Unforgettable Summer

by Catherine Clark

  Of course, it’s only taken him seven months.

  Aging Prematurely

  It’s Friday night and I’m on my way to meet Charlotte at Shady Prairies. Mom’s upstairs giving the kids their baths, so I’m off the hook for the evening. I’m halfway out the door at 7:30, in my socks and holding my Rollerblades, when my father suddenly calls out, “P. F., got a second? I need a word with you.”

  His voice isn’t very happy-sounding, so I shut the front door and go stand nervously in the doorway to the kitchen. I hope this isn’t about me, in any way—not my visit to Western Wear Bonanza, or the fact I let the kids watch TV all morning instead of playing educational games with them, or about my skipping French. “What’s up?”

  “Well, it’s time to tally up where you are,” Dad says. He jumps up and turns down the radio, which is tuned to classic rock, as usual. “Make sure your finances are in order and see where we are, loan-wise.”

  “Okay, but I’m kind of on my way out,” I say. “Could we do this tomorrow?”

  “Nope,” Dad says.

  I sink into a chair across from him and we go over my latest paycheck and what I’ve already paid him and Mom, and what I still owe them. I write him a check, while he launches into a lecture about financial responsibility, about how as soon as I pay them back, I need to start putting away money in a savings account so I can save up for a car of my own, if I’m serious about taking a trip. He whips out his calculator and starts calculating car-loan rates for me, the way he’s always doing for clients and their mortgages. “The thing about amortization is . . .” he says.

  I tune out and start daydreaming about the trip. I see myself in a convertible, cruising along that California highway by the Pacific Ocean, the one that’s in all the TV commercials and movies. I go north from there and have to put up the top, because I’m in Oregon and it’s raining. I head farther north to Seattle, where I stop for coffee, because coffee is very big there and because I’m tired from driving. I go north to Vancouver, and there’s a ferry leaving for Victoria, so there I am, on the deck, drinking my Seattle coffee, which has sort of gone cold—

  But wait. I can’t do all that by myself.

  Before I take off in my convertible, I pick up Steve, who gets out of work from IHOP. I pull up in the parking lot and Jacqui is clinging to his apron and not wanting him to leave with me, so he takes off the apron and leaves her clutching it, drying her tears on it, as he tosses a beat-up old leather suitcase into the trunk and—

  “P. F., are you listening?”

  I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my chair. “Of course, Dad. Of course I am. And I appreciate all this advice, I really do. I should get going, though.” I stand up, get my backpack, and grab my keys off the hook by the door.

  Dad purses his lips and looks very disappointed in me. First I gave up skating; now I’m giving up liking math. “P. F., do me a favor,” he says as he gets up from the kitchen table. “Take this a little more seriously. You’ve made a dent, but you still owe this family more than five hundred dollars.” His voice is as cold as the outdoor ice rink in January.

  “I know, Dad,” I say. “That’s why we have a payment plan.”

  “Which you’re falling behind on,” he says. “I’m expecting big things from you this summer, P. F. Good things. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  He turns off the radio and leaves the kitchen, and a few seconds later I hear him put classical music on the CD player. He must be choosing music for his program again. He hasn’t been happy with the last eight pieces he’s tried to choreograph to. He keeps skipping from one track to another. He’s not happy right now. When he’s not happy, his skating suffers.

  I can’t picture classical music at the rodeo, where country and western is usually blaring from overhead speakers. Then again, I can’t picture an ice rink, or a skating cowboy. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

  The sun is still out when I skate up in front of Shady Prairies. Charlotte’s waiting for me in the lobby. “How was work?” I ask her.

  “Easy,” she says. “Except for the fact that everyone ordered liver and onions, and we ran out and I had to convince the second seating that chipped beef was just as good. Which nobody believed. And they were right. So a bunch of people started talking about how they need a new dining director here, and how there wasn’t enough wheat bread at breakfast for toast.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Very interesting.” I take off my Rollerblades and slip them into my backpack, then put on my black rubber flip-flops.

