Firefly Beach

by Meira Pentermann

  June 18th. It’s my birthday. She pondered for a moment. Why did I forget? Is it because I was afraid to acknowledge it, or is it because it doesn’t matter anymore? Her mind scanned over the changes she had undergone in less than a week. Ever since she set foot on the beach, she had become a new person, filled with ideas and surges of creativity. She no longer felt old. She felt as if life were just beginning. She smiled and took a deep, cleansing breath. Then she walked straight over to the dresser drawer and took out Katherine’s diary.

  She fluffed her pillows, propped them up, and made herself comfortable on the bed. Then she opened the front cover to the page that said Katherine’s Diary. There she paused for a few moments before turning the page to the first entry.

  Friday, July 11

  Dear Diary:

  That sounds so silly, “Dear Diary.” I’ve never had a diary before. Well, I did have one when I was twelve. It was sparkly silver with a small, flimsy lock on one side. I got it for Christmas. But, you know, I never wrote in it. And really, who knows where that diary got to over the years? Besides, it was the diary of a little girl. And I’m a young woman now, almost seventeen and a HALF! I’ll be a senior this year. I thought you were much more suitable and sophisticated for a teenager of my advancing years. Anyway, I had to share this with SOMEONE. Sarah has been moody lately, and we haven’t spoken in over a week. So you are my new friend, Diary, and I expect you to keep all my secrets…even if you don’t have a lock.

  So, so, so. I ramble. You’re wondering, “What is the story already? Say something interesting.” Right? Well, here it is.

  A very cute boy started working for my father this week. Well, he is not exactly a boy. He has stubble on his face. But you would just DIE if you saw him. Shaggy, sandy blond hair to his shoulders, green eyes, gorgeous tan, broad shoulders. Very broad shoulders. He could probably lift his motorcycle in the air if he really wanted to. Today he was wearing a white tank top and blue jeans. Not the flared blue jeans that the ridiculous boys at school (who think they are so chic) wear. No, these were regular Levi’s, a man’s jeans, you know?

  Anyway, I walked into the shop. Dad was supposed to take me to lunch. I peered into his office and he was on the phone. So I wandered around the garage, and I saw these jeans and sneakers peeking out from under the hood of Bob’s green Chevy. I knew that Jimmy had taken off last week. (His mom is in the hospital. Long, sad story. I’ll tell you sometime, but first things first.) Anyway, I knew that Jimmy was supposed to be gone, so those legs kind of scared me at first.

  “Jimmy?” I said quietly.

  The jeans emerged from under the car, rolling out as fast as a Hot Wheel. I come to find out they were attached to a gorgeous hunk of a guy. I couldn’t believe it. I almost gasped. I put my hand to my mouth just in time, thank God.

  “Uh, hi,” I stammered. I was a complete bumbling idiot.

  But he just grinned. Oh, the most adorable smile. I practically melted on the spot. He pulled himself up, nodded his head ever so slightly, and said, “Hi. My name is John. I just started working here for Mr. Thompson.” He pointed toward my dad, who noticed us talking and seemed to, out of the blue, rush to end his phone call. I heard him throw in a couple of “alrightys” and “okay thens.” What a surprise. He treats me like I’m ten. God forbid I talk to a boy.

  I held out my hand and quickly spouted off, “Katherine Thompson. Nice to meet you.”

  He chuckled and showed me his greasy palms as an excuse for avoiding my handshake. Of course I giggled, a STUPID giggle. I hate my laugh. I must have looked like such a 9th-Grader. I picked my brain for something clever to say, and, of course, nothing came to me. Then Dad came rushing over, put his arm around my shoulder, and whisked me away.

  “I’m taking my daughter out to lunch,” he hollered to John, without even looking at him. There seemed to be a particular emphasis on the word daughter, as if he were drawing an imaginary line on the garage floor. I twisted my neck for one last look at Mr. Cutie-Pie, and he smiled, a carefree, full of life, smile.

  Well, Diary, you don’t have to ask. I’ve got the likes really bad. I can’t wait to see him again. I think I’ll find an excuse to pass by the garage Monday on my way to Jeanie’s Ice Cream Parlor.

