The Summer of Bad Ideas

by Kiera Stewart

  I am speaking should language. My mom’s language. But she’s not happy. “I have had enough of this, young lady! Do you hear me? Just enough!”

  “Mom? I know. I get it.” I might as well wave the white flag. For once, she was right. It was really dangerous. Really unsafe. “You may or may not believe me, but this is the last time that’ll ever happen. I can promise you that.”

  “Well,” my mom says stiffly. She looks hard and tough, like she’s about to hand down a superstrict punishment. “Well,” she says again, and her voice sounds tight, like it might snap. And then it sort of does—she does. She starts crying. It bursts out of her, like it’s been waiting there for a long time. After a few moments—my dad and A.J. exchanging worried looks—she finally sniffs and wipes her face with a tissue. She looks back up at us all and says, “Is anyone hurt?”

  “I got a splinter,” Beatrice says.

  “Let me take a look,” my dad says.

  “And I got a scrape on my elbow,” Henry adds.

  “Let’s get that cleaned out,” my dad says.

  “How about you two?” Uncle A.J. asks Rae and me. “You okay?”

  Rae, of course, has managed to get by without even a bruise. I just nod. No visible scars, at least.

  My dad and Uncle A.J. start tending to the twins’ wounds, and I say, “Mom? What’s our punishment?”

  She gives me an odd look, like she’s not really sure who I am. I’m not really sure either. I do feel different.

  “I mean, just tell me what it is, okay? I’m not going to argue, I just want to know what I’m dealing with.”

  She sighs. “Edith, I’m too tired to even think right now.”

  “Yeah, I think we all are,” Uncle A.J. says. “For now, let’s just be glad that everyone’s okay. Let’s just be glad that we’re all home, and we’re all safe.”

  My mom flashes him an appreciative glance. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I do trust you.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry I can be such a jerk sometimes,” Uncle A.J. says.

  “Tea, anyone?” my dad offers. I know he’s just dying to use his new electric kettle.

  “Thanks, Walter. I’ll have some.”

  Uncle A.J. says he will too.

  After the wounds are fixed and bandaged, Beatrice finally starts pouring out the details—leaving out the fact that they were out there filming in the first place—and then the parents send us all off to bed. On our way upstairs, I hear my dad’s sunshine-and-rainbows voice. “Well, how about that? We took a united front, and everyone’s A-okay! Good work, home fries. Let’s bring it on in! Come in here!” I glance over the banister to see my dad trying to huddle everyone together.

  “Walter, my glasses are caught on yours,” my mom says. She’s not a fan of the group hug.

  Apparently, that runs in the family. My uncle wheezes out a strained “Not so tight, bro.”

  But my dad continues to squeeze away.

  “Wow, what’s up with our parents?” Rae says when we get to our room. “I mean, did you see that? A group hug!”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I’m still sort of reeling from everything that happened tonight.

  “Maybe we should have scared them to death earlier this summer.”

  “Maybe.”

  I can feel her looking me at again, but I don’t look back. “So,” she says. “I can’t believe you fainted. You must have been terrified.”

  My answer is cool. “Yeah, well, I thought the twins were about to get eaten. So, yeah—I think anyone would have been.”

  “True.”

  I sigh. As annoyed as I am with her, I say it again. “Thanks for pulling me out.”

  “You’re welcome. Sorry I wasn’t there earlier, you know . . .”

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

  So I ask the loaded question. “How was your month-iversary call?”

  “Uh . . .”

  I wait again, feeling ready to pounce.

  “Not that great, actually.” She looks away.

  I make a hmm-hmm sound, which she seems to mistake for interest rather than skepticism. She must not know that I heard her over at Mitchell’s. She must think I’m oblivious. That I’m stupid. Boring and stupid.

  “I mean, it’s tough being away from each other. Really tough.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think we’re like star-crossed lovers.”

  “Aaaaand, cut,” I say.

