Golden Hour

by Chantel Guertin

  “I don’t. Just photography.”

  “Yeah, and all you do is photography.”

  I grab my phone, stick out my tongue, take a selfie and then show it to Ben. “See? I can be so crazy.”

  “You going to post it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Post it and we’ll talk.”

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 3

  After school is photo club and I’m dreading telling the group that I’m resigning as president. Obviously I don’t want to admit that I’ve been waitlisted to people who haven’t heard, but I don’t want to lie about Tisch any more than I already have, so I fumble my way through an announcement then shift gears. “Since Brooke is going to be president next year, I think it makes sense for her to get a jump-start, so that if there are changes she wants to make, you can think about them over the summer. Then really dive into things in the fall.”

  Everyone looks mildly bored by my announcement, which is really not the reaction I was hoping for. I wasn’t expecting tears or groveling, but an objection or two would’ve been nice. Instead, everyone focuses on Brooke, who looks thrilled. “This is great. I do have a lot of ideas, actually,” she says and grabs her phone. “I’ve made a document—it’s kind of rough because I planned to work on it through the summer—but let’s jump in anyway. There are some changes I wanted to make. First, we’ve been doing the same format forever . . .” Everyone is totally engrossed in what she’s saying. I stand up, grab my bag and head out the door.

  I’m halfway past the parking lot when I hear my name. I turn to see Hank waving at me from his car, a beat-up old Ford Focus that’s mostly gold except for the driver’s door, which is, for some reason, green. He’s had the car forever and spends a lot of his free time tinkering with it, but it never seems to look any different. Also, he’s part of a Corvette Club, but he doesn’t actually drive a Corvette. He’s a real man of mystery when it comes to automobiles. “Want a ride?” he calls.

  “Sure, thanks.” I head over.

  “Want to drive?” That’s the thing about Hank—he’s always offering to let me drive his car, even though Mom never lets me. She says it’s because I haven’t been taking my lessons.

  “Are you sure? I haven’t been practicing.” Back when Dad was alive, I used to take driving lessons every week, and Dad would let me practice any time we had to go out. But I stopped taking lessons after he died and I started getting panic attacks. And then this year, when I had to retake my SATs, driving lessons felt like one extra thing I shouldn’t be spending time or money on.

  He tilts his head and smiles. “Have you seen this thing?” He waves a hand over the hood. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I take the keys and I open the driver’s side door and slide in. Hank gets in on the passenger side.

  I adjust the mirrors, turn the key in the ignition then slowly back out of the parking space. “My instructor had a Ford Focus, so if there’s any chance of me not crashing a car, this would be it.”

  “Good to know.” Neither of us speaks for a bit, the only sound the talk radio chatter. “Aren’t you usually at Photo Club on Wednesdays?” Hank asks once I’m cruising along Elm Street.

  “Only a few of us could make it today so we decided to cancel,” I say, kind of surprised how easily the lie comes out.

  As the talk radio hosts blather on, my thoughts go to Dad. How he loved listening to podcasts any time he was in the car—didn’t matter if it was a road trip or a five-minute ride to pick up a pizza at Pete’s. When I was driving, though, I was allowed to put on the music of my choice. I would purposely take the long route to wherever we were going, just to torture him with whatever song I was obsessed with at the moment. Well, that and the fact I usually avoided left turns. Fact: it doesn’t actually take any longer to get somewhere if you’re only turning right.

  “You’re a good driver,” Hank says. “Maybe it’s not my business, but is there a reason you’re not taking your test?”

  I grip the steering wheel, deciding how much to share. “Avoidance, mostly. I guess the SAT fiasco was as big a failure as I could handle.”

  “I don’t think that your SAT retake counts as a failure. Think about how much time you spent visiting Dace, being a good friend to her, and worrying about her when you weren’t out visiting her. You shouldn’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “Yeah.” I pull onto my street. “Can I ask you something now?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do all the teachers talk?”

  “It definitely helps, since not many of us know sign language.” He chuckles. “Sorry, I’ll be serious. What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Or, I just meant, like, about stuff. Like if one teacher knows something, do you all know? Like, say, if someone gets detention or cheats on a test or something. Is that what you guys spend your time talking about in the lounge?”

  I pull into the driveway and put the car in park.

  “Hmmm,” he says. “Well, there’s a lot of talk about sports. Baseball, football, a bit of golf, that sort of thing. But if you’re asking if I heard about you getting waitlisted, yes, it came up. I don’t know that all the teachers know, but Mr. Aquila asked me how things were going for you at home, and it came out.”

  “Great. When did you find out?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did you tell my mom?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  “Positive?”

  I undo my seatbelt and turn to face Hank. He’s already looking at me. “Pippa, whatever your reason is for telling your mom you got in when you didn’t is your business. I don’t agree with it and I think you’ve got to decide when you’re going to tell her the truth, but this is between you two.”

  “I’ve got it under control. So you don’t have to worry.”

  “All right. Hey—” Hank reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know yourself best. And if you ever want to talk about anything, in confidence, just let me know.”

