Any Other Girl

by Rebecca Phillips

  “They’re not here yet,” I told him. “Harper told me they wouldn’t be in until around noon.”

  “Hmm. How about the McCurdys?”

  “No way,” I said. The McCurdys had a son my age who was a complete douchebag. He’d likely twist my asking for bulbs into a dirty joke and torture me with it for the rest of the summer.

  “The Cantings?” Pop suggested. “They live here year round.”

  “Yes! They’re bound to have some extra bulbs.”

  They looked at me sprawled on the scratchy arm chair at the edge of the living room, massaging my upper arm muscles.

  I frowned. “What? Now? Can’t I wait until we actually need light in the bathroom?”

  “You’ve been stuck in the car for two hours,” Pop said, arranging the waffle maker just so next to the toaster oven. “Go. Exercise is good for you.”

  Sighing, I dragged myself up and began the ten minute walk to the Canting cottage, suppressing the urge to run down the winding gravel road at top speed like I used to. Instead, I walked slowly, slapping mosquitoes off my neck and admiring the way my pink toenails looked against my white flip-flops.

  A small black car sat in the Cantings’ driveway. Odd, I thought. Mr. and Mrs. Canting owned a red truck . . . or they had the last few years, anyway. I walked up to the door and knocked. A minute later, the door swung open and a heavyset blond woman appeared behind the mesh screen. She was neither Mr. nor Mrs. Canting.

  “Hi!” I said, unleashing my full I-still-wear-my-retainers-every-night smile.

  Blondie looked back at me, straight-faced and unimpressed.

  “I was wondering if I could borrow a light bulb.”

  She peered at me as if I’d just requested one of her kidneys. “Sorry?”

  “A light bulb. See, our bathroom light burned out and the corner store doesn’t sell them, so—”

  “The Reeses don’t arrive until tonight,” she said abruptly. “I don’t know where any light bulbs are, dear.”

  “I’m sorry . . .” The Reeses? As in peanut butter cups? It seemed we had some sort of disconnect. “Um, where are the Cantings?”

  “Who? Oh, the previous owners? I think they died. Well, he died, and she moved. That’s what Mrs. Reese said anyway.”

  It was like she was speaking a different language. Mr. Canting, with his cowboy hat and pickup truck and cigars, was dead? My eyes filled with tears. The Cantings were a nice couple, accepting of my dads even though they were well into their seventies and probably rabidly conservative.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, clearing my suddenly tight throat. “Who are you, again?”

  “Oh,” Blondie said, lifting her hand, which I’d just noticed contained a dusty wad of paper towels. “I’m just here to clean.”

  “Oh,” I said, echoing her. “And the Reeses are . . . ?”

  “The new owners. They arrive tonight.” She peered at my moist eyes and then bit her lip as if contemplating something. “A light bulb, you said? Let me go see if I can find one for you.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to—” I said, but she was already gone, ambling down the hallway toward the kitchen. Now that she wasn’t blocking my view, I could see that the house was clear of all Mrs. Canting’s ceramic dog statues and doilies. I felt another rush of sadness.

  Blondie returned a couple minutes later and handed me a grimy light bulb. “Here you go. I took it out of the range hood above the stove. A bit greasy, but it works.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her tremulously and got a tiny one in return. Then she shut the door in my face.

  Holding the non-greasy end of the bulb between my fingers, I walked back to our cottage. Dad was in the detached garage, unearthing the lawn mower, and Pop was digging in the trunk for the last of the luggage.

  I walked up to him and said, “Mr. Canting is dead.”

  He jerked his head out of the trunk and stared at me in much the same way he had last night when I’d screamed in my room. “What? Oh my God, should we—Mark!”

  “Not now,” I said quickly before he called 911 and ran over to the Canting house with a first aid kit. “I mean . . . yes, now, but not over there, at this very moment. He died at some point over the past ten months and Mrs. Canting sold the cottage to the Reeses.”

  “The Reeses?” Dad said as he walked up to us, his T-shirt soaked with sweat. “As in Pieces?”

  Dad’s mind always went straight to chocolate, just like mine.

