The Hidden Summer (17 page)

I imagine an elephant at school, chowing down on sandwiches. I bet Miss Fancy liked peanut butter best.

“Then one day, Miss Fancy disappeared,” continues Gloria. “No one knows what happened to her. Her cage was opened, but the kids at the school hadn’t seen her. Rumors started going around. Some people said she got tired of being caged, and she took off across the state looking for elementary schools. Some people said her handler was sick of being outsmarted by an elephant, and instead of letting her get out of her cage again, he took her into the woods and shot her. And other people said she knew she was dying and just walked off to die in privacy. I like to think it was the last one.”

“And no more elephants after that?” asks Maureen.

“Not that I know of,” says Gloria. “Miss Fancy was one of a kind. Soon after she died, the resort closed. The petting zoo was shut down. And most people forgot there ever was an elephant that used to roam up and down Clairmont Avenue. But the kids in the elementary school grew up and had children, and they passed along the story. So Miss Fancy lived on.”

Maureen and Jakobe wander off to look at the bones some more. I don’t want to see the bones again. I’d rather imagine Miss Fancy alive and hungry, plotting her next escape. I close my eyes and think of a sunny, breezy resort, filled with people and dancing and music, with an elephant very politely sidestepping across the dance floor.

The ground is still soaked from the storm last night, but I find a nice flat rock and make myself comfortable. I must fall asleep, because when I wake up, I’m alone. Above me, a squirrel vaults from one tree to another. I watch an ant crawl across my wrist. I’m still trying to sort out what was a dream and what was a true story when I hear footsteps—it’s Gloria. She’s carrying two big cups, and she hands me one. I scoot over on my plastic bag to make room for her.

“I was thinking that maybe now I’d ask you to tell me a story,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Tell me why you’d rather live in an old golf course than live at your home.”

I take a slow sip of what Gloria handed me, and it’s lemonade, sweet and tart and cool. There’s a cherry floating in it. I look up, and all I see is sky. The squirrel is still practicing gymnastics in the pine trees nearby. Part of me thinks that I’d be crazy if I wanted to be anywhere but right here.

But I know she’s not asking why I’m here. She’s asking why I’m not at home.

“My mother doesn’t really want me there,” I say.

This is the first time I’ve said this. Lydia and I know each other—and our mothers—so well that we never really spell out how we feel about them. And I don’t talk about my mother to anyone other than Lydia.

Gloria breaks off a few blades of grass and lets them fall to the ground. “Okay,” she says.

I’m glad she doesn’t say, “Sure, she does” or “All moms want their daughters.” I’ve heard that a few times, back when I was younger and still occasionally tried to make a teacher or a friend’s parent understand what it was like at home. It strikes me that maybe Gloria didn’t get along that well with her mother.

“So where does she think you are right now?” Gloria asks.

“Summer school.”

She laughs her roar of a laugh. “That’s original. She hasn’t come to check on you?”

I lean back on my elbows and wish the stars were out already. There aren’t many of them, even on the clearest nights, either because of clouds or pollution or city lights. I think of Marvin showing me Orion’s Belt. I think of my earliest memory, which actually has both my mom and my dad in it, together, laughing under the night sky. I don’t know what was funny, and I can’t remember if I was laughing.

Some conversations are easier at night.

“Living with her makes me so tired,” I say. “I’m always watching, trying to figure out if she’s angry at me. And even if I figure out that she is angry, half the time I have no idea why. There’s this weight in the apartment, like the air is heavy. Pressing down on me. There’s no room for me in there. Her feelings take up too much space.”

“Are you sure you’re being fair to her?”

Gloria has one hand barely touching the ends of my hair, twisting a braid so tiny that I can hardly feel it. I relax into the feel of her fingers, and I think about my answer. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it. At least a few times a week I wonder if I’m the one—not Mom—who’s the problem. Maybe I am. Maybe I should be more patient with her. Maybe I should be more like she wants me to be. But I’m not even sure what that is.