  “OK. Thanks.” We get out of the car and I hand Hank the keys. He moves to the driver’s side. “You’re not coming in?”

  He shakes his head. “Got to grab Charley from school.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, realizing that it was probably out of his way to drive home with me. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime, Pippa. I mean it.”

  Once I’m in my bedroom, I log on to the DMV road test site and click the first available appointment. Here goes nothing.

  THURSDAY, MAY 4

  Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading, and she doesn’t look up when I come into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” I say.

  She looks a little startled and flips the papers over. “You’re up early.”

  I yawn. “Garbage picking day.”

  “You want me to make you something to eat before you go?”

  “Nah,” I say. “I’ll just bring a muffin.” I grab one of the guilt muffins I bought at Scoops.

  “Let me grab you the good traveler.” She shuffles down the hall in her slippers. “I left it in the car.”

  When I hear the front door open, I flip over the papers she was looking at. Application for Mortgage.

  Mortgage? Why would we need a mortgage? When my grandparents moved into a retirement home, they gave their house to my mom and dad. So why would Mom need one now?

  Mom returns with the blue metal travel mug that doesn’t leak even if you knock it over, washes it, then fills it with coffee and hands it to me. It’s only then that I register she’s wearing her scrubs.

  “You’re working again this morning?” I ask. Normally, if she works a night shift, she has the next day off.

  She takes a sip of her coffee and nods. “Can’t keep me away. Good news is I’m leaving in ten minutes. So I can give you a
ride to Hanlan’s if you want?”

  “Please.”

  I open my mouth several times to bring up the mortgage papers, but it feels like one secret will lead to another and I’m not ready to have an all-out honesty session with Mom. Maybe one day, but not yet. So instead, I turn the volume up on the radio, and stare out the window as Mom drives.

  *

  I’m climbing the hill to the entrance of the park when it’s like someone has sneak-attack ice bucket challenged me. It’s a full on downpour and in seconds my hair is sopping wet and stuck to my face. I race toward the shed for cover, panicked for my camera, then remember I don’t have it. For once in my life, I’m glad. My phone in the front pocket of my pants is somehow dry, covered by my long sweater. My school bag is soaked as I shrug it off my back and leave it on the floor of the shed and start grabbing my supplies. I pause, then grab a second garbage bag, rip a hole in it and pull it over my head to cover my clothes. I grab a third and tie it under my chin to create a hood. Then I head out into the field and start picking up garbage. I walk the field in straight lines, up and down, up and down, and start to get into a groove. When I reach the concessions side of the field, I stand under the awning for a minute and watch the rain coming down. The thunking of rain on the tin roof above me is hypnotizing. I pull out my phone to check the time, and then flip over to my camera and take a photo of the waterfall streaming off the roof. Then I flip the camera to look at myself. I look ridiculous.

  I snap a selfie and post it to Instagram. A minute later, there’s already a comment, thanks to Dace.

  Hey Kylo Ren, where’s your lightsaber? #starwarsday #maythefourth

  I check the date—she’s right. It’s the fourth of May. I laugh and tuck my phone in my jeans. The rain makes me work quickly and 20 minutes later I’m putting my filled garbage bag back into the shed. I make my way down the hill to the sidewalk, and that’s when I see him. Standing in the rain, holding an umbrella, wearing a blue raincoat, worn jeans and high-top Vans. Dylan. My heart feels like it decided to take a leap up my chest to sit directly in my throat, preventing me from breathing, swallowing, anything. I press my lips together to stop myself from all-out grinning at him, because I am so happy to see him and not only because it’s pouring and he’s holding an umbrella.

  “Need a ride?” he calls, giving me a half-smile, revealing that dimple. I feel my face flush. But seriously? How would he even know that I’m here?

  “Really?” I say and he looks at me for a split second, then runs his hand over his chin, and looks around. He shakes his head. “Oh, no, sorry, I wasn’t offering a ride . . .” My face flushes and I feel mortified. “I was just asking if you needed a ride. You know, just curious.” He grins. “Nice look, by the way.” And I remember that I’m still wearing my black garb. But he moves closer, holding out his umbrella, and I step under it. My face is inches from his chest, so close that I can smell his oh-so-Dylan smell. It’s just soap, but it must be the same soap he used to use when we were together.

  Focus, Pippa. Breathe. But that only makes me inhale his good Dylan smell even more. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Who doesn’t know you’re here? Have you seen your post?”

  I pull the garbage bag off my head and pull out my phone. The screen is filled with alerts, and when I open my Instagram, I see I have more than a hundred likes and a dozen comments.

  I try not to act like it’s a big deal but I’ve never had more than a handful of likes on any photo.

  “So what exactly are you doing here?” he asks, leading me over to his car.

  “Community service.”

  “Ahh. Murder or armed robbery?” He opens the passenger door for me. “Yes, my dad still has this car.” I slide onto the blue vinyl, and it’s as though I’m entering a time warp, instantly transported back in time to my junior year, my first real date with Dylan when we came, in this car, to Hanlan’s Field to see the Cherry Blasters.

  Dylan slides into the driver’s seat, puts the wet umbrella in the back then starts the car.

