Ferocity Summer (4 page)

June

P
riscilla, Mr. Berm informs me that you are failing history,” Ms. Shirley, my guidance counselor, said.

I sat across from her wearing my best Dutiful Student face. It wasn't easy. There was a week left of school but my mind had already gone on vacation.

Shirley's office was bursting with motivational posters, plaques, and knickknacks. I imagined she had some sort of insatiable craving for the crap. I pictured her at a flea market, unable to resist a faded and worn copy of the Serenity poster. She probably had to avoid office supply stores altogether in case she accidentally came across a display of those encouragement posters.

“You don't seem surprised,” Shirley said. She glared at me through her oversized glasses. It was no real shock that she wasn't married. I wondered if she had been laid any time in the past decade.

“It's only history,” I said. “I'm passing everything else.”

“You won't graduate next year if you don't get a passing grade. I spoke to Mr. Berm. He said you could make up your work in summer school.” She made it sound like she had done me a big favor. Does the world really need guidance counselors? They never seem to provide the guidance we really need.

What I wanted to say to her was,
My friend's trying to poison herself with drugs, I can't maintain a normal romantic relationship to save my life, and there's a very strong possibility I might have to go to jail for killing someone. What should I do, oh great guidance provider?

Instead I said, “I can't go to summer school. I have to work. I need the money.”

“Well, dammit, Priscilla, maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to stop going to history class.”

I hadn't completely stopped going. I was sure I'd been there at least once that week. And it wasn't like I had any issues with Mr. Berm, except for his stupid alphabetical seating chart that forced me to sit directly next to Joe Bullock. Was it surprising that I preferred to hide in the media center rather than sit there and put up with Joe's stupid comments?

“Well, you'll have to talk to Mr. Berm yourself, then,” Shirley said. “And for godsakes, drop the attitude.”

I glanced around the room for something that displayed this particular sentiment, because I thought it was a sort of a catchy one, but no such luck. Most of them were way more flowery.

Berm's office was as cluttered as Shirley's but it seemed to lack any real theme. Most teachers didn't even get their own office, but he was head mucky-muck of history and was therefore awarded a small and cramped room probably designed as a supply closet. I had nothing against Berm or history in general, other than the fact that of all school subjects, it seemed to be the least relevant.

“You know, Davis,” Berm said, “I think I had your mother as a student here a long time ago.”

“My mother didn't go to school here.”

“Jenny Davis. Well, she looked like you at least.” Berm glanced past me, at something infinitely more fascinating on the bookshelf behind me.

“Um, Ms. Shirley said that I was failing and that I needed to talk to you about making up some work, but I can't go to summer school. I need to get a job.”

“Entering the rat race, eh? Well, you'll regret it soon enough.” He flipped through his grade book. I sniffed at the air. It had an unpleasant smell, a sort of musty smell mixed in with that sweaty odor old people tend to give off. I felt a little sick.

“You're not failing that badly,” he said. “Maybe you could do some sort of extra-credit work over the summer. Read a book or two, write a paper, that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” I said.

I don't hate school because I'm stupid; I hate school because it's boring as all hell. It's an institution designed by and for robots, and I've never been a very good robot. I like to consume information at my own pace rather than have it shoved down my throat. In summers past, when a big pile of second-hand books took the place of a babysitter, nobody wanted me to summarize the plot in a two-page paper or make a diorama of my favorite scene. Summer used to be fun.

“Tell me—what was the most fascinating thing we studied all year, in your opinion?”

My mind blanked out. I couldn't remember a single thing that we'd studied.

“I don't know. I wouldn't use the word ‘fascinating' to describe history.”

“No? History is everything. History isn't just about the past. It's the present and the future, too. It's where we begin, the basis for everything. There wasn't anything at all that you found remotely interesting?”

The Civil War. We had definitely studied the Civil War. The milk container I drank from at lunch came back to me. In an effort to infiltrate us with education, the milk cartons came printed with “Interesting Facts.”

