Summer Doesn't Last Forever

by Magdalene G. Jones

  So I let Amias hold me. I listen to the people sing. And my heart cries out for a fading summer, begging it to stay.

  Chapter Eight: Shattering Home

  I wake with a groan. My eyes scrunch shut at the sunlight pouring through my window. I roll over and bury my head in my pillow. Misery clogs my throat like smoke.

  “Tarni?” Maya whispers from the bunk above me. “Are you awake?”

  I ignore her, wishing I didn’t feel anything at all. I pull my phone from my bag and open text messages.

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  I send another text to Everly, asking if we can FaceTime. Maybe, she’ll answer this time. I have ruined these next few weeks for myself, and God can at least let me talk to her. Right?

  I’m so selfish.

  I clench my jaw and adjust my pillow again. I rub my tired eyes. It took me hours to fall asleep after the campfire. Too many thoughts and possibilities swirled through my head. Swirl, like currently. I glower at my wall.

  Why couldn’t I be normal? Why couldn’t I have met my friends at a school in America? I wouldn’t have to worry about facing goodbyes or how to distance myself. Amias and I . . . well, I wouldn’t have to be putting myself through this pain, trying to work an impossible situation out.

  Instead, I drown in my warring heart and mind. I don’t want to hurt myself. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. But if I don’t do something, I will be in pain long after everyone else’s fades.

  Because I don’t love half-heartedly. I love earnestly. I need my friends, but I am unnecessary to them. Caring for people is never safe, as my mom has told me a million times. But for me, it’s heartbreaking every time. I have lost, and I have lost, and I have lost, and I will lose it all again.

  I am a fool who wears the pieces of her broken heart on her sleeve. And every time I pass someone who starts to care, the parts snag on them. When they move, the pieces break. Again. And I am left with the shards of who I used to be.

  My roommates start shifting.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Abi yawns.

  “Good morning,” Maya hops off her bunk.

  Genevieve groans and mumbles into her pillow.

  “Come on, Vive,” Abi chuckles. “Tarni, you too. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

  “We slept in?” Maya asks in disbelief.

  I find it unlikely, too, seeing as Abi and Maya are the most notoriously early birds I know.

  “We stayed up late,” Abi walks over to the vanity. “And spent yesterday on the go. It’s hardly surprising.”

  “Maybe to you,” Genevieve grumbles.

  Deciding I can’t lie in bed all day—though I want to—, I roll over and sit up. I rub my eyes again.

  “My throat feels weird,” I reach for my water bottle.

  “Hmm,” Abi looks up from her eyeshadow. “You sound hoarse too. Go easy on the sugar today.”

  I give her a look, “What are you implying?”

  “I’m just saying this resort provides plenty of sweet stuff. Maybe make yourself some honey and lemon water.”

  “How is she so aesthetic?” Genevieve sits up, scratching her side.

  “What do you mean?” Maya changes into shorts and an athletic shirt.

  “‘Honey and lemon water?’ That’s something that belongs in a soft-lit, pastel based, YouTube video with ASMR-like qualities.”

  We laugh, and Abi pauses. She frowns in the mirror.

  “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not.”

  “Me neither,” I offer her a weak smile, downing more of my water.

  We change as quickly as four teenage girls can and walk towards the dining hall. Though it is seven-thirty, the soft sun pretends that she can hide away again. Despite Genevieve’s comment, I follow Abi’s advice in drinks. We sit at our table. I try to focus on the conversations and not the harsh voices in my head.

  “Hey, Tarni,” Amias sits beside me with a yawn.

  My heart skips several beats, “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

  “All right. It took me a while to fall asleep, but,” he shrugs.

  “Likewise,” I drink my honey water.

  “Your voice sounds funny. Are you sick?” He frowns at me.

  “I don’t know. My throat hurts, but that’s all,” I try to avoid looking at Amias without being rude.

  “Sorry. Are you feeling better otherwise? I know something was bothering you last night.”

  “Not really. But maybe things will be resolved today.”

