I don’t want my parents reading that. They’ll make me quit my job, and then I’ll have no way of leaving the house, no way of repaying them, and I’ll end up trapped here forever. I fold that section over and toss it into the recycle bin.
I open the next section. It’s sports and obituaries. Softball games people have won, and cancer battles they have lost. In between are scattered giant ads for cars and trucks and, of course, Rodeo Roundup Days tickets.
“Come on, guys—it’s almost time,” I say, at 7:25.
Torvill hits the mute button on the TV and I flip on the radio perched on top of the refrigerator. It’s preset to 1230 AM, KLDV, which has “traffic and weather on the nines.” This is sort of absurd, because there isn’t that much traffic here, and the weather does not change often. But KLDV has to do it, because the station is part of some big conglomerate radio network and that’s one of their trademarks.
There’s a little jingle, a very boppy and upbeat song that Dad helped to write, introducing KLDV’s “Link to Mother Nature.” It has this line that seems really dumb to me: “She has her ear to the ground, and her eye on the sky!” I always picture Mom lying on dew-covered grass with her head pressed against it, her clothes getting soaked as she gazes up at the sky, squinting because the sun is in her eyes.
She’s live in the studio on weekday mornings, and then they tape her forecast and play it throughout the day until the night guy comes in. She occasionally does remotes, too. Sometimes I’ll catch my mom describing what it’s like outside by using her hands and making big, sweeping motions—the way she used to when she was a TV meteorologist.
“Good morning, KLDV listeners, and a special good morning to Dorothy, Torvill, and Dean,” my mother says quickly, in her ultra-smooth radio voice, which is slightly perkier and also slightly huskier than her normal one—a weird combination that works.
“Mom, Mom, Mom!” Torvill screams.
“Shush,” Dean tells her.
Dorothy dismantles her Cheerio tower and starts forming a cereal circle. “Sunny,” she declares, announcing her own forecast. “Mostly sunny.”
Mom only went back to work after the station told her she could say hi to her kids on at least one of the nines. They finally settled on 7:29, so every weekday morning I’m home with them I have to make sure we tune in. I told my mother not to say my name anymore, because it was embarrassing, but it feels kind of strange not to be on the list, like I’m not part of the family anymore.
“This is Christie Farrell, your link to Mother Nature, and here’s today’s weather outlook! Your morning temperature is sixty-eight degrees, up from an overnight low of sixty-two. But this coolness won’t last long. We have an area of high pressure that’s creating this gorgeous, hot sunny weather. Get ready for another scorcher. Today’s high should be right around ninety. If you can find your way to a body of water—a pool, a lake, a river—jump in! If you’re working outdoors, make sure you drink plenty of water to avoid dehydration. As always, there’s a slight possibility of thunderstorms this afternoon, so keep an eye on the sky to be safe.”
Everyone is so busy keeping an eye on the sky. Who’s watching where they’re going?
The telephone rings a minute later, so I go into my father’s office to answer it. It’s sort of like a skating museum, with bookshelves covered with pictures of Dad and trophies and medals he’s won. There are a couple small trophies of mine on a top shelf, which I tried to convince Dad to put in the closet.
“Hello?” I say, grabbing the phone.
“Oh, hi, Peggy, it’s Mom. I was just calling to make sure you were up.”
“Mom, of course I’m up,” I say. What’s even worse than being expected to do so much is not being trusted to do it.
“Oh, good. Did you get a chance to tune in?”
“Of course we did,” I say. “I never forget to do that.”
“Well, did you eat the pears?”
“No, Mom,” I say.
“Because they’re ripe,” she adds.
As she goes on and on about the fruit varieties in our crisper, I spin the globe next to my father’s desk. I close my eyes and stick out my finger to stop the globe and see where I should head on my first worldwide trip.
“Peggy, are you listening?” Mom asks just as I open my eyes and see I’ve landed on Greenland.
“I’ll check out the pears,” I tell her as I spin the globe again.
