Last Summer (4 page)

“Get him!”

B and Ice sprint toward me, and I bolt over
the low patio railing and up the road, taking a detour through one
of the alleys. Of course there’s a fence at the end. I launch
myself halfway up the chain links, hauling my body over the frame,
and land on two feet. B and Ice have caught up, though. I pump my
legs into a sprint, bounding out the back of the lane, through the
rear parking lot, and over small hills of grass and
wildflowers.

“You can’t hide from us!” one of them yells
from behind me. I think it’s Ice, or maybe it’s B. Either way, my
brain is too busy at the moment to give a damn which.

I’m too out of shape. If this had happened
back in the day, back when I was still lifting weights and throwing
footballs across the field, I would’ve outrun these guys by now.
But here I am, racing from two men who are pretty much the
equivalent of bodyguards. Two men who probably have guns.

Ahead, two of the main streets intersect.
Get past the crossroads.
Cars are everywhere; waiting on the
light to change, waiting to make a turn, waiting, waiting, waiting.
I don’t have time to wait. I bolt through the traffic, vehicles
slamming on their brakes, nearly missing me. That’s okay, because
the alternative would be getting taken out by Ice and B, maybe even
tortured until Big P decides how he wants to use his new toys on my
skin. Carving. Slicing. Chopping. Nothing new for him; the man gets
what he wants, when he wants it.

Momentarily, I’m sidetracked by the flash of
blue lights and the wail of a siren.
NO! Not now.
I don’t
stop, though. Every strand in me is pushing my body, my mind,
me
, to stay alive. I’ll get their money. I will.

“Son!” A car door slams shut behind me, and
I risk a glance over my shoulder. The cop is now pursuing me on
foot. “Slow down! Get back here!”

I recognize him. It’s Charles, one of my
dad’s friends.

Before slowing to a complete stop, I double
check the area beyond Charles’s car. B and Ice are nowhere to be
seen. I’m sure they saw the police logo and decided to bail.

“What the hell are you doing out here? Who
are you running from?” Charles, like me, bends over at the waist to
catch his breath. He hasn’t been in the best of shape since his
stroke a couple of years back. I should’ve known better than to
push him.

“You didn’t see them? They . . . I . .
.”

Charles straightens up. “Who?”

I shake my head, leveling myself, too. I
have to lean against a tree, though; I’m too dizzy. “Nothing. Never
mind. Just some crazy kids.”

He gives me this look that says he knows I’m
lying, but he doesn’t push the subject. “You know . . . Ah, God . .
.” He peers up at the clear sky, as if that’ll help him find his
words. “Your mom and dad have been worried about you.”

I don’t want to talk about them right
now. Jesus, Charles, give it a break.
I try opening my mouth to
speak, but my throat feels like it’s clogged with cotton balls.

“Your mom went out looking for ya after that
night,” he carries on. “She was so distraught. Your dad, too. He
hasn’t been taking this so well.”

“And Lucas?” I murmur hoarsely.

Charles purses his mouth, hands grasping his
hips. “About as good as a twelve-year-old kid can be. They’ve kept
him busy with sports and all, hoping it’ll keep his mind off the
way things are.”

I nod. “Good. It’s better that way.”

“Better for whom? Them, or you? ‘Cause the
way I see it, none of you picked a particularly great way to show
your admiration for one another.” He pauses, maybe reflecting on
that night, maybe reflecting on the effect it’s had on my parents
and Lucas since. “They shouldn’t have done that to ya, Logan. It
was wrong.”

“Yeah, well, they did.”
Can we
please
not talk about this?
“Can’t undo the past. What’s done is
done.”

“No, but you can learn from the past, even
if it isn’t your friend.”

I snort. “There’s no going back. They’ve
made their decision pretty clear: they don’t want me around.”

“For God’s sake, boy! Are you listening to
yourself? They kicked you out for a reason.” He seizes the moment
to collect himself. “Look, your father never gave me all the
details of why they did what they did, but he reassured me it was
for your own good. Now, I’m not sayin’ I agree with them one
hundred percent, but I think there’s more to it. I think if you
collected yourself and agreed to work things out, they’d welcome
you back with open arms. But, as it stands, you’re up Shit
Creek.”

