Someone Else's Summer

by Rachel Bateman

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Bateman

  Published by Running Press Teens,

  An Imprint of Perseus Books, LLC,

  A Subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.

  Books published by Running Press are available at special discounts for bulk purchases in the United States by corporations, institutions, and other organizations. For more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at Perseus Books, 2300 Chestnut Street, Suite 200, Philadelphia, PA 19103, or call (800) 810-4145, ext. 5000, or e-mail special.markets@perseusbooks.com.

  ISBN 978-0-7624-6219-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016945286

  E-book ISBN 978-0-7624-6221-6

  Front cover image: © Thinkstock Images/Wavebreakmedia Ltd

  Cover and interior design by T. L. Bonaddio

  Edited by Julie Matysik

  Typography: Chaparral Pro and Mix Redux

  Running Press Book Publishers

  2300 Chestnut Street

  Philadelphia, PA 19103-4371

  Visit us on the web!

  www.runningpress.com/rpkids

  E3-20170404-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  June Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  July Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  August Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  to Rani

  who got the cooler name and the cooler sister.

  No thanks for the sushi that time, though.

  I remember the rain most of all. The day had been beautiful, the sun just peeking through the clouds and falling across the grass where the graduates sat on metal folding chairs. A light breeze played with tassels hanging from mortarboards and fluttered cheap polyester robes as the speakers passed token words of wisdom from the podium.

  Suddenly, just as hundreds of maroon caps took to the sky, the clouds opened up and rain washed the earth.

  It was just a sprinkling at first, enough to scatter dark spots across shoulders and cool sunburned skin. As the day wore on, the skies darkened more, until it looked like dusk at midafternoon. By the time the all-night party started, the gutters had filled with small rivers and our backyard was a swamp.

  Hours later, the rain still pattered a steady rhythm on the roof as a shrill ring pulled me from sleep. Mom and Dad insisted on keeping a landline with receivers throughout the house, even though we rarely used it. The ancient, corded phone blaring just outside my bedroom door should have been my first indication something was wrong; I should have known right away. That’s the way it always happens in movies—there’s intuition, a feeling deep in the gut. I had none of that, just a mild irritation at whoever was calling. And the constant, insistent rain.

  Then my world ended with Mom’s ear-breaking scream.

  Chapter 1

  People stream past photo collages and an overgrown collection of sickly sweet flowers, passing me on the way to their seats. They try not to stare, but how can they not? I sit, not in customary black, but in intense blue, a bright star blinding them in the darkest night. The little sister, left behind. Pretty soon, I’ll be the big sister. The only sister.

  The church is packed. Television screens have been set up in the auxiliary rooms to broadcast the service to people who can’t fit in the chapel. When I arrived this morning, ushered in by Aunt Morgan, the church staff was erecting a projection screen on the front lawn, anticipating more people than will fit in the tiny building. They’re apparently preparing for all of Muscatine to show up.

  Because that’s what happens when someone so young dies tragically. The whole town was rocked when the news hit—Storm Holloway, shining star of Muscatine High School, dies in a one-car accident on her way home from an all-night graduation party held at the Civic Center. Storm, who was heading to UNCW in the fall on academic scholarships. Storm, who the town remembers as the spunky little girl they rallied behind a decade earlier as she fought cancer and won.

  Jovani tenses, his arm tightening around me, and Aunt Morgan squeezes my hand so hard the bones grind against each other. I force my gaze to the front of the chapel. A boy is standing in front of a collage filled with pictures of the three of us as kids, and even from behind, I can tell how broken he is. His body is all sharp corners and acute angles, pieced together with tape and a child’s glue stick. Nothing fits together; he clutches his lanky arms around his midsection so tightly it looks like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go. His shoulders shake, threatening to vibrate his whole body to pieces.

  Cameron Andrews: the boy who was supposed to drive her home.

  I sneak a glance at Mom and Dad. I don’t know if they blame Cam—I don’t know anything about what they think or feel anymore. It’s like the phone call that early morning didn’t just pull my parents from their sleep, but from their entire lives. The daughter they’d fought so hard to protect, to heal. The daughter they’d beaten the odds with was gone. Now they didn’t talk to me or anyone, only to each other. Aunt Morgan had to plan the service when they refused to make any decisions. They completely shut down, and I have no idea how to bring them back.

  When Cameron turns from the pictures and his eyes lock with mine—his bloodshot and wet, framed by splotchy skin and pure devastation; mine clear and steely—I can see the fear on his face. He thinks I hate him, that everyone hates him. It hits me as he passes our row, hesitating briefly, that he blames himself.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say, so I gesture vaguely toward the aisle Cameron just vacated.

  Aunt Morgan lets my hand go for the first time since we arrived at the church. “Hurry back,” she whispers. “I think it’s about to start.”

