Beach Blondes: June Dreams, July's Promise, August Magic (Summer) (47 page)

“No, and I can’t believe you’re saying it. Where’s Seth?”

“He is working. He’s working, and I’m here, and he’s not, and I think that paints a pretty clear picture of my future with Seth,” Summer said.

Marquez began to look uncomfortable. “Okay, well, then let’s just dance and flirt with guys and forget all this stuff,” she said. “Forget it all.”

Summer grabbed her friend’s arm. She knew Marquez wanted her to shut up and stop being so grim, but she didn’t care. She felt desperate and sad. “I was going to go back to Bloomington in triumph. I mean, when I left I was just any other girl. But I was going to go back and say to my parents, hey, I found Jonathan. And at school I’d be one of those girls who’s all sure of herself and above it all because I was in love with this great guy. And now you know what? It’ll be like, yeah, I went to Crab Claw Key, and all I got was a tan. After a week that will fade, and I’ll be right back to being the same old Summer Smith.”

“Summer! There you are!”

Summer heard the voice but took a few seconds to recognize it. Sean. She managed to turn, elbowing a nearby reveler in the stomach.

Sean was right there. The crowd surged and threw her against him. He put his arms around her.

“Hey, I’m back,” he announced.

“Yeah, I see.”

“Back from Miami. Man, what a dump that place is. This is so cool! These people know how to party! Let’s try to get something like this started back home.”

Summer almost remarked sarcastically that it might be a little different throwing a street party in a place where everyone had to wear parkas instead of bathing suits. But she didn’t. “Yeah, when we get home” was all she said.

“Here!” Sean handed her another cup of punch.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. In spite of the strange dizziness closing in on her, she didn’t stop to think about what exactly was in the punch.

He kissed her, and she let him.

She felt sick and strange and irritated. Too many things to worry about. All of it stupid and pointless. It didn’t matter, any of it. Marquez had the right idea—dance and party, and whenever anything serious threatened to rear up in your face, run away.

Summer looked around for Marquez, but she had been swallowed up in the crowd. So she danced with Sean and finished her second glass of punch, and let him kiss her and kissed him back, and stopped caring about everyone and everything. It was all going to come to an end, all of it: Seth, and J.T., and Marquez, and Diver. But mostly Seth.

She felt as if someone had stabbed a knife into her stomach and twisted it. Seth. He wasn’t even there with her. And already the feeling of emptiness was so intense. She should never have let it happen. She should have kept him away, at arm’s length. Then she would have been safe.

Sean drew her close. She felt strangely numb. Sean was holding her tight against him. She knew she should pull away, but she couldn’t seem to summon up the energy. What was the point?

Then she saw him. Seth. He was staring at her.

“Seth,” she whispered. He
had
come. Her heart leaped.

For a moment her view of him was blocked, and he was gone. As he would soon be gone from her life.

Sean grabbed her and kissed her again, pulling her against him. Seth reappeared, but now it was only a momentary glimpse as he turned away.

As a rule, Summer did not drink. Once or twice she’d had a single beer. Which was probably why she hadn’t thought much about the sickly sweet taste of the punch. Which was probably why the weird dizziness hadn’t clued her in about its alcohol content. Now that she’d spilled her third glass down the front of her shirt, she should have been worried, but instead she found it terribly funny.

In fact, everything was funny. The way she was walking. The way her words weren’t coming out right. The way Sean was propelling her down the street away from the Bacchanal, half dragging and half carrying her.

“Is this the right way?” he demanded.

“What?”

“Is this the right way to your house?”

“My house? Why are we going there?” Summer asked. She tried to focus, but couldn’t quite.

“Why do you think?” Sean said.

Summer didn’t know the answer, but she had the feeling she should. “I want to go back to the party.”

“We’re moving the party to your place,” Sean said. “Have a real party.”

“I don’t know.” Suddenly she was very tired. She sat down on the curb too quickly, bruising her behind in the process.

Sean took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet. But Summer offered no help, and after a few tugs Sean gave up. He sagged to the ground beside her. A passing car honked and gave a jeer.

“I think I may be kind of drunk,” Summer said.

“No kidding,” he said. “That punch was spiked with grain alcohol.”

