When Summer Ends Page 4

  “Torch what?”

  “His house! I’m ready if you are.” She grabs another cupcake.

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “See!” She points at me accusatorily. “I knew you weren’t ready to admit this is over.” She shakes her head, looking at me like I’m a straight-A student who just brought her first B home. “You’re ridiculous.” She takes another bite and rolls her eyes. “You should be happy you’ve been saved from your own boring-ass future.”

  “Our future wouldn’t have been boring.”

  “It would. Because the two of you are boring together. B-O-R-I-N-G.”

  Emma and Zander have never been best friends, but there’s never been any animosity there. None that I’ve noticed before, at least. But here she is, telling me what she really thinks, apparently for the first time.

  “Honestly, Liv … I don’t think this is the worst thing that could happen. You could use a little drama in your life.”

  “Drama is the last thing I want,” I say.

  Emma obviously doesn’t get what Zander and I have. The steadiness of it. I can’t remember the last time I imagined my future without Zander. Even before we were together, I always hoped for it. His was the future last name I scribbled in my eighth grade notebooks. The yearbook photo I drew a heart around (and then shoved in the back of my closet to hide, like a stone-cold weirdo). I’m not interested in dating a bunch of guys and piecing my heart back together a million times. I’m not interested in the excitement (translation: drama) that Emma is interested in.

  “Trust me, I know,” she mumbles.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Since when is it a bad thing to not want your life to be a freak show? I’ve had drama, and she knows that. My mom’s first, middle, and last name is drama. Drama Drama Drama.

  “Nothing. You have the perfect GPA, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect summer job.” Emma rolls her eyes. “I guess everything is perfect…”

  “And?”

  “And it’s fucking boring,” she says, around the chocolate cupcake in her mouth. “And safe. And it’s getting really old watching you live like a fortysomething soccer mom.”

  “Oh come on, now who’s being dramatic?” I say.

  “Did you, or did you not, spend the last two Saturdays planning a wedding with his mom and sister?”

  “I did. Because his sister is my friend, and I actually like his mom. And then I went out with my boyfriend.”

  Emma scowls and a little rumble escapes her throat. “Did you? Did you go out and do something fun?”

  We went to a movie. Movies are fun. Last time I checked, taking your girlfriend to a movie wasn’t a criminal offense. Where is this coming from? Zander and Emma have always gotten along. “What’s wrong with a movie?”

  “Nothing, it’s perfect. He’s perfect. Just like you’ve been telling me since we were ten.”

  “And?”

  “And before you know it, you’re going to be going to the movies that Zander picks out for the rest of your life,” she says.

  “And that’s the worst thing?”

  “It’s not very romantic.”

  “They make movies about falling in love with your best friend, Em. It is romantic.”

  “Yeah, but they’re like … Hallmark movies.” Em squishes her nose up, like just the word offends her. “You need to be in the kind of movie that gets leaked on the internet because it’s so hot.”

  She makes a sizzling sound when she touches my knee and I want to laugh but I can’t quite make myself. I hate that she’s putting these thoughts into my head, making me question what I’ve always wanted. Because I have always wanted Zander. I still want him.

  “Okay, but seriously.” Em’s eyes are soft. “You’ve been in love with Zander since you were ten or something. You’ve never kissed another guy. You’ve never been wooed.”

  “Wooed? Seriously?”

  “Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”

  “What?” I can feel the warmness rising up in my chest, the feeling when I know I’m in trouble, when I’ve done something wrong, been caught. I feel the panic rising up, the anxiety and anger. The sadness. I breathe slow through my nose, so slow Emma won’t even notice it. But I do. I feel the air filling my lungs, feel the blood cooling down, my nerves starting to settle. 1 … 2 … 3 … I can’t remember the last time I had to calm my nerves like this, had to do my breathing exercises from therapy. But I feel so unwanted right now.

  “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to be chased?”

