by Helen Frost
until late afternoon. Do you still want to go? Abigail says,
Yes. And then, to me, You can go to the Johnsons’ on your own.
Pam asks how far away the Johnsons live, and Dad says,
Our nearest neighbors—just up the road. Abigail is sure: she
would rather go with Pam than go to their house. That look
flits across her face—something she isn’t telling me.
If She Knew
Abigail
What would Claire say if she knew that TJ and I
kissed, the night before we left last summer?
And—what does TJ think about that now?
We were talking, and admitted that we wondered
what kissing is like. I said, We could try it, and TJ said,
Why not? We agreed: it was fun! But how will it feel
to see him again now? Since he lives here in no-phone-land,
we haven’t even texted since that day. Will it be awkward
if we end up alone together? Although that shouldn’t be
too hard to avoid, with all those little spies in his house—
especially the nosy twins. Not sure which one it was who
caught us holding hands behind their boathouse, a minute
after we had kissed, and blurted out, I’m telling!
TJ thought fast. Nothing to tell, he told her. Abigail
tripped, and I helped her up. That’s it. Now scram.
Dad’s Hand on the Tiller
Claire
Good—since Abigail isn’t going to the marina,
I have Dad all to myself. The water’s rough
and he goes pretty fast, making me laugh as we
go bumping over the waves. It’s enough
just being together—we don’t try to talk over
the motor, but we point things out to each other:
three turtles lined up on a log, a pair of swans
at the entrance to the channel leading to another
lake, a blue dragonfly that lands on Dad’s hand
as he holds the tiller. At the marina, he buys bait
and gasses up the boat. I get an ice cream sandwich,
and go out on the dock to eat it while I wait
for him to talk to everyone he hasn’t seen all year.
We ran into Fred and Ruth Gibson: this could take
a while. They like to know—and tell—everything
about everyone, all up and down our side of the lake.
As we head back home, Dad says he heard
about a new fishing spot he wants to try out.
We drop our anchor there, and I sit quietly
with him while he casts for perch and trout.
After a while, he asks me to pick up the oars
and row over to a slightly different spot.
He’s not catching much, but we stay here for
an hour or so. Comfortable, talking a little—or not.
The Lake Trail
Claire
Someone has already cleared the lake trail
to the Johnsons’ house, so I walk
along it, and find TJ all by himself,
fishing from the end of their dock.
Hi, Claire, he says. When did you get here?
I saw your dad and—what’s her name? Ann?—
last week, but I didn’t have a chance to ask when you
were coming. He tosses a small fish back in.
We got here on Sunday, I say. Her name is Pam.
She’s about to have a baby. He laughs. Moms do that a lot.
Well, his does, that’s true—she has three kids
younger than me. But I remind TJ, Pam’s not
our mom. I dangle my feet from the side of the dock,
staying quiet so I don’t scare away the fish.
I’ve always liked TJ. He’s nice to me, and
never treats me like a little kid. I wish
I had him for a brother. One time, the summer
before last, he fixed Abigail’s bike, and I told her
she should marry him. She laughed at me, but TJ
smiled in a nice way—not like he was so much older.
He reels in a fish, catches it in his landing net. A good-sized
walleye. Second one this morning. You guys want it? he asks.
He even says, I’ll clean it for you. Three mallard
ducks swim under the dock, then go on past.
TJ’s sisters and brother come down to the dock.
Sadie’s hair is longer than Sophia’s this year.
We’re six now, Sophia brags. Devon adds, I’m nine.
I found my own way down here. He smiles ear to ear
about the handrail that TJ and Mr. Johnson built
for him, since he only sees a tiny bit, out of one eye.
I hug all of them. TJ wraps the fish in newspaper
and gives it to me, saying, Tell your sister I said hi.
Mirror
Claire
Abigail and Pam are back. I count seven
shopping bags. We’ve never worn anything
but old jeans and T-shirts up here at the cabin,
and now Abigail is pulling out new running
clothes, new shoes, and all these shorts and tops.
She got a haircut, and gold highlights in her hair.
Plus something weird happened to her eyebrows.
I don’t know when she started to care
about all this. She models a white swimsuit,
an expensive kind with sleeves. Pam agreed
it was worth it, she says. Now I won’t wear a shirt
to cover up my lightning scar, and I won’t need
as much sunscreen when we go to the beach.
