A Midsummer's Nightmare

by Kody Keplinger

  “Whatever.”

  He smiled. “I still can’t believe you’re Greg Johnson’s daughter. That’s so awesome.”

  “It isn’t that glamorous…. Actually, it sucks ass at the moment.”

  “How is that possible?” Harrison asked. “He is so hot.”

  “My dad? Christ, that’s gross.”

  “He is.”

  “Ew.”

  He reached forward and put a hand on my knee. It was the least sexy knee-rub in the history of knee-rubs. “You get your looks from him, if it helps.”

  “Thanks. But that is still gross.”

  He laughed and grabbed his glass of soda. “What a pout you’ve got on you,” he said, lifting the drink to his lips.

  What a jerk. My misery was not funny. Or cute.

  “Here,” he said, putting his glass back down on the rickety bar. “Let me buy you a drink. What do you want?”

  No matter how frustrated I felt, a free drink just wasn’t something I could turn down.

  “Something strong,” I groaned.

  “Coca-Cola strong enough?”

  “Hardly.”

  He shook his head and looked down the bar. “Joe!” he called. “Hey, honey, can you get the pretty girl a Coke?”

  “Only if you stop calling me honey,” the bartender, a bearded man in his thirties, replied. “We’ve had this discussion before, Harrison.”

  “Aw, Joe. It’s so cute that you think I listen.”

  The bartender poured some Coke into a glass and slid it toward me. Harrison winked and handed the cash to Joe, who rolled his eyes before walking back to the other end of the bar, where more customers waited.

  “He hates it when I flirt with him,” Harrison whispered to me. “Which just makes it funnier.”

  I laughed and reached for my Coke. “Thanks,” I said, taking a big gulp. I tried to pretend it was tequila—or even just beer—but my body knew better. Goddamn it, I couldn’t even trick myself out of sobriety. Like those cases you hear about sometimes, when people have convinced themselves they were drunk through the power of persuasion. I wanted to persuade myself that I was wasted.

  Apparently, I’m not very gullible.

  I took another drink, wishing I’d thought to smuggle my bottle of cheap tequila in with me.

  “So, how long are you in Hamilton for?”

  “Just the summer,” I said. “Then it’s off to University of Kentucky.”

  “Nice. What major?”

  “No fucking idea.” I sighed. “Kind of hoping Dad will help me figure it out this summer. He went to UK, too. What about you?”

  “I graduated a year ago, but I took a year off to figure out all the ‘rest of my life’ stuff, so I know how you feel. But I’m off to UCLA this fall. I’m majoring in fashion design. Maybe not the smartest choice, but it’s what I love.”

  “California,” I mused. “I bet you’ll be happy to get out of this shithole.”

  He shrugged. “I guess. You know, the place is lame, but it’s home. And it’s not that bad if you know where to go. You just have to have friends.”

  “Then I’m screwed.”

  He chuckled. “Tell you what. I’ll be your friend, okay?”

  “I don’t really do friends,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said. “I don’t want you to ‘do’ me. We’ve established the flaws in that plan already. But we can hang out. Oh, or shop. Your outfit is super cute…. Though I’m not a fan of the flip-flops. They look cheap.”

  “Thanks, Tim Gunn. Anything else you’d like to critique?”

  “I’m just being honest. You’re a fashion slut.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have good taste, but you’re stepping into too many styles,” he said. “Those flip-flops might be all the rage this season, but they don’t fit you. The rest of your look doesn’t scream ‘beach babe.’ Nope. You need to stick with one style. For you, I’d say that style is sexy-casual. Oh, some nice wedge sandals would be perfect for you.”

  “You don’t even know me,” I reminded him. “What gives you the right to analyze my style?”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “I don’t know you, but I do know fashion. I’m gay, remember? Do you really want to argue wardrobe choices with me?”

  “Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you get to bandy about that horrible stereotype. I’ve partied with tons of gay guys who sucked with clothes,” I pointed out.

  Harrison shrugged. “They weren’t me.”