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “But whatever they are, they arrive tonight.”

  During lunch (PB&J on chemical-laden Wonder Bread with a fresh fruit smoothie to balance it out), a knock sounded on the screen door and Harper burst in, all smiles. I squealed and jumped up from the table, attacking her before she even had a chance to speak.

  “You look great, Kat,” she said, pulling back to examine my outfit of white shorts and a pink halter top that matched my nails. “Very retro.”

  I grinned and took my turn studying her. We’d last seen each other about six months ago, over Christmas, but Harper looked exactly the same: long dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, and slim, athletic build. People always seemed surprised when they found out we were related.

  When we were done with our little reunion, my dads came over to greet Harper, too.

  “How was your drive, sweetheart?” Dad asked, wrapping her in a hug.

  “Long,” she said with a sigh. “Eight hours of non-stop Celine Dion. Mom likes to torture me.”

  Pop made a face as he leaned in to receive his own hug. “That’s child abuse.”

  “Exactly, Uncle Bryce. You make sure to tell her that.”

  “I will, when I see her. Where is she?”

  “Unpacking,” Harper said. “I kind of ditched her. I guess I should go back and help.”

  “Dinner tonight, right?” Dad said, gathering up our lunch dishes.

  Harper looked at me, eyes twinkling, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. Best summers start with Goody’s.

  “Um, Dad, I think we’re going to walk down to Goody’s for a burger later. Harper and me.”

  “Harper and I,” Pop corrected automatically.

  “Is that okay, Uncle Mark?” Harper called both my dads uncle even though she was only technically related to Pop.

  “Of course,” Dad said. “But tell your mom to come over. We have some steaks in the cooler.”

  “I will.” She mouthed the letters OBS at me and then left, the screen door swinging closed behind her.

  I spent the afternoon setting up my small room, putting clothes in drawers and posters on the walls. At five, I redid my Gilda hair until it hung in soft waves and then sprinted through the woods to my cousin’s cottage. Aunt Carrie was out front, hosing down her wilted flower garden.

  “Come give me a hug, beautiful,” she said when she saw me. I did as she asked, breathing in her customary vanilla scent. Being around Aunt Carrie always made me crave cake. “So good to see you.”

  “Same here,” I said, noticing the marked increase of gray in her light brown hair. Carrie was fifty-three, the oldest of Pop’s five sisters and by far my favorite.

  “See you later, Mom!” Harper said as she emerged from the cottage and took my arm, pulling me away.

  “Be back before dark,” Aunt Carrie reminded us and went back to her hosing.

  The walk to Goody’s took exactly eighteen minutes. We’d timed it one summer. As we hiked up the gravel road, Harper and I caught each other up on the things we hadn’t fully discussed over the phone during the last six months.

  “So how was the last week of school?” she asked, threading her slender arm through mine. “As bad as you predicted?”

  “Worse. Shay wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “Kat.” She sighed and looked down at her feet. “If I say something honest, promise you won’t get mad?”

  “Since when do I get mad at you for being honest with me? It’s what you do.”

  “Okay,” she said, picking
up the pace a little. “Friends don’t like it when you flirt with their boyfriends. I don’t blame Shay for being pissed at you.”

  I rolled my eyes. Harper had always felt an affinity for Shay because she had more in common with her than she did with me, her own flesh and blood. They were both fit, athletic types who preferred running around on a soccer field to strolling around the mall, shopping for clothes. Not to mention they both had to deal with me.

  “We were just talking,” I said, not very convincingly. Okay, so maybe I had stepped over the line. Some guys just brought out the temptress in me, but it didn’t mean anything, really. “I had no idea he’d assume I was trying to seduce him and then go blab to Shay about it.”

  “Kat, I’ve seen you talk to boys. You have this way of making them feel good about themselves. Important.” She bumped my hip with hers. “You’re very charming, you know. Even when you’re not flirting, you’re flirting.”

  I thought about earlier, when my smile had driven Blondie to swipe a light bulb already in use and hand it over to me. Maybe it worked on females, too.

  “It’s the reason for your bad track record with boys, you know,” Harper said, her gaze following a tiny squirrel as it shimmied up a tree at the side of the road. “Guys don’t like it when you flirt with other guys either.”