  She’s right. I was most definitely the chaser with Zander. Even though he’s the one who made the move that turned us into a couple, I was the one sitting on the sidelines, waiting for it. Deep down, I know he knew how I felt about him. For years. So yes, it’s a little sad that I just waited around all of those years, until he was ready. But it never mattered because I ended up with what I always wanted. “Maybe I don’t want to be chased,” I say.

  “And maybe you do.”

  Yeah, maybe I do.

  * * *

  The building that houses Lake Lights is short, fat, and gray, like the lady who is sitting at the reception desk when I walk in a few days later.

  “Hi,” I say. “You must be Brenda. I’m Olivia, we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” She looks at me like I’ve caught her off guard, and she isn’t making me any less nervous. “Wait here and I’ll get Mr. Harris for you.” I expect her to get up, but she picks up the phone and mumbles a few words as I sit down in one of the chairs next to the desk.

  “Great. Thanks.” I hope she can’t hear my toes tapping away in my shoe like they might bust right through the bottom and hammer a tiny toe-shaped hole right through the floor. Property damage on the first day of work. When I was here two months ago for my interview, the office felt alive. People were scurrying about and phones were ringing. Now it’s dead quiet, and it’s almost eerie how still everything is. I look to the receptionist, whose eyes dart away as soon as they meet mine.

  Oh crap.

  Maybe they’re rethinking their willingness to take on a high school student as part of the summer staff this year. If I could cross my tapping toes right inside my shoes, I would. This job is perfect for me. A staff writer for the busy summer season at the area’s weekly tourism guide. They pick up a handful of extra staff for the summer, and I spent the last six months preparing my portfolio, finding an in at the magazine, and getting letters of recommendation from teachers. It’s not unheard of for them to take a high school student, but it takes a lot more work. And I know they won’t send me out on my own for a while, but it will be a great start. By the end of the summer I’ll have published articles. Just the thought of my name in print gives me shivers. Maybe having assignments will help get my brain moving, and I’ll actually think of a topic for the teen mag essay contest. One problem at a time, Olivia. I feel like I’ve been telling myself that a lot lately. That I’ll deal with Zander once I’ve figured out how to stay in Riverton.

  Lake Lights is perfect because it’s something I could come back to every summer, when Zander and I are home from college. The thought stops me in my tracks. Will there be a Zander and I? It doesn’t feel like it, but it also doesn’t feel like it could be over. It’s been almost a week since I walked out of his room. Three days since his family left for the cottage. Not that I’ve driven past his house or anything, but their boat is gone, and his mom has the spare key lockbox that looks like a frog statue set out by their garden. I have to fix this.

  “Olivia…” My name floats out of the hallway, and I can tell just by the way he says it—like he wishes I weren’t here—that this isn’t good. “I’m so sorry you came all the way down here.”

  “It’s no problem.” I smile. “I live in town, so I’m happy to come any time.”

  “Right. Well.” He pats the side of his leg. “I’m sorry, everyone was supposed to have been mailed a notice.” He glances back at the elderly woman at the
desk and I do the same.

  “A … notice?”

  “Of our closing,” he says.

  No. Oh please, no. “But—”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “When will you reopen?” I ask.

  “Closed for good, I’m afraid. Just not enough advertiser interest last summer.”

  “And that’s it? One bad summer and that’s it?” What’s wrong with this guy? Lake Lights has been around forever.

  “Well, it’s been a few summers now, but yes, one bad summer and I’ve decided I could be spending mine elsewhere.”

  Apparently everyone wants to get out of Riverton this summer.

  “But, I—”

  “I’m sorry you weren’t notified. Here, you should take a few of these.” He shoves a handful of magazines into my hands, and he’s walking toward the door, and I’m following without thinking, my six copies of the April issue clutched against my chest.

  “But—”

  “I hope you have a wonderful summer,” he says.

  And by the time the last word is out of his mouth, the door is closed. And all of my hard work and planning is gone with the slide of the dead bolt.

