Falling for Summer (7 page)

“Yeah, Mom, God,” I'd said, blowing another bubble with my bubble gum, not because I was trying to be one of those teenagers in the eighties who thinks they're too cool for life (but I did kind of think that about myself), but because I was trying to hide my nervousness.

Tiffany had been planning that slumber party all week, fully aware that the parents weren't going to be home to watch her or her friends and that, technically, she might get away with it without supervision.  My little sister had some crazy ideas about what passed for fun, including going to the corner store, buying her weight in candy and then eating it while watching VHSes of cartoons.  It wasn't too crazy, and the cartoon-watching is something my parents would have agreed with, but my mother would have objected to the candy.  I was also pretty certain that Tiffany had some other plans up her sleeve, but what they were I wasn't sure of.

The problem is that I didn't mind watching my little sister.  I loved her, even though she annoyed me to death, and her friends were all equally annoying, but they were good kids...  It's just that I'd had something planned for that Friday night, too.  And it certainly wasn't “going out with my friends,” though that's what I'd told my parents.

I'd...just started seeing a girl.

Well, “seeing a girl” is kind of strong wording for two teenaged girls (who really had no idea what they were doing) trying their best to date each other when being gay was something that
really
wasn't done, or remotely acceptable, especially out in a middle-of-nowhere town like Lake George.  And especially if you were still considered kids, being seventeen. 

So far, so good, though.  No one knew that Monica and I had a thing for each other, because we were very, very,
very
careful about never getting caught.  Monica was my best friend, and everyone expected us to spend a lot of time together, anyway, because of that.  So when we went places in Monica's beat-up old car, handed down to her from her older brother, we could find spots to park and make out and do other things, and no one ever suspected, not even a little bit.  It was the perfect setup, and though it was nerve-wracking and often scary, we tried our best to be together whenever we could be.

That Friday, Monica and I were supposed to go out, park alongside the lake and have fun again.  We'd promised each other we would, because this past week, we hadn't had that much time with each other because Monica's extended family was in town for their family reunion. 

So when my mother told me that I had to stay with the kids for the slumber party...that really didn't fit into my plans.

“Mom, they're all
ten
,” I told her for the umpteenth time, following her into the bathroom, where she grabbed her gold brooch off of the vanity and affixed it to her lace collar.  I knew I was sounding petulant, the unfairness of the situation making my tone all squeaky, but I really needed to get out of this.  I was desperate.  “They can totally take care of themselves!  You left me alone when I was ten.  And I had really good plans tonight.  This is pretty unfair,” I told her, all in a rush.

My desperation was starting to become apparent.

“We left you alone because you were responsible,” my mother told me firmly.  “And that's something your sister is not.  And you can just do whatever it is you were going to do tomorrow.  I'm sure your friends will wait to see whatever ridiculous movie you were going to see,” said my mother then, setting her mouth in that thin, hard line, the line that told me, in no uncertain terms, that the door to the argument we were participating in had closed. 

I groaned in frustration and turned and flounced out of the room.  I was wearing  my little rocker tutu that I'd just gotten from this cute new store at the mall, and I'd been so excited to show it to Monica—and have Monica take it off of me.

That makes it sound like we were fast movers, which really wasn't the case.  But we'd been together for three months now, which meant that things were starting to get heavier between us. 

Honestly, I'd often wondered if Monica was the one.  I was seventeen, and somehow I'd gotten lucky enough to find another girl like me in my little town, and we were actually attracted to each other—something that, years later, I would think probably wasn't true.  But when you're seventeen and living on the edge like I was, I thought it was a certainty that I was attracted in every way to Monica Robinson. 

So with the slim odds of having found each other in such a small town, of course I wondered if Monica was my soulmate.  This was the age of rock ballads about undying love, all of which I taped carefully onto cassette tapes to play in my boom box as I rested on my bed and daydreamed about Monica.  The problem was that I was beginning to think that Monica didn't exactly feel the same way as me. 