  Charlotte starts laughing. “Sorry. I guess I just needed to vent. So, are you ready for an adventure?”

  “That depends. What is it, and does it involve eating chipped beef? Whatever that is.”

  “No. We’re going for a little ride,” she whispers to me as we leave the lobby.

  “In what?” I ask. “Is Ray coming? I mean, is he already here?”

  “Forget Ray,” she says. “We sort of broke up last night.”

  “You did? What happened?” I ask.

  “It’s not important. I mean, it was just a dumb fight, but the point is that we don’t need Ray. We’ve got our own wheels.”

  “You got your Mom’s car again? Wow, has it been a month already?” I ask.

  “No, I actually don’t have a car. But we are sort of renting one tonight,” Charlotte whispers. “Free of charge. Come on.”

  I figure she’s talking about someone lending her a car. I can’t imagine that she’s talked one of the retired Shady residents into lending her their Cadillac, but maybe she has. I’ve learned not to doubt Charlotte. She makes things happen. She insists on it.

  We walk through an employee parking lot off to the side of the main building as the sun slowly sinks on the horizon. “See those carts over there?” she asks.

  “The golf carts?” I look at the two small beige vehicles with the initials SP written in green script on the roof—as if they need to be identifiable by helicopter, like big-city buses.

  “Yeah. But they’re not used for golf. They’re for carrying guests and visitors around, to show them the place. And for delivering packages and helping people with groceries and luggage and stuff.” Charlotte rubs her hands together. “And tonight, one of them is going to carry us to the Lot.”

  “We’re going to steal a golf cart?” I ask, feeling a little skeptical about this plan.

  “Don’t worry, we steal them all the time. Well, not steal exactly. Sometimes the guys from the grounds crew tool around on them, so we hitch rides and cruise around the property. Like before dinner starts, after we’re all set up. They’re really fun.” She takes a key chain out of her pocket and shakes it in my face. “And I’ve got a key, so it’s not technically stealing at all.”

  “How did you get that?” I ask.

  “It’s a long story. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Won’t we be sort of obvious?”

  “We’ll take the back roads,” she says, popping her gum. “And it’s nighttime. And if anyone asks how we got this, or what we’re doing . . .”

  I wait for her to finish the sentence. She doesn’t.

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “I figured out how we’re getting to the Lot. You figure out what to say if we get caught.”

  I think about this for a second. I really shouldn’t do this. I know that. If the police are around tonight and we get caught, it might be decades before I get my license back from my parents. I could be carless for the rest of my life. And that’s just the tip of the crimeberg.

  Then again, it is Friday night, and what else are we going to do?

  “Okay,” I say. “But you’re driving.”

  An hour later, we are bouncing down Twelfth Street in a golf cart. Its shocks are completely gone, and I think I have about three bugs in my teeth, not to mention one dead gnat in my right eye. I understand more than ever the purpose of windshields. Everyone’s cruising tonight, so we pull out from a side street and fall into formation, safely sandw
iched between a Jeep and an SUV.

  “It’s like being on a float!” Charlotte says, waving at anyone and everyone, people passing us, people driving in the other direction.

  It’s my job to wave and also to study the crowd for cops. Everyone is staring at us and pointing. I didn’t think we could get away with this. It’s impossible.

  But we are getting away with it. We made it here, and everyone’s seen us. The police must be busy somewhere else. This is my first lucky break in a while, so I’m going to enjoy it. I see friends from Edison and wave at them. I see Steve and Jacqui parked in the Lot and wave to them. Steve waves back, his face lighting up when he sees us. He walks closer to the street to get a better look, while Jacqui just looks confused.

  What’s really bizarre is that I don’t really care about them right now—about whether they’re together, or whether Steve notices how much fun I’m having without him. I don’t really care about anything right now. I feel like anything is possible tonight.