  I should wear my tube top. On the other hand, I don’t think Dad has ever seen my tube top. I better save that one for another day. But I’m definitely going to curl my hair. And wear eye shadow.

  Well, must go. I have a busy day to plan. Thank you for listening, Diary. It feels good to have a secret friend.

  Love,

  Katherine

  Beth looked up from the page and gazed into the distance. Memories of childhood crushes washed over her. She thought about Todd, the blond-haired stud she had been afraid to talk to in tenth grade. He barely knew she was alive. But all the same, she doodled his name on the inside of her homework folders and daydreamed for hours. She cut out photos from teen magazines of any boy that looked like Todd. She was silly and obsessed, but it had felt wonderful. And then, of course, there was Josh from eighth grade. He had noticed her first and asked her to the end-of-year eighth grade dance. She was quite smitten with him, but his family moved out of town before she started high school. She often wondered what it would have been like to start high school having a boyfriend. Then she realized she might have missed out on all the crushes that made the teenage years so exhilarating. She even had a crush on her Math teacher when she was in ninth grade. He was, of course, nothing but professional. But there was something exciting about starting the day looking forward to staring into the dark, warm eyes of Mr. Salinas. She heard not a word he said about algebra or geometry, but with a little studying she managed perfect A’s. This was especially gratifying, since it impressed Mr. Salinas.

  Beth smiled. She cherished her memories. And in that moment she realized that she was quite satisfied to be turning forty. Naturally, as in any person’s lifetime, she had endured difficult, sad periods and, perhaps, many moments wasted – things she should have said; things she should have done. Nonetheless, happy, silly, and inspirational days abounded – a whole life of interesting thoughts and experiences. And there is a whole life ahead of me with many more to come. She hugged the diary to her chest. Then she looked down and turned the page.

  Tuesday, July 15

  Dear Diary:

  Oh what a wonderful time I had yesterday. God was smiling down on me. Dad had to drive to Portland to pick up some parts and supplies, so Mr. Cutie-Pie was minding the garage on his own. He’s a hard worker, that one. Already covered with grease at 10:00 a.m., and looking just as yummy as ever. His hair was messy, but in an oh-so-adorable way.

  I tried to look foxy. I think I succeeded. I saw him look me up and down. It was subtle, but I’ve got a good eye for these things, you know? I wore my tight pink shirt with the star on the chest, cut-offs, and sandals.

  Anyway, I told him I was going to Jeanie’s Ice Cream Parlor. I was hoping he would jump at the opportunity to come along. But he didn’t. He was probably worried about my dad. It sure seemed like he wanted to go with. He was grinning and looking at me. I could swear he likes me.

  So, I was bold. I brought the ice cream to him. A vanilla cone. We sat out on the mini-wall next to the bushes, the one that separates the garage from the junk-filled back lot. We were very comfortable sitting there eating our ice cream. John talked to me for nearly half of an hour before he noticed the time. Then he rushed back to work and I had to say goodbye.

  I asked him all kinds of questions. He has had an amazing, interesting life. He grew up in California. His mom is an actress. I asked what movies she has been in and he shrugged me off, saying she only does bit parts and I wouldn’t know her. But I kind of got the feeling there was some bad history there, you know? I wanted to tell him how I wish my mom were still alive, that I barely remember her, but the timing didn’t seem right. I didn’t want to make him feel bad, like I was scolding him or something. Besides, I wanted to find out about HIM, n
ot go on with my old sob stories.

  Anyway, he dropped out of high school when he was sixteen. He bought a motorcycle with the money he’d been saving up from his after school job at a gas station. He said he loves to tinker with cars, loves fixing things. He said that gave him a sense of accomplishment, that it felt good afterward to wash up, sit down, and feel like he’d really done something. I thought that was so COOL. He’s a good man, an honest, hard-working man. I like that.

  Anyway, he traveled across the country, staying for a while here and there. He’s been in Boston for the past six months. But he said he’s looking for someplace that is a little less up and about, someplace where folks appreciated one another, where the pace of everyday life is a little calmer.

  I told him, “Well, you sure came to the right place. Ain’t much going on around here on a daily basis.” He just smiled, a kind of knowing smile, like he’s seen a little of everything and knows more about the world than me. He was right, so what could I say?