That’s true, I guess. Abigail, I say, that scar
has faded so much you can hardly see it now.
She studies her arm in the mirror. Are
you sure? she asks. Yes, I am. No one will notice
it. She says, Thanks, and smiles at the mirror
(it agrees: she’s cute), then looks at me
and squints one eye, to see if I share her
admiration. I look out the window. Claire,
she asks, are you upset because Pam and I
went shopping? No. It doesn’t bother me—
it’s just so stupid. Of course not, I say. Why
would I be? I can hate Pam all by myself—I don’t need
your help. Abigail tilts her head. Pam’s not so bad,
she says. Give her a chance. Whatever. Let
the two of them be girlfriends—I still have Dad.
Glitter and Gloss
Claire
Abigail comes to supper with glittery eyelids,
glossy pink lips, plus the gold streaks in her hair.
Pam does this thing where she catches Dad’s
eye with a meaningful glance: Don’t go there,
don’t say what you’re thinking, it warns him.
He gives a slight nod, then, Claire, he
says instead, remember to put your bike away—
it might rain. I answer, Okay, Dad, and we
all go back to trying not to stare at Abigail. Pam
decides this would be a good time to call
attention to a stain on my T-shirt, and says in a
bright voice, They’re having a sale at the mall
all this week. I’d be happy to take you to get some new
summer clothes. And maybe, she has to add, Chloe
could fix your hair a little bit. Get your bangs
out of your eyes? She thinks I’m ugly
and unfashionable. I bet she assumes
I’m jealous of my sister. Guess what? None
of that is true. No thanks, I say. I don’t want to be
the kind of girl I bet Pam was, when she was one.
Eastside Swimming Beach
Claire
I wouldn’t mind staying home today, but it
sounds like Abigail wants to wear her new
clothes where someone besides us will see them.
I’m tired of the cabin, she says. What should we do?
So after lunch, we pump up our bike tires
and head down the gravel road. We pass TJ’s
house—he’s out working on the motor
for their boat, and looks up when he sees
me wave to him. Hi, Abigail, he calls out. Why
does she just speed past and ride on? We steer
around the dog that always chases us—
either it’s slower or we’re faster this year.
Then we pedal by the gravel pit and boat launch,
coast past Loon Landing (a big house some rich
guy built two years ago), and now here we are
at the old familiar Eastside Swimming Beach.
Everything is the same as always—music blasting;
the smell of sunscreen; the flagpole a little bent;
band kids selling snacks at the concession
stand, which still needs a coat of paint;
a group of moms watching toddlers play in the sand;
a few old people. I wonder if anyone I know is here.
There’s a group of kids who live here year-round, but
Jonilet isn’t with them—she was my best friend last year.
Abigail and I park our bikes and head toward the spot
where we always spread our blanket, part shade,
part sun. She likes to sit and sketch after we swim.
I usually watch people, or take out a book and read.
What Is Summer For?
Abigail
There are always lots of boys here
at the lake, and what is summer for?
Fun. That’s what. It looks like Michael,
from last summer, is the lifeguard. Brock Sundet
might be here—not that he’d notice me, but …
Wait, is that him going over to talk to Michael?
Claire, I say, let’s put our blanket over there
near that girl braiding that other girl’s hair.
See them? Right in front of the lifeguard stand.
Something’s Different
Claire
Abigail spreads her stuff out on our blanket,
slathers her face and legs with sunscreen,
kicks off her flip-flops, and runs into the water.
I stand on the shore and watch her become queen
of Eastside Beach. She dives under the rope,
comes up laughing, flings water from her hair
into a ring of sunlight, attracting a swarm
of boys—were they even here last year?
I know they were. But something’s different now.
Last summer, Abigail liked to look at boys—
a lot—this year, the boys are looking back. She’s like
a kid on Christmas morning with a pile of new toys.
Pointers
Claire
At times, it seems like Abigail is still the same
as she’s always been. When we got back
from the beach today, we came into our room
and stretched out on our beds to relax.
Pam has this blog called “Pointers from Pam.”
Little tips about how to get extra use out of all
the things normal people throw away, like
the cardboard tube inside a toilet-paper roll:
“Cut one up and paint it to make napkin rings!