Peggy, Peggy, Peggy
At 12:15 I am sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, occasionally flipping through my French book, wondering how to say “Sorry I am so late” in French. Neither Mom nor Dad has called yet, and both are late. It has to be about ninety degrees outside. I take a deep breath and wish I hadn’t. Today is definitely an 8 on the Lindville Aromatic Index: Stay inside and close the windows if you can. Light a candle.
I keep trying to convince the kids we should go inside where there’s air-conditioning and better-smelling air, but they won’t. Dean is practicing kickboxing against the garage door. Torvill is swinging on the swing set, and Dorothy is constructing castles in the sandbox that actually resemble European castles. Every time she finishes one, Dean comes over and kicks it down. Then Dorothy quietly, solidly, patiently rebuilds. She doesn’t even cry. She never cries.
My father honks the horn as he finally pulls into the driveway. He gets out of the car and is wearing shiny black nylon warm-ups that fit like tights, and a red T-shirt with a cutoff bottom and arms. He has red-white-and-blue sweatbands around his wrists and forehead. His dark brown hair is standing up, styled by sweat—where he still has hair, that is. He has clogs on his feet, and his warm-up pants are three inches too short.
He looks like a refugee from a Broadway dance production. The guy who probably didn’t get a callback.
Torvill, Dean, and Dorothy run to Dad and cling to his legs. I stand up and grab my backpack.
“So how was your workout?” I ask. My dad, the three kids, and I are all piled into his car. He’s dropping me off at school, since he got home too late for me to skate there or take the bus. He’s driving really fast, but I decide not to mention this. Driving instruction from me doesn’t go over well with my parents.
“It wasn’t great,” he says. “My triple Salchow still isn’t there, and I was seriously traveling on my spins. I just could not focus today.” He is gracefully turning the wheel with one hand while he sips from a giant commuter mug of hot green tea in the other. He does everything semi-gracefully. It’s his gift.
Still, my father is the most macho male figure skater I’ve ever seen. He never wore sequins when he competed. He wore only black, white, and various shades of gray, and—when he wanted to make a statement—a hat or a cap, like the one he wore for his Mary Poppins program, when he skated to “Chim Chim Cher-ee.” Even when he was in the ice show, which had a lot of very embarrassing costumes, he got to be the tough guy—he’d play a policeman, or a dinosaur, or the Beast.
I admire my father tremendously for his athletic ability. When I watch old tapes of him, I can’t quite believe this is the same guy. He volunteers at the town rink all winter, coaching little kids, getting people to donate their old skates, and organizing mini-shows. I took lessons from him, too, of course. We used to spend hours together while he tried to make me into a great skater.
The plan was sort of working, until one junior regional competition where I missed all my jumps and was on my rear end more than my skates. I don’t like to think about it much. All I know is that I grew three inches in one year and suddenly nothing worked anymore. My dad took me to a sports psychologist for weeks afterward to try to help me deal with my “mental block,” but it didn’t work. It was like I had taken over someone else’s body when I turned twelve, and I didn’t have instructions on how to use it.
Let’s just say that I don’t spin well anymore.
“What’s new with you?” Dad asks.
“Summer school. French class. Lots of homework,” I say. “Gas station j
ob. All very exciting.”
“Don’t worry, P. F.,” my dad says. He likes to call me P. F. because those are his initials, too. “Things will pick up.” He glances over at me and smiles. “Why don’t you come down to the rink with me tomorrow? I could use a tough critic.”
“I’m a tough critic?” I ask.
“Brutal,” he says. “Remember when you said my back flip was the generic version of Scott Hamilton’s? How everything I did was pewter-medal quality? Or wait. It could have been aluminum quality.”
“Sorry about that. I was just mad because I couldn’t do anything right that day myself. Remember?”
“I remember,” my father says. “But you know, it has been a while since you tried, and you have been in-line skating a lot, so it could be time for your comeback, too.”
“Right. Right, Dad. Sure,” I say. “Any second now it’s all going to fall into place.”
