Unforgettable Summer

by Catherine Clark

  “So there’s my dad—I guess I won’t need a ride after all,” I tell Denny, grabbing my courier bag from under the counter. “But thanks.”

  “That’s your dad?” Denny asks. “The guy who’s going to skate at the rodeo?” He peers outside as he shuts down the last lights. “Interesting. He reminds me of a young Robin Cousins. No, wait. Toller Cranston maybe.”

  I stop with my hand on the door. “How do you know all these skating names?” He’s kind of freaking me out.

  “My mom’s obsessed. She keeps saying there ought to be a skating channel, okay?”

  I laugh, say good night to Denny, and head outside.

  “Sorry, P. F.,” my father says. “I was down at the arena working on some choreography for my new long program and I lost track of time.”

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  Dad pops open the car doors and we climb in. “I’m really glad that robber started hitting other towns,” he says as he peers out the tinted window. “I’m also glad you don’t have the graveyard shift.”

  “Dad, this place closes at eleven. There is no graveyard shift,” I say.

  “Still.” He looks nervously around the station and at the dark shadows by the Dumpster. He nearly jumps as Denny roars out from beside the darkened store on his motorcycle. Denny pauses to nod to me, then peels out like someone in a fifties movie—Marlon Brando maybe, but with a crooked nose.

  Dad locks all the doors. “I don’t like the looks of this place at night.”

  “Dad, that was my coworker,” I say. “Denny.”

  My father clears his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want to be our full-time baby-sitter for the summer instead?”

  Like I’m not now? I think. “Yes, I’m sure,” I say.

  “Well. If anything . . . untoward ever happened at this place . . . you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” Dad asks as we pull out of the station.

  “Of course,” I say. “But don’t worry, it’s pretty tame.”

  “What about that thief? The criminal holding up gas stations. You have protection, right?”

  The last time my father mentioned protection, he and Mom were giving me a sex talk. “You mean . . . a gun?”

  “No! I mean security. They’ve told you, right—just give a thief all the money. Save yourself.”

  “Sure thing, Dad. We went over it in training,” I tell him. Anyway, if anything happens, Denny’s going to spring into action—he’s promised me. “You know what? The biggest problem is this mean dog that runs after me every morning on my way to work.”

  “What? You’re kidding. That’s horrible,” Dad says.

  “You know what? If you’d let me drive again, we could buy a really cheap car, and I could use it just to get to work. I have this friend who got an old Geo Metro for practically nothing. Then you wouldn’t have to pick me up, and I wouldn’t have to skate past scary dogs.”

  “P. F., you haven’t exactly proved you’re responsible yet. You still have some work to do on that front.” Dad looks both ways and then peels out onto County Highway 87, barely missing a car coming toward us.

  This is the man who’s telling me about being responsible? “What are you talking about? That’s all I’m doing—being responsible,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I mean, you come home late at night, you won’t skate with me, you don’t offer to help your mother—”

  “Offer? Dad, I get asked to help so much that I never get the chance to offer. And you’re constantly late yourself—like tonight!” I point out.

  “P. F., that’s not the same thing, and you know it,” he says.

  I stare out the window. I really do not want to have this argument, not now. I want to pretend this is not happening. I’m not getting picked up from my gas-station coffee-shop job by my father, who’s skating in a rodeo. This isn’t my life. It can’t be.

  Free Ride

  When I get on the Lindvillager after work four days later, it seems like a normal day, except that Denny was out sick and I had to work with Jamie instead, which was a little nerve-wracking. She kept insisting that I clean out all the machines and tubes so that the coffee would flow better and the “turbo dispense” function would work. And she kept insisting on making the coffee herself, which can’t be a good thing for the customers.

  I hand Kamikaze Driver his coffee and he pays me, giving me a dollar for a tip to make up for the fact he didn’t tip me at all on Monday. Then I take a seat behind the elderly lady with the laundry bag who rides this bus every day I do.

  When we stop at the railroad crossing because a train is passing by, I hear Kamikaze swear. He hates not making it across before the train. They’re long freight trains, and can take five minutes to go by. It messes up his entire life, it seems like, from his reaction.