  I see some people from our French class and we wave to them. “If Monsieur LeFleur could see us now . . . what would he think?” I ask Charlotte. “Well, who cares what he’d think? Because he doesn’t exist!” I declare.

  Mike and Ray pass us in Ray’s pickup. Mike leans out of the passenger-side window and yells, “What are you guys doing? Where did you get that thing?”

  “Charlotte! They’ll fire you!” Ray screams across the seat at us.

  “Who cares?” she calls back. Then she swears and says to me, “I forgot, I’m not talking to him.”

  We start laughing, and a few blocks later Charlotte suddenly takes a right turn, pulling into Dale’s Fifties Drive-Up, where waiters and waitresses deliver the food to your car by skating on old-fashioned roller skates.

  “Should we really do this?” I ask Charlotte. Now that we’re out of the clump of cars, I feel even more conspicuous.

  She pulls around to the darkest, most secluded parking place in the back, where people go to make out. Nobody’s back here but us, which is a relief. “I’m buying,” Charlotte offers, and she lifts the little red phone beside the cart to place our order, a fry basket and chocolate shakes.

  “I figured we should stop,” she says afterward. “I don’t want to run out of gas, or battery power or whatever this thing runs on. Anyway, we made our point, didn’t we?”

  “Um . . . what was our point?” I ask.

  “I don’t know!” she says, laughing.

  “Me neither, but it was a good one. People were freaking out,” I say. “I’m surprised we didn’t cause an accident, especially with my track record. It’s amazing, actually.” Then again, I wasn’t driving, was I?

  The waitress comes out to deliver our order a few minutes later. It’s so dark where we’re parked that she doesn’t notice a clump of onion rings someone must have dropped earlier, and she trips and crashes to the pavement.

  Somehow she manages to skillfully hold our tray in the air without spilling anything. It’s as if this has happened to her before. She stands up and dusts herself off, brushing a large onion ring off her bare leg.

  “Are you all right?” Charlotte and I call over to her.

  “Fine—just give me a minute,” she replies.

  “Fleming, you should be the one who works here; it’s so obvious,” Charlotte says. “You skate a lot better than she does. You’re fast—you’d get good tips.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “That’s what I told my parents. But they refused to let me wear the uniform.”

  “It is a bit short,” Charlotte says as the waitress approaches in a modified fifties-style skirt that barely covers her rear end. She looks like she’s my mother’s age, so it seems extra risqué.

  When she gets closer, she looks at us suspiciously as she tries to figure out where she can attach the tray. “Where did you get this thing?” she asks. “Are you supposed to be driving this around at night—on the streets?”

  Charlotte turns to me and smiles. “Fleming?”

  “Oh. Well, see, this is part of a new teen outreach program at Shady Prairies,” I say. “They’re trying to sponsor a couple of teens every summer, and give them new opportunities. They chose me and Charlotte this summer.”

  The waitress looks me in the eye as she sets the tray on the hood of the cart. “And how does the cart fit in?”

  “They think we should experience life slowly at first,” I say. “You know, like the expression ‘looking at the world through rose-colored glasses’? They want us to look at the world going like fifteen miles per hour. So that we can absorb it all, drink it all in. So we don’t get ahead of ourselves and go too fast. This is, like, their whole point—to protect us from aging prematurely.”

  The waitress studies my face for a few seconds. My heart is beating so fast that it must show through my T-shirt, like something out of an old Bugs Bunny cartoon. Beside me, Charlotte has stopped, mid inserting straw into chocolate shake. The whole world is on pause while we wait for a not very coordinated roller skater to tell us our fate.

  Then she nods. “You know my mother lives out there. I bet she’d like to get involved in the program. I’ll have to mention it to her.” She takes our money and skates back to the restaurant.

  “Oh, God,” Charlotte says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That was so scary.”

  “I know,” I say. “I thought for sure she was going to bust us.”

  “No—not that. I mean the way you just came up with that story,” she says.

  “I had a lot of time to think it up,” I tell her. “We were going like ten miles an hour, remember?”