  Reluctantly, I looked down at my flip-flops. I hated to admit it, but he was right. Now that I thought about it, they really didn’t go with the rest of the outfit. They looked kind of tacky with the little plastic flowers along the straps. It just didn’t work for me. Less sexy, more little-girl cutesy.

  “So, are you going to argue?” he asked again, clearly watching as I examined the footwear faux pas.

  “No,” I mumbled. “I’m not going to argue with you.”

  “Good call.”

  It didn’t seem like any time had passed when I saw Nathan approaching us, jingling car keys in his right hand. Somehow, Harrison had managed to pull me into a conversation about the best and worst name-brand fashion designers, so I didn’t even see him coming until Harrison’s emerald eyes lit up like lightbulbs and a Cheshire Cat smirk began to spread across his face.

  “Hey,” Nathan said, stopping next to my stool. “Ready to get out of here?”

  “This soon?”

  Nathan looked over at Harrison, then turned back to me. “Sorry,” he said. “But Bailey’s ready to go. She says she doesn’t feel well.”

  Classic cop-out, I thought. Is that the best excuse the kid could come up with?

  “Hello there.” Harrison winked at me as he extended his hand toward Nathan. “I’m Harrison Carlyle. You must be Whitley’s stepbrother.”

  “Not yet,” Nathan said. “Our parents don’t get married until sometime in September. I’m Nathan, by the way. I’m sure Whit told you that.”

  “Whit-ley,” I snarled. “With two syllables.”

  “She is so lucky to see your handsome face every morning,” Harrison told Nathan. “Many people would kill to be in her position.”

  “Ha. I doubt that, but thanks.” Nathan laughed. “I’ll meet you in the car, Whit. Bailey’s already outside.”

  “Fine.”

  Nathan nodded to Harrison once before turning and walking out the front door of the club.

  Harrison practically swooned. “Now that is beauty. I mean, that body? Tall and lean… You can’t tell me there aren’t a few dirty things you’d like to do to him.”

  “Not really,” I said, mentally adding, I’ve already done them. Slowly, I stood up. “I should go.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I really liked talking to you. We should do this again.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  The truth was, as cool as Harrison had seemed, what I’d told him was true. I didn’t really do the whole “friends” thing. Not since middle school, anyway. In my experience, friends turned on you, abandoned you, lied about you. The best kind of “friends” were the ones you played beer pong with at a party and never saw again. I just wasn’t looking to make friends.

  I was already moving away when he caught my elbow.

  “Actually,” he said, spinning me to face him again. The guy was pretty strong, I’ll give him that. “My best friend is having a party at his house. You should come.”

  I wasn’t looking for friends, but I was looking for a party.

  “Will it be as lame as this place?” I asked, gesturing to the stage, where the shitty band attempted to fix their malfunctioning sound equipment.

  “Oh, God, no,” Harrison assured me. “This party will be killer. He lives in a freaking mansion. You should come and hang out. I’ll introduce you to everyone. It’ll be fun.”

  “Will there be drinks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Besides Coke. I mean, like, beer or—”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” Harrison insisted. “There will be.”

  “Then I’ll be there.”

  “Fabulous. Don’t wear those flip-flops, for God’s sake.”

  “I won’t,” I told him, handing over my cell so he could program his number into my phone book. I’d call and get the address later. “I promise.”

  “Great.”

  He handed back my phone and I started to walk away again, but Harrison yelled after me, managing to raise his voice over the loud feedback from the ancient speakers. I turned to look at him one more time.

  “It’s this Saturday night,” he said. “Do you think you could get Nathan to come?” There was that hope again. That same bright sparkle I saw in Bailey’s eyes. But this one… this one I had to crush. For Harrison’s own good.

  “He’s straight,” I said.

  “How straight?”

  “He sleeps with girls, so I’d say pretty straight.”

  Harrison’s face fell, but only for a second. “Oh, well. He should still come. The party will be a blast. I’ll see you there.”

  I nodded and, finally, managed to walk all the way out the door.

