The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days (11 page)

“You know Tyler.” Eli gestures. “And this is his brother, Sam.”

Jorie stands, leans toward the front seat, and turns up the music. She chatters, texts Antarctica, puts on lip gloss, flirts. I can't get a word in, even if I could think of something funny or cute.

I sit back, let the wind blow my hair, and look at Eli's hand on the armrest. Which Jorie keeps touching.

At Eli's house, Tyler and Sam get out; Jorie tumbles out, almost falls. The boys grab a basketball and start shooting. Eli stays in his seat and looks back at me, tips his head toward their front step. “She loved the flowers.”

I smile.

“She thought it was me and Thomas, and we didn't exactly tell her it wasn't. She said it felt like Mother's Day or something.”

I climb into the middle seat next to him. He leans a little closer. “She was mad at me. I forgot to do some stuff, like the laundry. She calmed down when she saw the flowers.” His hair grazes my cheek. “You saved me. It's like you knew.”

“What are you guys doing in there?” Jorie calls, looking at her phone.

I have this crazy, completely insane feeling that Eli wants to kiss me. But (1) Am I out of my mind? And (2) Jorie is standing at the car door.

“Oh my God,” she says, and giggles. “Dakota got asked to homecoming! You know that boy Dylan? The one with red hair? Anyway, he made a bouquet out of those Dum Dum lollipops with a card that said ‘D and D isn't dum. Let's pop over to homecoming together.' Is that the cutest thing you ever heard?” She holds up the picture on her phone—the lollipop creation.

“Very cute,” Eli says.

“Creative,” I agree.

“Now, me”—Jorie bats her eyes—“I prefer chocolate.”

“She likes chocolate, dude,” Sam teases, passes the ball to Tyler.

“Good to know.” Eli laughs, and my heart drops seventeen miles as we get out. He goes over to the driveway and starts shooting.

Jorie's practically drooling, staring at the boys.

Thomas flings open the front door. “Eli! Mom needs you!”

“Okay. In a minute,” Eli says, running past Tyler for a layup. Thomas waves to me. “Camp Nina today?”

I laugh. “Maybe!”

The boys say they have to go, and Eli rolls the ball into their garage.

“Wait!” Jorie runs over, pulls him close, and holds her phone out. She takes a picture. “I'm sending this to Dakota right now. It's
so
sweet!”

Eli runs up his front steps, and Jorie starts walking backward toward her house. “You think he got the hint?” She grins. “About the chocolate?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I'm so excited! It's almost a done deal.”

“Seems like it.”

“And, Neens, I haven't forgotten about you. I'm working on it.” Her phone rings. “Oh my God,” she shouts into it. “Let me tell you what just happened.”

She reaches her house. Her voice sails through the sticky summer air.

“Jorie,” I whisper, watching her. I miss the girl who couldn't glue, brought me the towel after we jumped into the water, made sure I was okay. The girl I knew.

T
he next day, Mrs. Millman and Mrs. Chung are standing on the sidewalk. Mrs. M. reports that Beanie is suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Although the vet wasn't sure exactly what kind of animal bit her, she had to get some shots, and that put her over the edge. So says the dog psychologist.

Mrs. Millman is counting Beanie's symptoms off on her fingers. With each one, Mrs. Chung nods, as if that's exactly what she would expect after an encounter with a
kumiho
.

“Whimpering. Cowering under furniture. Trembling
at the slightest noise. Loss of appetite. Lethargic. Won't come outside. And worst of all, my beloved Beanie will no longer cuddle with me and watch
Dancing with the Stars
. It was her favorite show. I don't know if she'll ever return to her old self.”

Mrs. Chung shakes her head. “Such a shame.”

Mrs. Millman turns and looks at the Dixon house. “Since the authorities won't help, it is my duty to deal with whatever's lurking in those weeds.”

“Not easy. The fox is smart. Full of surprises.”

“I read that animals don't like the scent of certain strong spices,” Mrs. Millman says.

“On the Internet?”

“Yes.”

“Ha!”

Mrs. Millman crosses her arms. “I have a plan.”

Mrs. Chung raises her eyebrows.

“Paprika.”

“Hmm.”

“Tabasco?”

“Won't work.”

“What about mothballs?”

Mrs. Chung holds her nose.

“Well!” Mrs. Millman straightens her shoulders. “I'm going to give it a try. It's all I can do. Perhaps if I can drive away the animal in there, Beanie will be able to live without fear.”

“You waste some good spices.” The ever doubtful Mrs. Chung starts making her way back to her house. She waves at me. Just as she reaches her driveway, a car pulls up and a young man and woman get out. Her kids. I haven't seen them in a long time. I'm so happy they're visiting; she needs company. And a distraction.

Later, I spot Mrs. Millman in her buttoned-up cardigan and loafers, holding a big jar of reddish powder and sprinkling it into the weeds. Then she walks around with two bottles of Tabasco, pouring out some sauce every few feet. She tosses in a few mothballs and shouts, “Let's see how you like that!”

