My Almost Epic Summer

by Adele Griffin

  With affection,

  Sister Soledad

  I Take Fate into My Own Hands

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I call Judith.

  “H’lo?”

  “Judith? Did I wake you up?”

  “Irene?”

  “Give me a twenty percent pay hike,” I say, “and I’m yours for two months.”

  “Your mom fired you,” she whispers. “You’re not in bargaining position.”

  “I’ll go work at Lotsa Tacos.”

  “Beth Ann would never drive you all the way to Nutley.”

  “There are other jobs. Lawn work and . . . um . . .”

  “Twenty percent! Irene, are my kids that awful?”

  “Every mother thinks her own gosling a swan,” I quote.

  There is a heavy pause.

  “Fifteen percent,” whispers Judith. “But you start tomorrow, and you can’t tell Dan how much. Money’s tight.”

  It’s my turn to pause.

  “Do you have a TV yet?”

  “We’ve always had one. It’s out in the barn.”

  “You’ll need to put it back in the house. Otherwise, it’s just too unfair.”

  “Fine.”

  “And I’m on the clock from the minute I get in the car.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  There is nothing else to say, and I am all out of nerve, and so I hang up.

  A Beginning

  BEFORE I COULD keep up with it, my summer had changed, narrates my likable voice-over. As for what it was changing into, I had a feeling that it would be an adventure.

  Foreshadowing happens in My Life-style Epics, but never in real life. In real life, I knew exactly what my summer was changing into—unrelenting hours of playing I Spy with Lainie Prior and telling Evan for the umpteenth time to wash his muddy sneakers, feet or legs before coming indoors, while counting off the days until school started. Which would then begin a whole new countdown to the last day of school. I wonder when I can stop my countdowns? I guess not until the day I take off.

  But things could be worse. Five hundred years ago, I’d be babysitting my own kids.

  Judith drives a purple Hybrid, which I think is pretty cool. I don’t know many adults who drive purple, earth-friendly cars, or who, for that matter, have lucky colors. When she pulls up to the house and I open the passenger-side door, she presses a make-believe stopwatch. We smile at each other. Truce.

  She smiles again when she sees my new book, Lolita.

  “How’s the hair?”

  “So far Dolores Haze has warm, auburn hair, but no hairstyle—yet. And her mom wears hers up, but I don’t think she’ll be a heroine of the book. Actually, I don’t think this mom’ll be in the story much longer.”

  Judith nods. She likes that I read a lot. She’s not too into hair—she told me she cuts hers herself, and it looks like it, but she’s always hopeful my reading sets a good example for her kids. It hasn’t yet.

  “Lainie still plays with those Little Women paper dolls you drew for her,” says Judith, as if she’s guessed what I’m thinking and wants to remind me that, while her kids might be illiterate, they are appreciative. “I’m warning you, she’ll be asking you to make some more.”

  “Sure.”

  “And Dan dragged the TV out of the barn. The reception seems to be working if you do the ears just right. But I’ve laid down the law. One hour of computer or one hour of television per day, and that’s final.”

  “Okay.”

  Then we are quiet. I watch humble Valentine Way scale up into elegant Clarendon Drive, and then we get onto the highway that will deposit me into the middle of nowhere. I feel my throat constrict. If only I could wake up tomorrow and be twenty-four instead of fourteen, and no longer have to count down the days until my real life begins. A quick note to Mom and I’d jump the first plane from Newark to Los Angeles, where I’d rent a garden apartment and host weekly dinner parties, regaling my guests with my chocolate martinis and ice-pick witticisms.

  Judith has been talking. I tune her back in.

  “. . . because Dan and I don’t want to be too strict. But we don’t want the kids to get mush on the brain, either.” Judith turns to me, heart-to-heart, as she pulls up to the house. “You know, Irene, I’m hoping that you might use all this time to sort of nudge Lainie and Evan. Creatively, I mean.”

  All this time. Like a prison sentence. “Uh-huh.” I open the car door. “So, are they asleep?” Please, please.

  “No, they’re around back with Poundcake. We just adopted him from the animal shelter. Lainie tends to hug him too hard. So watch that.”

  “Yep.”

