Twenty Boy Summer (13 page)

Five minutes. I'll just take five minutes.

I pull open the glass door and walk to the middle of the store, letting the smell of old books soak into my lungs. It's different than I expect; it feels more like a library than a store, and I can totally picture Matt hanging out here. He loved to read. He loved words, the way they string together into sentences and stories. He wanted to study them, to know and create them, to share them with the world. Often, Frankie and I would sit on his bed while he read passages from his favorite books, pacing frantically as he turned the pages for the best parts of a story. He read with intensity and was passionately in love with every character, every turn of plot or twist of language. He made the characters come alive for us, like he wasn't reading a work of fiction but telling stories about his own friends.

Frankie liked hearing his stories, but she was never much for reading. I've always enjoyed books, and Matt would pass along his favorites, including those he'd picked up here -- Jack Kerouac's
On the Road,
a book that sparked a restlessness in me that was unrequited until this trip.
Howl
by Allen Ginsberg.
Dharma Bums
-- another Kerouac book that left me equally longing to travel, to discover, to feel.

After my birthday last summer, in our short weeks together, Matt would whisper passages to me as I lay sideways across his bed with my feet up, waiting for Frankie to change or shower or whatever it was that gave me and Matt a few moments alone.

It's my mission in life to make you care about these words, Anna. About these people and everything they say and everything they were.
He traced the lines of my face with his fingers as he spoke.
Every story is part of a whole, entire life, you know? Happy and sad and tragic and whatever, but an entire life. And books let you know them.

The sun would fall on his face as he read, lighting up the whole room. That's how much he loved words.

Frankie privately collects her memories of Matt, but this one is all mine -- a connection she can't share, a memory she can't hold in her hands or put in the tightly closed jar with the others. Love of reading was something I shared with him alone,
because
of him alone. It was everything to him.

I walk up and down the aisles and run my hands along the spines of books, old and new. An undisturbed layer of dust on one particular shelf makes me think that Matt may have touched the same books the last time he was here. I crouch down to read some of the titles on the faded spines, remembering a description of this exact scene from one of Matt's postcards.

Books line the shelves in no particular order, waiting to be discovered. It's like the spirits of Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Ferlinghetti haunt the aisles, calling me to pick them. To read their stories. To let them be heard. You would love it, Anna.

He was right. I love it. And soon I can no longer tell the difference between my own real experiences here in Matt's favorite bookstore and the ghost stories that have imprinted themselves in my mind from years of postcards.

I buy a book of poetry about the ocean by local writers from the seventies, thank the cashier, and take one final look around before crossing the street to find Frankie.

Inside Vesuvio, I move through the tables and bar area looking for Frankie's auburn hair, but she's not here.

"Have you seen a girl my age?" I ask the bartender. "She came in, like, a half hour ago? Short skirt?"

"Nah," he says. "I just started my shift. Sorry."

My heart pounds in my chest. I can't believe I lost her. I dig in my bag for my cell phone, hoping she's not too mad at me to answer.

"Try the second floor," the bartender says.

Upstairs, there she is. Sitting at a two-top with some guy, stirring her drink with a straw, laughing with her head back at something her newfound companion says.

"Frank?"

"Oh, there you are." She's wearing her grown-up voice. "I'd like you to meet Jeremy."

"It's Jarred," he says, standing to offer me his chair. He looks about our age but acts much older. "Frankie has told me much about you, Anna."

"Jarred left high school to pursue his music in the city."

"What kind of music?" I ask, wondering if Jarred has what it takes to break the Jake spell.

"I play drums for a few bands," he says. "Mad Rabbit and Hex?"

"Cool." I nod like I've been listening to his bands my whole life.

"Speaking of which," he says, "I have rehearsal now. I should go."

Frankie smiles over her soda. "Thanks for the drink," she says. "Don't mention it. So, see you at the show later?"

"Definitely."

"Sweet." Jarred smiles and heads to rehearsal, practicing to win the heart of his dream girl at tonight's show -- the one we're apparently attending.