  I went out on a limb and asked him how old he was. Twenty-two! Wow, no wonder Dad is all freaked out. Still, it is not really that old. When I’m out of high school, it will be no big deal at all. It will be like we’re the same age practically…except, of course, the fact that he’s been all over the country, and I’ve barely set a foot out of Maine in my entire life.

  I’ve been to Boston a few times. And then there was our disastrous vacation a couple of years ago in Niagara Falls. Dad embarrassed me, wouldn’t leave me alone. It was like he was afraid I’d fall over the edge of the waterfall and be washed away. He is so smothering sometimes. I’m going to have to keep my “likes” for Mr. Cutie-Pie under wraps. If Dad finds out, he might send John packing, and that would be no good, no good at all.

  I guess I must sign off for now. I’ve got some serious daydreaming to do. Oh, and guess what? I bought a cashbox to keep you in, and it has a small padlock. I’m going to keep the key on a chain around my neck. I’ll put you under the bed for now, but Mr. Snoopy-Pants Dad might come looking, so I’ll have to find a better hiding place.

  Anyway, ta ta for now.

  Love,

  Katherine

  Beth closed the diary and caressed the cover. It looked so fresh for a thirty-five-year-old book. The sunflowers seemed to smile back at her, quietly concealing memories of youth and love.

  An urge to paint overwhelmed Beth. She laid the diary on her bed and wandered down the hall to the studio. She anchored a thick sheet of paper to the easel and began to mix colors. No initial sketch, a first for her. She stared at the blank paper for a few minutes, closed her eyes, and envisioned the painting yet-to-be. Then she opened her eyes and began to paint.

  By nightfall she had painted the features of a young girl with flowing, auburn hair. It was not outstanding, but it was decent for Beth who had never been comfortable painting portraits. A mood of mischief glimmered in the girl’s green eyes. Beth had imagined a young girl who was a little rebellious and full of life. She had captured a hint of such a young lady, but she was not entirely satisfied with the results. She pulled up a chair in the corner of the room and stared at the painting-in-progress for several minutes.

  “Not bad for me, I guess. It definitely needs something. A lot of work for starters. Then a hand, perhaps on her hair…putting in a barrette. Oh, I cannot draw hands. That will be a difficult undertaking.” But she smiled nonetheless. She had something, her first human subject. The red-haired, free-spirited young lady was Beth’s interpretation of the author of the diary – a girl with passion, a girl from the past.

  It was almost 9:00 p.m. Beth glanced outside and gasped. The firefly hovered near the window. It hesitated for a moment before it slipped through the glass and into the room. Beth backed away.

  “Did I say you could come in? I thought we had an understanding,” she said nervously.

  The firefly paused at the portrait and then circled it two times before drifting toward Beth.

  Beth continued to back into the corner. “Stop! What do you want? I shouldn’t have read it? Then why did you lead me to it?”

  The light creature circled the painting again.

  “You like it?” Beth asked hopefully, stepping forward and sounding more confident. “Isn’t it amazing what you have inspired me to do?” Beth walked toward the painting boldly. “I could never do portraits, but look, here it is. I am so lucky I found you, really…and the beach, and the diary.” Beth’s words flowed hastily from her lips. “I mean, my very own, personal muse. Who would have guessed?”

  The firefly began to circle the painting rapidly and repetitively. Beth stepped away. The firefly flew so fast it almost blurred into a stream of light.

  Beth’s shoulders dropped and her face conveyed disappointment. “You’re not my personal muse, are you?”

  The firefly hovered, waiting.

  Beth pondered. “You are here on behalf of Katherine? An angel, perhaps?” Beth pulled her hand through her hair and sighed. “You want me to find her,” Beth stated with some reluctance.

  The firefly continued to hover patiently.

  “That is not a very convincing answer,” Beth said, pointing at the firefly. “But I suppose an angel is much more socially acceptable than a muse.” She tried to sound cheerful. “Let’s see. Abigail seemed to believe that Katherine ran off with her boyfriend. What was his name? Mr. Cutie-Pie?” Her voice quivered nervously. Her feeble attempt at humor did not calm her anxiety. “Okay, John.”