Use them to keep your socks in pairs!” Umm …
really? Would anyone actually do that? Abigail
and I try not to laugh at something that dumb,
but sometimes in private we make up pointers
of our own: “If your parents won’t let you do
something you want to do, try asking when they’re
too busy to say no.” And: “They might believe you
if you tell one of them the other one said yes.”
Even though I’m not quite eleven, we call ours “Tips
for Teens.” But today when I say, I have a tip for teens,
Abigail walks over to the mirror to gloss her lips,
kisses a piece of Kleenex, then kisses the air and
announces, I’m not going to make fun of Pam anymore.
What? One trip to the mall, a haircut, a new swimsuit,
and now she’s on Pam’s side? Wow, Abigail, I say, how mature.
All I Did
Abigail
God, Claire, quit looking at me like
you think I’m some kind of traitor
to our childhood. All I did was
get a few new clothes and let a girl
named Chloe cut and tint my hair.
Don’t act like you don’t know me.
Well, okay, yes, we also went
to the eyebrow place—you have
eyebrows, too, somewhere under
those two caterpillars on your face.
I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just—
I’m a girl. I like to look like one, okay?
Dad’s Still Dad
Claire
Abigail
Are you still mad at me?
Not mad. Maybe a little annoyed.
But never mind.
It’s just that— everything’s different this year.
Not everything. Dad’s still Dad.
Remember that time when we were little, and he put up the tent so we could sleep outside, and then we got scared, but we still wanted to sleep in the tent, so he let us bring the whole tent into the cabin?
I remember. You, me, and Benjamin Bunny, all zipped up in one sleeping bag.
Yeah.
Are you ever going to give that rabbit back to TJ?
I don’t know.
Maybe you could do that for me?
Maybe you could do that for yourself.
TJ has probably forgotten about him.
Or maybe not.
Claire
Abigail
You could take Benjamin Bunny over there, and give him to Sadie and Sophia.
It seems like you’re avoiding TJ.
No I’m not! It’s just that …
I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.
Dad, is that you at the door?
Dad
Are you girls still awake?
Claire
Abigail
Yes.
Come on in.
Dad
Want me to play my banjo while you go to sleep?
Claire
Abigail
Sure, Dad.
Like you always used to.
My Side of the Blanket
Claire
Today is too hot to ride bikes to the beach,
so we take the canoe, staying close
to the edge of the lake where the trees
hang over the water. A breeze cools us
as we paddle past the sandbar, through
the water lilies, past Anna’s Island. We pull
the canoe onto Eastside Beach and pick the same
spot as yesterday for our blanket. Abigail
stretches out in the sun while I go get a drink,
and just as I return, a boy walks by and
says, Hey. Abigail looks up at him, smiles as if
they’re friends, and answers, Hi. She brushes sand
off my side of the blanket. He says, I’m Brock, and then
this happens: I’m Abi, says Abigail. What’s that
about? When did my sister change her name
from Abigail to Abi? Brock takes off his Cubs cap
and sits down like he’s some famous person
who doesn’t have to ask if anyone would mind.
“Abi” sees me standing there and gives a
subtle sign that means: Claire, could you find
something else to do for a while? Go for a swim?
Come back later? If we had our bi
kes instead
of the canoe, I’d just go home right now.
This boy, Brock, can have the stupid
blanket. But I can’t leave “Abi” stranded here.
I walk away slowly, listening to them talk.
He asks, Here for the summer? She says, We come up
for about a month every year. How about you? Brock
says, We stay here all summer. Abi: You’re lucky.
I wish we did. When did my sister learn this
whole new talking-to-boys voice? She sounds like
she got a part in a play and this is the first practice.
Jonilet
Claire
Good—Jonilet is here today. Hi, Claire, she says.
She gestures toward Abigail: Your sister
looks different this year. Sit with me? Is it that
obvious? With Brock and “Abi” sitting together
on our blanket, I don’t know what to do
or where to go, and that must be clear
to Jonilet. She’s going into sixth grade
like I am, but she also looks different this year—
more like a teenager. She got her braces off.
Her hair is curly. And, wow, her hands—with
all different-colored fingernails, and a fancy
henna tattoo going up around her wrist.
We walk past my blanket. “Abi” doesn’t
look up when I go by, but I can see
her cheeks are burning, either from the sun
or from sitting so close to a boy. Jonilet says, He
likes her. His name is Brock Sundet—I know him.