  I pray that I sound casual. Not rude or sad or anything else. If Amias or any of my friends believe something is wrong, they will bug me until I talk. And knowing how weak I am, I will give in. I take a bite of my toast, looking around the dining hall.

  “For once, our sleeping in was not sleeping in,” I gesture to the quieter room.

  “Thank goodness,” Abi agrees, stirring her tea. “I’d hate to give up my early-riser title.”

  “No one is fighting you for it,” Genevieve rolls her eyes, sipping her coffee.

  “Seconded,” I shake my head.

  “Can you believe camp is already half-way over?” Maya says between a bite of her chocolate croissant.

  Our faces fall. I stare at my plate and swallow hard.

  “Maya,” Abi groans.

  “What has she done now?” Drew walks up to our table.

  He sits beside Abi, and her face glows. Did he squeeze her hand under the table . . . ? I glance between them. These dorks.

  “She’s reminding us of the passage of time,” Genevieve drawls. “Camp is half-over.”

  “Or has half-begun,” Brynn points out with a wink.

  “Since when were you an optimist?” Kelly follows her.

  “Since Abi and Maya abandoned the position.”

  “I beg your pardon, I am not an optimist,” Maya sits straighter. “I’m the one who commented on how quickly camp is ending.”

  My heart sinks further. We look around at each other, crestfallen.

  “Camp won’t end,” Abi purses her lips.

  “Denial. That’s a great way to handle things,” Genevieve continues in her morning mood (unhappy until coffee is finished.)

  Abi shoots her a look, “No. It won’t end because we’ll still have each other, even from across the world. And I intend to live as if we will meet at the next camp if not before then. I will text and call and keep bugging you guys early in the morning,” she takes a deep breath and smiles. “But we still have fifteen days. Let’s not dwell on the goodbye until it reaches us.”

  “Abi, the philosopher,” Drew grins softly at her.

  “You said it, Abs,” Maya raises her fork in salute.

  Abi’s eyes narrow, “Did you just call me ‘Abs?’”

  “Honey, we both know you don’t got those -. Ah!” Maya cuts off in a cry as Abi splashes her tea dregs on Maya’s lap.

  For a moment, we stare at the un-Abi-like behavior in shock. I snort and muffle a hand over my face, and we burst into laughter.

  “Abs are overrated,” Amias shakes his head.

  “Of course, you can say that because you have them,” I roll my eyes.

  “Exactly,” Drew half-bows over the table. “He’s the expert.”

  “You aren’t,” Brynn mutters.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Jeez, Abi,” Maya wipes a napkin on her shorts, scowling. “You can’t take a joke.”

  “Oh, I took it,” Abi promises. “And I threw it back.”

  “You are unbelievable,” Maya tosses the wadded napkin at Abi.

  Abi catches it and leans back. I smile with a sigh. Abi has a point. I can’t dwell in the goodbye, but I must do what I can to make it less painful.

  We finish our breakfast and leave the dining hall. We walk down to the hotel building. I mess with my bracelet, wishing I could hide in our bungalow for the rest of camp. Amias and Genevieve give me worried glances, but I wave them off. We enter the lounge area, plopping down on ch
airs and benches. I pull my phone out of my pocket and sit up straight. My heart quickens.

  Yeah, but not for long. Hang on a sec.

  Everly.

  I clutch my phone, resisting the urge to jump up and down with glee. Genevieve picks up the four-square ball. She bounces it once against the floor.

  “Anyone down for four-square?”

  “You know I am,” Amias hops up.

  “Same,” Drew glances at Abi.

  She shrugs, “Sure.”

  “Tarni?” Genevieve faces me.

  “Um,” I look up and shake my head. “Not now, thanks. I have a call coming in.”

  “Oh, all right. Maya?” She continues down the line.

  More people step into the lounge, bringing their noise with them. There’s no way Everly will be able to hear me in here. I hurry outside and look around, biting my lip. I step around the corner of the building and sit on the grass. And I wait.

  And I wait.

  I open Instagram to avoid checking the time. My heart stings a little as my eyes fall on another picture of Adam and his girlfriend. Only a little.