  “So seriously, community service?” he says as we pull out of the parking lot.

  “For school. You know, to graduate.”

  “Ahh. I’m surprised you didn’t clock enough hours at the hospital. You were certainly there a lot.” His tone is teasing and my stomach flip-flops.

  “I kind of thought the same thing, actually.” I clear my throat. Be cool, Pippa. “But I have a handful more hours to do. So, um, what’s it like being back home?”

  He exhales. “Weird. Like being a kid again, kind of? Truthfully, it’s kind of the reason I didn’t want to come back. Living with my parents again, with my mom calling me from work to make sure I get out of bed. Speaking of which, I should text her to tell her I’m up, driving around, going for breakfast with you . . .”

  “We’re going for breakfast?”

  “Was that only in my head? Surely picking up all those hotdog wrappers made you ravenous?”

  I laugh. “Obviously.”

  “Anyway, what was I saying?”

  “Being home. Weird. Your mom.” I think back to the fight we had last year, how I thought he was being lazy because he was sleeping in while I was at school. Did I feel like a nag, just like his mom?

  “Oh yeah. It feels a bit like my mom forgets I’m home for summer vacation—like she’s paranoid I’m going to regress to last year. Admittedly it was a waste of a gap year, but that feels like an entire lifetime ago.”

  I think about how if Dylan hadn’t stayed home last year, we wouldn’t have been together. I wonder if he thinks we were a waste of time too.

  “Anyway, I was worried about that. Regressing. But there are reasons I’m glad to be back.” He looks over at me, and we lock eyes for a moment. Dylan turns down a side street, a street I recognize as the way to the Orange Turtle, a diner we used to go to when we were together.

  “One of those reasons is my dad—he had a heart attack in February.”

  “Oh no. Is he OK?”

  “He’s recovering. They caught it in time. He woke up with chest pains at, like, four in the morning. They say that’s often when it happens. When you’re coming out of REM, your heart rate speeds up because of the adrenaline. He woke my mom up and told her he thought they should go to the hospital. She was all panicked, obviously, and was asking him if she should call 911, but he was like, No, no, you just drive me. So they’re in the car and driving to the hospital and my mom stops at a red light—there’s no one around—and he was like, ‘Neema, I don’t think you should stop at any lights.’ My poor mom. Can you imagine?”

  My thoughts go straight to my drive with my dad. When he had such severe pain—not a heart attack but the tumor that killed him—and I had to drive him to the hospital.

  “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He looks at me. “Actually, when my mom was telling me about it, it was weird. I thought of you. With your dad.”

  “With my dad, it turned out it actually wouldn’t have mattered how quickly I drove. With your mom, that’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Yeah. She blames herself for not getting him to the hospital fast enough. He had some damage to his arteries. They had to do a triple bypass. It wasn’t even like he was out of shape. He golfs, plays squash, runs . . .”

  “Is he going to be OK?”

  Dylan nods. “Yeah. The recovery is long. Like a year to even get back to where he was. Anyway, that made it better, coming home. A purpose, you know? Plus the band and the Hanlan’s gig and . . .” He gives me that dimple.

  “I’m glad you’re back. You know, because of the free ride to school. And breakfast.”

  “Who said the breakfast was free? You know I’m Dutch by birth, right?”

  “You are not.”

  “I am one-eighth Dutch. I’m practically a von Trapp.”

 
“The von Trapps were Austrian.”

  He pulls into the Orange Turtle parking lot. “That’s another of the eighths. I’m at least 10 percent positive.” He turns off the ignition. “I haven’t been here in forever.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  The rain has let up a little but I still hurry inside, the scent of sugary French toast and coffee hitting me, and I breathe it in and try to calm myself down. I’m here. With Dylan. “I’m going to wash my hands. You know, garbage picking and all,” I say, heading to the back of the diner. When I return, Dylan’s in a booth. We used to always sit at the counter, but I don’t let myself overanalyze whether there’s meaning behind him choosing to sit across from me rather than side by side.

  The mix of natural sunlight and the glow from the faux-votives on each table makes the lighting perfect. I think of all the times I’ve taken pictures in here. Back before I limited myself to color schemes. I slide onto the vinyl seat and pick up my menu. After we order, we talk about music and movies and Boston and Dace and it all feels so easy. Like nothing weird ever happened between us, and I wonder if it’s just me that feels this way.

  The bells on the door jangle, and I look over to see Ben walk in. For a second I get a flashback to last year and our weird love triangle. But then I remind myself that things have changed. Ben and I are friends. Dylan and I are . . . I don’t know what we are. I wave to Ben and he saunters over.

  “Well, isn’t this some sort of weird reverse déjà vu,” he says, grinning. “McCutter.” Dylan stands and slaps hands with Ben like they’re old pals.

  “Hey Ben. How you doing?”

  Ben nods. “Good, dude. Hey, I was going to call you today to go over everything for the video. My guy has a couple of questions for you and some ideas to run by you, and then we just have to lock down the timing and location and stuff like that.”

  “Cool. I’m excited,” Dylan says, sitting back down. “You wanna join us?”