  Shrugging Jovani’s arm from around me, I stand, and my back is bombarded with stares. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room turning in my direction, watching, waiting for me to make a scene. But I won’t give them that. Instead, I square my shoulders, set my gaze straight ahead, and make my way toward the aisle, stepping over Jovani and my best friend, Piper. I pull in a deep breath and turn to face the room, forcing back the panic rising in me, threatening tears. These people don’t deserve my tears, don’t get to see me break down. They aren’t here to support me or my family; they aren’t here to grieve.

  No, when this many people come to the funeral of a teenage girl they don’t really know, they do it for one reason only: to celebrate their own lives. To remind them how short life can be and how lucky they are to have made it past eighteen.

  A move
ment to the right catches my attention, and my eyes flick toward it before I can stop myself. Taylor sits at the far end of the row, surrounded by the rest of the cheerleaders. They are here for me, the logical part of my brain reminds me. Piper and me, we’re part of them. We go to the parties, eat together at lunch. We sleep at one another’s houses and share secrets. But when I see Taylor now, all I can think of is how heartless she can be. How she’ll make fun of anyone who isn’t just like the rest of us.

  Did Storm know back then? Did she know my friends mocked her? That I was too weak, too insecure, to stop them?

  Anger licks my skin, and my hands clench into fists at my sides. Taylor smiles sadly and offers a small wave, but I turn away from her and continue down the aisle.

  Cameron startles when I squeeze myself between him and the middle-aged woman sitting beside him near the back. He stares with open shock for a moment before finding his voice.

  “Nice dress,” he says, his words falling flat.

  “Thanks.” I finger the white and hot pink tulle sticking out from the bottom of the blue skirt. The dress is almost comically bright. “It was—”

  “Her favorite. I know. I was there when she bought it.”

  I don’t know why this surprises me. They were always together. Cameron and Storm. Storm and Cameron. A package deal. It’d been that way since we were kids. But somehow, I never imagined what that meant. That if she bought a dress, Cam would be there, waiting outside the fitting room until she found the perfect one. Since I joined the squad and started going out with my own friends instead of tagging along with them, I guess I forgot what it was like between Storm and Cameron.

  “It looks nice on you,” he says.

  A small laugh barks from my mouth, and I clamp a hand over my lips. A few people in the row ahead of us turn to glare.

  “This thing barely covers my butt,” I whisper. “I feel like some perv’s happy-gram in it.” Guess that’s what happens when I put my five-foot-ten body into a dress made for my five-foot-zero sister.

  “It can’t be any shorter than your cheerleading skirt,” Cameron says. His face breaks into a lopsided grin, still with a twinge of sadness, but he’s clearly trying for lighthearted. “Besides, you’ve got great legs. She always said she wished she had your legs. She’s probably thrilled to see one of her crazy dresses on you finally.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. That was so—”

  “No, it’s good. I’m so sick of people treating me like I might explode at any second if they mention her.”

  He shrugs, dropping his head to stare at his hands, where they hang between his knees. His thick-framed glasses slip down his nose. I reach over and grab his hand. “Come on.”

  Cameron gives me a confused look, and I give a little tug. “You’re family, always have been. Come sit with us.”

  Staring at our clasped hands, he says, “I don’t know, Anna. Your parents…”

  “My parents are in such a daze they don’t even know what’s happening right now. But if they did, they would want you with us.”

  “Are you sure?” His voice breaks on the last word and a shudder works its way through his body, down his arm, and into my hand. “I should have—why did I let her go by herself?”

  A fissure breaks in my heart, and I swallow back my tears before they appear. I wrap my other hand around his. “I love Storm more than anything in the world, Cameron. You know that. But she is… was”—a tiny sob sounds like a hiccup in my throat—“the most stubborn person in the history of stubborn people. If she didn’t want you to come with her, you would have had to knock her out to get into that car.”

  “Maybe I should have.”

  “And then what, Cam?” I’m aware that my voice is rising to near hysteria. People are staring out right now, not bothering to be discreet. The pastor stands just to the left of the pulpit, watching us. The ornate clock behind him tells me the service was supposed to start three minutes ago. I lower my voice, slightly. “And then what? You would both be up there on the altar? Should we have gotten you matching urns? You had no way to know what was going to happen.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut tight, shakes his head slowly as if trying to shake off the deluge of emotions washing over him. “I still should have…”

  “Enough,” I say. “The service is going to start. Please, come sit with us. Storm would have wanted it.” I stand, pulling his hand softly. “I want it.”

  “Okay,” he says so softly the word barely makes it to my ears. He stands and we make our way back to sit with my broken family.

  I clutch his hand the whole way, as if he’s the only thing keeping me from floating away.

