Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  I trace a circle on the wooden table with my finger. I have the sudden, ugly urge to taunt Ruby—to hurt her, maybe. “I should probably confide in someone else,” I say quietly. “Like Wren D’Amico. She’d be more understanding.” She probably would be, I think.

  Ruby frowns. “What does Wren D’Amico have to do with anything?”

  “Well,” I say, the recklessness surging in me again, “I’m sure your idol, Skye, wouldn’t approve, but Wren is cool, okay?” My voice is rising and Brian the barista can probably hear me, but I don’t care. I want to say it all, everything that has been building silently between me and Ruby for the last ten days. “I doubt Wren would dump her best friend,” I go on, gathering steam. “You know, ignore all her texts and not want to ever hang out, so she could cozy up to the populars—”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Ruby cuts in. Her face is turning so red it’s nearly as purple as the pretty sundress she has on beneath her apron. “I’m not dumping you!” she says, her voice breaking. “Yes, I’m spending a lot of time with Austin … ”

  “Stop pretending,” I make myself say. “There’s more to it than that.”

  Ruby’s jaw drops. My limbs are trembling. I realize, then, why she and I have never fought before: because I always acquiesced to her. She was right; I was wrong. Any conflict was ignored. Buried. Until now.

  The corners of Ruby’s mouth turn down, and she’s silent for a moment. “I just wanted … a change,” she murmurs. “You weren’t even supposed to—”

  She catches herself, like last time. The exact same words as last time. You weren’t even supposed to. A chill goes down my back.

  “Say it,” I tell Ruby. I stare right at her, hugging myself. “Finish it.”

  “You weren’t even supposed to be here this summer,” she breathes through clenched teeth. She looks down at the table and rests her forehead in one hand. “You were supposed to be in France.”

  I sit back in the booth, exhaling, all the energy leaking out of me. It’s almost a relief, to hear it, to know.

  “I thought it would be … healthy,” Ruby continues, still looking down, her words coming out in a tumble. “For us to be apart for a while. We were always together, in our little world.” She glances up at me, her eyes teary. “I wanted to see what it was like, to branch out. And I knew you wouldn’t approve,” she says, tapping her palm against the table for emphasis. “I knew you’d roll your eyes if I told you I liked Austin and wanted to date him. I knew you’d get all huffy if I told you Skye wasn’t so bad—”

  “She’s the worst,” I mutter.

  “See?” Ruby cries. She shakes her head. “That’s why I invited Alice to Skye’s party with me, because I knew she’d be more easygoing about everything.”

  I nod slowly, my throat tightening. It makes sense now—how eager Ruby was for me to go to France, how upset she was when Dad canceled on me. It wasn’t about my summer; it was about hers.

  “I get it,” I say. My blurred vision turns Ruby fuzzy across the table. “If I went to France, that would have been your big opportunity. To be free of me.”

  Ruby dabs at her eyes. “You make it sound so awful, Summer—”

  “Don’t worry,” I interrupt her. My own tone is cold, unfamiliar to me. “I won’t hold you back anymore.”

  Ruby’s phone buzzes inside her apron pocket. She takes it out and checks the screen. Her bottom lip quivering, she looks up at me.

  “It’s Austin,” she tells me tightly. “He’s outside. I should go.”

  “Go,” I say. Go, Ruby had said to me before I got out of her car at the airport.

  I watch, shivering in my cardigan and Ruby’s old white dress, as Ruby stands up and unties her apron. She ducks under the counter, and Brian the barista makes a concerted effort to appear immersed in his phone.

  I peer out the coffee shop window at the darkening street. Austin is there, waiting in his blue convertible. He’s not alone; Skye and her boyfriend, Genji Tanaka, are in the backseat, their arms in the air, dancing to the song coming from Austin’s radio. They look like the picture of summer.

  “Have fun with your new friends,” I say snidely as Ruby emerges from behind the counter with her purse. I feel small and petty, but powerful, like I’m two people at once.

  “And have fun with yours,” Ruby replies, equally snidely, even though her cheeks are wet with tears. Mine are, too; I can feel them coursing down to my chin.

  Then she turns and walks out the door. It’s the first time in ten years that Ruby and I have parted ways without saying Love you times two. The absence of those words buzzes in my ear like a mosquito.