  “So we could live more slowly,” Charlotte says, paraphrasing me. “Oh, yeah. That’s what we want to do.”

  I Am Sunshine

  All weekend I sit around knowing that I’ve gotten away with something. My father’s so wrapped up in selling houses and preparing for his rodeo performance that he doesn’t even have time to notice that I look guilty. I like having this secret that nobody knows about, and my parents don’t know why I’m in such a good mood or why I volunteer to baby-sit for two hours while they go grocery shopping. It’s all because of the golf cart.

  At work on Saturday night, I give random customers coupons for free specialty drinks and free muffins.

  Charlotte drops by to visit me and drinks three vanilla lattes in an hour. When I introduce her to Denny, she says, “Did Fleming tell you what we did last night?”

  “No,” he says slowly, glancing at me. “Wait, don’t tell me. Baby-sitting again?”

  “No. We drove a golf cart through town,” Charlotte says.

  Denny laughs, and seems instantaneously smitten with her. “No, really?”

  “Really,” Charlotte says.

  “Well, that’s nothing compared to some of the stuff Fleming’s done before,” Denny says. “Like how she smashed the window at the mall by propelling Santa into it—did she tell you about that?”

  They keep joking around about me and my bad job experiences. I laugh, too. It is funny. And I can see that Denny is really into Charlotte. After she leaves, I don’t even tease him about it. Maybe she’s into him, too. Maybe Ray is out of the picture for good, and Denny is now in the picture. Who knows? Ever since Friday night I feel like anything is possible.

  My father comes to pick me up at 11:20, late as usual, but I don’t point this out. Instead we talk about his new program on the way home. When we get there, I listen to the different musical numbers he’s considering and tell him none of them will work, but not in a negative way. I run upstairs, get all my CDs, and stay up until 2:00 a.m. trying to create a medley using his music and mine, combining his favorites from the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, and the Beatles with the Foo Fighters, Lenny Kravitz, and Beck.

  When he looks uneasy Sunday morning as I play the music for him, and tells me the rodeo organizers are pushing for something country—in fact insisting on it—I don’t take it personally. I tell him we’ll keep working on it and rem
ind him that Elvis Stojko used nontraditional music and still scored 6.0s. Dad starts smiling and reminiscing about Elvis Stojko, for a second forgetting he’s not shooting for a world championship here.

  My name is not P. F. Farrell anymore.

  My name is definitely not Peggy.

  I am Sunshine.

  Sunday afternoon, after Lamaze class—during which I am so kind and helpful that even Monica takes notice and tells the other birth coaches to watch me, of all people—Mom tells me in the elevator that we need to pick up party supplies for the twins’ birthday on the way home, and then when we get home, that she and Dad are leaving for a friend’s barbecue, so I’ll need to watch the kids.

  All this information doesn’t even bother me; I just absorb it like a thirsty paper towel and keep walking in the direction of the minivan.

  We stop at Party Party Party, and as we walk in, I wonder whether Torvill started saying everything three times after a trip here. We have fifteen minutes to fill a cart with birthday decorations, and we’re on a budget. I summon my math skills and pick out cups, plates, hats, balloons, and party favors. All of them match the twins’ theme: Five.

  Or, according to Torvill, “five, five, five.”

  “Peggy, you’re good at this.” My mother compliments me on the drive home. “You can buy all the party decorations from now on.”

  I think, As if I wasn’t going to be doing that, anyway, but I don’t say that. I just say, “Thanks.” That’s how good my mood is.

  When Mom turns onto our street, she suddenly winces and reaches for her belly. “Oh. Wow. That was a strong one.”

  “A kick?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “A contraction.”

  “What? You’re going into labor? But you’re not ready. I’m not ready—”

  “Relax, Peggy. It’s nothing like that,” she says as she pulls into the driveway. “I’m not in labor. However, I do think I should go inside and lie down for a while, because I’m feeling uncomfortable.” She calmly puts the car in park.