  Chapter 2

  At Muscatine High School, I’m not queen bee, but I’m close enough. I know how people see me: cocaptain of the cheer squad, popular, pretty. They don’t see the girl I was—the one I still am, somewhere deep down. The girl who idolized her older sister, who wanted to be just like her and do everything she did. No, they see what I want them to see. And so girls want to be me, and guys want to be with me. My best friend is the hottest girl in school, and my sometimes-boyfriend is on the football team. Since freshman year, when Piper and I were the only new girls on Varsity, I’ve had it made.

  Storm was an outcast, a geek. She was the girl who dressed weird and always carried an old camera around and took five AP classes her senior year. She listened to bands nobody had ever heard of and spent lunch breaks leaned against a pillar in the middle of the quad with oversize headphones on her ears and equally oversize Russian novels in her lap. Everyone knew her—by her loud outfits and whispers about her cancer and oft-told stories of revolts she led in classes, pressing her teachers until she got her way. But nobody really knew her the way I did.

  We were born only eleven months apart. Irish twins, Mom loved to call us, even though there was nothing Irish about our family. When Storm and I were kids, Mom and Dad would joke that I was so eager to follow Storm that I couldn’t even wait to join the family.

  And follow her I did. All my earliest memories are of the two of us, her always leading the way. With Storm, the backyard wasn’t just the backyard. It was an enchanted forest and a medieval battlefield and a haunted fortress. We spent our days building faerie traps under the oak tree and collecting ingredients for witches’ brews. Being with Storm was everything, and I wanted to be just like her. Our days were filled with make-believe and magic, just the two of us in a world of our own.

  Then one day, a new car pulled into the driveway next door, and a boy Storm’s age stumbled out of the backseat. He was tall and gawky; his hair stuck up at an odd angle on the side of his head, and the glasses that wrapped around the backs of his ears overpowered his face. His pants were a full inch too short, and he scratched the toe of one scuffed tennis shoe across the exposed ankle of the opposite leg. When he saw us watching him, he raised a tentative hand. I mimicked his shy wave; Storm ran across the driveways to meet him.

  Two grew to three. From then on, Cameron was a part of our world, right beside us every day. The two of them would be going to kindergarten that fall, and we did everything we could to prolong the summer. We were up before the sun and begged the parentals every night to let us stay outside way later than our normal bedtimes. It was a summer of Popsicles and swimming pools and sleeping in tents. We wore the mothers out during the days and dragged the fathers, in their suits and ties, to the small wood at the edge of our yards right after work to help us search for faerie rings.

  The day school started, I stood and watched Storm and Cameron settle into their new classroom, seated side by side at their table, knees and shoulders touching. I swallowed the lump in my throat and waved good-bye to them, trying to smile.

  I cried the whole way home, begging the mothers to turn back and let me go to school, too. When we arrived home, I ran straight through the backyard to the big oak tree to check our faerie trap. But without Storm there, the tree was just a tree. The magic wasn’t in the woods or the yard or anywhere; the magic
was in my sister, and she wasn’t there. Lost, I went inside.

  That school year, I spent my days hovering over Mom, trying to learn everything she was doing, finding someone else to follow. I learned how to can peaches and make ice cream and how to perfectly fold a fitted sheet. We played Trouble for hours and read Nancy Drew and the Little House books and watched The NeverEnding Story on repeat. Until three thirty came, and the squeak of the school bus’s brakes sounded Storm and Cameron’s return. Then the magic came back for the evening.

  Storm’s diagnosis came just before my seventh birthday. Non-Hodgkin Burkitt lymphoma. It sounded like a foreign language. I had no idea what it meant or why Mom and Dad were so scared. All I knew was that, with those words, everything changed.

  Our days morphed from soccer games and tree climbing to doctor visits and obsessive house cleaning. I got in trouble for doing the exact same things nobody cared about just a month before, and Mom was constantly shushing me, pushing me out the door so I wouldn’t interrupt Storm’s rest. Cameron was in Nevada with his nana and papa for the summer, so it was just me in the backyard, separated from my sister and a whole world.

  Then she went to the hospital, and I was really alone. Aunt Morgan came to watch me, feeding me frozen pizza and letting me stay up late to watch Law & Order with her. The summer blew by in a haze of murder mysteries, pepperoni, and visits to the pediatric cancer ward, where Mom made me dress in a full paper gown and mask, even when the doctors said the risk of infection wasn’t that high anymore. Cameron came home at the end of the summer, but it wasn’t the same without Storm there. Cam and I rode the school bus together and played outside when we got home. We had fun, but my sister’s absence always hung over us.

  When she came back home, her hair was nothing more than soft black fuzz on her head, and her eyebrows were gone. But her smile was just the same: bigger than big and so bright it made me grin every time I saw it. I moved into her room then, sneaking in every night after bedtime to curl up next to her and share the bed.