  Seconds later he gets up from his seat and turns around. I try not to make eye contact, but he has removed his sunglasses and is gazing right at me. Then he shuts off the motor and takes the keys. He walks right toward me.

  I scrunch down in my seat, trying to avoid him. It’s impossible. He puts his hand on the back of my seat. “The coffee is not good today. Not good at all.” He tries to hand the cup back to me. “Taste it.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Try this. It’s undrinkable. It’s lukewarm, it’s as weak as a drink at a family wedding on a small budget,” he says.

  I stare up at him, thinking, I should not have let Jamie make the coffee. Jamie’s Java Blend strikes again.

  “Come on, taste it,” he tells me.

  “Are you crazy?” I ask. “I mean, no offense. But you’ve been sipping out of that cup. I’m not tasting it now,” I say.

  Kamikaze looks like he’s about to explode. His beard is literally twitching. It may always twitch, but I’ve never been close enough to find out before.

  “You know what?” he says, his slightly bloodshot blue eyes unwavering. “Everyone in your generation is so freaked out about germs. When I was your age, I shared everything with everybody.”

  I get a really icky feeling when he mentions sharing. “Are you talking about free love?” I ask, not wanting to hear his answer. A man in his fifties who insists on wearing a peace button every day frightens me.

  “I’m talking about living, about not being afraid of living,” he says.

  “What makes you think we’re afraid of living?” I ask. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Just because I don’t want to catch something—”

  “What would you catch? I don’t have anything,” he says. “I’m as much of a healthy, red-blooded American as you are.”

  I decide to get back to the subject. “Look, if the coffee’s that bad, then why would I even want to taste it?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “Forget it. But next time you ride the bus, I want a free coffee,” he says. “Tell your manager.”

  “Look, it was my manager who made that awful coffee. And you know, you don’t exactly give us perfect rides every day,” I point out. “Maybe I want a free ride.”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with a free ride if it hit you in the face,” he says. Then he goes back up to the driver’s seat, starts the bus, and we roar across the railroad tracks just as the bar lifts. The woman in front of me turns around and pats my arm in sympathy.

  When we pull up in front of Edison High, Charlotte is waiting for me at the curb. “Don’t get off—I’m getting on,” she says when I start down the bus steps.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We’re not going,” Charlotte tells me. “I don’t know how you say that in French, and I don’t care.”

  Behind me, I hear Kamikaze Driver clearing his throat impatiently.

  “But—wait. Why aren’t we going?” I ask.

  “Because it’s a beautiful day, because we only have afternoons to ourselves this summer, and because our teacher hasn’t shown up for three weeks,” she says.

  “But what if today is the day? What if Monsieur LeFleur is finally here—and
we’re not?” I ask.

  “Please move out of the stairwell so that the bus can clear the stop,” Kamikaze says. He sounds like he’s reading off a bus driver training manual.

  “Fleming, wake up. LeFleur’s not coming! If by some slim chance it happens . . . then we’ll just be absent,” she says in her bad French accent. “We will bring Monsieur le sick note next time. Oui?”

  We start laughing and Kamikaze Driver gets out of his seat. “You both need to get on the bus now, and sit down,” he tells us. “People are waiting and I have a schedule to keep.”

  Charlotte drops her fare into the box. “Lighten up,” she says. “This isn’t a matter of life or death, is it?”

  “How would you know?” Kamikaze says as he glares at her.

  “So do you ever have a day off?” I ask him as he sits back down. He revs the accelerator and won’t even make eye contact with me. Me, his personal coffee wench. Completely ignored. Charlotte and I shuffle to a seat halfway back and are flung together as the bus pulls back into traffic.

  “So where are we going?” I ask.

  “The mall,” Charlotte says, popping her gum as she looks out the window. “If I’m going to do this streaking thing, I’ll need a cowboy hat.”

  I glance over at the woman with the laundry bag, who raises her eyebrow.

