Summer Girl

by A. S. Green

  I slide my phone back into my pocket and quickly change the subject. “Andrew and I will probably end up at Theta Delt after dinner. Do you want to meet us there?”

  “Yeah, I could go,” she says. “There’s an end-of-the-year drama club party, but I’m not really feeling it.”

  My phone buzzes again. I’m expecting Andrew, but this time it’s Mom.

  can you pop home this afternoon? there’s something we need to talk about. can’t do it through text.

  I groan and text back:

  sorry. andrew is picking me up at 6.

  Mom responds half a second later:

  have him pick you up at the house.

  It’s like she had her response teed up before I even hit send. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Andrew and I really should have thought about going farther away for school.

  “What is it?” Macie asks.

  In frustration, I pass my phone to her, and she shoots me a sympathetic look.

  Chapter Two

  Katherine

  The house that I grew up in is a large two story on a quiet cul-de-sac. It has a porch swing and even a white picket fence. It looks like a happy family cliché, which is pretty much why I hate coming back, even with school less than a forty-minute drive away.

  After getting Mom’s text, I delayed the drive home so I wouldn’t have to spend too much time here. Andrew should arrive shortly. Enough time for Mom and I to talk about whatever she thinks needs discussing.

  When I open the door, the sound of the TV drifts from the family room to the front hall. I take off my shoes and line them up on the mat, taking the time to straighten my mom’s carelessly discarded heels. My bare feet go shwip-wip-wip against the hardwood floor, down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Katherine? Is that you?” Mom calls. I always wonder at the question. Who else would it be? It’s not as if Dad is someday going to answer.

  “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

  She’s in the kitchen wearing her pale pink business suit. The suit is a leftover from her days as a Mary Kay makeup consultant, back when Dad was around and she didn’t have to work but did it just to get out of the house. Now she works for an insurance agent during the week and as a cashier at the Hy-Vee (one town over so she doesn’t run into people she knows) on Saturdays.

  She tosses back the contents of her wineglass, then sets it down on the kitchen counter with a dull clink.

  “How was work?” I ask, eyeing the empty glass.

  She shrugs, then pulls up her right foot to her left knee, flamingo style. She pours herself more wine, missing the mark and splashing some on the counter.

  I have the spill wiped up before she takes her first sip. When I toss the paper towel, I check the waste basket for empty bottles. “So are you going to tell me what’s going on? Your message was a little cryptic.”

  “Getting right to the point, I see. Somewhere to go?”

  “I told you. Andrew is picking me up at six.” I check my watch. It’s already five forty-five.

  “Fine.” She crosses her arms and stares at me. I shift my weight. Finally she says, “What do you have lined up for a summer job?”

  I give her a sideways look. This isn’t exactly what I was expecting as far as conversations go. “I’ve got a few shifts each week at Starbucks, but you know Andrew and I were accepted into Professor Schumacher’s internship. I told you about—”

  “Only a few shifts?” she asks.

  “I need to focus on the internship.”

  Mom walks into the family room and turns off the TV. The walls are two-toned (goldenrod and aubergine) because she started painting six weeks ago but got sucked into an HBO series on Netflix and never finished. On top of that, the room is still decorated for Easter even though that was weeks ago.

  She half sits, half leans in the corner of the couch and waits for me. Reluctantly, I follow and sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. My parents bought the table at a flea market in southern Minnesota when I was six years old. I’d gone along because I wanted to see the fleas. It had been kind of a disappointing day.

  “You need to get a real job,” she says, not focusing on my face. “A good one.”

  “Hmmm?” I ask, smoothing out the wrinkles that are starting to form at the waist of my white dress.

  “A job, Katherine. A well-paying J. O. B.” She looks down at her hands. They are clenched, thumbs tucked inside. “And a few shifts at Starbucks aren’t going to cut it.”

  The tension in her posture and the tone of her voice finally get my attention. I brace myself against the surface of the table where I sit. “Andrew and I—”

  “Honey…” she says, then she sucks in a breath. “Honey, I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am, but if you don’t make some serious money this summer, you’re not going to have enough to get you through second semester next year. You’ll have to defer graduation.”

  If she didn’t have my attention before, she does now. But I still don’t understand what she’s talking about. It’s all set. Between what I’ve earned myself and the money Grandma and Grandpa set aside for me for college, I’ve still got twenty-two grand saved up in the bank. That covers my last year’s tuition after loans and scholarships kick in. It’s all set. Everything is in order.

  Mom reaches for her wineglass with a shaking hand, and she drains the dregs. “I was behind on the mortgage.”

  “Mom,” I start, not liking where this conversation is going, “what’s going on? You’ve been working your butt off.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it’s time you start, too. Besides, I didn’t have a choice.”

  “A choice about what?”

  She looks away from me as if there’s something outside the window that she finds absolutely fascinating.

  “MOM!”

  She sighs and faces me. “I thought I’d have it all paid back by now.”

  “Paid what back?”

  She reaches forward and sets her glass beside me on the table. Her hand is shaking. “I used about half of your savings to catch up on the payments.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I was behind several months.”