  7

  It was way too early the next morning when Sylvia knocked on the door of the guest room. Like, eight-o-freaking-clock. I rolled out of bed, feeling distinctly murderous, and stumbled across the room.

  “Yeah?” I said, pulling the door open a crack.

  “Do you want breakfast?” she asked, showing all of her perfect teeth when she smiled. I saw a sudden flash of what she might look like if I knocked out a few of them.

  She was already dressed in a navy suit and those super-high heels. For a second I was confused about why. Then I remembered she must have work, which meant it was Monday. The summer always had me screwed up like that.

  “I’m good,” I replied, already starting to close the door.

  She stuck out the toe of her shoe, forcing me to keep it open. “Do you have plans for this morning?” she asked.

  “Um, yeah. Sleep.”

  She laughed.

  That hadn’t been a joke.

  “Well, there is some money on the counter in case you decide you want to go out,” she said. “There’s not much to do in Hamilton, I know, but there’s a mall and a movie theater in the next county—about twenty minutes from here. I’m sure you or Nathan could look up directions on the computer. And there’s plenty of food in the fridge when you get hungry. Your dad will be home around noon, but you can call my cell if you need anything. The number is on the counter.”

  “I’m eighteen,” I told her. “I know how to take care of myself.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “I know you do. I’m just… trying to be helpful.”

  “Well, thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” Sylvia said, eyeing me for a second more. Slowly, she slid her foot out of the door opening. “Then I guess I’m off to work. It’s my first day at the new firm, so wish me luck. Bailey and Nathan are downstairs watching TV.”

  They were seriously awake at this hour? Dear God, I must be living with aliens.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” she added, starting down the hallway. “Have a fun day.”

  “Whatever.”

  A second later, her heels were clacking down the stairs as she sang an old Donna Summer song under her breath. Now I knew where Nathan got it.

  I closed the door and crawled back into the comfy guest bed, burying my face in the pillow and pulling the blankets up to my neck. My eyes squeezed shut as I willed sleep to wash back over me. It wasn’t noon yet. I should still be dreaming. Dreaming of things so much better than this summer.

  But I was wide awake now, and sleep just wouldn’t come.

  After twenty minutes, I gave up. I climbed out of bed and walked over to my duffel bag, searching through the mess inside for clothes to wear. Within seconds, though, I came across my bathing suit, tossed among the shorts and T-shirts and rolled-up socks, and I decided exactly what I’d be doing that day.

  I slipped off my pajamas and pulled on the hot pink string bikini I’d packed. The thing only covered what was required by law. Maybe there would be some cute boy living next door who’d see me through the fence. Or perhaps Sylvia had enough money to hire a sexy pool boy I could flirt with. After striking out with Harrison, I needed a little bit of ego stroking.

  I grabbed my iPod and walked downstairs, not bothering to put on a T-shirt or anything as a cover-up. No point getting something else dirty, after all.

  Nathan was making a bowl of cereal at the counter when I walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a pair of black athletic shorts with a rusty-orange-colored T-shirt (how did Harrison like him when he was so poorly dressed?), and he had to push his messy hair out of his eyes. I didn’t miss the way those eyes popped when he looked up and saw me. The way his cheeks flushed and his mouth parted a little was all the ego stroking I needed. Apparently he didn’t have to be drunk to find me attractive. Good to know.

  “Um… hey.” He cleared his throat twice. “You… You going swimming?”

  “No, just lying out,” I said, grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge.

  “Oh. Cool.” He turned away, focusing on his hands a little harder than was required to pour milk into a bowl of cereal.

  It was interesting seeing calm, collected Nathan looking a little shaken. While I’d been biting my tongue to keep from screaming at dinner every night and downing tequila alone in my bedroom to keep my mind off the awkwardness and frustration, Nathan had seemed completely unaffected. Call me cruel, but I wanted to see him squirm a little.

  “Hey, Nathan?” He looked up from his cereal bowl, and I smiled as innocently as I could. “Do you know if anyone would mind me sunbathing topless? Would the neighbors see?”