"What show?" I ask. "Or was it just to get a free drink?"

She smiles, no longer mad at me. "You're learning fast."

"All right," I say. "We're up to six." I'm glad she's the one growing and grooming the list. The last thing I need is more boy confusion.

"Get anything?"

"A poetry book." I sit down across from her. "Mostly I just wanted to check it out."

Frankie nods, sighs, sips her soda, sighs again, and then, as if possessed, apologizes.

"Sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to ditch you. I got hit with this Matt-wave or something."

"No," I say. "It's me. I should have been more sensitive. I just got really excited when I saw the bookstore."

"It's okay." She gives me a sip of her drink. "I was just thinking about how he used to read to us," she says. "Remember? He'd get so into it, it was like he was acting out the play or something."

I smile and watch her closely, waiting for her to get that faraway look again. But she stays right here with me on the second floor of Vesuvio, wearing her short jean skirt with the slit up the thigh, drinking Diet Coke with lemon on our big sneaky trip into the city.

"I took some of his books," she tells me. "Before Mom started freaking out and not letting anyone in his room. I don't know why -- I'm not a reader."

I nod, trying to remember what his room looks like. I haven't been in there since the day before he died, when he played Frankie and me this HP rehearsal bootleg he found online. Jayne keeps the door shut now, like the attic room at the beach house, confident in our silent understanding that no one will enter.

"You should take them," she says, and for a moment I forget what she's talking about.

"What?"

"You always liked to read his books. If he were here, he'd have given them to you already."

"Frankie, I can't. I mean, I --"

"He would want you to have them."

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand and she closes her eyes against a single tear. In typical ridiculous Anna fashion, I still can't find the words to break my promise and tell Frankie about everything that happened, but the lid on
her
memory jar has loosened, and for the moment, I'm grateful.

It's after three when we leave Vesuvio. Since the Cartoon Museum is closed for renovation and neither of us can think of anything else we'd like to see in the city, we decide to take a bus to the Golden Gate Bridge and walk partway across, stopping every few feet to film the sailboats below.

It's windy on the bridge. By the time we cross back and catch the bus downtown, fog and rain have rolled in, stamping out the sun and chilling the air around us.

Neither of us feels particularly enterprising, so we head back to the same Market Street diner to share an order of fries before we go home. Our server is wearing a Blade Surf Shop T-shirt that reminds me of Sam, and as he sets down two waters and takes our order, I realize that I haven't really thought about Sam all day. Now, when I let him back into my thoughts, the prickly feeling that occupied my stomach for the past two days is gone, a few wandering butterflies bumping around in its place.

The rain picks up as we leave the diner -- cold, wet sheets that come hard and fast. We wrap our arms around each other and run toward the bus shelter, freezing and laughing and breathing hard. Along the road, cars speed past, drenching our feet. By the time we reach the Plexiglas shelter, we're shivering and very aware of the weight of our wet clothes and backpacks as the electric glow of the city fades behind us.

This morning, Frankie said we'd catch the seven o'clock bus to be back before ten, perfect timing for the end of a long boat ride and late dinner with Jackie and Samantha. But as she repeatedly runs her fingers along the schedule posted in the shelter, I feel a tinge of concern.

"We didn't miss the seven, right?" I ask. "It's only ten till."

"No, it's worse."

"What?"

"It's Sunday."

"So?"

"The buses back to Zanzibar stop running at five on Sundays."

nineteen

Panic starts at my toes in little pinpricks that quickly move across my feet and into my knees so that I have to sit on the wet metal bench in the shelter. Before the fear reaches my already overworked stomach, I take a deep breath, pull out my cell phone, and dial information.

"Smoothie Shack," I say. "In Zanzibar Bay."

Frankie and I duck into a coffee shop behind the bus stop to wait. Two hours later, a car slows in front of us and pulls over, hazards flashing. Sam opens the passenger door and runs toward us, holding one hand above his face to shield himself from the rain that's now falling kind of sideways. His green Smoothie Shack apron sticks out the bottom of that red sweatshirt, and I feel a little jolt when I think about unzipping it and climbing in there with him. His hair curls up in the rain, like it does when he's in the ocean, and when he grabs me into a wet hug, I can't remember why I was avoiding him.