  “And no ice cream in place of meals.”

  “Right.”

  “Also, remind Evan that if he wants to take apart any alarm clocks or radios, he has to put them back together before we come home. If you decide to go to Larkin’s Pond, use my bike, it’s out in the barn. There’s some pocket money for the Shady Shack on top of the fridge. Juice only, though. No sodas or foods with dyes.”

  “Okay.”

  I wave good-bye until Judith’s car is smaller than a purple jelly bean on the green, neighborless horizon. I try not to think about Whitney on the grass courts or Britta baking poolside at her dad’s bachelor pad in Houston, Texas.

  The haunting soundtrack to My Life, a tremulous cello, almost moves me to tears.

  Little Lainie

  POUNDCAKE IS A thirty-pound bulldog with an overbite worse than Eleanor Roosevelt’s. He is so excited to meet me that he throws up all over the kitchen floor.

  “I’ll clean it!” Evan runs cheerfully for the paper towels.

  If I had known about the dog, I’d have stuck to my original raise of twenty percent.

  I take the carton of soy peanut butter ice cream from the freezer while Lainie gets the bowls. Ever since I walked in the door, Lainie’s fiercely adoring eyes refuse to let go of me.

  “You grew out your bangs,” she tells me. “Your hair’s almost to your shoulders.”

  “Yep.”

  “I like it. It doesn’t look as sticky-uppy.”

  My hand automatically reaches to smooth any lingering cowlicks. “Thanks, Lainie.”

  “Will you draw my new haircut in your notebook?” she asks. “Pleasepleaseplease?”

  “If you want.” Although Lainie’s slant-edged bob makes her more pumpkin-headed than ever.

  “Can we go to Larkin’s later today?” asks Evan.

  “Sure.”

  Lainie sits with her round fists in her lap. She has a way of waiting that’s so intense, I can’t finish my ice cream in peace. So I uncap my pen and flip to the I.W.I. section. “Hold still and do a fashion pose.”

  Evan looks up from where he’s mopping up the dog barf and laughs. I reach down and cuff him. It’s not Lainie’s fault he’s the cute one, with Judith’s green eyes and black curls, while poor Lainie ended up with her dad’s pale, wilting hair and uncooked-muffin face.

  Lainie Prior’s old hairstyle, an appalling shag, is in the I.W.I.—Indulge Without Intent index section. The creation of this section stemmed from a very awkward episode last year, when Britta’s mom had badgered me about posing for my Heroine Heads book to the point where I finally had to break it to her that, as a rule, regular mom hair was just not inspiring.

  “And here I thought my hairdo was so hip and jazzy.” Ms. Gilbert had laughed, even as her eyes had turned all beady, waiting for me to relent. But I wouldn’t, and consequently Britta didn’t speak to me for four days. Hence the I.W.I. Artistic integrity is one thing, but when it starts to ruin friendships, then it’s time to compromise.

  Once my notebook is finished, I am planning to tear out all the nonheroic I.W.I. pages.

  “Last time you babysitted us was March,” says Lainie, “and before that, two times in February, and one time last November. Now you’ll be here evwy day.”

  “Don’t say evwy,” I say. “You’re almost nine years old. You’ve studied the letter r.”

&nbs
p; “Mom says you didn’t come back because we don’t have a TV or good snacks like sour cream and onion potato chips,” says Evan, with an impressive burp that he blows in Lainie’s direction, “which is what all babysitters like.”

  “That’s true,” I admit.

  “So then we had Mrs. Lupini, only we called her Mrs. Zucchini.” Evan pauses for my unforthcoming laugh. “But, uh, she always forgot to turn off the stove, so Mom decided we were old enough to watch ourselves. Except last month Lainie ran away because she was one of the only kids in the whole third-grade class who didn’t get invited to Gretchen McCoy’s birthday party.”

  “Shutyourface!” screeches Lainie so loud that Poundcake starts to whimper.

  “Well, it really happened!”

  “So? It’s private!”

  “And then Grandma came to visit and she slept in Lainie’s room, but Lainie peed in the bed—”

  “I hate you!” Lainie makes a lurch for her brother and knocks over Judith’s apple basket arrangement instead. Apples go rolling off the table and thud to the floor. Evan aims a kick at Lainie’s knees and she gets a fistful of his hair. Poundcake increases his whimper to a howl.