“Sherman's March to the Sea,” I said.

“There, now that's something completely fascinating. How could a man who had once issued orders against any looting by soldiers suddenly turn around and completely ransack the South? Hmm? Presents an interesting study in character. So, you'll read up on Sherman, find out what makes him tick, and hand me a report in September, and then you get to pass.”

“Okay,” I said, and then, because it seemed like he was looking for something more, “Thanks.”

“What I remember about your mother was that she knew all the dates. No one was better at the dates than her, but when it came to the story, with the details, she just couldn't remember. Usually it's the other way around.”

I nodded politely. I didn't know what else to say to someone who had just told me a story about a person who wasn't my mother who seemed to be backwards in history.

June

E
verything glows in a sort of liquidy purple way, as if the entire world is just one big lava lamp. We are out on the lake under a purple sky and everything is impossibly calm and peaceful. There is no noise at all. It's as if the lake is a mountain and the boat is at its highest peak. I can look down and see everything. I can see my mother in the kitchen of our house. I can see Mr. Berm drinking chocolate milk through a straw in the school cafeteria. I can see Andrea undressing to take a shower, and on her ass is a tattoo, a purple butterfly.

Willow says, “It's so beautiful. We're really in heaven.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask. When she doesn't answer, I turn to Randy and ask, “What does she mean? I don't understand. What does she mean?”

Then suddenly, the peace is disturbed by a thunderstorm. It begins without warning, drenching us as lightning flashes all around. Thunder booms.

“We need to get back to shore,” Tigue says.

“We can't go back,” Willow says.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait, this isn't how it was at all. This is all backwards.”

Then suddenly the speedboat is coming right at us. It's going too fast. It keeps a straight line, never swerving. When I look, I have to squint through the purple fog to see who's driving. It's Ms. Shirley, but it's also Midge. Somehow it's both of them at the same time.

“It's so peaceful,” Willow says, as the thunder roars around us and the speedboat races at us.

I don't feel the crash or even see how it happened. Suddenly, I'm underwater and everything is purple and dark and I can't see. I spin around trying to find which way is up. I'm flailing, panicking. Then I realize that I'm very, very deep and I need to go up a long way to reach the surface and I don't know if I will have enough oxygen. I race like mad, and as I try to get to the top it's as if something is pulling me down, trying to hold me back. I'm not even halfway there, but it's too hard. I can't make it. I'm frantic, but I seem to know I have no hope.

I jerked awake to find myself tangled in a knot of sheets. My heart pounded. Adrenaline raced through my body. The alarm clock read 2:12 a.m. Outside, I heard distant thunder and thought of the dream. Suddenly, I felt very cold, so I sat up and switched on my light. It wasn't thunder at all, I realized, watching something fly into the screen. It was too small to be a bat and too loud to be a moth, even a big one. I got up and walked to the window, and there was Randy standing on the ground outside.

“Finally, Sleeping Beauty. I thought you would never wake up. Come on out.”

Randy stood beneath the glow of the moon in a pool of yellow cast by the bug light on my neighbor's front porch. Maybe it was the light, or the fact that his jeans looked like they'd been left in the dryer too long, or the slightly tousled look of his hair—more probably, it was just because I am me—but the first thing I thought when I stepped outside was that Randy was undeniably gorgeous, and Randy, well, Randy just isn't the sort of guy to inspire such thoughts in anyone.

I wanted very badly to not despise Randy Jenkins, but I didn't know how. Randy just had this thing about him, or maybe I was too arrogant or unfair to him. I tried to remember a time when I'd had any real feelings for him, but I'm not sure that such a time ever existed.

“What's up?” I asked. I didn't let my voice rise much above a whisper. I stood on the front steps in a bleach-stained T-shirt and a pair of ratty boxer shorts.

“I want to buy you something,” Randy said.

“What?”