  “No, it’s because every guy I’ve ever dated has been incredibly insecure,” I said. “Not my fault.”

  She shook her head at me. “Oh, Katty.”

  “Oh, Harpy.”

  Laughing now, we approached the two-lane road at the end of the gravel and looked both ways. Cars flew down that road at reckless speeds, and if a person wasn’t careful, they could end up as flattened as the assortment of wildlife that was brave enough to attempt crossing.

  “Clear,” I shouted, and we took off across the road, careful not to lose a flip-flop on the way like Harper had done last summer. Three more minutes and we were coming up on Goody’s, a small, ramshackle beacon of light and grease.

  When I swung open the heavy wooden door and walked in, I couldn’t help but stagger back and shriek, “What the hell?”

  Harper stepped in behind me, her eyes as wide as mine undoubtedly were. Goody’s had vanished. The grungy black and white floor tiles had been replaced with shiny dark hardwood, the ripped padded booths had turned into small round tables, and the sticky, laminated menus were thick, creamy paper. Everything familiar was gone, exchanged for . . . whatever this was trying to be. And the jukebox . . . where was our jukebox?

  Sherry—owner, operator, and all-around Jill-of-all-trades at Goody’s—appeared in the empty dining room, dressed in her usual uniform of black pants and a checked shirt. At least one thing had remained the same.

  “Sherry, what happened?” I demanded.

  “Oh, hey! Welcome back, girls,” she said, walking over to us and grabbing a couple menus off the stack near the cash register. “Just two?”

  We stood there gaping at her until she explained herself. Renovations had taken place over the spring, apparently, in an effort to make the diner “classier” and “more accessible” to customers—which was weird because the vast majority of Goody’s customers consisted of people who summered at Millard Lake and long-haul truck drivers.

  In other words, she’d sold out.

  “The jukebox?” I asked hopefully as she led us to a table.

  She shook her head. “Sold it.”

  Harper and I looked at each other in disbelief. No more singing along to “Yakety Yak” as we waited for our burgers and shakes. No more shabby, vintage ambiance. The food, Sherry assured us, was pretty much the same, with a few added dishes. At least we still had that.

  As we waited for our orders, I ran my hand over the smooth, clean tablecloth (tablecloth!) and wondered what it meant when the place that was supposed to kick off the best summer ever wasn’t the same place we once knew.

  chapter 4

  The next morning, I got up extra early. After gobbling down a bowl of cereal, I threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, located my heavy black boots, and headed out to the garage.

  The sun had barely cleared the horizon, and the air felt chilly and damp. I breathed in, enjoying the fresh, unadulterated scent as I unlocked the garage door and pulled it up. The detached garage, installed by the previous owners, was home to a lot of things—the lawnmower, bikes, tools, and anything else one might need over the summer.

  Taking up most of the small space, however, was the sole reason I’d dragged myself out of bed at the butt crack of dawn: my Yamaha Raptor Sport Quad ATV.

  I’d started trail riding a couple years ago, after Dad had taught me the basics. At first, I wasn’t sure I’d like riding. Zooming along the bumpy terrain on a loud, dirty ATV sounded more suited to the younger me, before I’d abandoned soccer cleats and mud for makeup and sundresses. A sundress would be a disastrous fashion choice for this, I thought as I secured my goggles, helmet, and gloves. When I was ready, I rolled the ATV onto the driveway and checked it over. Dad had de-winterized it for me yesterday evening, testing the tire pressure and lubing the drive chain and whatever else he needed to do. I didn’t know much about the mechanics of it all—I just loved to ride.

  I pressed the start button and then cringed, knowing the engine noise would probably wake my parents. Dad wouldn’t care, but Pop always worried when I was out riding. According to him, all-terrain vehicles were even worse for my health than Pop Tarts and coffee. For one, they could potentially kill me outright. But so could a lot of things.