  I have bigger things to deal with than my ex-crush’s girlfriend, including my current crush. I hold back a groan. I am such an idiot. I mean, under better circumstances, I would think . . . Amias is amazing, but . . . that’s why it is foolish to like him. He’ll forget me in no time. Laughter and the bouncing of a four-square ball drift from inside, and I clench my fists. It takes only a moment of distraction, and I am forgotten.

  As if to prove my point, I keep waiting. And I keep waiting. Nervousness turns to cold dread and twists through my stomach. I wait. Worship music swells from the lounge. I wait. The noise inside dies down. I wait. From my secluded corner, I watch the prayer groups walking to their spots. And I wait.

  Until I can’t deny the truth anymore.

  I shut off my phone and wrap my arms around my knees. I bury my face in my legs. What did I do wrong? Why won’t she talk to me? I wipe my eyes. Is she busy? Maybe I’m just overdramatic.

  But what if she is avoiding me? Am I that unlovable? Five months, and she throws our friendship away? I tighten my grip on my legs. No, no, no. That can’t be what is happening. It can’t be. Everly is too good and kind to forget me.

  With shaking hands, I pull my journal and pen out of my bag. I sniff back my tears, opening to a blank yellow page.

  8:45 A.M. 15/6/19,

  Hiding in the Bush of Disappointment,

  Foolish, foolish, foolish. Why can’t you accept that your friends DON’T WANT you? They don’t. Clearly. And you can’t blame them. You know yourself better than anyone else; how can you pretend they should want you when you don’t even want you?

  Yet, you need them. They don’t need you. They don’t want you. You are clingy and selfish, but you NEED them. You are nothing without your friends. The last five months have displayed this tortuously.

  So, you can’t give up. You must keep annoying them. Even if annoyed by you, they will talk to you, right? No. I take back the question mark.

  Summer doesn’t last forever, but when they were with you, summer was present. It was alive and real. And when they left, winter crashed in with a blizzard. No matter how much they dislike you, you must do anything to get them back. You were so much better when they were around to push you and make you better. You can’t give up. Not now, not ever.

  Not on them.

  I wipe my eyes again, looking at my lock-screen. Such a beautiful picture, but so painful. My friends will never look at me with that kind of care. What happened to me? I trace over their faces with my fingertips. What made me so despicable to them that they avoid contact with me?

  “Tarni?”

  I look up, “Hey, Lizzie.”

  One of the leaders walks over and crouches at my side, her forehead furrowed, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I force a smile. “I was just expecting a call, but it never came.”

  “I see. Do you want to come back to the group? You missed the session, but we’re about to start some games.”

  I hesitate and stand, “You know, Lizzie, my throat hurts. I think I’m going to rest at the bungalow until lunch.”

  “All right,” Lizzie straightens with me. “Feel free to check with us if you change your mind. Don’t go wandering around the resort on your own.”

  “Okay,” I wave, walking back towards my bungalow.

  I walk away, my head hanging. What should I do now? I can’t go anywhere, but lying in bed will let my mind move faster. I reach my bungalow and step inside.

  The silence and emptiness catch me off guard. Living with three girls has made peace and quiet a rarity, especially during the day. I am way too used to the talk and laughter. I am going to miss this when I go home.

  And missing brings more pain.

  I take off my sandals and slide my satchel off my shoulder. On instinct, I pull my phone out again.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  It rings, and my heart leaps. Then I see it’s my parents. I shut my eyes for a moment, scolding myself. I fake a smile and answer the call.

  “Tarni!” My mom and dad chorus.

  “Hey, Mum! Dad!” I wave, my smile turning real.

  “How have you been? Sorry for not calling you before,” Dad adjusts his glasses.

  I release a heavy sigh, “Yeah, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “Uh-oh,” Mum’s eyebrows come together. “What happened?”

  “You’re going to think I’m dumb,” I swallow hard, wiping my eyes again.

  “Sweetie, just because we all do foolish things doesn’t mean you are dumb or stupid. Foolishness is never a state of being.”

  I puff out my cheeks, “Well, this was pretty . . . I don’t know. Basically . . .”

