I stand and take my empty soda can to a recycling bin, then make my way back to the cottage. It’s still empty, still nobody home, and it occurs to me how much I’m missing Summer.
I go back to the screen door to make sure there isn’t a note or postcard that I’ve missed. There isn’t.
I walk into my bedroom and open the desk drawer. The list is staring back up at me, beside a little pencil. I take them both and flatten the list on the desktop. I stare out the open window. A hummingbird stops in front of me, hanging in midair. He nods, then moves on.
Putting the pencil tip to the list, I make an addition.
FIX FERN THING
I watch a marathon of cartoons, eight episodes of the same show. Every time I hear a skateboard pass, I run to the window. They don’t really sound like her skateboard, but I do it anyway. It’s never Summer. I would text her just to say what’s up, but she told me she doesn’t have a service plan anymore. Summer didn’t say why she doesn’t have a service plan. But she just has an ancient phone with a cracked screen, and all she does is take pictures with it. I’ve got a service plan but nobody to text.
Mom said she’d pick me up at six thirty and take me to dinner at a Vietnamese place on Main Street. I save my appetite for it, holding off on snacks after lunch. Now it’s 6:47 and I’m starving.
At 7:02 I finally hear the screen door open, and I reach for my shoes. But then there’s a knock on the door.
I don’t like answering doors, especially in a city like Los Angeles. Technically Santa Monica, but surrounded by the much more menacing LA. And now with the sun lower, the shadows lengthening. So I sit completely still on the couch. I even hold my breath.
“Betty!”
I almost fall off the couch in surprise, then look up to see Summer’s smiling face at the little window by the door that lets in the breeze. Her face is practically in the living room.
“Don’t do that!” I say, getting to my feet.
“Did you order a pizza? ’Cause I have one!”
I unlock the door and open it. She comes through with a giant pizza box. It’s so big she practically has to turn it on its side to get in the door. She’s wearing a long-sleeve hoodie and jeans.
“I’m going out to dinner with my mom,” I say. Then my stomach growls. “But maybe I could have just one slice.”
“This place is so cute!” Summer puts the pizza on the table and opens the top of the box. “Spinach and garlic! Six slices for me and six for my new bestie.” She pulls up a chair.
I’m sure she doesn’t mean it about me being her new best friend. But the pizza smells incredible. I’m drooling like a dog. I fetch plates and napkins from the cupboard. I also pour two glasses of water, then join her at the table.
“Where did this come from?” I take my first bite. It’s heavenly.
Summer closes the lid and looks at the top of the box. It’s got a picture of an Italian-looking guy with a mustache and a chef’s hat, smiling and giving a thumbs-up. And the name of the pizzeria. “Gino’s. I love Gino’s!”
“You couldn’t remember where you got it?”
“It was a gift from a delivery guy,” she says through a mouthful of pizza. “Gratis, as they say in old Italy. Or is that Spanish? Anyway, he had one of those delivery bicycles with a big basket on the front. But he said he’d just decided to quit and did I want a pizza?”
I set my slice down. “So you just accepted a pizza from a stranger without question?”
She swallows the last of her bite, then licks tomato sauce from her lips. “Of course not! I asked if it was vegetarian first. And anyway, delivery people are pretty much always strangers. Right? Unless you have friends who deliver pizza. Which would be very cool.”
“What if it’s poisoned?”
“It’s probably not. If it is, then at least it’s also delicious.” She takes another bite.
“But at least you know Gino’s Pizza. I mean, you’ve eaten there before.” I study her expression. “Right?”
“Actually, I’ve never heard of them.”
“You said you loved them!”
“I do! Or at least I do now!” She takes another bite and talks through it. “And it’s so good, huh? But what if the owners were mean to the delivery guy? Maybe that’s why he was quitting.”
My head spins with worries.
Summer shakes her head. “Nah, he said he was quitting because he wanted to watch the fireworks on the beach. Which brings me to why I’m here.”
“Fireworks?”
She lays another slice in front of me. “Yeah. Eat up!”
“Fireworks begin with the word fire. They also include explosions. And showers of sparks, which are technically small fires.”
“Sounds like you’ve figured out the science behind why they’re so beautiful.” She bares her teeth in a grin and tears off a huge bite, then again speaks with her mouth full. “Hurry! I gotta get made up for the celebration.” She holds up a little makeup bag and shakes it.
I look at the pizza before me. “My mom will be here any minute.”
“We won’t be all night. And this only happens once every year!”
It’s killing me watching her eat, I’m so famished. Maybe I’d rather die from eating possibly poisoned pizza given by an outlaw former pizza-delivery guy than from hunger. I pick up my slice.
Summer takes a gulp of water. “What did you say your mom does?”
I look at the clock on the wall. “She’s an emergency-room doctor. She’s teaching at a hospital in Los Angeles for a month. It’s part of the same system as the hospital back home.”
Summer spreads her hands palms down on the table and leans toward me. “Can we just leave her a couple slices and go see the fireworks?”
I look away, toward the door. “She’ll be here any minute.”
I keep saying that, and I keep eating the pizza. So does Summer, and finally it’s 7:29 and there are only two more slices for Mom.
“She probably got held up at the hospital,” I say. “You can’t just walk away when someone’s bleeding to death. And she can’t really take out her phone to text me when she’s putting someone back together.” I hear a car, but it drives by. My heart rises and sinks, that quickly. “I shouldn’t bail on her. We made plans.”
“I’d love it if you’d watch the fireworks with me. We’ll be at a very safe distance. They’re way down at the Marina and we’ll be on the beach. But we’ll keep our feet dry. I’m not even wearing a bathing suit.”
The stupid list in the drawer calls out to me. Go outside your comfort zone.
Finally I give up on Mom arriving, or I agree with Summer, so I text Mom that I’m leaving, and Summer and I walk down to the beach to watch explosions and showers of fire. Summer has poster-paint red lipstick, bright blue eye shadow, and tiny white sticker stars in her hair and on her face. Ordinarily I would say that kind of thing is ridiculous, but she looks adorable. I’ve got my usual Goth face on, and I’m kinda jealous of hers. Almost.
We wait to cross Main Street at the light. Two guys our age roll up on skateboards. They look us up and down as they wait beside us.