Boys of Summer (7 page)

“Don't worry!” a voice says from somewhere behind me. It's unmistakably female. “I've got you. You're going to be okay!”

I feel myself being dragged from behind. Confused, I try to turn around, but her hold on me is too tight. I struggle to break free.

“Relax!” she screams over the rush of the waves. “I've got you!”

“I don't need you to get me!” I call back, finally breaking away with one final shove. “I'm not drowning!”

I tread water and use my hands to spin my body toward my unwelcome savior. It's a girl I've never seen before. She's cute, in an elfish sort of way. Her short dark hair is wet and plastered against her forehead. She pants and pushes it
clumsily away, reminding me of the way Jake and Jasper brush hair from their eyes in the bathtub.

“Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! I saw you go under from my front porch. I totally thought you were drowning.” She spits out water. “Well, this is awkward.”

I peer down into the water we're both treading furiously. I can only see her from the chest up, but it looks like she's wearing pajamas.

“Sorry to scare you,” I say, my pulse finally starting to slow.

“No! I'm sorry!” she's quick to retort. “I'm a lifeguard. But I just finished training, so I'm still in that extra paranoid mode where I assume everyone is drowning. They kind of drill that into you. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

She's talking a lot. And very fast. It's kind of cute. Not to mention impressive. That she can talk that fast
and
tread water at the same time.

I laugh. “It's fine. I just lost my board. I was looking for it.”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I'll help you look!”

“You don't have to—” But it's too late. She's already dived under the water like a dolphin and is swimming away from me. I stare after her for a second, a little speechless, before taking off in the other direction.

I swim a couple laps back and forth in a small area before finally giving up. I'm sure it's washed up somewhere by now. But just as I'm about to head back to shore, I hear the girl call out, “Found it! I'll bring it in!”

I try to yell back “Thanks,” but a big wave takes me by surprise, splashing into my mouth, and I start choking again.

“You okay?” I hear her call. “Are you drowning this time?”

I manage to cough the remainder of water from my lungs and yell, “No!”

“Just checking!”

When I finally reach the sand, she's sitting next to my board like she's been waiting for hours. She pops up as I pull myself from the water and tug at my twisted swim trunks, which have ridden up so high that they're practically a Speedo.

“So sorry again,” she says, and I now have a full view of her. She's definitely wearing pajamas. And not just, like, a random tank-top-and-shorts combo like Harper always wears to bed, but full-on, matching-top-and-bottom pajamas
.
They're soaking wet and clinging to her body, which I admit is kind of a turn-on. And I can't be sure, but are those little ducks on the fabric?

She notices me looking and glances down, like she forgot what she was wearing. I half expect her to blush and try to cover herself up. Most girls would if they were caught out of their house in duck pajamas. But she doesn't. She just laughs.

“I was about to go to bed,” she explains. “I stepped out onto the porch to say good night to the ocean, and that's when I saw you, you know,
not
drowning.”

I shake my head, certain I misunderstood. “I'm sorry, did you say you were saying good night to the ocean?”

Once again she shows no embarrassment. “Yeah. You know, like ‘good night, room; good night, moon; good night, cow jumping over the moon.' ”

I recognize the words. They're from a book I used to read to the twins. It was one of the few they'd actually sit still long enough to finish. But it doesn't mean I'm able to follow anything she's saying.

“So you say good night to the moon, too?”

“Sometimes. But mainly just the ocean. I've never actually slept by the ocean. This is my family's first summer here. We live in western Mass. Like, near Amherst? We're renting one of those cottages.” She points up the beach. “Sometimes we go to a lake house in the Berkshires in the summer, but ‘Good night, lake' just doesn't have the same ring to it, you know?”

“But
why
do you say good night to the ocean?”

She shrugs. “I just think it's a nice gesture? Like in the book. No one ever says good night to their mittens or their socks. They should.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. This girl is a little bit crazy, but I'm pretty sure it's the good kind.

“Well, anyway,” she says, grinning, “I should get back. It was nice not saving you.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was the best non-rescue I've ever had. Maybe I'll see you around.”

She nods eagerly. “Totally. I'm working at the Coral Bay Beach Club all summer. In the kids' camp.”

“Oh, then I'll definitely see you. I do grounds maintenance there. You know, weeding, gardening, mowing, a little of everything.”

“Are you a local?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. It's just that I seem to be the only tourist here who actually has a job. I'm not really a sit-around-on-the-beach-all-day kind of girl. When we used to go to the lake house, I always worked at the sandwich shop in town. Plus, I wanted to start beefing up my resume. I'm starting Smith College in the fall. I'm studying to be an elementary school teacher.”

I don't even know this girl, but for some reason I can totally see her commanding a classroom full of kindergartners.
Like, the job is just stamped right across her forehead. It must be nice to know exactly what you're meant to do with your life.

“Well, you'll have your hands full at the club. The kids that come here in the summers are pretty crazy.”

She giggles and tucks her short hair behind her ears. “I think I can handle it.”

I laugh too, because it's kind of hard not to. “I bet you can.”

She bounces a little. “Okay, well, see ya.”