  And I tell them everything. Meeting Amias—my dad just about died of laughter—. My arrival at camp, my “perfect solution,” Adam’s girlfriend, the dance party, the campfire, and how I let my plan fall apart. Tears rise through my throat.

  “What will it mean if my home is something impermanent? Sure, there will be other camps, but it won’t be the same! My home will shatter, and my heart will shatter with it. Because I will be abandoned -. I mean, I will leave. And I will be forgotten. Again,” I hang my head, unable to meet my parents’ eyes even through the screen.

  “Oh, Tarni,” Mum whispers gently.

  “We’re sorry,” Dad says, the last thing I expect.

  I straighten and meet their gazes, “Hang on, what?”

  “We knew you missed your friends, but we didn’t know they became so . . . toxic,” Dad holds up his hands. “I’m not saying they are toxic. I love those kids, but their effects haven’t been healthy.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.

  “Tarni,” Mum pulls my attention back. “Remember, I am a TCK too. And I am an adoptee with a very multicultural family. I know what goodbyes are like. I know how easy it is to fear them and fear rejection. But, my love, the way of fear is never the answer.”

  “Then, what is the answer, Mum? They will leave me,” my voice breaks.

  “Don’t you trust your friends to love you even in the distance?”

  “It’s me I can’t trust.”

  Mum frowns, “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head. Some things I would never be ready to share. Once people get to know me, they don’t want me. But my parents would protest that reality, and I was too tired to debate. But what has given me that feeling of worthlessness in the first place . . . ?

  “Distance brings forgetfulness and more pain. Even if not immediately,” I rub my arms.

  “We were long distance for years,” Dad gestures between himself and Mum. “It was hard. Painful. But we grew a lot. I promise you, you don’t forget. And as long as you keep in contact—and do it well—your friendships will grow.”

  “Yes, but . . . but . . .”

  “Tarni, what were things exactly lik
e before your friends left? Don’t romanticize it,” Mum pushes her hair out of her face.

  I pause again, stumped. Before . . . My skin crawls at a too clear memory. Several too clear memories. Luke’s bright face that had no trace of a smile. I shake my head, my gut twisting. Don’t think about that.

  “I mean, the not-so-great parts happened because we were dumb. Or because I didn’t know better,” I scratch my neck. “There were . . . hard things, but they were kinda my fault.”

  “Are you sure? What kind of things?” Dad persists.

  “Oh, you know. Just dumb name-calling and play and fights and . . . such,” I clear my throat.

  Cold traces up and down my body. I tie my attention to my phone screen.

  “You look tired,” Mum smiles softly.

  “I am tired. I didn’t fall asleep until late.”

  “Don’t try to keep analyzing ‘what should be done’ today, sweetheart,” Mum’s dark eyes stare straight into mine despite the hundreds of miles between us. “Wait several days before you come back to these topics with a clear mind. And remember, the way of fear is not always the way of safety. And never the way of truth and wisdom.”

  “I’ll ask Koa to send us that video he took of you and your boy,” Dad chuckles.

  I give him a look, but he waves at me.

  “I’m sure your brother would love to hear the news of your crush,” he winks.

  “Oh, dear,” I groan, hiding my face in my hands. “He will be unbearable.”

  My parents laugh. I lift my head and manage a small smile.

  “Thanks, guys. I love you lots.”

  “And we love you,” Mum blows me a kiss. “While other homes may fade, this one won’t. Not for you.”

  “Not ever,” Dad slips his arm around Mum.

  I inhale, nodding, “Thank you. I’ll talk to you soon. Goodbye.”

  “Bye, sweetheart.”

  Mum hangs up, and I slump against the door. A weight grinds through my stomach, but the burden I have carried since the campfire lifts. I stand and walk over to my bed. Exhaustion courses through my veins. I lay on my back, staring at Maya’s bunk.

  I have a home. I have many homes. But I’m still stuck here with a heart primed for breaking.

  I clench my jaw. No, don’t think about it today. You have spent enough time mourning your poor decision-making skills. Peace. A numb mind. That’s what I need. I lick my lips, a thought springing into my head.