She goes inside to watch from the window, as if she's expecting the cause of Beanie's distress to come running out of the weeds immediately. Doesn't happen.

Matt drives up, windows open, music blasting, and parks right over the oil spot.

“Hi,” I call.

He gets out. “What's that smell?”

“Paprika. Tabasco sauce. Mothballs.”

“Huh?”

I walk toward him, my bare toes deep in the grass. “Long story. It's pretty funny, actually, although there's a sad part about a dog.”

“I just came home to change. I have to get to work.”

I follow him inside. He goes upstairs, then comes
down a minute later in a new shirt, grins, and tosses me the dirty one.

I catch it, then let it drop. “Yuck!” Guy sweat.

“Can you throw that into the laundry for me? I gotta go.”

“To the pool?”

“Yeah … that's where I work, last I checked.”

My friends who went on the adventure trip are back in town, and they invited me to the pool today.

“Wait!” I head toward the stairs. “Can I go with you?”

“Sure. C'mon.”

I change fast, grab a towel and sunglasses, and then hop into the front seat of the Jeep, shoving aside a mess of candy wrappers, pop cans, another smelly T-shirt.

Matt parks at the pool, then ducks behind the cashier desk and waves me in. “She's my sister,” he tells a guy in a red lifeguard jacket.

The girls—Leah, Sadie, Cass, and Rachel—are already there. They've saved a spot for my towel. They hug me and say, “How's your summer?” and “We missed you,” and “What's been going on?” Then Sadie tells what must be an inside joke from their trip, and Cass brings up a story about Leah getting stuck in her sleeping bag. They're laughing and calling each other nicknames, like Scout and Chico. They're all wearing
black bikini bottoms with tops in different colors. My bikini is matching. Nobody told me to mix. After a while, they're still talking about the trip, so I stretch out on my stomach. Close my eyes. Zone out.

When I look up, they're in the pool, splashing each other. I'm getting burnt anyway, so I visit Matt.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“Oh, well, they went on a trip. I didn't. Awkward.”

Matt hands me a candy bar. “Have a Kit Kat.”

“Shouldn't I pay?”

“Don't worry about it. Listen, going into freshman year is such a messed-up time. Everything changes.”

“I know! It feels so—” A big crowd lines up behind me, and he starts ringing them up. The chocolate is melting. I finish the candy bar and lick my fingers.

“Slob,” Matt says, and grins.

The girls come out with my towel, and Rachel says, “My mom can drive you home.”

We don't have a lot to say on the ride. I get out. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Sure. We'll make plans.”

“Okay.”

Rachel's pushing buttons on the radio. “See ya.”

Matt's sweaty shirt is lying on the floor where I dropped it.

I pick it up and remember doing the world's largest jigsaw puzzle with him one winter break when we had twenty inches of snow, and how we ate ice cream for dinner when Mom and Dad weren't home, and watched the first Harry Potter so many times we could recite every single line in the movie.

Curled-up leaves swirl where the Jeep was parked.

I go to the laundry room and put his shirt into a basket. Thirty-nine.

And I stand there. I could cry, but I don't.

M
y grandma died one year ago tomorrow. I might be the only one who remembers the date. Or if Mom, Dad, and Matt remember, they haven't said anything.

She was eighty, and something had been wrong with her heart for a while. Last spring, she decided not to have another surgery. Her body had had enough.

Mom fought her. Because Mom fights for everything. But Grandma had made up her mind. She was tired of taking pills and going to doctors and having surgeries
and treatments. She was all right with it. She started saying her goodbyes. She held me close and said she would miss me terribly.

Not as much as I miss her.

She came to live with us in March, until right before the end. She was always there when I got home from school. She told me lots of STs, like she wanted to share as many as she could before she was gone.

The second time she told me I was an old soul, she said she was one too. We were sitting on the love seat on the patio. “They don't come around that often,” she said. “They're an endangered species. You're very lucky. And special.”

The funeral home gave us packets of forget-me-not seeds to plant in her memory. They handed them out to everyone, but people put them down when they came to our house after the funeral. Then no one remembered to take them when they left.

I collected every packet (eleven) from counters and tables and one next to a pillow on the sofa.

This is on the back of each packet:

The forget-me-not is a delicate, beautiful flower that evokes the power and memory of love. Plant them in a place that is dear to you. As they grow and bloom, your love—and your loved one—will live on
.

Time for number forty.

After dinner, as dusk starts to come over the cul-de-sac,
I pull a chair next to my bedroom window, hold the packets of seeds, and wait. I feel a little like Mrs. Millman, the spy of the neighborhood.

The sky deepens from blue to navy. My parents knock on my door and come in to say good night. I hear them go into their bedroom. Brush their teeth. Creaking of the floor. Their low voices as they talk. Then quiet.