“I've got some money and I want to buy you something. What do you want?”

“I don't know.” I really didn't know. How was I supposed to know? It was 2:28 in the morning, and a part of me was pretty sure that this conversation wasn't taking place at all.

“If you could have anything in the whole world, Scilla, what would it be?”

My sanity? My childhood? A fresh start?

“I want to travel back in time.”

“What?”

My voice was so low, he hadn't heard it.

“Some ice cream. I could go for some ice cream.”

Randy drove us to the convenience store and bought me an entire half gallon of butterscotch ripple.

“What about you?” I asked. I sat in the passenger seat of his car, the tub of ice cream on my lap.

“I'm not hungry. It's all for you.”

“I can't eat this all. I'll get sick.”

“We can throw out the rest. That's what the rich do.”

I felt amazingly small. I stabbed the plastic spoon into the ice cream's virgin surface. The spoon trembled as if it might snap in two, but managed to plunge into the milky sea.

I stared out at the night, which was punctured by the amber glow of the parking lot lights and the half-lit sign. My hands had become numb from holding the container. It sat on my lap, and the cold hurt my thighs. In a fleeting burst of clarity, the nightmare from which I'd just awoken flashed through my mind. I looked over at Randy. He was admiring me with a face that smiled, but eyes that didn't.

“What?” he asked. I hadn't said anything.

“Do you ever think about it?”

His lips made a half-hearted attempt at asking “what?” again, but he let it go. He already knew exactly what I was talking about.

“I don't really want to talk about it right now,” he said. “I'm in kinda a good mood, and I don't want to ruin it. Let's talk about something else, okay?”

“So, what's the source of your newfound wealth?” I asked.

“I got a job,” he said. He gave me a big grin, as if it was just the greatest news in the whole world.

“Oh, one of those.” I stared past him at the windows of the convenience store, which were made almost completely impenetrable by the plethora of signs plastered to them. I thought about last summer, which seemed to be a blur of endless days spent behind the register inhaling the store's sour-milk air. I couldn't imagine my summer job ever giving me cause to grin. “Where?” I asked.

“Romeo's pizza.”

“Delivery guy?”

Randy nodded.

“So, you're gonna be driving all over creation using your own car, getting paid a shitty hourly wage and getting piddling little tips. It's a sucker job, Randy. Are you nuts?”

“Actually, the pay is pretty good,” Randy said, and he turned away from me to stare out the window at something more fascinating, his reflection maybe or a lost seagull pecking through a Dumpster.

It didn't make much sense, Randy getting a job as a delivery guy. He was more qualified than that. The summer before, he had a job working in an office. Some friend of his father's had helped him secure the position. He even had a real job there, wasn't just a gopher. He messed around with computers or something like that. It paid better than anything I could ever dream of getting, and it sure as hell had to beat delivering pizzas. So, why the hell wasn't he back there, or back in some other “real” job?

Knowing Randy, he'd probably done something to screw things up. Maybe he had a fling with the boss's daughter or got caught smoking pot in the men's room.

Maybe there was another explanation all together. Maybe Randy was more upset than he let on, maybe he was really worried about the trial. A real job might have been more pressure than he could handle. Then again, maybe it was the events of last summer that had tainted him in the eyes of his previous employer.

The pizza gig wouldn't last. I gave it two weeks tops. He would get sick of it, or maybe he would do the math and realize that he wasn't even clearing minimum wage.

I looked down at my lap. I had made only a slight dent in the ice cream, but I didn't think I could eat another bite without getting sick.

“Can you take me home now?” I asked. “I'm tired, and this ice cream is going to melt.”

“Yeah, sure,” Randy said.

He stopped at the end of my road and turned off the car. He put his hand on my thigh and started to lean over as if to kiss me. I pushed his hand away, and he was so surprised he nearly fell into the dashboard.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I just want to go home.”

“Okay.”

“I'm not mad or anything. I'm just, tired.”