  The firefly backed away slowly.

  “So I need to find John.”

  The light creature reached the glass and passed through it silently.

  “Thanks for all the useful advice,” Beth called sarcastically as the creature drifted away. She stood at the window and watched it go.

  “Why me?” she whispered.

  Exhaustion overcame Beth, so she retreated to her room. The diary was on her bed. She picked it up as if it were a soiled tissue and placed it on top of her dresser. Then she shuddered and climbed into bed.

  * * * *

  That night, dozens of dream images inundated Beth. They blended, overlapped, and dissolved when she awoke with a start on Monday morning. She remembered dreaming of high school, long linoleum lined halls that smelled of old mops, and cute boys. The passionate redheaded girl from Beth’s painting made an appearance here and there, laughing joyously.

  Just before dawn, a haunting nightmare slithered around the frivolous dreams and suffocated them. Again Beth walked along the beach. Again she heard the screech of tires. As she turned toward the headlights, she found herself caught in the branches of a tree in the forest. This time her father emerged before her, silhouetted against the light. In a fit of rage, Beth began throwing things at him, things which appeared from nowhere – the infamous rubber duck, a stick, and a pinecone. She shrieked, “Why didn’t you come home, asshole?” She continued to throw things – another duck, a branch, and finally a rock. When the rock pierced her father’s shadow, he blurred and disappeared. Then the headlights raced toward her and she bolted up in bed.

  It took her several minutes to shake the fear and anxiety which plagued her tired spirit. She looked over at the dresser and saw the diary. She retrieved it, propped herself up in bed and found the next entry.

  Wednesday, July 16

  I hate my life! Dad is impossible. I want to run away from home. Maybe I will. Maybe I will do just that. Dad is such a smothering butthead. I hate him. Okay, no. I love him, but he needs to just be cool sometimes. He’s all strung up like a fly in a spider’s web.

  Obviously he found out. I must have been too happy. God forbid I be happy, Dad. Is that too much for you? Ooh, he’s such a pain in the ass.

  Anyway, this morning I snuck into Dad’s car and pulled out his lunchbox. I hid it in the pantry. Brilliant. Then I’d have an excuse to walk to the garage. “Oh, Dad, you forgot your lunch.” Well, I thought it was brilliant, but Dad has a memory like a steel trap. He remembered putting the lunch in the backsea
t, because he had some tools lying there that he forgot to put away. So when I showed up with the lunch, he KNEW something was fishy.

  We had a big fight in his office. I kept glancing over my shoulder, thoroughly embarrassed, hoping Mr. Cutie-Pie wasn’t listening. But he heard the whole thing, I’m sure. At least the yelling part. Heck, they could probably hear it a block away.

  The looking over my shoulder only made Dad madder. “What are you up to, young lady? Are you bored this summer? Do I need to set you up with a part-time job doing filing for Mrs. Willoughby?”

  I kept trying to bring him down to a whisper. “I just thought you’d like to have your lunch. Go ahead and be hungry then,” I growled.

  But he was not convinced. He spelled out for me how he was certain he’d already put his lunch in the car, that I must have taken it out, and that I was probably looking for an excuse to come down and visit “that drifter.” He actually said “that drifter” with an ugly tone. It was very rude. Why would he hire John and then be all judgmental of him? I asked him about it, and he calmed down a little, finally speaking at a regular volume like a normal person for once. He said that John was a fine, hard-working young man, but that he was a LOT older than me, that I was still in high school, and that I’d better keep my mind on my studies and off of boys.

  “It’s summer, Dad,” I reminded him. But then he got all red in the face, and I didn’t want to go through another bout of him yelling at me, so I slipped out of there as fast as I could and ran all the way home.

  It’s not fair. It’s simply not fair. I hate him sometimes. He is such an overbearing monster. I am so embarrassed. I’m sure John is laughing at me. I wish I were dead. I wish I could live my OWN life. I’m tired of him being on my case all the time. He’s raised me like a canary in a cage. If Mom were still alive she would understand, I’m sure of it. She was a girl once too. Why are fathers so impossible?!