“Don’t laugh—that’s how it happens,” he says, signaling a turn. “So when can you come to the rink with me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in a couple of days—I have to see what my work schedule is for next week.”
“I think you’re too busy this summer. You should be relaxing, hanging out,” Dad says.
This from the man who told me I had to take the job at Gas ’n Git because I had to pay him and Mom back, who asked me to take over breakfast duty so he could go skate this morning, who is now speeding into the Edison High parking lot to drop me off for French class and I have only une minute to spare.
“Well, whenever you can make it,” Dad says, and smiles at me.
I lean over and kiss his cheek before I get out of the car. Even though my dad can be annoying, I think he’s the one person on earth who still has faith in me—even after everything. “Bye, guys!” I say to my sibs. “See you this afternoon.”
“Peggy, Peggy, Peggy!” Torvill chants.
My name does not sound better when it’s chanted in threes.
I see Charlotte racing across the parking lot toward me. I stop and wait for her, figuring it’s better to be late together. I’ll make up a story about the bus breaking down or something. L’autobus était très tard. Hopefully, Monsieur LeFleur, or a reasonable facsimile, will be too busy teaching to notice my bad grammar.
FEN
I’m sitting on the roof of Mrs. Duncan’s car and I don’t see Steve anywhere. Charlotte’s lying on the hood, staring up past the towering streetlights at the night sky.
Charlotte’s mother lets her borrow the car one night a month, and tonight is her lucky night. Instead of driving somewhere, though, we’re parked at the Lot, and we’re studying French. Or we’re supposed to be.
This already feels like a routine for us, even though I’ve only known Charlotte a couple of days. She’s just so easy to talk to, and since her friend Ashley is gone for the summer, too, we’ve instantly become best friends.
I like the new routine, except for the Steve-not-showing-up part. He’s usually here with Mike Kyle, but I haven’t seen Mike’s Camaro yet tonight. Mike is one of Steve’s best friends, but I don’t know him that well. I just know they do everything together, but for some reason he won’t talk to me—I’m not worthy enough. I don’t really care what he thinks, except that if I knew him it might make it easier for me to hang out with Steve.
I have to be home by 10:00, so I’m running out of time here.
I’ve been waiting for Steve to show up since 8:00. Not that I know he’s coming, for sure, but everyone ends up here on weekend nights whether they want to or not. I’m wondering if the IHOP girl was just a temporary fling, the way I guess I was. Maybe they only kiss at work. Maybe it’s the allure of the blue vinyl booth. In any case, if Steve shows up by himself, I’m going to talk to him. It’s been decided. By Charlotte.
I’m not sure how this particular parking lot ended up being the Lot. I guess in part because, since Discount Mania closed, the warehouse-size building has been vacant and there are no merchants to complain about us.
Another reason is that the Lot’s a good turnaround spot for when people are cruising on Twelfth Street. The Lindville police have tried everything to stop the cruising on weekends, but nothing works. Every once in a while we all just have to drive up and down the same ten blocks, sitting and standing in the backs of pickups, or standing with our heads out of sunroofs, screaming at the top of our lungs. Usually it’s a sporting event kind of thing—we won, or we might win, or we should have won—but sometimes it just comes out of nowhere, this accumulation of a need to scream. Maybe because we’re stuck in Lindville and we can’t get out.
Charlotte’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a tiny pink T-shirt that says Brooklyn on it. Her hair fans over the car’s hood and drifts in the breeze. “We have to be the only people here tonight even thinking of studying. Who studies in June? And on Friday night? Nobody.”
“You’re right,” I say.
“So is he here yet?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “You know what? Maybe we should quit talking about my love life and talk about yours instead.”
“Well, back in Springfield I was seeing this guy Austin kind of seriously. But then we moved,” Charlotte says. “He wanted to do the long-distance thing, but I said no way. So I thought I’d wait a little while and see if anyone here was worth going through all that again. Seriously depressing.”
“And? Anyone yet?” I ask.