We both knew that, at the end of the summer that was just beginning, we were both going to go away to school—schools that were situated on opposite sides of the country.  There's no way that a relationship, a high school relationship, could survive those odds.  I know that now, but I had no clue about it then.  I thought our love could totally stand that test of distance, and Monica had said she wanted to try a long-distance romance for a little while, to see if we could make it work.

So I believed her, and I kept feeling these waves of adoration for her that I was beginning to think were transforming into love.  Like, actual love.

I really couldn't cancel on Monica that night.  I couldn't tell her that I was unable to meet up with her because I had to babysit my stupid little sister and her stupid slumber party friends.  Monica was so stressed out because of the family reunion, and I wanted to help relax her.  The truth is, I'd missed her desperately that week.   

I wanted to see her so much that it was a need, building inside of me.  A need that would prompt me to do anything to fix this.

“Okay, I'll watch them,” I told my mother begrudgingly, with a roll of my eyes.

But, behind my back, I crossed my fingers.

Mom and Dad left a little bit after seven, after all of the kids who were supposed to be at the slumber party had already shown up.  There were eleven of them, all girls, and all as loud and as obnoxious as I'm sure I was at that age.  They were already hopped up on sugar, and Tiffany was bouncing up and down on her bed along to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” two of her posse bouncing right alongside her.  She had her hair drawn up in two pigtails, and she was dressed entirely in pink.  Pink was her favorite color.

“Mandy, Mandy!” she'd called to me, sticking another piece of taffy in her mouth.  She wore a wide, infectious grin that I instantly caught.  Tiffany's smile was like that—you couldn't help but smile back at her when she turned that bright grin on you.  “Can you make us some popcorn?” she asked me in a shout.

“Yeah,” I told her, then grabbed her hand and dragged her into the kitchen.  If I remember correctly, Summer was right behind her, the quiet girl with the long black hair. 

“Listen, Tiff,” I told her, as I got the pot going for the popcorn, my voice low, “I promised Monica that I'd meet up with her tonight.”

“Mom said you were supposed to watch me,” said Tiffany, her smile huge on her pretty little face.  Her smile grew as she considered what this meant.  “But...don't worry.  We're big girls.”  Her eyes sparkled.  “I think it's stupid that you were supposed to watch us, anyway,” she said, sticking her nose up into the air, in what I assume she thought was a mature expression.

I groaned.  “Just promise me that you'll stay inside and stay away from sharp objects, okay, Tiff?” I muttered to her, shifting the pot over the gas burner as the kernels began to pop inside of it.  I gripped the pot handles tightly and trained my narrowed eyes on her.  “You have to
promise
you won't get up to any trouble, okay?”

Tiffany stood straighter and nodded emphatically.  “I promise!  This is going to be so
cool!”
she said, and then she hugged me tightly around my middle.

Those were the last words my little sister ever said to me.  I kissed the top of her head, poured the popped corn into a big plastic bowl, then grabbed a sweater as I dashed out of the kitchen and out of the house, into the arms of my girlfriend. 

Monica had parked out front, and she was waiting for me in the driveway, her hands buried deep in her jeans pockets as she studied her scuffed sneakers and the chipping pavement of the driveway.  I rushed into her arms and hugged her tightly, but I didn't kiss her, because we promised that we wouldn't kiss one another anywhere we had the slightest suspicion that someone could catch us...  But as I embraced Monica tightly, too tightly for a just-a-friend embrace, I thought I saw a shadow in the doorway of my house...  We climbed into Monica's car and peeled out of the driveway. 

That shadow must have been Summer.

So Monica and I drove off of the road that wound around the lake and parked in the woods, away from prying eyes.  And as we kissed one another that night, I had no idea that my little sister had had every intention to get into trouble.

And when Monica dropped me off back at the house, hours later, the cops were already there.  Tiffany's body had already been dragged out of the lake.