  Her head jerks in my direction, her face a big question mark.

  “I mean, at some point you have to break for a commercial,” I say.

  She stares at me.

  “Intermission?”

  Her left eye narrows a little.

  “Why are you acting like this, Edie?”

  “Acting? Am I acting? No,” I say. “I think not. In fact, you’re the actor—you’ve been the star of the show this whole summer. Tonight was no exception. But you know what, Rae? At some point, the curtain’s got to close.”

  “Oh. So you did know I was at Mitchell’s, then.”

  “Uh, yep. I definitely did.”

  “Okay, first, you have to know that it’s not what it looked like—”

  I almost laugh. “It’s not what it looked like.” That’s such a well-worn line in any cheesy television show. So maybe it shouldn’t surprise me that it’s coming from her.

  But she’s stopped talking.

  “Well, what was it, then?”

  “I needed a friend, Edie, and—”

  “A friend who you just secretly hang out with?”

  “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky—”

  “And watch movies with—”

  “Come on, Edie.”

  “And make out with—”

  “What? Edith!”

  Hearing her call me by my real name jars me.

  She continues, “I’m trying to talk to you and you’re not listening!”

  I stare—no, glare—at her, challenging her to explain.

  “It’s not at all what you think.”

  “Rae, most of the time it doesn’t really feel like you even care what I think!”

  “I do care what you think. I care a lot.”

  I feel like a dam has broken—like I can’t stop my thoughts from being spoken. I blurt, “Yeah, maybe you care about what I think about your acting. Or your jokes. Or about all your performances, sure. But if it’s not you you you, it’s meaningless, isn’t it?”

  I suck in a breath, surprised at the sharpness of my own words.

  “Good night,” she says sharply, and rolls away.

  But then I hear quiet, mouselike gasping sounds and I realize she is crying.

  All summer long, I’ve wanted to be more like her—fearless, brave, bold, adventurous. I’ve lied, I’ve broken rules, I’ve worked so hard at it, and I’ve failed epically. And now this is what I have to show for it—she’s quietly sobbing, and I’m starting to feeling like a toad. No, wait, a toad is too nice. A snake.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. It’s the only thing left in my try-hard toolbox. “I saw you there, and I guess . . . fine, just tell me.”

  She sniffles and then gets quiet.

  “Rae? I’m listening, okay?”

  She finally speaks. Or rather, she seethes. “I said good night.”

  I roll over, away from her. And I attempt to sleep, as if effort has any role in it. I guess sleep is a lot like friendship. The harder you try, the more it escapes you.

  Chapter 24

  Good Ideas for Summertime, Revised

  The next morning, I’m practically still awake. The twins come in, ready to sneak attack me, but Beatrice notices my open eyes. “Oh.” She seems surprised. “You’re not asleep.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, why are you guys just lying there?” Henry asks.

  I wonder if Rae’s awake, and if so, for how long she’s been.

  “No good reason,” I say.

  “Are you sad about last night?” Beatrice asks. “About being in troubl
e?”

  “Sad? No, I’m not sad.”

  “You seem sad about something.”

  I give her a little smile. Guess she is kind of cute sometimes. So earnest.

  “You can come with us today if you want,” Henry says. “Dad says we’re going to look for the grasshopper sparrow.”

  “You gave up on the scrub jay, too?”

  “He shrugs. Come on, Edith, we’re leaving soon.”

  “Thanks, Henry, but I don’t think I’d be any fun. Go on downstairs now, though, okay?”

  Surprisingly, they do, without any arguing or further questioning. Even they can tell things are off.

  When the door closes, Rae sits up. She has this sort of resigned look on her face. “So, what about the list? I thought you wanted to finish it,” she says in this tired, worn way.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I want to make up with her, but I still feel left out. Betrayed.

  And unsure of how to fix things.

  “Yeah, me either.” She sighs.

  The hurt part of me keeps talking. “Well, you probably crossed the last thing off the list last night anyway,” I say. “Kiss the charmer.”

