Boys of Summer

by Jessica Brody

  I recognize the words. They’re from a book I used to read to the twins. It was one of the few they’d actually sit still long enough to finish. But it doesn’t mean I’m able to follow anything she’s saying.

  “So you say good night to the moon, too?”

  “Sometimes. But mainly just the ocean. I’ve never actually slept by the ocean. This is my family’s first summer here. We live in western Mass. Like, near Amherst? We’re renting one of those cottages.” She points up the beach. “Sometimes we go to a lake house in the Berkshires in the summer, but ‘Good night, lake’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it, you know?”

  “But why do you say good night to the ocean?”

  She shrugs. “I just think it’s a nice gesture? Like in the book. No one ever says good night to their mittens or their socks. They should.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. This girl is a little bit crazy, but I’m pretty sure it’s the good kind.

  “Well, anyway,” she says, grinning, “I should get back. It was nice not saving you.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It was the best non-rescue I’ve ever had. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  She nods eagerly. “Totally. I’m working at the Coral Bay Beach Club all summer. In the kids’ camp.”

  “Oh, then I’ll definitely see you. I do grounds maintenance there. You know, weeding, gardening, mowing, a little of everything.”

  “Are you a local?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just that I seem to be the only tourist here who actually has a job. I’m not really a sit-around-on-the-beach-all-day kind of girl. When we used to go to the lake house, I always worked at the sandwich shop in town. Plus, I wanted to start beefing up my resume. I’m starting Smith College in the fall. I’m studying to be an elementary school teacher.”

  I don’t even know this girl, but for some reason I can totally see her commanding a classroom full of kindergartners. Like, the job is just stamped right across her forehead. It must be nice to know exactly what you’re meant to do with your life.

  “Well, you’ll have your hands full at the club. The kids that come here in the summers are pretty crazy.”

  She giggles and tucks her short hair behind her ears. “I think I can handle it.”

  I laugh too, because it’s kind of hard not to. “I bet you can.”

  She bounces a little. “Okay, well, see ya.”

  I watch her run down the beach toward the rental cottages, and I pick up my board and start home.

  Our small, one-story, three-bedroom house is located smack dab in the middle of the island, where most of the locals live, which means it’s about a ten-minute walk from any of the beaches. I’ve never minded it, though. I’ve always loved strolling through the town. The different smells and sounds. The subtle shift in scenery as you go from the tourist pockets into the local neighborhoods.

  I’ve lived in this house my entire life. When my father was twenty-two, he came to the Locks for a summer vacation with his parents, sister, aunt and uncle, and three cousins. This was back when the island was just starting to become a destination spot. He met my mother—a local girl—on his third day, and basically he never left. I’ve always liked hearing the story of how my parents met, how my father gave up everything—his first big job, his apartment in the city, his life—just for my mom. It reminds me of what I promised to do for Harper. Only in reverse.

  When I walk through the front door ten minutes later, the house is quiet. Jasper and Jake are both passed out on the couch in front of the TV. The title menu of the movie they were watching is on the screen, the DVD having run through the entire film and its credits.

  I grab the remote and switch off the TV. I scoop up Jasper first, who hangs limply in my arms like a dead body, his head falling back over my arm, his arm flung into my face. I set him on the top bunk and return to the living room. Jake is the opposite. He curls up tightly against my chest when I lift him, like he’s trying to fit into a too-small cocoon. You don’t have to wonder who took up the most space in the womb.

  Once they’re both tucked in, I retreat to my own room and collapse onto the bed—wet bathing suit and all. It’s then that I realize I left my T-shirt on the beach somewhere. There’s no use in going back to find it. It’s probably already a victim of the tide. Not that I have the energy to get up.

  I know I should at least change out of my bathing suit, but my legs are far too sore and my eyelids are far too heavy. Just as my eyes drift closed, I catch a glimpse of the moon through my open bedroom window. Once again it looks completely different.

  That fickle thing.

