t even know how to do that. And Hugh would surely stagger away in confusion and disgust.

  I feel Wren watching me with her knowing violet eyes. I glance down at my beat-up Converse sneakers and brush my hair off my flushed face.

  “How’s your cousin?” I hear myself ask.

  Wait.

  A wave of shock rolls over me. I just spoke to Hugh Tyson! Voluntarily!

  I mean, technically, I was addressing my sneakers. But I did ask Hugh a question, and my voice sounded like a normal human voice. I think.

  Where did my bravery come from? Maybe from knowing, for sure, that Hugh and Wren are not together. Or maybe from Wren telling me I seemed like a person who could have a European boyfriend. Regardless, this progress feels promising; Hugh and I are supposed to work together on our class assignment this weekend. I’d been dreading it, but perhaps I won’t be a complete disaster around him after all.

  I glance up. Hugh looks surprised, too. His gray-green eyes are wide behind his glasses, and his lips part slightly.

  “He’s well,” he replies after a moment. I think about the fact that only Hugh Tyson would use well instead of good. This kind of makes me want to embrace him even more. “It’s his birthday,” Hugh adds, adjusting his camera strap on his shoulder. “That’s why I came in last night. We went to a baseball game.”