  I sit still in the vacant café, the air conditioner blowing at my back. I hear the tinny music of Brian’s game coming from his phone. My Bastille Day Special is in front of me, untouched, the whipped cream dripping a little. I lean forward and take a sip. It’s terrible. It’s too sweet and too bitter. It’s like my sorrow distilled into liquid form. I push the drink away. Some Bastille Day.

  I reach up to wipe my cheeks with the heel of my hand, and the rough rope of my bracelets—Ruby’s bracelets—scratches my face. Mournfully, I remove both bracelets and stare down at the exposed, pale strip of my skin. I wonder if this is what it feels like to break up with someone. Or get a divorce. This sense of loss mingled with freedom.

  The summer stretches ahead of me, without Ruby in it. I’m terrified and also, strangely, exhilarated. The worst has happened. So, now, in a way, anything can.

  Sunday, July 16, 3:03 p.m.

  Hi, Summer. Would you be available to meet today at 3 p.m. outside Between the Lines? Let me know if that works for you. —Hugh Tyson

  For the umpteenth time, I reread the text message Hugh sent me this morning. The formality of his tone—the fact that he signed his full name—makes me laugh. But mainly the sight of the text causes butterflies to storm my stomach. Because it means that our meeting is really happening.

  I check the clock on my phone.

  Oh God. It’s happening now.

  I’m totally late.

  My heart flips over and I finish lacing up my new sandals. I spring out of the kitchen chair and turn to grab my bookbag off the table. Unfortunately, Ro has draped himself over the bag and isn’t budging.

  “Tell me, Summer,” Mom says, strolling into the kitchen with her eyes on her phone. “How many people should I make the reservation for?”

  “What reservation?” I ask, trying to scoop up Ro without incurring his wrath. I have been on the receiving end of his scratches before, and the last thing I need is showing up to meet Hugh with gashes across my face and arms.

  Mom peers up at me, her forehead furrowed. “Your birthday dinner? At Orologio’s? I assume we’re going there Tuesday night?”

  Right. I release Ro, who meows in triumph. I’d briefly forgotten—or maybe pushed aside—the looming specter of my sixteenth birthday. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed, I think, like a singsong rhythm in my head.

  “I know you mentioned that Alice and Inez are both out of town,” Mom continues. She nudges Ro’s side, and the cat complies, easing himself off my bag with no complaints. Of course. “So it’ll be you, me, Ruby, and Aunt Lydia,” Mom continues, stroking Ro’s head. Then she glances at me, and that pink stain is coloring her cheeks again. “Also … ” She clears her throat. “If you wouldn’t mind, I was hoping to invite Max as well … ”

  “No Ruby,” I say flatly. My insides twist.

  Mom raises her eyebrows in surprise. “What?” she asks. “Why not?”

  I reach down to feel the empty spot on my wrist where the woven bracelets used to be; they’re now up in a jewelry box in my room. I try to tamp down my rising sadness.

  “I can’t get into it now,” I reply, brushing cat hair off my bookbag and sticking my arms through the straps. “I have to go do that photography assignment.”

  Mom knows that my class partner is Hugh—“Oh yes, the mayor’s son, that smart boy!” she’d said merrily wh
en I’d told her—but of course she doesn’t know about my crush. Nor does she know what happened between me and Ruby at Better Latte on Friday evening. I’ve done a deft job of avoiding Mom this weekend.

  “Well … is it okay if Max comes, then?” Mom calls after me, sounding incredulous, as I open the door and head outside.

  “Sure, whatever,” I shout over my shoulder, jumping on my bike.

  If I had my druthers, I think, pedaling up Rip Van Winkle Road, I wouldn’t have a birthday dinner at all this year. I was meant to be celebrating in France, anyway.

  The warm wind teasingly lifts the hem of my dress. Oh no. I struggle to hold the material in place with one hand as I coast down Deer Hill. Maybe jeans would have been a wiser choice for this outing. But I’d been eager to wear my new purchases.