  CHAPTER 9

  IAN

  I’m able to hide out in Grayson’s house for more than a week before the guys stage an intervention. Mike and Grayson barge into the Cartwrights’ guest room, which I’ve turned into my own little man cave, and rip the guitar right from my hands.

  “The poetry too,” Grayson orders Mike. “Search the room. Find the poetry.”

  “Guys,” I gripe. “What are you doing? There’s no poetry.”

  “Found it!” Mike says, holding up a yellow legal pad that I swiped from Mr. Cartwright’s office a few days ago.

  “There’s always poetry,” Grayson says smugly.

  I jump to my feet and try to snatch the pad from Mike’s hand, but he holds it high over his head like we’re still nine years old and playing keep-away with the ball. And who do you think was always the one they were keeping the ball away from?

  Mike throws the pad to Grayson, who catches it awkwardly with his left hand.

  “Give it back,” I demand. “That’s private.”

  “Don’t worry. I have no desire to read your sappy poems,” Grayson says. “We’re just here to save you from yourself.”

  “I don’t need saving,” I tell him.

  Grayson carries my legal pad and guitar down the hall, places both in a closet, and locks the door with a key that he stashes somewhere in his bedroom. “You’ll get those back after the party.”

  I groan. “No. No parties.”

  “Fine,” Grayson says, crossing his arms. “Then no guitar.”

  I look to Mike behind us and appeal to him with my most pathetic look. He just shrugs.

  I surrender a sigh. “What’s the party?”

  The Mexican-themed fiesta at the beach club pool is already in full swing when we arrive. Mike grabs us beers, and we stand off to the side and watch the tourists make fools of themselves, trying to do line dances that are way too complicated, to music that’s way too old.

  I really don’t want to be here.

  I appreciate the gesture, I suppose. The guys are only trying to help. But sometimes I wish they would just talk to me. Like friends are supposed to do. Instead of dragging me to these stupid shindigs. Do they really think that a bunch of drunk tourists and outdated songs are going to help?

  I spot Whitney right away. She’s sitting on a lounge chair, talking to a guy I’ve seen hanging around the past few summers but whose name I’ve never bothered to learn. I’ve tried my best to avoid her around the house the past week. Actually, I’ve done my best to avoid everyone. I’ve pretty much stayed holed up in my room, playing guitar (or trying to) and watching reruns of Crusade of Kings while I wait in agony for the next new episode to air, which, coincidentally, is tonight.

  I notice that Whitney isn’t dressed in her usual getup. She’s wearing jeans and a basic black tank top, and she still has her glasses on. And instead of the sleek, straight look she usually wears, her hair is wavy and untamed.

  She probably broke her straightening iron when she was beating me up with it.

  I watch the guy crack some joke and use it as an opportunity to place a hand on her knee. She laughs loudly at whatever he said, tossing her head around and accidentally catching my eye in the process. She shoots me a dirty look, and I drop my gaze to the sand.

  I feel my blood pressure spike. I don’t know what it
is about that girl, but she completely stresses me out.

  As I continue to glance around the pool, I get a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Not just because this party feels nearly identical to last week’s clambake on the beach, but because it feels nearly identical to every party everywhere, going all the way back to the beginning of time. There are always two kinds of people at parties: the kind who join in and enjoy themselves—people like Whitney and Grayson and, according to my mom, my father—and the kind like me, who will never feel like they ever belong at a party.

  Sure, it was fine last summer and all the summers before that when I could paint on a breezy smile and drink a few beers to loosen up and joke around with the guys. I used to be able to tolerate it. More often than not I even had a relatively good time. But everything is different this summer. Not just with me. Mike and Grayson seem different too. I can feel it in the stiff way Mike is standing, like a petrified tree, and the way Grayson is staring off into the distance while he mindlessly sips his beer.

  There’s a dreary fog that has settled over our little group. A weight dragging us down. I have a chilling premonition that if we keep going this way, it’s going to drag us right down to the bottom of the ocean.

  And I just can’t bring myself to fake that smile anymore.