  “Lainie, let go of Evan, or I quit.”

  Lainie lets go. She looks blotchy and pitiful. Gretchen McCoy is obviously onto this.

  “Ta-dah!” I show her my sketch.

  “Ooooh!” Lainie puts her hands behind her back to show that she’s remembered the look-don’t-touch rule of my notebook. “You’re the best hairstyle drawer in the whole entire world to infinity,” she says, her voice solemn with certainty.

  It’s a funny thing about Lainie’s compliments. While I always partly want to slap them off, they also make me feel so good that in the end I never do.

  Some Cold Water

  JUDITH’S BIKE IS a tired old fossil that owes half its weight to rust. We are hardly out the driveway on the way to Larkin’s before sweat is trickling from pores I didn’t even know I had. In spite of what my mother believes, the fresh air feels horrible. July is Crime and Punishment weather. Hot with a blanket of humidity to make you think you’re going insane before you’ve done anything wrong.

  I should check out that book again, for hairstyles. But as I recall, Crime and Punishment has mostly men and some prostitutes.

  Evan ignores all that I tell him about bike safety, which actually funnels down to one rule—don’t kill yourself. He does pops and back pops and skids and stands. Lainie pedals too close at my side and comments on anything Evan is doing that is hazardous or illegal.

  If Larkin’s Pond wasn’t such an overcrowded madhouse of obnoxious kids, their scolding moms and the occasional growly dad, it would be great. It’s very scenic. The water is enclosed by pine trees and divided by buoys. A large wooden dock balances the horizon. The few times I babysat the Prior kids last summer, we’d swim out to the dock and have dive contests. It was actually kind of fun, especially since Lainie was a good enough diver that she didn’t end up in a snit or a sulk, which is the routine outcome of most of her athletic endeavors.

  But this year, a wiser Evan knows not to be seen anywhere near his sister.

  “Zaps!” he hollers. “Zaps!” He throws his bike to the grass. At first I think this is some kind of dumb fifth-grade faux-curse word like Zoiks! until I realize Zaps is actually the name of someone Evan knows. The kid, Zaps, waves and Evan scurries off, ignoring my halfhearted reminder to join up with us for lunch.

  Lainie wheels and locks her bike at the bike stand, then plops down stomach-first onto one of the two gigantic beach towels I’ve spread out side by side on the grassy bank. Something I’ve learned from last year’s Larkin’s excursion: define your territory.

  “Go play,” I tell her.

  “But I don’t know anybody here,” she says.

  “Go swim, then.”

  “I need sunblock.”

  Always something. I reach in the tote bag and toss her a bottle of sunscreen.

  “It has to be the SPF forty-five,” she says, “or I’ll burn.”

  “You might have spoken up when I had the power to do something about it.”

  “It’s fine.” She pouts.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Mommy usually puts it on my hard-to-reach spots.”

  “You’re too old to say Mommy. And I don’t want to grease up my library book.”

  She sighs gloomily and uncaps the bottle, then rubs on white sunblock so thick, she looks like a mime. In my humble opinion, Judith and Dan Prior are doing a terrible job of equipping Lainie for the real world. She’s way too clingy. Beth Ann Morse could show the Prior parents a trick or two. Mom let me babysit myself from age eight onward. By age eleven, I could make meat loaf and balance a checkbook.

  Evan and Zaps are playing some game that involves two sticks and lots of yelling. I can tell it’s bothering some of the other moms, but, oh, well, he’s not my child. Lainie stretches out and hums, hoping I’ll suggest a pickup game of I Packed My Grandmother’s Trunk or something equally bleak.

  Not happening. Avoiding eye contact, I roll onto my side and take out Lolita.

  Then I see her. She is sitting on a high white lifeguard chair. Smack in the middle and opposite the dock. Hard to miss. But her chair doesn’t need to be so geometrically centered, or so high. Her radio doesn’t need to be turned on to KTZ All-Hits. She doesn’t need to wear that Popsicle red bikini, or that mouthwash blue visor, or a swipe of bleach-white zinc on her straight, perfect nose. Most everyone is already aware of her anyway. The little kids, the older kids, the moms. It feels as if we are all watching her in our own ways. If any of us were asked to describe this afternoon, I’d bet money we’d all mention her.