There’s one memory that’s underneath every moment I spend with Mom, and I can’t quite bring myself to say it to Gloria. It feels private—private for Mom, at least, like I shouldn’t share it with anyone else. When I was maybe seven or eight, I heard her on the phone. I still don’t know who she was talking to that night—maybe some old friend from high school, maybe even my grandmother. But she was crying enough that her voice shook.

“This isn’t who I thought I would be,” she said. “I look in the mirror and I can’t stand to see myself.”

The person on the other end of the phone must have said something. I stayed perfectly still in the hallway.

“I can’t,” Mom said back. “There’s something wrong with me. I’m so unhappy, and I’m just stuck. It’s hard to get out of bed, you know? It’s so hard to just get dressed and get out the door in the morning. What’s wrong with me?”

That’s all. She hung up pretty soon after that, still crying. No big speech. It didn’t shock me that Mom was miserable. What shocked me was that she didn’t say she couldn’t stand to see me. She said she couldn’t stand to see herself. And for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe what she feels doesn’t really have anything to do with me. Most of the time, it’s just the two of us in a small apartment. So maybe there’s no one else she can take it out on.

That’s what I try to remember, when things aren’t good. That it’s not about me. It’s about her.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. I lean forward and wrap my arms around my knees. Gloria’s hand falls away.

“My mother loves dolls,” I say.

Gloria stays quiet.

“Somewhere in the basement of the building, we still have trash bags full of her dolls,” I say. “Their lips are rubbed off, and they’re missing legs and arms, but she still loves them. She told me once that when she was a little girl, what she wanted most in the world was to have a baby. So she’d have her own little doll, only it would blink and eat and sleep.

“And so she had me, and she loved having a baby. She loved dressing me up in all those little clothes and cute little shoes and hair bows. That’s what she told me.”

“That sounds like she wants you very much,” Gloria says softly.

“She did then. At first. When I was maybe in second grade, I found one of those bags of dolls. I pulled one out, and I was holding it when she came in. I never really liked dolls, you know? They’re kind of dumb. They don’t do anything. Mom came in and held out her hand for the doll. I gave it to her. She held it up to her face. She touched its hair. And she looked at me and said, ‘I wish you hadn’t grown up. I could hold you and love you and dress you, and I was so happy.’

“I think that’s what she wants,” I say to Gloria. “She wants me to be a toy she can play with and then put in a garbage bag when she’s done.”

I stop then. The words tasted ugly in my mouth, but I’m glad I let them out.

“Well, a toy doesn’t ask for anything,” Gloria says. “It doesn’t argue with you. You can’t disappoint a toy. Plenty of people would rather have a toy than a real kid.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think you’re the only one in the world with an unhappy mother. I don’t think you’re the only one in the world who isn’t happy at home.”

I think about this. I know Lydia isn’t happy at home. That makes two of us. I guess Alexia makes three. But I walk past other homes, even other apartment buildings, and the lights are on and I see women walking past with plates and bowls of food. I see kids watching television. I see dads carrying kids up to bed. I see dogs coming outside to use the bathroom and then running back to the door to be let inside, wagging their tails. Those homes look like everything is going along perfectly.

“So you think I should go home?” I ask finally.

I hear her earrings rattle when she shakes her head.

“It’s not about what you should do. It’s what you have to do. You can’t stay here forever.”

Lately I’ve been wondering if that’s true. I don’t want it to be true.

“What if I don’t want to go back?” I ask.

CHAPTER 18

STOP, DROP, AND ROLL

I wake up on July Fourth convinced that Alexia was kidding about watching the fireworks from Lodema. I mean, everyone knows the city sets off a huge display every year—it must last twenty minutes—and everybody has their favorite spot to watch. I usually watch from Lydia’s balcony. But surely I would have heard about people coming to the golf course. Gloria looks horrified when I tell her about crowds of people coming. She has no intention of having her secret blown for the sake of a nice view.

The hours pass. I stay belowground for most of the day—it’s cooler in the aquarium than anywhere else on the course. I’ve started doing crosswords. Gloria gets a thrown-away paper every morning now. So every afternoon I do the puzzles. I’ve even gotten desperate enough to do the word scramble, which normally annoys me.

“I’ve gotta go check Hole Sixteen when it’s time for fireworks,” I say to Gloria by late afternoon. “Just to take a look. Make sure no one’s there. And, hey, maybe if people are there, you all can come out.”