  My paint is all dried up.

  “Remember that one summer when we smeared dog shit on the bonfire logs?” Grayson is the first to break the ice.

  Mike laughs at the memory. “That was hilarious. Everyone was trying to pretend that the entire beach didn’t smell like burning crap!”

  “And remember that time we dared those tourist girls to skinny-dip and then we hid all of their clothes?” Grayson says.

  “What was that?” Mike asks. “Three years ago?”

  “Four,” I respond tonelessly. “I remember because Grayson had just gotten his braces off and he couldn’t stop licking his own teeth like a pervy porn star.”

  Grayson guffaws. “That’s right. That was the summer I hooked up with Courtney Willows. She was hot. Whatever happened to her?”

  “What’s the matter?” Mike teases, nodding at the crowd. “Not satisfied with the selection tonight?”

  Mike slugs him in the arm, and I notice Grayson wince just a little too much.

  “Shall we start the bets, gentlemen?” Mike asks, scanning the crowd. “I spy a brunette with—”

  “No,” Grayson says, and I instantly hear the edge to his voice. Grayson must hear it himself, because his next words are much more playful. “Not tonight. All the best players need some time on the bench every once in a while. Even me.”

  Mike laughs, but it sounds strained. I wonder if he’s nervous about bumping into Harper here. If he is, he hasn’t said as much. So far there’s been so sign of her. If she has any heart left, she’ll stay far away from here and give the poor guy a break.

  My gaze wanders back to the cluster of lounge chairs where Whitney is sitting, except she’s not there anymore. The chairs have been claimed by a family of four sharing a plate of nachos. The guy she was talking to is gone too.

  I blink and glance around the party, feeling a strange twist in my gut. I quickly shake it away. Why the hell do I care where Whitney goes or who she goes with?

  I don’t.

  The DJ plays “Macarena” next, and the tourists cheer. It wouldn’t be a summer pool party without a bunch of old white people pretending they can dance to Latin beats.

  “Well, that’s my cue to leave,” I say, tossing my empty beer can into the nearest trash can.

  “What?” Grayson says. “You can’t leave yet. We just got here.”

  “Yeah, but Crusade of Kings starts in a few minutes.”

  “That’s what DVRs are for,” Grayson argues. “We can all watch it together tomorrow. Like we always do.”

  “You said I had to come to the party. You didn’t say anything about how long I had to stay.”

  “But Mike’s not even drunk enough yet to do the chicken dance.”

  “Hey!” Mike interjects. “I don’t do the chicken dance.” He pauses to sip his beer. “I rock the chicken dance.”

  “See?” Grayson says. “C’mon. You have to stay. We’re having fun.”

  There’s a bizarre anxiety in his voice. I know he probably doesn’t intend for me to hear it, but I do. For some reason he seems desperate to act like this is just another summer. And maybe for him it is.

  But it’s not for me.

  I feel a ripple of frustration move through me.

  Doesn’t he get it? My father is dead. I’m never going to have just another normal summer ever again. Why does Grayson think he can just bring up all of these past memories—things that we used to do—and it will make everything okay?

  Reminiscing about the good stuff in the past won’t erase the bad. It will only make it hurt worse.

  I know the guy is trying, but it’s just too much.

  “Hey, Macarena!” I hear someone yell, exceptionally loud over all the other voices. I look up to see my mother among the line dancers, one hand raised in the air, the other wrapped tightly around a plastic wineglass. She does the requisite end-of-verse hop to change directions, and chardonnay sloshes over the rim, spilling all down the front of her dress. She laughs like this is the funniest thing ever.

  If I wasn’t ready to leave a minute ago, I certainly am now.

  I wrap a hand around Grayson’s forearm and give it a squeeze. “Sorry, man. I gotta go.”

  I turn to leave just as my mother spots me. Her face brightens. “Ian! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all week! You have to come dance with us!”

  I give her a meager wave and take off toward the beach. My mom keeps calling and calling, her voice getting angrier with each step I take. I cringe with each repetition of my name.