  “Oh, come on, Edith, I did not,” she says.

  So I guess Edith is sticking. It feels like the dynamic duo has disappeared into thin air.

  So I say, “I guess we just forget about the list. Who knows what any of it meant anyway? Seems like a wild goose chase.”

  I watch for her reaction, hoping to see some sort of sign that she cares. But her face is still. I try one more thing. “I mean, if we’re honest, the whole summer has probably been one long wild goose chase.”

  I actually want her to argue with me, to tell me I’m wrong. That if nothing else has worked out, at least we’ve had each other. But she just says, very coolly, “Agreed. A lost cause.”

  Despite the weight of disappointment, I add, “Maybe we should just focus on getting out of here. If we actually work on the house instead of trying not to all the time, the sooner it’ll be ready to sell, and the sooner we can all go home.”

  She looks right at me. And says, “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all summer.”

  “Hey, sport!” A.J. calls up the stairs. “Coffee?”

  “Definitely!” she calls back. Then to me, she says, “Well, I’m going downstairs.”

  “Enjoy your coffee,” I say, very civilly.

  “Yeah, thanks. Enjoy your whatever,” she says, just as civilly, back.

  I take my time getting up and dressed. I have a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, she’ll bound back up the stairs, breathless with regret. That she’ll tell me that she can’t stand this; that she needs me as her friend. That we have to make up. That she wants to finish what we started. That we’re in this together. Whatever this is anymore.

  But I realize the best I’d get is some movie quote—or worse, Shakespeare—that I wouldn’t understand.

  At nine o’clock, I give up and go downstairs. I sip my coffee (creamed, sugared, and spiced), and look around the quiet kitchen. Despite my dark mood, I have to admit that the ivory-painted cabinets really do brighten up the place. The new appliances really do “bring the kitchen into the twenty-first century,” as my dad promised they would. Still, I’m a little annoyed at its cheerful elegance, until I realize that it means we’re closer to going home.

  Which is what I want.

  At ten o’clock, I’m finishing my second cup of coffee, and Rae is still nowhere around. Whatever. Rae’s no doubt charming Uncle A.J. into not punishing her for last night. Or maybe she’s back at Mitchell’s. Making cookies. No, forget that. Making out.

  My mom walks into the kitchen. “There you are. How are you feeling this morning?”

  I shrug. “Weird, I guess.”

  She sighs and looks at me. I have a feeling she’s about ready to launch into a long and unnecessary safety lecture. So I ask, “So what’s our punishment?”

  “I don’t know, Edith. I just think—well, I want you to decide that.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Edith. You already know my rules, and you’re old enough to know right from wrong. You decide.”

  I hear the door open, finally. Rae and her dad chatting breezily. Like her dad is suddenly her best friend. They walk into the kitchen and see us. “Oh, hi, Aunt Hannah!” Rae says, as if she’s in a musical. I can see her smiling, spinning, singing, the hills are alive!

  “That was. The best coffee. Ever,” Rae continues. “We went to the diner.”

  “This kid actually taught Dani how to make it a little better.”

  Of course she did. She probably got a standing ovation.

  “Mom,” I say, now more eager to get out of this summer than ever before, “will you please give us a list of everything that still needs to be done for the house? As many things as you can think of? As our punishment.”

  “Yeah, Aunt Hannah,” Rae says, in her spotlight-smile way. “That would be great.”

  My mom’s mouth opens a little. She looks from Rae to me. “A to-do list? Sure, I can do that if that’s what you want. But listen, I don’t want to be chasing you two down.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” Rae’s words are directed to my mom, but they’re definitely meant for me.

  “What’s gotten into you two?” my mom asks.

  “Well, I’m just ready to get home,” I tell her. “The sooner we can get this place ready to sell, the better.”

  “Amen to that,” Rae says.