  I raise my book so I can stare more sneakily over the top of it. Who is she? She wasn’t here last summer. She looks like a human but better, built out of more superior ingredients than skin and bones. Her muscles remind me of doctor’s office roll-down medical diagrams, each perfectly separated and defined. It’s hard to check her hairstyle, which appears shortish, thickish and paintbrush black under her hat.

  It’s not like I never saw anyone pretty before. Lauren Corey and Tania Amarosa have been considered the prettiest girls in my grade since preschool. But they have nothing on this girl, who is hands down the most beautiful person I have ever seen in real life. The shock triggers my epiphany.

  Nobody will ever stare at me the way I am staring at this girl.

  It is the dead-honest truth. I will have birthdays, get my driver’s license, receive my high school diploma and probably go to college, I will definitely leave New Jersey, but I will Never Look Like That. Ever. In the looks department, I will always be average. Average height, average foot size, average flyaway brown hair and average eyes an average color that everyone has seen a thousand times before. I’ve probably understood this all my life, but today, inside this electric moment, the knowledge feels new and cruel.

  Then the girl blows her whistle. I watch as she skims rung by rung down the lifeguard chair. Racing and diving into the water and then into a perfect freestyle. Wow, she’s a really good swimmer. She moves so fast that she shrinks into a mini-lifeguard right before our eyes. Because we are all watching her, but it isn’t until Lainie jumps up, screaming like she’s been poked with a pitchfork, that I connect what the girl is doing with what’s going on out in the water.

  “Evan!” Lainie’s voice is pure panic.

  Only then do I pull back to take in the horizon, and now I see the spot of froth and foam. Evan? It couldn’t be—Evan! Even as my mind clicks it together, the girl is already there, one long arm out, taking expert hold of Evan, flipping onto her back and hooking her elbow so that it picture-frames his face.

  “Evan!” I shout, popping to my feet.

  Other people are looking up, startled, and the next moment is mayhem as some of us dash to the edge of the water. I watch on tiptoe, my heart in my throat, as the girl smoothly, calmly brings in Evan. His eyes are closed and his body i
s sagging. My shock is like the ocean roaring in my ears. Was his skin always so zombie pale? Why isn’t he moving?

  “Evan!” I shout again. His eyes don’t open. This is bad, this is bad, oh, this is so, so bad.

  “Is he dead?” Lainie is running back and forth, her fingers sucked into her mouth.

  “Space, space!” The girl half-carries, half-drags Evan onto the bank. She positions him flat on his back and drops to her knees beside him. Then she pinches his nose and dips her head to his face. Her lips press over his, before she turns and expels. And again. And again. My own breath hurts where it’s sucked up in my lungs.

  Finally, Evan coughs, jerking to life like Frankenstein’s monster.

  There’s a spatter of clapping, a cheer, and everyone backs off a little—everyone except for Lainie, who flings herself face-down next her brother. “Oh!” she sobs. “I thought my very own brudder was drownd-ed!”

  Evan squirms and turns away from her.

  “Give him room,” says the girl. “He’s okay. You’re okay, right?”

  “Yeah,” wheezes Evan. “Caught a cramp, no big deal.”

  “A’right, folks. Back to normal.” The girl stands and waves off some of the younger kids. “You,” she says to Evan. “Take it easy the rest of the day, huh?”

  “Sure.” Evan is staring at the lifeguard in awe and love.

  She nods and turns to walk away.

  I force my attention from her. “Are you really okay, Evan?” I ask.

  His crooked-tooth smile appears on his face. “That lifeguard is super, super hot,” he whispers.

  “Hey. Wait a minute.” I sit back on my heels and scowl at him. “Were you faking?”

  “Faking? Me? No way.” But his eyes flicker and his smile is impish, leaving me in doubt.

  “Ev,” says Zaps, who has crept up on Evan’s side. “Ev, did you think you were dead?”

  “Only for a minute. I mighta felt my heart stop.”