“Yeah, Mom,” says Jakobe, looking very interested. “Can we go?”

She shakes her head. “We’ll just stay here. We’ll have our own private fireworks show.”

“I can come back and get you if people are there,” I say.

“We’re fine,” says Gloria. “I think we’ll just keep to ourselves.”

I start out toward Hole Sixteen as soon as it’s getting dark. I hear the people before I see them. Usually the only sound of chattering here is when a flock of geese comes through. That’s what it sounds like when I’m getting close to Hole Sixteen—like a huge flock of geese milling around. But pretty soon I can see the shadows moving, and I can hear laughing. Geese don’t laugh.

There are tons of people here. Well, dozens. Which is way more than I expected. There are entire families on blankets, with coolers and flashlights and strollers scattered all over the place. Red plastic cups are propped up all over the grass. Small circles of people are talking and occasionally grabbing at a passing child. I assume all of these people live around here, along all the roads running behind and around Lodema. It’s a big neighborhood.

I don’t really want to run into neighbors, so I try to stay quiet and still, just on the edge of all the activity. I’m partially blocked by a pine tree. I’m still deciding whether or not I have time to go tell Gloria and the others about all this when a ripple of excitement goes through the crowd. Everyone looks up, and I hear explosions in the distance. The fireworks are starting.

The sky is still and black when we hear the first bangs and pops echo through the air. Then ribbons of light shoot toward the moon—they transform into starbursts and purple swirls. Smiley faces spread out across the sky. Another burst of sound, and four spinning planets float toward us. The explosions are nearly constant now, and there’s a wave of red and blue and silver. Then more spinning planets. A blue comet shoots up and arcs down. A pink blossom dissolves into bright pink rain.

The fireworks build toward the big finish. A golden spiderweb stretches across the sky. The web begins to break apart, and the gold flecks float away, looking like shooting stars.

There’s applause then, and another massive explosion of planets and flowers and smiley faces. A little freckled kid starts crying. I’m turning around, hoping to see Alexia, hoping maybe Gloria decided to let Jakobe come after all, when I recognize a face in the crowd.

It’s Adam Cooper. He’s holding hands with his little brother, who I remember from Railroad Park. Adam’s pointing at the smoke that’s hanging like clouds in the air. I don’t move, and I don’t say anything. But maybe he feels me notice him, because he turns toward me, smiles, and gives a little wave with his free hand.

I blink. The golden spiderweb is burned into my eyelids.

“Hey,” I say, walking over.

“You live around here?” he asks.

I nod.

“Makes sense,” he says. “I guess half our school could walk to this golf course.”

“Do you come here every year?” I ask.

“First time.”

I can’t help but notice a bunch of small boys off by themselves, playing with sparklers. I’m not sure how safe that is. We had that big rain, but it’s been such a dry summer that the soil drank all the water up in a day or so. It wouldn’t take much to start a fire, especially with all the wild grass and dead branches lying around Lodema.

“I like the planets,” I say. “I haven’t seen that kind before.”

“Blue is the hardest color for them to make,” he says with complete confidence.

“Really?”

“I read it somewhere. And in Japan they do fireworks in the daytime. They make the smoke into part of the performance.”

I wonder how much National Geographic he’s watching. “So you’re kind of a fireworks expert.”

One corner of his mouth turns up. “I prefer the term ‘fireworks genius.’”

Just then I hear a scream—more of a squeak, really, from the boys lighting the sparklers. I see silver flames dropping to the ground. A fallen sparkler. It dies out quickly, but the one on the ground isn’t the problem—the problem is that one of the boys is waving his sparkler high in the air now, not paying much attention to where the sparks are landing. Where they’re landing, unfortunately, are in the branches of a dying willow. Those long, ribbony branches could work just like the wick on a candle.

“Hey,” I yell. “Hey, kid! Hey, little boy! Hey, boy with the sparkler! No!”

I can just see that tree lit up like a torch. And if it catches fire, the whole golf course could burn to the ground. But the dumb kid hasn’t noticed me. Adam, of course, has noticed me, since I’m jumping up and down and waving like a lunatic. He follows my gaze and frowns.