  Ian. Ian. IAN.

  By the time I’m halfway to the Cartwrights’ house, it sounds less like a name and more like a dying bird.

  I feel a stab of guilt as I plod down the beach, sand slipping between my feet and my sandals. I probably shouldn’t have just left her there. Especially in the state she’s in. But I can’t bring myself to go back. Plus, I’m sure my grandparents are there. They can help her get home.

  That’s two disastrous parties in one week. Two nights I’ve left my drunk mother to make a fool of herself in front of the entire island. Two times I’ve retreated down this very beach to the soundtrack of fading music and rising waves.

  Will every night here be exactly the same?

  I don’t know why I let Grayson and Mike talk me into this. If I’m going to live the same day over and over again, I’d rather do it locked in a dark room.

  By the time I get to the house, I’m already planning to raid Grayson’s bedroom in search of the key that will free my captured guitar from the closet, but I freeze in my tracks when I hear voices. Loud, hostile voices. Coming from the window I climbed through just a week ago.

  Whitney’s room.

  “Stop!” Whitney cries out.

  “C’mon,” a male voice says. “I know you’ve done it with half this island.”

  “I have not!”

  “That’s not what people are saying. But don’t worry about it. I like girls who know what they want.”

  “I don’t want this,” Whitney snaps.

  “Sure you do.”

  I hear a struggle and a few grunts, and then Whitney yells, “Get off me, you douche bag!”

  And that’s all it takes for me to complete this déjà vu night by diving right back through Whitney Cartwright’s bedroom window.

  CHAPTER 10

  GRAYSON

  So, how’s work?” I ask Mike after Ian leaves.

  He shrugs. “Same grass, different day.”

  I nod, taking a sip of my beer, looking out at all the people gathered around the beach club pool. “Remember that time we put laundry detergent in the hot tub, and the next day this entire area was overrun with soap bubbles?”

  Mike smiles
but doesn’t laugh. “Yeah. That was funny.”

  I prod him with my cup. “And remember that time Whitney had a slumber party and we replaced all the Oreo cookie filling with toothpaste?” I let out a loud guffaw and then cringe at how fake it sounds.

  He chuckles halfheartedly. “Another classic.”

  I blow out a breath. God, trying to make conversation with Mike is like trying to make conversation with a turtle who refuses to come out of its shell. I wonder if my attempts sound as desperate aloud as they do in my head. I don’t know how many more rambunctious stories of our childhood I can rehash before I just run out.

  Why is it so awkward? Between all of us? It used to be so easy. We didn’t have to reminiscence about old memories, because we were too busy making new ones.

  I know Ian’s dealing with some pretty heavy shit with his dad passing away and everything. I’ve been trying to get him to talk about it all week. I’ve asked him repeatedly how he’s doing, hoping he’ll open up and tell me what’s on his mind. But he always just mumbles a one-word answer and then disappears into the guest room. So I’ve pretty much given up.

  I want so badly to forget about all this crap in our lives and just have a good summer. A last summer. Before we each ship off to our real lives. Before Mike moves to New York with Harper (if they’re even back together by then). Before Ian goes off and becomes some hotshot moody solo artist. Before I start Vanderbilt in the fall as their starting quarterback.

  Yeah, right.

  I can barely even hold a beer in my right hand, let alone throw a perfect spiral. My future feels so derailed, it would take a miracle to get it back on track.

  My dad tried to bring it up yesterday, while Ian was locked in the guest room, strumming the world’s most depressing chord progression, and my sister was off traipsing around the island doing God knows what with God knows who.

  The Cartwrights. If we’re not known for our abundance of cash, we’re known for other abundances.

  “Hey, you wanna toss a few on the beach?” my dad asked. He had already fished the football out of the shed and was passing it back and forth from hand to hand. He threw it to me across the kitchen. It was a perfect throw. It sailed over the island, spiraling beautifully through the air. Apparently my dad still has it, even if I don’t.