  I hope Charlotte isn’t talking about going to Western Wear Bonanza. I’ve already been attacked once today. Then I remember how Mr. Stinson might sponsor my dad, how he’s giving him all those clothes to skate in. “Um, Charlotte?” I say. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  And on the way to the mall, I explain about my father’s latest skating job. I expect her to laugh so hard that she falls off the seat, which isn’t hard to do with Kamikaze at the wheel, but instead she’s impressed and says she can’t wait to see him skate.

  Me? I can wait.

  When we walk into the mall, the place is completely deserted. It almost looks closed, except for the seniors who are cruising around the walkway, getting their air-conditioned exercise.

  “Man, talk about slow. I was hoping we’d see people here. People under seventy, I mean—I get enough geriatrics at work. You know, this is so lame. We’ve got to do something fun this weekend,” Charlotte says.

  “Like what?” I ask. We pass the two-screen Sunset Cinema and its popcorn smell fills the air for several yards.

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem,” Charlotte says. “The only thing I’m looking forward to is streaking at Rodeo Days.”

  “Well, the only thing I’m looking forward to is my mother’s water breaking,” I tell her.

  Charlotte and I both start laughing.

  “We’re pathetic,” I say.

  “No, no, no.” Charlotte stops to check out a pair of sandals on a spinner that juts out from a store into our path. “We’re not pathetic. We’re fine. We’re good. We’re finegood even,” she teases me. “It’s this place. It’s just so hot and so slow here.”

  “It’s like a bus stuck in traffic with broken air-conditioning,” I say as we continue walking. “That happened last week, on my way home from French class. And—”

  “Fleming? You’re telling bus stories,” Charlotte interrupts. “Do you see what I’m talking about?”

  We both start to laugh again. She’s completely right.

  “Why don’t you and Ray go somewhere, on a trip?” I suggest. If I were with Steve, that’s what I’d want to do.

  “My mom would not let me do that,” she says. “Not in a million years.”

  “But she’ll let you streak?” I ask.

  “She won’t know about that until it’s over,” she says. “Anyway, I don’t even know if I like Ray all that much—enough to spend a bunch of time in a car with him, I mean. He’s sort of boring me. It’s like all he ever wants to do is work out.”

  “Well, he has to keep the arms looking good,” I reason as we pass the food court and arrive outside Western Wear Bonanza. “You know,” I say before we go in, trying to talk her out of it, “they’ll have you arrested if you do it. Lindville’s a small town. They’ll figure out who you are. You’ll never live it down.”

  “So? Maybe that’s a good thing,” Charlotte says. “So I get a rep. So what? Knowing my mom, we’ll move soon enough, anyway.”

  “Don’t say that! You’re not stranding me here—you can’t,” I say.

  “Okay, I’ll tell her we’re staying.” Charlotte smiles. “Now, come on—let’s find us some hats.”

  “Okay, but remember—if you see the owner, be nice,” I say. “He’s not fond of me.”

  Charlotte marches into Western Wear Bonanza, squeezing between two large circular racks of turquoise, orange, and red Western-style shirts with contrasting yokes, divided into L–XL and XXL–4X.

  I know I shouldn’t go in, that Mr. Stinson will go ballistic when he sees me. But if he’s willing to outfit my dad for the rodeo, he can’t have too many hard feelings toward me. Right? And what am I going to do, not shop for the rest of my Lindville life, just because I don’t want to bump into Mr. Stinson? That’s ridiculous.

  It’s terrible logic, but I go into the store, skulking as well as someone five foot eight can skulk. Charlotte’s already at the counter, asking to try on the expensive hats behind the glass. I don’t recognize the girl working, but I instantly feel sorry for her—not because of Charlotte, but because of her boss.

  I stuff a cheap straw hat onto my head for camouflage and meander around the store, keeping an eye on Charlotte and an eye on the back office door. The rawhide chin strap tickles me and the strong smell of leather reminds me of trying to fit boots onto people’s feet and how much I loathed it. I take the hat off and stack it on top of some others. Then I stare at the wall of Mr. Stinson’s photographs of himself, posing with winning rodeo riders and bulls like Insane Zane.