I roll my eyes, letting my backpack fall
from my shoulder.
He didn’t tell you because you’re a cop.
“Nothing will ever be the same again, because they’ll never trust
me.”

“What was it, Logan? Theft? Underage
drinking? Drugs?” he asks.

I almost lose my composure at the last
mention. “Don’t worry about it, Charles. You go on doing your
thing, and I’ll do mine.”

He sighs. “Well, whatever it was, it had to
be pretty bad. I’ve never known of your parents to be so upset
about something.”

Bad. Bad. Bad. You’re a bad person.

“It was,” is all I say, managing to swallow
past the lump in my throat. The aching dryness has returned, and I
suddenly wish I had my water.

“Well, uh, do you need a ride somewhere? Is
there someplace you’re staying?” He wipes the back of his neck.

He’s just prying, probably so he can give my
parents answers. Answers I don’t really want them to have right
now. “I live all over, moving from here to there when I feel like
it. It’s not terrible.”
Liar.

“So, can I give ya a ride?” His eyes implore
mine for a sign, something he can latch onto, to keep his
conscience satisfied.

In response, I barely move my head.
No,
Charles. Just . . . no.

His eyes leave mine as he nods. “Well, don’t
get into any trouble. I don’t want to be the one to bring ya
in.”

“I’ll try,” I mumble.

“Take care of yourself, Logan,” he says as
he turns and walks back to his car.

“Bye, Charles,” I breathe, battling my
subconscious mind.
Go after him! Go home!
But I meant what I
said about it not being that easy. My parents would’ve found me by
now if they wanted to work things out, wouldn’t they? And it’s
their fault I’m in this situation to begin with; it was their idea
for me to be a ‘team player,’ as Dad called it. They put too much
pressure on me to be the perfect quarterback, the superstar god of
the football field. They could’ve at least acted like responsible
adults instead of pushing me.

They were always pushing me.

At school.
“C’s in three of your classes?
Logan, how will you ever get a football scholarship with grades
like these?”

On the field.
“You get your ass out there
and score a touchdown! I don’t care if you dislocate your arm in
the process; you do what you gotta do.”

Out the front door.
“We can’t do it
anymore, Logan. We just can’t let you stay here. Lucas can’t ever
look up to someone like you, and your mom and I, well, we don’t
really know what happened to our son or what you’ve done with him,
but you’re not the boy we raised.”

Pushing me away, away, away.

Four
•
Chloe

S
o he won’t go down
without a fight. That’s fine. I can live with that. I’ve watched
Intervention
enough to know when a drug addict goes through
the five stages, and he’s definitely piggy-back riding
Addiction—maybe even Denial. Or is that only for alcoholics?

I wander back to the lake house, taking my
sweet time. Mom will wonder where I’ve been, why earlier I darted
out so quickly.
More fresh air, Mom, because the air between you
and Dad is too congested for my breathing.

Several teenagers sail down the lake in a
boat, wildly squealing with laughter as they tease one another.
That should be me
. I should be having the time of my life
every single summer I visit Sandy Shores. I should be creating
memories with friends, or be showing off for that one boy who stole
my heart. Instead, I’m standing here, on the shore, watching my
would-be life pass by.

My eyes never leave the boat until they’ve
completely disappeared from sight. Where they’re headed, I don’t
know. Anywhere is better than here.

Mom mutes the TV when I enter through the
kitchen. “Where were you?” she asks.

I open the cabinets, searching for a
distraction, and a cup. “Out.” It’s always like this between us.
She’s so patronizing and nosey when it comes to my personal life
that I can’t help but throw up a brick wall. And if I tell her
about trying to help a drug addict, well, she’d blow a gasket.

“That’s not what I asked you,” she
pushes.

I don’t respond, which is my usual choice
comeback. Grabbing a glass, I move toward the refrigerator, which
is—thankfully—out of Mom’s line of sight. As I close the door, I
jump at her sudden appearance in the entryway, her arms crossed,
searching for a fight. I know how this ends.