Sam ushers us into the car, giving up the front seat for Frankie and climbing in the back with me.

"We were wondering about you two," Jake says as he pulls onto the street.

Before Frankie says anything to embarrass me, I tell them we were just busy doing family stuff and wanted to meet them out tonight, but since we got stuck in San Francisco later than we'd planned we might not be able to risk sneaking out.

They laugh as we recount our day, mock witness-style for Frankie's camera, starting with the presto-change-o act in the locker room and ending with our bus schedule oversight and frantic phone call to the Shack. Thankfully, Sam's friend could cover his shift.

"You should still come out tonight," Jake says. "Even if the rain doesn't stop. We'll just hang out on the deck at the Shack -- no one will be around."

"We probably will," Frankie says. As Sam's leg brushes against mine in the backseat, I agree. She could promise them we'll help kill someone and hide the body -- as long as Sam keeps me warm, I'll go along with anything.

After almost two hours on the road, we reach the Welcome to Zanzibar sign. Jake pulls up in front of the community pool so we can change back into our boating ensembles.

Unfortunately, the fickle old universe wants to teach us another Important Lesson About Secrets and Lies, and the community pool -- along with its locker room -- is closed. Locked. Lights out, thank you, please come back tomorrow.

"You could tell them that you hit a big wave and soaked all your clothes, so you had to change into your friends' clothes," Jake says.

"Even better," Sam says. "Tell them someone went overboard, and you had to jump in to save them."

"Or that the boat tipped, and you had to use your backpacks as flotation devices until the coast guard showed up."

"Or --"
"Or," Frankie holds up her hand to shut them up before they start talking about bombs or drug enforcement agents or any other James Bond boy fantasies, "we'll just tell them we came back early because of the rain, changed at Jackie's house to hang out for a barbecue, and left our clothes there accidentally."

We rehearse the story again before Jake and Sam drop us off a few houses from ours. Otherwise, Red and Jayne might spot us getting out of a car full of strange boys and want to invite them in for tea and lemon cookies. We'd have to pretend that they were Jackie and Samantha's older, super responsible, super gay brothers who dislike girls and coincidentally have almost the same exact names as their sisters.
Those crazy parents!

The guys pull over and get out of the car to say goodbye. We make tentative plans to meet up at midnight at the Shack, assuming we can get away without incident. This time, after Sam kisses me and we unhook, the warmth of his body lingers against me, blocking out the cold like a blanket on a snowy Saturday morning back East.

I will see him tonight, no matter what.

The car pulls away and we watch the brake lights brighten at the stop sign before turning the corner. Frankie and I walk the last fifty feet or so to the house, rehearsing our story one last time for consistency. There's no way Red and Jayne are already in bed -- they'd never fall asleep until Frankie and I got home safe. But if tonight's a good television night, there's a chance we can sneak in unnoticed, make our way upstairs, and hide out in the bathroom taking showers and changing into our pajamas without Red and Jayne asking too many questions. I blow a wish up to the God of Broadcasting and open the door to the kitchen.

I should have known better than to invoke the universe when it's so clearly in the mood to dole out lessons. Tonight turns out to be a horrible television night in the Bay area, for Red and Jayne are waiting for us in the kitchen, drinking tea, playing cards, and eager to hear about our wild pirate-girl adventures at sea.

"Wow, did you fall in?" Red asks. Bathed in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, we look like two sea creatures dragged to shore by a fishnet. The only things missing are renegade starfish, old seaweed, and a few well-placed barnacles.

"We walked back from Jackie's," Frankie says. "We wanted to be in the rain."

"Did you guys still go out on the water today? Even with the weather?" Jayne asks.

Frankie shrugs in her voodoo cool way. "Partly. We didn't stay out as long as we wanted. But her dad invited us back to the house for an indoor barbecue, so it was still fun."