  “Got it!” Charlotte says, running over to me with a white cowboy hat. “It’s perfect. Check it out.” She tries it on with a giant smile on her face. “Isn’t it great?”

  “It looks good,” I say, nodding. Her hair hits her shoulders in a wave. “You look like one of the girls in the saddle club—you could even be voted rodeo queen,” I tease her, knowing that the real Lindville rodeo queens, including some girls from our high school, are accomplished riders, that they’d be miles away before I even figured out how to get onto a horse.

  Charlotte turns back and forth, admiring herself in front of the mirror. “I prefer ‘rodeo princess,’ actually. Now if I could only ride a horse.” She takes off the hat and hands it to me. “Can you hold on to this for a sec while I try some shirts on?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, glancing around the store.

  “Be right back.” Charlotte grabs a few shirts and blouses on her way into a dressing room, and I follow her, holding her new hat, which I put on. I stand in front of the three-way mirror to see how it looks on me.

  Suddenly, behind me in one of the three mirrors, there’s Mr. Stinson. His arms are crossed in front of his slightly round stomach.

  I look in the mirror at him, not wanting to turn around. It feels like a showdown in an old Western movie.

  “Precisely what are you doing here, Miss Farrell?” Mr. Stinson demands, lowering his tortoiseshell glasses to get a better look at me.

  “Shopping?” I whimper.

  He narrows his bushy eyebrows and they meet in a tangled-looking tuft above his nose, like a facial tumbleweed. “Shopping,” he repeats.

  “Yes,” I say, gently taking the cowboy hat off of my head. “My friend wanted a hat.”

  “Your friend, is that right?” Mr. Stinson stares at the hat in my hand. “And where is this friend?”

  “She’s in the dressing room,” I say meekly.

  “Oh, really.” Mr. Stinson seems to sort of laugh, as a strange-sounding snort escapes his nose. “This is all just a ruse for you to come in here, isn’t it? Are you here to ask for your job back? Fed up with the petrol station? Are you that daft, then?
”

  “No, of course not,” I say. “I still work at Gas ’n Git, and she’s already bought this hat. And as soon as she tries on some shirts, we’ll be out of here.”

  “Hmm. Yes, you will.” Mr. Stinson starts refolding and stacking T-shirts. He doesn’t move more than three feet away, as if he’s afraid I’ll shoplift.

  “So,” I say, trying to be friendly. “How’s business?”

  He turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

  Wrong question. I decide to try again. “So, my father said you might sponsor him?” I ask.

  “We’ll see,” Mr. Stinson says, the way a parent would.

  “He was showing me all the clothes you sent over. That’s really great. My dad won’t let you down,” I say. Unlike me. “I mean, he’s an incredible skater, a great performer. He’s a perfectionist. And he can definitely win over a crowd.”

  “Well.” Mr. Stinson looks surprised that I’m talking so much. “That’s very nice, but it all depends on his rodeo show.”

  “Whose rodeo show?” Charlotte asks, coming out of the dressing room. She’s wearing a white satiny blouse with fringe around its yoke. It’s not her usual style, but somehow she pulls it off and looks good in it.

  Mr. Stinson turns, and his face lights up as he examines her. “That looks dead gorgeous on you,” he says. “May I ask—is it for the rodeo? The parade, perhaps?” He smiles. He’s really turning on his retail charm.

  “Maybe pre-parade,” Charlotte says, and I stifle a laugh.

  “It comes in eight colors,” Mr. Stinson says. “May I show you the royal blue? It would accent the hat quite nicely.” He grabs the white hat from me, and runs off to fetch Charlotte more clothes.

  Charlotte looks at me and holds up her hands. “I guess I’m going to look like a rodeo princess whether I want to or not.”

  I can’t believe Mr. Stinson is being so nice to Charlotte. I thought he’d hate her, because she’s friends with me. Maybe that means he’s starting to forgive me. If he’s considering sponsoring my dad, he must be.