Ignoring her, I fill my cup with ice and
soda, then take a sip without looking her in the eyes.

“Chloe,” she warns, “I’m not going to ask
you again.”

“Then don’t,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t see
what the big deal is, anyway. We’re supposed to have these awesome
summers here, yet you guys still keep an invisible collar on me at
all times. I’m not a toddler, Mom—”

“I never said you were.”

“—so don’t treat me like one.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, like she’s in
some insurmountable amount of pain that nobody but her feels. “When
you are in my house, you have to abide by my rules.”

See, normally I’d say something along the
lines of “Okay, Mom” and stalk up to my bedroom. But this year is
different. Since she and Dad dragged me into their relationship
woes, I don’t care about making them happy, making them believe
we’re this perfect family. So, why pretend?

In the obedient response’s place, Mom gets:
“Yeah, but it’s not your house; it’s Dad’s. And he’s not exactly
here right now, is he?” God, that hurt me more than it hurt her, I
think, but all this hatred I’ve harbored for the past six months
has swollen inside my mind and body, petitioning me to release
it.

Wish granted.

Mom bites her lip and opens her eyes,
nodding. Without saying another word, she glides back to the couch,
covers up under a throw, and un-mutes the TV.

I sigh. I don’t want things to be like this
between us. I want to be there for her, but every time I’ve tried
starting a conversation about her and Dad’s problems, she’d change
the subject, basically telling me it’s none of my business.
Well—
news flash!
—it is my business. I’m
their
daughter. I was created by these two people who were once in love,
so I have as much right to know as they do.

But I don’t believe for a second either one
of them is mature enough to man-up to what’s happening. They both
realize what’s going on behind closed doors, and neither of them
says or does anything. They just choose to keep their mouths shut,
pretending this isn’t a farce. Pretend, pretend, pretend. God, one
would think I was born into a family of actors. If that were true,
Mom and Dad would’ve definitely won an Oscar for best duo
performance by now.

This summer is turning out worse than I
imagined. I had these romantic ideas of Mom and Dad making up while
they’re away from the boring hum-drum of work and everyday life,
but now those notions have flown out the window and latched on to
the tip of a breeze, carried off to another state. Maybe even
another planet.

I flop onto my bed, staring up at the
ceiling. What the hell am I going to do for fun around here? I need
something to keep me occupied. And, no offense, but spending all
summer watching movies and reality TV shows with my mom is not what
I had in mind.

W.W.J.D.

What Would Jessica Do?

If she were here, if her father had never
died, what would she and I be doing? Painting our toenails?
Gossiping about cute boys, or, dare I even say it, our boyfriends?
She doesn’t need any help in that department, but it was obvious to
everyone at Clear Lakes High School that I did, seeing as I’ve
never actually had one. Unless I count the time Jeremy Frazier and
I made out behind the school and he told me I was the most
beautiful girl in the world, only to show up to homecoming two
weeks later with Melanie what’s-her-face. Seriously, I don’t even
remember her last name. Ugh.
Men
.

The reality of the Jessica situation is that
I truly don’t know if we’d still be friends, even if that summer
never happened. Her destiny always lay with cheerleading and
becoming an element of the popular crowd. And mine? Well, I’m not
sure what my destiny is, but it probably isn’t
this
. I
snatch a pillow, cover my face, and scream. Not one of those horror
movie, blood-curdling screams—those are obnoxious—but one that
feels good. Just to release all my pent-up frustrations aimed at
the world.

As I come down from the high, I sheepishly
grin to myself . . . and hear a
plat
at my window. Sitting
up, I wait; wait to see if it’s the stupid birds tapping on the
glass or the gutter, wait to make sure my ears aren’t hearing
things, wait for my heart to lessen its frenzied beating.

Plat
.

My body jerks in response. Okay, so I’m not
making this up. Slowly, I stand and peep around the edge of the
window. Standing in the backyard, looking warily around, is that
crazy boy. So he changed his mind, huh? That’s . . .

Interesting.

Good, I suppose.

I flip the latch and raise the pane. “Came
to your senses, I see.”