"Where are your clothes from this morning?" Jayne asks, eyeing us suspiciously.

Why do mothers always notice things? Uncle Red's just sitting there with his tea, holding his cards, patiently waiting for Aunt Jayne to get her head back in the game. But Jayne's on to us. Any minute now, she'll cluck her tongue, let out a long sigh, and pick up the phone to call my mother and remind her what a horrible daughter she raised.

Frankie stays cool under pressure and repeats the whole story, just like we practiced it. Boat ride prematurely interrupted by the weather. Back to the house for dinner. Changed out of boat clothes that got wet when the rain came in. Jackie's parents offered to drive us back (because they're reallyreallyreally great, concerned, responsible people), but we refused, insisting that we wanted to walk in the rain since it's still so warm out. We had such a fun day with Jackie, Samantha, and their families that we totally forgot our clothes -- but we'll get them tomorrow morning. And by the way, if those are indeed lemon cookies on that plate in front of Dad, can we have some?

Jayne reaches across the table to pass the cookies and expresses sympathy that our boat trip was preempted by a storm. "Sounds like you still had a fun day, though."

We assure them that we did, grab a few more cookies for the road, and make haste for the bedroom, where we close the door and explode in laughter.

"Parents," Frankie says, mouth full of lemon dust. "They believe just about
anything.
"

"Maybe yours do." I pull off my wet clothes and get into shorts and a sweatshirt, chasing away the last of the soggy chill from the rain. "You know Helen and Carl would never leave us alone in the first place. And a boat ride with strange girls? They'd demand their phone number so they could call in advance and secure the facts of our story with a responsible adult, get an accurate count of the available life jackets and flotation devices on board, then call the coast guard to make sure someone would be watching us."

"Don't remind me," Frankie shrugs. "So, how long till we break out?"

"Maybe two hours," I say. "We need to go downstairs and appear extremely tired until your parents go to bed. You know, being out on a boat most of the day can be very draining."

"Anna, you're turning into a rather naughty girl."

"Oh, that's not regular Anna," I assure her. "It's Crazy Anna from the dressing room mirror. Totally your fault."

Frankie laughs. I think we both like Crazy Anna a little more than regular Anna. It's like magic -- while I was trying on the bathing suit last month, it rubbed against my butt and unleashed the A.B.S.E. Bikini Genie, granting all my wishes.

"That reminds me," Frankie says, changing out of her clothes. "I think we should alter the contest rules. Our vacation is almost half over and we haven't gotten very far."

"We didn't plan on Sam and Jake." I sit on the end of her bed as she touches up her makeup for our big date on the couch downstairs.

"No. I mean, I could still find my own ten, but I don't want to get ahead of you. You
really
like Sam, don't you? I can tell these things." She dabs at her smudged eyeliner with a Q-tip.

"Maybe." I shrug. "But so what? You
really
like Jake."

"He's okay, I guess. I think we're gonna --
you
know.
Tonight.
" She tosses her mascara on the dresser and flips her head over to shake out her hair as though making this decision is no more taxing or important than choosing between the powdered sugar and the glazed from the morning donut box.

"Frankie, are you
serious
?"

"Maybe." She half grins, the devil that sits on shoulders in all the old cartoons. The one that's way more cute than scary and therefore causes infinitely more destruction and chaos.

I stare at her with my mouth open, but additional details aren't forthcoming. Instead, she does a final face-check in the dresser mirror, blots her lips with a tissue, and leads us downstairs for Act Two, in which doting daughter and friend give an Oscar-worthy performance as the two sleepiest girls on the planet, putting all fears of illicit behavior to rest.

But two hours later, as we tiptoe off the deck and into the backyard with the camera, beach blankets, and the trusty turned-off flashlight, we uncover a previously unresolved and potentially dangerous hole in the plot.

"Can't sleep, girls?" Aunt Jayne calls from the dark and lonely shadows of the sea, wrapping a crocheted shawl around her shoulders against the breeze.