“That kid’s an idiot,” he mutters. We both take off toward the idiot, dragging Adam’s younger brother behind us.

“You’re gonna set the tree on fire!” I yell. Now plenty of the adults have spotted me, but that one kid is still oblivious.

“Where are his parents?” asks Adam, running full speed. His little brother’s feet are touching the ground maybe every third or fourth step.

And, then, like the picture in my mind made it happen, the tree goes up in flames. Or at least a couple of branches. It’s like in those old cartoons where someone lights a bomb, and you watch the tiny flame burn up the string, bit by bit, inch by inch. The flames gobble up the branches, and now,
now
, the kid has noticed.

This is where things get weird.

“Aggghhhhhh,” yells the kid.

“Justin!” yells some woman who must be his mom.

“Call 9-1-1!” yells someone else.

The kid, Justin, unfortunately has: a) poofy hair, and b) no sense of direction. Still holding his sparkler, he turns and runs right
into
the tree, into the fiery branches. They’re not long enough to burn his face, but they do drag across his thick, curly hair. His head is smoking, the tree is burning, and the sparkler is still going strong.

Two adults have reached the tree, and they both grab for the kid. One has a blanket that he’s trying to cover him with. But the kid is panicked and quick, and he scoots through their arms. He’s zigzagging toward the tree trunk now, scattering sparks everywhere, screaming his head off.

There’s a carpet of dead leaves under the tree, and sparks are raining down on them. I think I see smoke rising from them like fog. Smoke is everywhere—leftover in the sky from the fireworks, rising from the tree branches, floating up in wisps from the dead leaves.

Everything is going to go up in flames.

I yell the first thing that comes to mind: “Stop, drop, and roll!”

And the kid actually does it. He must have had the same lesson I had in kindergarten. He immediately falls to the ground in a heap and starts rolling around. He rolls right over the lit sparkler and all those bright, scattered sparks. Maybe it hurts, maybe it doesn’t. But he’s much calmer when he sits up, dead leaves in his hair, panting. His head isn’t smoking anymore.

Adam has reached the tree, and he helps a bearded man pat down the drooping tree branches with the blanket. The blanket looks scorched, but the flames die out quickly. Then even the smoke drifts away. It all takes maybe two or three minutes.

“I called 9-1-1,” says one of the adults.

“No!” I yell. Maybe a little louder than I mean to. Because we really don’t need the fire department snooping around the golf course. What if they head over to the putt-putt holes? What if they walk down the stairs at Hole Nine and see beds and a sofa?

Before I can go find which of those adults called the fire department, Adam leans into me. His elbow is touching my arm.

“Stop, drop, and roll?” he asks.

I shrug. “Didn’t they teach you that in school?”

He seems to be trying very hard to keep a straight face. “I believe that, uh, you’re supposed to do that if you’re actually on fire. I’m not sure it’s an approved way of putting out a sparkler.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“I’m not criticizing you. You might be kind of a sparkler genius.”

I hear the sirens then, and I’m furious that I’ve wasted these few seconds. I’m not the only one who looks disturbed by the sirens—none of these people are supposed to be here. This is private property. I think it’s occurred to most of the grown-ups that we’ve all totally trespassed and then set fire to a place that doesn’t belong to us.

I see the flashing lights of the fire trucks—so many fire trucks!—through the trees. They’ve stopped on Clairmont. Now everyone’s grabbing their things—I watch them streaming like ants toward the sides of the golf course that do not have fire trucks parked beside them. Instead of dozens of people, there are maybe ten still standing here, ready to face the consequences. I notice that the boy with the sparkler is gone, and so is his mother.

“Should we run for it?” asks Adam. And the thought of that is so appealing—to laugh and sprint and hide in the trees together. To have a big adventure, just me and Adam. On the run from the law. But if we leave—if everyone leaves—the fire department and the police will surely take a look around. Maybe they’ll take a careful look around, so careful that they explore the putt-putt course. I can’t let that happen.

“I can’t,” I say. “You should go. I’m gonna stay here and explain what happened.”