And she was dead.

And if I'd been there, it never would have happened.

As I stood beside her body, staring down at it, sobbing, I remember thinking,
It's all my fault.

That refrain that has never left me.

---

“Hey,” Summer kisses me gently, bringing me back to reality, with her warm mouth over mine.  I blink, then close my eyes, shutting out the memory as I kiss her, drinking her in as the storm flickers overhead, now farther away, the lightning coming only occasionally, the thunder sounding like a distant cat's purr. 

“Where did you go?” Summer whispers, tracing her fingertips lightly down my neck and drawing me close, wrapping her warm arms around me.  “You weren't here,” she whispers into my ear.

I sigh for a long moment, then run my hand over my hair, biting my lip as I turn toward her, drawn to her warmth, her softness, her kindness.  I don't usually ever speak about what's bothering me, what I'm thinking about...  But I find that, in this moment, I feel like I can.  “I was just thinking about...that night,” I tell her then, truthfully.  I inhale, shaking my head.  “You were there...  You saw Monica and me?” I ask her, holding her in my gaze.  “You knew what we were?”

Summer's warm brown eyes flash, but then she's nodding.  “I saw you that night—the way Monica held you,” she says, voice thick with emotion.  “And I knew immediately.  Didn't you...didn't you ever notice me watching you?” asks Summer now.  Her eyes are wet, and she shakes her head again, biting her lip when my silence confirms the truth: I didn't.  Summer inhales deeply, her nostrils flaring as she searches my face.  Finally, she whispers, “I only became friends with Tiffany because of you.”

I stare at her.  “Why?” I whisper, even though I know what she's about to say.  

“I had a crush on you from the minute I saw you.  Even when I was ten,” says Summer, her mouth curling up at the corners as she leans down and brushes her lips over my skin.  “But after that night...” she whispers against me, “I mean, after you left, I...really didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

I sigh, stare up at the ceiling as Summer pillows her head on my shoulder and I draw her close.

“You know, I honestly had no intention of ever coming back to Lake George,” I murmur, tracing a circle on Summer's sculpted bicep.  The warmth of her skin radiates into my fingertips.  “I just couldn't bear to think of it.  I loved Lake George so much, but it had just become the place where my sister died.  After she drowned, everything felt transformed,” I whisper.  “But...it's been twenty years.  I thought it was...
fitting
to come here now, this week.”  I manage to choke the words out, and then I'm shaking my head again. 
Fitting
.  Fitting to visit on the the twentieth anniversary of my sister's death.

Summer breathes out, reaches up, and then she delicately fingers the gold chain around my neck, her fingers scooping up the little locket that's resting at the hollow of my collarbones.  “This...this is familiar,” she whispers, holding my gaze.  “Have I seen it before?” 

“You must have,” I whisper tiredly.  “It was Tiffany's,” I manage to tell her, and then a single tear leaks out of my eye and traces its way down my cheek, leaving a trail of salt behind it. 

For a long moment, neither of us says anything.  And then Summer nods, clears her throat.  She reaches up her hand and spreads her palm open to me, pressing her thumb to the ring on her left hand.  “It's not my great-grandmother's,” she says then, her words soft, almost defeated-sounding.  “Tiffany gave it to me when we decided that we were best friends,” she tells me, her tone rueful.  “It was just this tin ring that we got out of a vending machine, so I've had it expanded, had it covered in gold...  I just was never able to take it off.”

She trails off, her words pain-filled, and then she closes her eyes, a single tear squeezing past her long lashes before she opens her eyes again, looks at me.

I hold her gaze, surprised. 

I have, for my whole life, been entirely in my head about my sister's death.  I saw how my parents dealt with it, how they shut themselves off from the harshness of her death by ignoring the pain they were feeling and shutting it all away.  I learned how to deal with it myself from their
not
dealing with it.  But I never really thought about how anyone else was managing with the fact that Tiffany had died.