  Yesterday, dying for a distraction, I’d texted Wren to ask her about that vintage store I’d heard her mention. Wren had been working on her class assignment with Maude, but she’d gamely given me directions. I took the bus to the mall and, one block behind it, found a small shop called Second Time Around. I’d had no clue it was there all these years. It was filled with racks of gorgeous retro clothes, and shelves of shoes, purses, and accessories like Wren’s old watch. I’d taken pictures and browsed, and then stumbled upon a black-and-white polka-dot sundress that was different from anything I owned. I’d bought it, along with the never-worn Grecian sandals I also have on now.

  I reach Greene Street, and it feels like the butterflies in my stomach are starting a tango. Taking a big breath, I park my bike in front of the bank and hurry down the street toward the bookstore. In another life, I’d be popping into Better Latte to beg Ruby for some boy wisdom. My fingers stray to my bare wrist. I haven’t had any contact with Ruby since Friday. It’s crazy to think that she has no idea that I’m about to see Hugh.

  My brain is so focused on Ruby that I almost don’t see Hugh. He’s waiting outside Between the Lines, leaning against his bike and writing in his Moleskine notebook. He’s wearing the same green-checked shirt he wore to the museum, board shorts, and flip-flops. I stop just short of walking right into him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say, trying to appear calm and unruffled even though I’m definitely sweaty and messy-haired. “Hugh face”! I remind myself, and tighten my features.

  Hugh glances up and quickly closes his notebook. “Oh. Hey,” he says, straightening his glasses in an adorable way. “You’re not late. I thought I was early.”

  “Um.” I start reaching around for my phone in my bookbag. “Isn’t it after three?”

  Hugh shrugs, looking sheepish. “Probably. I’m sorry. I’m sort of bad with time.”

  His words are as surprising as the laugh that bubbles up out of me. “You are?” I can’t help but say. “No. I am.” I’d assumed that perfect-student Hugh was forever punctual. But now I’m recalling how he’s often been late to photography class. Come to think of it, he’d sometimes arrive to school late, too; I’d never paid attention because I was too busy stressing about my own lateness.

  A small smile tugs at Hugh’s full lips. “Then we have something in common.”

  I nod, a blush burning my face. The afternoon sun beats down on my head, and I’m faintly aware of people strolling past us into the bookstore.

  “So,” Hugh says. He glances down at his feet and rubs the back of his neck. “Should we start with your location?”

  I bite my lip. For our assignment today, each partner was supposed to pick one spot to photograph. As Aunt Lydia explained it, both partners were to take pictures of both spots, and then compare their different visions. The problem is, I haven’t yet selected my place to photograph. My indecisiveness took over, and I spent much of yesterday and this morning waffling between Pine Park and the train station and even the bookstore Hugh and I are standing in front of now. Nothing has felt right, though.

  “I—let’s start with yours,” I fudge, smoothing down the skirt of my dress. Maybe I’ll settle on something as the afternoon goes on. Or I’ll make a last-minute decision out of desperation.

  “Okay.” Hugh nods, looking a little uncertain himself. He runs a hand over his close-cropped dark hair. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was nervous. But that’s not possible, is it? “Mine isn’t too close by,” he warns. “Do you have your bike?” He turns to his own bike and takes his bookbag off the handlebars.

  “I do.” I point to where I parked my bike at the bank. I wonder what location Hugh chose; I’d figured it was somewhere on Greene Street.

  “Ideally, we’d drive there,” Hugh says, tucking his notebook into his bookbag, “but I don’t have my license yet.”

  “Me neither,” I say. Something else we have in common, I think, but thankfully, don’t add. I turn and walk toward my bike, proud of my relatively normal behavior. If I make it through the assignment without humiliating myself, I will consider it a success.

  I climb onto my bike, and Hugh pedals up alongside me. For a second, he seems like any other Hudsonville boy on his bicycle, someone I’d pass on Deer Hill, say. He’s not some mysterious and intimidating figure that I’ve built up in my head. I can talk to him. I can laugh with him.

  Then, just as quickly, the perspective shift passes. Hugh becomes Hugh Tyson: Terrifying Crush again. The butterflies resume their dance routine in my belly.

  “It’s this way,” Hugh says, raising his soft, slightly scratchy voice above the wind. He pedals ahead of me, and I follow. He turns onto Deer Hill, but instead of following the familiar incline, he turns again, onto a side street called River Alley.