  When I got to a steady roll, I let out the clutch, shifted into first, and gave it some gas. Slow and easy at first, I heard Dad say in my head. Get a feel for it. By the time I reached my favorite riding path in the woods, I felt confident enough to speed up a bit. Soon, I could feel the familiar lightness in my chest, pure joy bubbling up as I traversed the jagged earth, my body lifting and twisting to absorb the impact. My laughter echoed through the confines of my helmet, and for a moment I felt completely, utterly, unabashedly free.

  I was so absorbed in my adrenaline rush of freedom that I barely noticed the flash of red up ahead on my left. At first glance, I assumed it was some kind of animal. A deer or maybe even a black bear, both of which I’d encountered now and then on my rides. But deer and bears didn’t wear red tank tops, and I’d never hit an animal the way I was pretty sure I was about to hit this human.

  Frantically, I mashed the hand brake, but it was no use. The human was running toward me, oblivious, out for a nice, early morning jog in the serene woods. As I barreled closer, I had just enough time to register that the jogger was actually a young guy before swerving sharply to the right, missing him by a couple feet. The ATV came to a stop inches from the base of a tree, and I immediately twisted around, searching for him. He who had appeared out of nowhere had disappeared. Maybe I had hit him, and his body was lying in a nearby shrub, mangled and bloody. My heart in my throat, I threw the ATV in reverse.

  Relief coursed through me when I spotted him in the exact spot we’d nearly collided moments before. Instead of peacefully running, he was half bent over and panting like someone who’d just narrowly escaped death—which he probably had.

  “Are you okay?” I asked through my helmet. My face felt like it was on fire. Not only had I almost flattened a guy like a fox on the highway, I’d almost flattened a cute guy who looked no older than nineteen.

  He just stared at me, his blue, blue eyes taking in my outfit and helmet before finally resting on the only body parts of mine that were exposed—my eyes, which were no doubt wide and panicked behind their goggles. He stood up straight, yanked out his earbuds, and gave me a look that could only be described as murderous.

  “Maybe you should pay attention and watch where you’re going,” he snarled at me over the loud rumble of my engine.

  I jolted slightly on my seat. It wasn’t often I got yelled at by a guy. My dads didn’t believe in yelling, and I’d never tolerated it from boyfriends. Girls were a diffe
rent story, but I could handle that. Getting yelled at by a total stranger for something that was only partially my fault? That wasn’t gonna fly.

  “How could you not see me?” I replied loud enough for my voice to penetrate the helmet and the engine noise.

  “I was watching my footing so I wouldn’t break an ankle.” He glared at me again, and even as I burned with indignation, I couldn’t help but notice when a lock of his wavy brown hair fell across his forehead.

  “How you could not see me?” he asked. “I’m wearing bright colors. Maybe you shouldn’t ride that thing if you can’t follow simple safety rules.”

  “Maybe you would’ve heard me coming if your music wasn’t so damn loud,” I said hotly. Before he could come back with another smartass reply, I shifted out of neutral and went on my merry way, leaving the jerk to stew in the trees all by himself.

  I rode back to the cottage with my knees shaking and my blood racing. The trembling in my limbs didn’t let up until after I’d shed my bulky clothes, took a shower, and dressed in a pair of pink capris and a white tube top. Much better, I thought as I smoothed my hair into a ponytail in front of the bathroom mirror. In this outfit, no one would ever suspect that I’d been inches away from plowing someone down. In this outfit, I looked innocent. Demure.

  Feeling calmer, I headed over to Harper’s cottage. The cool, dreary weather still hadn’t cleared, so we hung out in the kitchen, making pancakes. Aunt Carrie didn’t share her brother’s passion for appliances, so their counters were always a lot less cluttered and easier to work on than ours. As we mixed ingredients together, I tried not to think about how this was the last summer I’d ever spend with my aunt and cousin at the lake. Because whenever I did, I wanted to cry in the batter. They’d been spending summers there even longer than we had. Aunt Carrie and her ex-husband Lawrence had bought the cottage outright, and she’d acquired it during their messy divorce four years ago. Actually, she’d gotten the cottage and Harper, because Lawrence no longer gave a crap about either.

  Shaking off my sentimentality, I told them all about what had happened earlier in the woods. It felt good to get it all out, like confession.