  I stand up fast, and my head spins. “But you can’t do that! Grandma and Grandpa gave me that money. It’s mine!”

  “And it’s your house,” she says, looking up at me. “Yours and mine. You want to be homeless? You want your mother to be?”

  “How much?” I demand. “How much is gone?”

  The doorbell rings just as she says, “Nine thousand two hundred seventy-three dollars.”

  “Nine thou—” I continue to stare down at her in disbelief. How could she do this to me? If she only would have divorced Dad and gotten alimony and child support, none of this would be happening. Her delusions of reconciliation should not have to affect me. But they do. They always do. I’m so mad I see red, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. I actually see red.

  “Please, Katherine. Please don’t look at me like that. If I had any other options—”

  “No other options? What about Dad?” But I know the answer. Pride prevents her from asking him for money, and the one time I did it behind her back, he never responded. So who am I kidding?

  “Quiet,” she says, glancing nervously at the door. “Is that Andrew? He’ll hear you.”

  The doorbell rings again, saving my mother from having to face facts.

  “Don’t you think we should let him in?” she asks, forcing her faded lipstick into a small smile.

  I clench my fists at my sides and do everything I can not to shake my finger at her. “This is not over.”

  “I know,” she says, standing and striding back through the kitchen. “But no need to tell Andrew about any of this.”

  I’m still in shock as I follow her to the door. She opens it with a flourish, and there stands Andrew Mason, my best friend. Or “Mr. Perfect,” as Mom likes to call him. She’s wrong, of course. Andrew isn’t perfect. He’s just perfect for me.

  I’v
e known it since eighth grade when Mr. Everson assigned us to be lab partners and we realized we were the only two people in class who used mechanical pencils.

  “Because they’re always sharp and precise,” he said, to which I replied, “And no nasty pencil shavings.” It was pretty much love at first sight. Well, at least for one of us.

  The hard part of being friends with a guy before they’re interested in girls is that by the time they see the light, you’ve already spent too much time in the Friend Zone to easily make the switch. Not even after your boobs come in.

  I exhale slowly at the sight of him. God help me, Andrew’s grown up to be totally hot. Pretty much a walking Ralph Lauren commercial, except that he doesn’t actually play polo. After losing one child, Mr. and Mrs. Mason would never have let anyone swing a mallet by Andrew’s head.

  Sometimes, I think, as parents go, Mr. and Mrs. Mason might be even more messed up than mine—just in a different way. While my parents are like plastic bags in the wind, Andrew’s are strung as tight as harp strings. I swear, if you plucked them on the shoulder they’d sound like Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

  “Hi, Denise,” Andrew says familiarly, as much a part of my family as his own. He’s tall, and we’re definitely not, so he looks down at us. His thick, nearly black hair doesn’t fall in his eyes, though, because he spends a lot of time and product on it. “You look nice tonight.”

  Mom rubs her string of faux pearls between her finger and thumb. “That’s awfully sweet of you.”

  I clear my throat and check my watch. “You said you’d be here ten minutes ago.” I don’t realize how rude the words sound until they’re already out of my mouth. Mom clicks her tongue at me, and Andrew’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but then his eyes soften with sympathy. He knows it’s hard for me to spend time in this house since Dad left.

  “I got here right behind you. But did you notice your back tire was flat?”

  I glance past him to my rusted-out Corolla. It’s leaking oil on the driveway, but the tire looks fine.

  “I changed it for you,” he says, and only then do I notice his fingers are black with grime. God, I love him.

  “But it’s only the little emergency spare. You should take it in tomorrow and get a decent tire. Or maybe they can patch the old one. I don’t want you driving too long on anything dangerous.”

  “Wow,” Mom says, giving me a pointed look. “Our hero.” Though I know she’s really calculating the cost of new tires in her head.

  “No big deal,” Andrew says. I know he means it when it comes to making sure my car is safe to drive, but when it comes to the dirt on his hands, well, that’s another matter. He’s even more fastidious than I am, and probably desperate to get to a bar of soap.

  I gesture toward the bathroom, and he looks at me thankfully. While he’s sudsing up, Mom asks, “So where are you two headed tonight?”

  Bella Luna is our favorite Italian restaurant. Andrew and his parents are very cultured when it comes to food, so when we come here he always talks about the marinara being the “perfect balance” between the sweetness and acidity of the tomatoes.

  I don’t have much to add. Frankly, I’m happy to get through dinner without slopping sauce down the front of my white dress. Talk about “balance.” Managing a fork, not to mention my half of the conversation, all while keeping my head from exploding over Mom’s confession, puts me on par with that guy who tightrope-walked across the Grand Canyon.

  But maybe I’m not doing as good of a balancing act as I think, because when I glance up from my pasta, Andrew is looking at me with a worried expression.

  “What?” I ask, wondering for a second if he can read my mind. The internship. How do I tell him I can’t do the internship?

  He chuckles and swirls his wine. I respond by sucking an ice cube out of my water glass. No wine for me. It holds no allure after the last three years with my mother. They say addiction runs in families, and that’s not something I intend to test. I will not be her. I will never lose myself like that. Not ever.