  I’ve passed by River Alley countless times, and always thought it was a dead end; it’s flanked only by the backs of houses and skinny trees. Now I see that the alley goes on for a while, maybe a mile, with flashes of the river visible through the gaps in the trees. It’s too narrow for two bikes to fit side by side, which is fine by me; I can pedal behind Hugh, admiring the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, without having to make stilted conversation. I also don’t have to worry about my skirt occasionally fluttering up. My heart thumps and my feet work the pedals and it feels good, to be biking this distance, like I’m putting space between myself and Greene Street, and Ruby, and Mom.

  Eventually, River Alley tapers off, turning into a dirt path lined with majestic oak trees; it’s like the twiggy ones that we passed earlier decided to grow up. My wheels bump over the ruts in the path, and I hear the sound of water lapping against rocks. I’m about to ask Hugh where we are exactly when the path opens up and we emerge onto a thin strip of grass. Hugh stops his bike, and I stop mine.

  I have to catch my breath—not just from the long ride, but from the beauty of this small, enchanted-looking place. Pine trees and boulders ring a shimmering circle of blue-green water. A waterfall burbles down a steep slide of boulders, and a bird caws in the treetops. It feels hidden away, entirely separate from Hudsonville. From the world.

  “What—what is this?” I sputter, before I can remember to sound composed in front of Hugh. I climb off my bike and shed my bookbag, taking out my camera and looking around in amazement.

  “You’ve never been to the swimming hole?” Hugh asks with a smile in his voice as he props his bike against an oak tree.

  “Never,” I echo. How is that possible? I wonder as I wander across the patchy grass toward the water. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and there was still a place unknown to me? Then I recall the vintage store I went to yesterday: That, also, was new. It’s true that I—well, Ruby and I, together—always stuck to a circumscribed path: our school, our homes, Greene Street, Pine Park, the mall. Maybe we made our small universe even smaller than it needed to be. I reach the water’s edge and swallow hard. I remember what Ruby said to me on Friday, about wanting to stretch beyond the bounds of our friendship. Maybe, on some level, I want that, too.

  “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid,” Hugh says, walking up beside me with his camera and notebook in hand. “It’s kind of—
my escape,” he adds, a little shyly.

  I lift my camera to take a picture of the waterfall. “I can see why,” I say. “Do you swim here?” Instantly my cheeks flame at the very nice thought of Hugh in swim trunks, in the water. At the same time, I am amazed that, blushing and all, I am standing here and simply conversing with Hugh. Like I’m another Summer.

  “I’ll swim,” Hugh affirms, setting his camera and notebook and pen down on the grass. “But mostly I’ll sit and write—short stories and poems and stuff—and enjoy my parents not bothering me.”

  I want to ask Hugh more about what he writes; I’d love to see what he writes, although I know that would be the longest of long shots. So I address the other point that’s piqued my curiosity.

  “Your parents bother you?” I ask. Mayor Rosen-Tyson and Mr. Tyson and Hugh seem to be a perfect united front, a symbol of Hudsonville wholesomeness. There’s nothing broken there.

  “Of course,” Hugh says with a low laugh. He peers out at the pine trees across the water. “They think I should go into politics, like them. They definitely don’t think I should be a writer. Even though I’ve always written. Sometimes I’ll stay up all night writing. But they say anything artistic isn’t practical.” He nods down toward his camera. “I had to fight with them to take this class! Actually, I’m going to miss class the next three days. They’re dragging me along to some conference in Washington, D.C.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” I say. Selfishly, I feel a pang of sadness at the thought that Hugh won’t be in class.

  Hugh shrugs. “I’m pretty sure it would be easier if I had a sibling. Then I wouldn’t be the repository for all my parents’ hopes and dreams.”

  There’s a lightening, a lifting, in my chest. “I’m an only child, too,” I say. Another thing we have in common.

  I look at Hugh, familiar Hugh: his light-brown skin and gray-green eyes, his long lashes and strong jaw, the small birthmark next to his right ear. Even though I’d been focused on him for two years, I never really knew him. I didn’t know he wanted to write or didn’t have his license. And I guess I never gave him a chance to know me.