  My mom looks surprised, but Uncle A.J. says, “I can’t believe it’s almost over. I know it’s been a lot of work, but it’s—just look around. This place looks better than it ever did.”

  “Well, I have to hand it to you, A.J. You put in a lot of work.”

  “Right back at you, Hannah. And I have to admit, Walt’s got a knack for making things look good, don’t you think? I kind of love this kitchen—it looks pretty awesome in here.”

  What’s this? The new dynamic duo? I see a look pass between our two parents. One of commonality, of sharing the same kind of experience at the very same moment. A shared challenge, a common glint of pride.

  I miss those looks myself—between me and Rae. I mean, up until lately it’s felt like the Summer of Us. But in reality, it’s been the Summer of Her, her, her.

  With a tightness in my throat, I think about Petunia’s now-abandoned list. I swallow it down. I don’t want to feel sad. I will not feel sad. I’m not the pathetic, please-like-me girl I used to be, and I am grateful for that. Hear me? Grateful.

  I look up and see Rae staring at me. It shakes my resolve a bit. But whatever.

  Just because she can’t be a great friend doesn’t mean that she can’t be a good coworker.

  Chapter 25

  So Charmed

  There’s no talk of the good ideas list anymore. That’s been replaced by the to-do list. For the past week, we’ve been painting window trimmings, sorting the last of Petunia’s clothing, cleaning up paint stains, Q-tipping between baseboards and floorboards, and now we’re clearing out the closet beneath the stairs.

  It smells like mothballs and something else—that smarmy-sweet aroma of decay. Or, if you’re Rae, it just “reeks.”

  “Yes, it does,” I say. “But in a couple weeks, this will all be just a memory.”

  She sweeps a hand in the air and starts. “Time—thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.”

  Guess I’ll be doing the heavy lifting. I take a box off the top of a two-tiered stack. It’s full of books, and heavy enough to make me topple a little as I set it down to sort.

  “Careful!” she says. So helpful.

  She points to the one box left. It’s folded closed, with its corners tucked under each other. On the side of the box, in Petunia’s handwriting, are the words PAST/PRESENT.

  “So that’s where I get my amazing organizational skills,” Rae jokes.

  It’s something I want to laugh at—would laugh at, if things were right between
us. But now, I don’t dare offer her more than a polite smile.

  She pulls it over in front of her and sits down. “I’ll go through it.”

  “Wait . . . ,” I say. I kind of imagined we’d do this together. Sort through the last boxes of Petunia’s things and reminisce, somehow, over our grandmother’s life. Our common denominator.

  She looks up at me. “What?”

  I almost suggest it. But I remind myself that none of this matters very much anyway. We’re just trying to get out of here.

  “Never mind.” I might as well face it. On Thursday morning, bright and early, a huge, groaning trash truck will chew up a large chunk of our family history like it’s a piece of beef jerky. And the world will still keep spinning. Life will still amble on.

  She opens the box and begins to go through it. Fast. Pulling out receipts and old papers and then—

  “Oooh, what’s this?” Rae says, taking out a photo and studying it.

  I try not to seem too interested.

  “Oh my god, he’s going to love this,” Rae gasps in her crave-the-spotlight way.

  Still, I can’t help myself. “Who’s going to love what?”

  She hands it over to me. It’s a photo of Petunia, surrounded by a small group of kids—one of them Mitchell. He looks a couple years younger than he is now.

  “Well, maybe you should give it to him, then.” I try to pass the photo back to her, but she won’t take it.

  “Actually, I think you should,” she says.

  “Why should I? He’s your friend.”

  “Edie, just stop, okay? You’re the one he likes like that.”

  “Well, whatever, I don’t like him back.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t believe a word that comes out your mouth, can I?”

  “Is this about Klaus? I told you I was sorry. And I meant it. I still do.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

  “The rest of who?” I ask, feeling sincerely puzzled. “All your besties? All your friends?”

  “I don’t have many friends.”

  “What are you talking about? You have all sorts of friends.”