  And here I thought his blush couldn’t get any deeper.

  “Because,” I continued, holding the can of Diet Coke in one hand and tugging lightly at the cord that held my iPod around my neck with the other, “it’s just that the tan looks so much… smoother.”

  Nathan took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly before answering. “There’s a chance the people next door might get offended.”

  “Oh.” I sighed. I could see Nathan’s eyes following the progress of my hand as I tucked my earbuds into my ears, letting my fingers slide across my neck just a little. “Fine. I guess I’ll just get tan lines. Thanks anyway, Nathan.”

  “Yeah… no problem.”

  With a smirk, I turned and walked out the sliding glass door.

  As far as I could tell, there was no cute pool boy, which was kind of a bummer, but whatever. The look on Nathan’s face would have to last me for a while. I slid into a lounge chair, kicking up my bare feet and scrolling through my iPod. I was in the mood for some Madonna. Not her new stuff, but old-school Madonna. Back before the Kabbalah and the MTV make-out with Britney Spears. So I skimmed through my playlist until I found “Like a Prayer,” then closed my eyes, letting the sound and sun wash over me.

  I lay there for a while, listening to a shuffled mix on my iPod. As a rule, I didn’t listen to anything released after 1999, so every song that came on was pretty awesome. Midway through the chorus of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” I got the distinct impression that someone was watching me.

  Wondering if maybe a cute boy really did live next door, I opened my eyes.

  Gross.

  Someone next door was watching me through the gaps in the fence, but he wasn’t cute, or remotely close to boyhood. This gray-haired old dude was totally ogling me. When he saw me glaring at him, he immediately went back to pulling the weeds in his pathetic little garden. I guess his wife refused to do it. Good for her. If her man was eye-raping teenagers, he ought to be doing the hard labor. Pervert.

  I got up and turned my chair around to face the other direction so the perv couldn’t look at me. Any enthusiasm I’d felt earlier for tanning was pretty much gone. Having Nathan mentally undress me was one thing. I mean, I guess it
was technically kind of weird, since we were going to be stepsiblings, but at least he was my age, and hot—and with Nathan, I’d wanted him to do it. This dinosaur was just a creep.

  I sat back in the chair and put on some Joan Jett. She always helped me work through my anger. I had this feeling that if we met in real life, Joan would have loved me. We were kindred spirits. If anyone could make me feel better, it was her.

  It was scorching hot. I was barely clothed and still felt like I’d been put in an oven to bake. I squeezed my eyes shut again, deciding to think about something else. If I wanted a decent tan, I’d just have to deal.

  I couldn’t help thinking of the place where I should have been tanning. A big-ass lake with sunlight gleaming off the surface. A striped beach towel stretched out across hot sand. Surely there were disgusting old guys lurking around there, too, but I’d never caught them spying on me.

  Everything about this place was wrong, like a fun-house mirror distorting the reflection of what my summer was supposed to be. On the surface, some parts looked the same; I was still with Dad, the way I wanted. But the details were altered beyond recognition. The people, the location, even this goddamn swimming pool—none of it was right.

  I groaned and rolled onto my stomach, laying my iPod next to me on the lounge chair. The next song on my playlist was Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer.” How appropriate. This summer was more than cruel, though. It was a nightmare. And I just wanted to wake up.

  Whit… Whit, wake up.

  If only it were that easy. If only someone could just shake me a little. I wanted to open my eyes and be back at the condo, in the old bed with the creaking frame, wrapped in the neon-green and orange comforter Dad bought me the first summer we spent there, the smell of charcoal from the grill wafting in through my bedroom window.

  A hand on my shoulder, sending me back there, shaking me out of this summer, this bad dream.

  For a dazed moment, it was like God had heard my prayers. I felt a cool palm pressed against my bare back, nudging me gently.

  It took a minute for reality to sink in, and my first coherent thought was that the gross old guy had hopped the fence and was trying to molest me or something. So I flailed onto my side, slapping at my attacker with the back of my hand.