“Yeah. There’s this guy at Shady Prairies.”
“Isn’t he a little old for you?” I ask.
“No!” Charlotte shrieks, and we both start laughing really hard. “He’s not a resident. He works there,” she says. “His name’s Ray—he’s seventeen. We hang out after work sometimes. He’s got really nice arms.”
“Arms.” I nod. “Well, okay.”
“Hey, you go crazy over a guy who makes pancakes, so I don’t want to hear about it,” Charlotte says.
“He doesn’t make pancakes. He serves pancakes,” I correct her, and we laugh. “And he has nice arms, too.”
“Yeah. So he’s not here yet?” Charlotte asks again.
I survey the Lot. “Nope.”
“He must have gotten stuck at work. Like in some syrup,” Charlotte jokes. She sits up and steadies herself by grabbing the driver’s-side mirror. Then she hops off the hood and straightens her T-shirt. “So should we walk around?”
“Definitely,” I say as I scoot to the edge. My short denim shorts nearly get caught on the radio antenna as I slide to the ground. I don’t know why I’m wearing shorts, because it really cools down at night here and I’m starting to shiver. Walking beside Charlotte, who’s about four or five inches shorter than me, I feel very conspicuous. Suzanne is slightly taller than me—she plays volleyball and basketball—and I’m more used to walking around with someone my height.
“I doubt there’s anyone here we even want to see,” Charlotte says, “you know? I mean, who is even here?”
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s different in the summer, because some people are away for the season; some are home. The thing we all have in common is that almost everyone seems bored.
Some people are running around, playing with a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee. Some are playing music out of their cars. Some people are smoking and some people are dancing and some are drinking.
“There’s a FEN,” I say as we check out a guy sitting on the tailgate of his pickup.
“A what?” Charlotte asks.
I laugh. “Sorry. FEN is the code word Suzanne and I came up with for new good-looking guys we haven’t seen before. It stands for ‘Further Evaluation Necessary.’ We need to know more about them before we can proceed,” I explain.
“FEN. I like it. Well, don’t worry. We’ll find out about him. We’ll definitely evaluate as necessary,” Charlotte says. “You know . . . maybe a physical evaluation.”
We laugh, and while Charlotte stops to talk to a friend, I suddenly see Mike Kyle’s Camaro, and Mike getting out and leaning against i
t. I walk toward him. Would it be rude for me to ask him to step aside so I can see if Steve’s in the car?
Mike stares at me for a second.
“Hi,” I say, feeling stupid because I’m by myself, and no one walks around the Lot by themselves. Also, Mike and I have talked all of three times before, and that was only because he was forced to acknowledge me because Steve was talking to me.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Really.” I peer past him, wondering if Steve’s back there somewhere in the clump of people getting out on the other side of the car.
“You’re here this summer?” he asks with sort of a nice smile.
It seems sort of obvious, but I nod. “Yeah.”
“I thought you went to camp,” he says.
“Me? No. That was Suzanne,” I say. Are we that interchangeable?
“Oh.”
He’s a sparkling conversationalist. But he looks good in a black T-shirt. That is something.
“Hey, Fleming,” a girl with short black hair says, coming over to us. She was in my Current Events class last year, but I can’t remember her name. “Savior” seems like a good name right now. She has about seven small earrings in one ear and one giant earring that looks like a metal bolt in the other.
“Hey,” I say, smiling. I step away from Mike and closer to her. “How are you? How’s your summer going?”
“It sucks,” she says, as she peels a layer of polish off her thumbnail. “I’m working at my mom’s salon. I sweep up hair.”
“Well, I pour coffee at the Gas ’n Git,” I say.
“Dead, disgusting hair,” she says. “Sometimes dandruff.”
“Okay, you win,” I say, laughing.
A guy near Mike moves, and I notice Steve and the IHOP girl, Jacqui, leaning against the back of the car. They’re standing so close that I can’t even see air space between them. And they’re kissing. Suddenly my good mood vanishes.
Unforgettable Summer Page 21