  * * *

  After multiple online searches, I’m starting to worry there aren’t actually any jobs within a five-mile radius of me. At least not any that don’t look sketchy as hell. I finally resort to the newspapers. The regional paper and two smaller local ones are spread out on the kitchen table. I feel so old-school. Aunt Sarah would be really proud of me for resorting to digging through the newspaper pile in the garage, but I’m glad she’s not here. Because she’s on my blacklist. Last week I didn’t even have a blacklist, and this week it’s multiplying by the day.

  1. Zander—Former love of my life, breaker of my heart. Officially MIA for a week.

  2. Lake Lights—That magazine is dead to me. I gathered all of our old copies and burned them in the fire pit when I got back from what was supposed to be my orientation. How’s that for drama, Emma?

  3. Aunt Sarah—The Great Abandoner. Trading in her favorite (only) niece’s senior year for an amazing promotion at a new technology firm. I am the worst for being mad about this.

  4. Mom—Because I guess she’s kind of always on this list. Because if she hadn’t run off constantly, and left me with Oma, I wouldn’t have taken up refuge at Zander’s. And I’d be able to communicate with someone I love, like a normal person, and I’d have my own normal family, so I wouldn’t have to attach myself to someone else’s. Because if she had her shit together, maybe mine would be too. Yeah, Mom’s definitely on this list.

  An hour after sifting through ads for machine operators (too young), nursing assistants (unqualified), and truck drivers (too young, unqualified, and no thanks), it’s official: My blacklist is longer than my list of job possibilities, which is a whopping one. A tiny newspaper ad and two hours later, Emma is enthusiastically shoving me out of her car in the parking lot of River Depot with a chipper “good luck.” I haven’t been here in years. It’s a giant building of dark brown logs that sprawls next to the river. From the street you’d think it was a gas station, with its two old-fashioned pumps out front and the building’s small visible footprint from the street. But inside, it’s like a genie’s bottle, spreading into multiple attached rooms and levels, built into the hill that slopes down to the river.

  There’s an area for kayak and canoe trips, another for lazy river rides—complete with floating inflatable coolers. Inside they sell everything you could ever need. If you’re on vacation. It’s the kind of place that locals avoid and tourists flock to. The parking lot is across the street, and as I cross, I can see the giant black bear that sits under the big wood RIVER DEPOT sign. The bear is at least twice as tall as me, and three times as wide. He’s standing on his hind legs, with one paw outstretched in front of him at belly height. A mom is helping her daughter sit on the outstretched paw as Dad takes her picture.

  I walk past the bear and into the front doors that lead into the gift shop. To either side are counters, and in front of me, there are souvenirs and knick-knacks more dense than any chain store. Shelves go to the ceilings with toy slingshots, polished rocks, foam guns, butterfly nets, and water toys. The left side of the store is filled with hats and t-shirts and sandals and visors, all emblazoned with RIVER DEPOT or other local touristy slogans. The right side of the store has overpriced boxes of cereal and pancake mix, paper plates, and graham crackers and marshmallows—all the vacation necessities.

  I stop at the little desk to my left where a girl a little younger than me is clad in a red RIVER DEPOT tank top and khaki shorts. Suddenly the long sundress I was worried wouldn’t be dressy enough for an interview is feeling like extreme overkill. “I’m here for an interview,” I say, smiling.

  “You need Ellis, down by the launch.”

  “Launch?”

  “The boat launch, where they put the canoes in.” She points to a pair of doors on the right side of the building. “Through those doors and down the stairs on your left.”

  Outside, a second story deck wraps around the concession stand called The Grill. A small staircase leads to a lower level surrounded by built-in benches that circle around a gas fireplace in the center. Past the fireplace, another set of stairs empties out onto a large deck full of colorful Adirondack chairs and round picnic tables that overlook the river. One last set of stairs dumps me onto a bed of gravel by the water. To my left, two large garage doors open up from the lowest level of the building. In front of me, towering stacks of colorful kayaks rest on metal bars. It’s still early for vacationers—who will start pouring in next week—but there are a few boats being pushed from the docks on the right. Two guys in red shirts are standing in front of the garage doors with their backs to me, talking and laughing.