I watch her run down the beach toward the rental cottages, and I pick up my board and start home.

Our small, one-story, three-bedroom house is located smack dab in the middle of the island, where most of the locals live, which means it's about a ten-minute walk from any of the beaches. I've never minded it, though. I've always loved strolling through the town. The different smells and sounds. The subtle shift in scenery as you go from the tourist pockets into the local neighborhoods.

I've lived in this house my entire life. When my father was twenty-two, he came to the Locks for a summer vacation with his parents, sister, aunt and uncle, and three cousins. This was back when the island was just starting to become a destination spot. He met my mother—a local girl—on his third day, and basically he never left. I've always liked hearing the story of how my parents met, how my father gave up everything—his first big job, his apartment in the city, his life—just for my mom. It reminds me of what I promised to do for Harper. Only in reverse.

When I walk through the front door ten minutes later, the house is quiet. Jasper and Jake are both passed out on the couch in front of the TV. The title menu of the movie they were watching is on the screen, the DVD having run through the entire film and its credits.

I grab the remote and switch off the TV. I scoop up Jasper first, who hangs limply in my arms like a dead body, his head falling back over my arm, his arm flung into my face. I set him on the top bunk and return to the living room. Jake is the opposite. He curls up tightly against my chest when I lift him, like he's trying to fit into a too-small cocoon. You don't have to wonder who took up the most space in the womb.

Once they're both tucked in, I retreat to my own room and collapse onto the bed—wet bathing suit and all. It's then that I realize I left my T-shirt on the beach somewhere. There's no use in going back to find it. It's probably already a victim of the tide. Not that I have the energy to get up.

I know I should at least change out of my bathing suit, but my legs are far too sore and my eyelids are far too heavy. Just as my eyes drift closed, I catch a glimpse of the moon through my open bedroom window. Once again it looks completely different.

That fickle thing.

IAN

I
'm able to hide out in Grayson's house for more than a week before the guys stage an intervention. Mike and Grayson barge into the Cartwrights' guest room, which I've turned into my own little man cave, and rip the guitar right from my hands.

“The poetry too,” Grayson orders Mike. “Search the room. Find the poetry.”

“Guys,” I gripe. “What are you doing? There's no
poetry.
”

“Found it!” Mike says, holding up a yellow legal pad that I swiped from Mr. Cartwright's office a few days ago.

“There's always poetry,” Grayson says smugly.

I jump to my feet and try to snatch the pad from Mike's hand, but he holds it high over his head like we're still nine years old and playing keep-away with the ball. And who do you think was
always
the one they were keeping the ball away from?

Mike throws the pad to Grayson, who catches it awkwardly with his left hand.

“Give it back,” I demand. “That's private.”

“Don't worry. I have no desire to read your sappy poems,” Grayson says. “We're just here to save you from yourself.”

“I don't need saving,” I tell him.

Grayson carries my legal pad and guitar down the hall, places both in a closet, and locks the door with a key that he stashes somewhere in his bedroom. “You'll get those back after the party.”

I groan. “
No.
No parties.”

“Fine,” Grayson says, crossing his arms. “Then no guitar.”

I look to Mike behind us and appeal to him with my most pathetic look. He just shrugs.

I surrender a sigh. “What's the party?”

The Mexican-themed fiesta at the beach club pool is already in full swing when we arrive. Mike grabs us beers, and we stand off to the side and watch the tourists make fools of themselves, trying to do line dances that are way too complicated, to music that's way too old.

I really don't want to be here.

I appreciate the gesture, I suppose. The guys are only trying to help. But sometimes I wish they would just talk to me. Like friends are supposed to do. Instead of dragging me to these stupid shindigs. Do they really think that a bunch of drunk tourists and outdated songs are going to help?

I spot Whitney right away. She's sitting on a lounge chair, talking to a guy I've seen hanging around the past few summers but whose name I've never bothered to learn. I've tried my best to avoid her around the house the past week. Actually, I've done my best to avoid everyone. I've pretty much stayed holed up in my room, playing guitar (or trying to) and watching reruns of
Crusade of Kings
while I wait in agony for the next new episode to air, which, coincidentally, is tonight.

I notice that Whitney isn't dressed in her usual getup. She's wearing jeans and a basic black tank top, and she still
has her glasses on. And instead of the sleek, straight look she usually wears, her hair is wavy and untamed.

She probably broke her straightening iron when she was beating me up with it.

I watch the guy crack some joke and use it as an opportunity to place a hand on her knee. She laughs loudly at whatever he said, tossing her head around and accidentally catching my eye in the process. She shoots me a dirty look, and I drop my gaze to the sand.

I feel my blood pressure spike. I don't know what it is about that girl, but she completely stresses me out.

As I continue to glance around the pool, I get a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Not just because this party feels nearly identical to last week's clambake on the beach, but because it feels nearly identical to every party everywhere, going all the way back to the beginning of time. There are always two kinds of people at parties: the kind who join in and enjoy themselves—people like Whitney and Grayson and, according to my mom, my father—and the kind like me, who will never feel like they ever belong at a party.