Again I have no idea what she’s saying. But she steps her right foot onto my left shoe, and her left foot onto my right. Then she puts her arms around me.
“Now hold on to me and walk over the glass.” Her beautiful face is inches from mine. Her expression suggests she’s about to have the time of her life. “Just walk like Frankenstein so my feet don’t come off your shoes.”
I can’t believe this is about to happen, but I need it to happen fast, because my feet are starting to hurt. I put my arms around her and lift my right foot high like I’m climbing stairs, then move it forward and set it down. Then the same with the left, again and again, until the crunching of glass under my shoes has ceased.
“We did it, Betty!” She steps off my shoes and pushes her Goldilocks hair behind her ears. “Did you tell me your actual name yet? ’Cause I’m gonna be saying it at least some of the time.”
She’s so goofy. I can’t help but smile.
“Juillet.”
“Joooey Ay?”
“It’s like Juliet but the ls are silent, and the e-t is pronounced like a-y. It’s French for ‘July.’”
Her jaw drops. “No way!” She extends her hand to me. “Summer. That’s Ocean Park for me.”
I give her my hand, which looks pale in hers. “Nice to meet you, Summer.”
Another block and we’re at Conscious Consumption, a giant grocery store that makes you feel like the more you spend, the more you’ll save the planet. Summer starts skipping when we enter, and I have to trot alongside her. She wants to go up and down every aisle looking for samples, and we do, feasting on slices of local black plums and little cubes of local Muenster cheese, and locally roasted cold-brew coffee in tiny paper cups, which the woman who pours thinks is funny we want to try. Then we make the rounds again wearing hats made of hemp that the store sells, pretending to be a new pair of girls who haven’t already hit the samples, so we can feast all over again.
We spend almost an hour in the store, smelling food and eating samples and observing the customers. I watch for movie stars. But practically everyone here looks like a movie star.
I feel exhausted by the time we get back to Fourth Street, even though it’s barely noon. I’m sore from the walk to and from, and the short distance carrying her weight on my feet, and then cavorting up and down the aisles. But mainly I’m exhausted because my social muscles are weak from not being used, from talking and answering questions, and the odd realization that this girl wants to be spending time with me.
Finally we arrive at the rental cottage.
“So, what’s next?” Summer asks. “Wanna hit the waves?”
I pull the key from the coin pocket of my jeans. “Actually, my mom will be here any second. I’m supposed to be doing something with her.” I don’t know why I’m lying, other than maybe being worn out by Summer’s happiness.
“That’s so sweet! I hardly ever get to see my mom. She does makeup on movie sets. My dad is a cinematographer for a show on cable, so they’re both illusionists. Anyway, she has to take pretty much all the work she can get right now. So we rarely get to spend time together.”
I know how that feels, but I don’t tell her I know how that feels. Mom doesn’t need the money so much, but she seems to work as often as she can, ever since Dad left, just so she can stay away from home. I hang out at the mall as much as I can for the same reason. Even though we moved to a new condo to escape the sadness of the house we all lived in together, the furniture is the same, and it feels like we brought the sadness with us.
I put on a smile. “Well, thanks for the tour.”
“Ignore Alien Orders at ten o’clock tomorrow?” Her eyebrows arch. She looks so hopeful.
“Okay.”
Summer moves in quickly for a hug that’s all her. It’s not that I don’t want to return the hug, but she backs away before I can will myself to raise my arms. “Really you should ignore alien orders at all times, but I’ll see you there at ten. Wear your swimsuit!”
I smile, because I don’t want to tell her at this moment that there’s no way I’m going in the water, and there’s no way I’m putting on that mermaid swimsuit again. “See you tomorrow.”
Then I go through the screen door and the wooden door to the breezy front room and realize I was so distracted by Summer, I’ve forgotten to get any groceries whatsoever.
I stand and stare across the living area. The breeze moves through the white curtains, the Beach Boys play from some unseen speaker.
I turn and walk into the kitchen. From the wastebasket beneath the sink I fetch the crumpled list of Mom’s goals for me. I smooth it on the counter, find a pen in a drawer, and add two items to the list.
MAKE A NEW FRIEND
LEARN TO SURF?
I look at what I’ve written, then crumple it up and throw it back into the wastebasket. Then I take it back out, smooth it once again, and bring it to my room, where I put it in the desk drawer, where it will remain—for my eyes only.
All afternoon I think of the morning with the strange girl, while trying to distract myself with the Cartoon Network. Mom doesn’t believe in TV, which is pointless to argue with her about, so we don’t have it back home in Lakeshore. But instead of getting lost in the programs here in Ocean Park, I’m thinking of Summer and worrying what she might have planned for tomorrow. I’m worried, but also excited.
Mom brings pad thai home for dinner. I can smell the spicy food as soon as she comes through the door, and it makes me realize how hungry I am.
“How was your day?” She puts the paper takeout bags on the big table.
“It was great.” I take the lid off one of the containers, then run to the kitchen for a pair of forks.
“What do you think of the town?” Mom sits, and shakes her head when I offer her a fork. She holds up a pair of chopsticks.
“You can use chopsticks?”
She nods. I didn’t know she could use chopsticks.
“Anyway, this neighborhood is really nice. It’s pretty, and cheerful, and fun. Like it was made for adventure.” I’m talking about Ocean Park, but it feels like I’m talking about Summer. Because she’s pretty, cheerful, and fun, like she was made for adventure.
“It sounds like you had a good day! And it looks like it’s giving you a healthy appetite.”
I smile through my giant bite of pad thai.
Later we sit on the front porch in the evening air while Mom types medical notes on her laptop.
“Today at the ER there was a guy who accidentally attached his hand to his thigh with a giant screw. It’s amazing how many people use power tools on their laps. I guess it could have been worse.”
“Mom. Please.”
“Right, right. Sorry, Juillet. No more horror stories.”
Even though she’s working, it feels good to be with her, sharing the same space and the same moment. When she’s done on her laptop I tell her more details about my day—the pretty little houses and the pretty little yards, and the mushy berries and nutty things on the sidewalks, and how I passed a school and found myself thinking it’s strange that people go to school in such a place, that they do the things that we do when we’re home in Lakeshore. But I don’t tell her about the girl who left the postcard in the screen door, who ambushed me on the sidewalk, who seemed so happy to tag along with me.