  Besides, my twenty-first birthday is still three months away, and following the law is another way I maintain order in my life. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket because I set my cruise control at fifty-five. Basically I’m the life of the party. So sue me.

  “I asked you a question,” he says, grinning at me.

  A question? Please don’t tell me I spaced out while he was asking something important. Like maybe whether we’ve taken this friend thing as far as we can take it, and would I like to get under the table and engage in some wild monkey sex? Yes, please.

  I swallow hard. “What was the question?”

  “I swear, Katherine, sometimes your mind drifts more than anybody I’ve ever known. I asked you what you thought about that.” He looks really happy. I wonder if whatever he asked me was supposed to make me happy, too.

  “Thought about what?” I ask, apologetically.

  He puts down his fork. “That thing I spent the last ten minutes telling you about. How the brothers voted me in as president of Theta Delta Chi? How we’re having a party at the house on Saturday to pass the baton? How I want you to help us plan it? Did you hear any of that?”

  “Wow! Congratulations!”

  He shakes his head and laughs softly. “So? Are you free?” For a second I think he’s suggesting that I should be his date, but then he adds, “You’ll help us plan the party, right? You have a way with stuff like that.”

  “Love to. Of course I can.” Honestly, I’m happy for him, but this news isn’t nearly as exciting as the place my imagination had been trotting off to.

  He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of mine. A lump forms in my throat. I both love it and hate it when he does this. No wonder people think I’m his girlfriend. No wonder Mom’s practically picking out my china pattern and Macie’s constantly rolling her eyes. Could this be the night things finally change for us? If so, it would turn a completely shitty evening into rainbows and unicorns. I might even forgive Mom.

  “Because we need your organizational skills,” he says. “I’m no good at matching napkins and streamers.”

  “Sure.” I pull my hand back and turn toward the window. A car is passing by, and I watch its red taillights flare then bend around the corner. When I look back at Andrew, his head is tipped to the side, and he’s studying me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry,” I say. Then, noticing that my belt is twisted, I re-center the buckle. My mind settles. “I guess I’m still obsessing about the Econ final.” And about how my mother soaked all my hard-earned plans in gasoline, then lit a match.

  “I’m sure you did fine. I thought it was all pretty obvious.”

  “Yeah, well, everything comes easily for you.”

  He can’t deny it, so he smiles. Then he slides a small velvet box across the table at me. “Maybe this will cheer you up.”

  Holy shit. The temperature in the restaurant spikes, and my heart stutters in my chest. I am absolutely rigid in my seat. “Andrew?”

  He looks down at the box then up at my bewildered expression. Another long second passes between us before he throws his head back and laughs, then glances nervously around the restaurant. “It’s an early birthday present.”

  I open the box, revealing a sky blue sapphire surrounded by tiny diamond chips. “Holy crap.” Andrew just gave me a ring. A ring. A freaking ring!

  “My mom got it for her twenty-first birthday. It doesn’t fit her anymore, and she thought you might like it. She thought it would match your eyes.”

  It takes me a while to process what he’s saying. “So…it’s a present from…your mom?”

  “Yeah. Do you like it?”

  The small balloon of happiness that had been expanding inside my chest deflates abruptly. Although, it is pretty much a family heirloom. I mean, that has to count for something, right?

  My cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t even know where I’d wear something like this. It’s too
nice.”

  Andrew swipes his finger over the ring, which is already on the third finger of my right hand, and smiles until a single dimple dips into his left cheek. “It is nice,” he murmurs. “Almost as nice as you.”

  Nice, I think. Well, isn’t that nice.

  Chapter Three

  Katherine

  Fifteen minutes after we leave the restaurant, Andrew pulls his BMW into the circular driveway in front of his fraternity house. Theta Delta Chi has a certain grandeur despite the mouse-infested, rain-soaked couch on the front porch.

  “It’s going to be a great summer,” he says. “I can’t wait to start working the internship with you.”

  Oh, God.

  He leans over me as he tosses his wallet into the glove compartment. I close my eyes and inhale. He smells like hair gel and sandalwood and spearmint gum. When we get out of the car, the air is thick with the smell of burning birch and the sound of firecrackers.

  “Some of the guys wanted to have a bonfire tonight,” he says while he walks around the back of the car to meet me.

  “I wish you’d told me. I would have brought a change of clothes.”

  “You look great in that dress,” he says while waving at his friends, “but I’ll get you a sweatshirt in case you get cold. Stay here. I’m going to run up and change. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Every time he says that, Macie follows it up with, “Oh, nooo. Katherine wouldn’t want to do thaaat.” I usually follow her jab with a swift jab of my own. Like, my elbow to her ribs.

  Andrew climbs the steps to the front door and high-fives two guys on their way out, just as I hear Macie call my name. I find her walking briskly up the sidewalk toward me. When she notices the ring on my hand—because, seriously, it’s hard to miss—she runs the rest of the way and shackles both my wrists in her firm grasp.

  “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Guess.”

  She stares at me for a full two-count, waiting for the punch line. “You’re shitting me.”