  I walk up and announce myself with a few scuffs of the gravel under my feet. “Ellis?” I ask, hoping I haven’t wandered to the wrong area.

  Both guys turn around and the shorter blond sticks his hand out to me. “I’m Ellis. You must be Olivia.”

  “Yep.” I shake his hand and smile. He’s wearing at least three rings on each hand, and his hair looks better than mine. It’s light, pushed up into a fauxhawk at the front, and held in place by … something strong. It’s like the ultimate boy-band hair and I sort of love that I could potentially look at it every day. My hair—which is usually in loose dark curls around my face—is pulled up into a sloppy ponytail. I didn’t want to look like someone who couldn’t cut it working out in the heat, doing whatever it is they do here. Ellis is just a few inches taller than me, and lean, and really cute.

  Almost as cute as the guy standing next to him. Aiden Emerson.

  He still has a faint bruise on his cheek, around the little white strips that seem to be holding his previously torn skin together. And his arm is covered in a fresh patch of scabbed-up scratches. Even though Aiden and I have gone to the same school for years, and I saw him at all of Zander’s games over the years, I don’t really know him. Up until the last few weeks, Aiden was the kind of sports-star golden child you never heard a bad word about. But recently, he’s all anyone is talking about, and not in a good way. A week after that epically awful game, he shows up to school on his bike, quits the team, and then just peaces out for the summer? Zander is probably still homicidal. Aiden was his ticket to college scouts. Scouts come for pitchers, not catchers, is what he always said. And Zander was hopeful that the better Aiden fared, the better he would.

  “Hey.” I nod my head at him, because I know he knows who I am. It seems weird to just act like I don’t see him. Even with the remnants of his one-on-one with the baseball, Aiden is still hard not to look at. He’s about a half-foot taller than me, easily six foot three, and he’s a lot bigger than Ellis—or even Zander—is, with his broad shoulders and muscular upper body. His brown hair is short around the sides and longer on top.

  Aiden nods back at me, and looks annoyed that he has to do that much. His eyes
are vacant, like he doesn’t know who I am. And then he’s gone, turned toward the kayaks, making marks on the clipboard in his hands. Whatever. Maybe if he hadn’t completely gone off the rails and I still had to see him at baseball games, I would care that he just looked at me like he had no idea who I was. Like we didn’t go to the same school for most of our lives. I turn to follow Ellis over to a small wooden podium that looks like maybe it’s used to register people. It’s a giant stump covered in glossy lacquer.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Ellis—” I feel like I should call him by his last name since he’s interviewing me, but he also looks like he’s about my age.

  “Emerson,” he finishes for me.

  “Oh, you guys are—” I nod at Aiden, now in the distance.

  “Cousins.” Ellis pulls a paper out from the podium and sets it in front of me. “Fill out this top section. Make sure you include the emergency contact. That’s not optional.” He highlights the words in blue, and runs his finger down to the next section labeled AVAILABILITY. “Mark all the days and times you’d be available.”

  “I’m available any time.” I draw a long skinny circle around the entire week. “I have zero life right now.”

  Ellis smiles. “Excellent.” He hovers over me while I fill in my address, birthday, and school info. He hands me another sheet of yellow paper. “This goes over dress code. You’ll get two RD tank tops, two shirts, and a hoodie, but you’ll need to provide your own khaki shorts.” He checks something off on his own clipboard. “Sneakers, no sandals. You’re likely to break toes if you drop a boat on them.”

  Ellis tells me about River Depot and everything that goes on there. How I’ll do a little of everything to start, until they figure out where the best fit for me is. I’ll ring up customers, stock shelves, scoop ice cream, and make hamburgers and hot dogs, but I’ll also work the canoe and kayak trips, hauling boats and reading the rules to riders and sending them on their way with paddles and life jackets and inflatable coolers in tow. That’s where they really need someone, he tells me. When he’s done, he pulls out flat plastic-wrapped red shirts from the podium. “Here are these.”