“I’m sleepy.”

“You can’t sleep here,” he said. “I’ll take you home. You can sleep there. Or at least you can go to bed.” He laughed uproariously.

Summer leaned close. He tried to kiss her, but she fended him off. She had something important to say. If only she could remember what it was. Oh, yeah. “You know, everyone thinks you’re really cool. At school and all.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I know.”

She whispered into his ear. “Did you know I used to have dreams about you? You and me?”

“Tell me about them,” he said. He kissed her and then trailed kisses down her neck.

“Now I dream about this little boy. The little ball boy.”

“Yeah? Forget that. Tell me what you dream about me.”

Summer realized that he had slipped his hand up under the back of her blouse. “What?” she said, squinting against a pair of headlights.

“Dreams. Tell me about them.”

“Oh, anyway, like I said…um…everyone thinks you’re really cool.”

“Hey, and if you’re with me, everyone will think you’re cool too,” he said.

“Who?”

“Everyone,” he said.

“What?”

He became impatient. “I said, if you’re with me, everyone will think you’re cool too, all right? Come on, let’s get back to your place.” He dragged her upward with more determination this time, and she staggered against him. “Then I’ll show you
why
all the girls think I’m the best.”

Summer began to giggle. She pushed him away, laughing loudly. “You’re such a jerk.”

“What did you call me?”

“I don’t care,” Summer said. “Because, like…I mean, it doesn’t matter. One way or the other, Seth and me…he goes boom, over that way, and I go the other way.”

“Who is Seth?”

“Boy number three,” Summer said, suddenly sad in a way that momentarily sobered her a little. “See, the tarot lady said guy one, he’s dangerous, right? Well, that was Adam. And the mystery guy was number two, and that’s Diver. And boy number three, the right one. That was Seth.”

“Did you call me a jerk?”

“She didn’t tell me that he was only temporary. Did I say that right? Tem-po-ra-ry. She didn’t say, oh, by the way, you’ll fall in love, but then it will be over. Like Jonathan, you know. Love someone, and then they go, and all you have is…” She started to cry, but at the same time she was laughing. “Then all you have is Sean Valletti.”

Sean retreated in horror. “Wait a minute. You’re only with me because this other guy dumped you?”

“He did
not
dump me,” Summer said, offended.

“You, Summer Smith, are with me, Sean Valletti, because some other guy
might
dump you? Like I’m some kind of…of…” He was so outraged he couldn’t speak. “Who is this guy? Are you telling me he’s better-looking than
me
? Are you trying to tell me he kisses better than
me
? Who do you think you are?”

Summer leaned against a lamppost and considered going to sleep.

“Oh, man,” Sean raved. “I told my sister I was going with you. She’s probably told everyone by now. Okay, look, let me just make one thing clear here. I’m dumping
you.
All right? Listen to me! I am officially dumping you, so don’t even think about telling anyone that you blew me off, because that would be a total lie.”

“What?” Summer said.

“That does it. You are on your own,” Sean said. He turned on his heel and disappeared back in the direction of town.

Summer used the lamppost to lever herself to her feet. Where was she? Not far from downtown. Maybe she could go and sleep in the restaurant. Home was way, way too far.

Then she saw a house she recognized. Just half a block down the street. She could make it that far.

Marquez paced a circle, staring all the while at the floor of her room, the area in front of the counter. Yes, it was time to start it. It would be a totally new challenge. She would have to paint it from the center out, otherwise she’d leave footprints, and that would ruin everything.

She could see the picture in her mind, the way it would grow over time, till it met up with the walls and everything came together as one vast mural.

She heard the pounding on her window, insistent, persistent. It had been going on for a while, she knew, maybe as long as half an hour, maybe more. But she wasn’t going to react. She’d removed the extra key from its hiding place.

The floor would be an aerial scene. First the Bacchanal as if you were looking at it from above, all those dancing, gyrating, partying bodies. She’d paint that first, then over that paint a framework, and it would look as if you were walking on a glass floor, looking down through it at the town. Perspective, that would be the challenge.

The pounding at the window continued, varying in rhythm, each shift distracting her just a little.

“What?” she suddenly yelled. She stomped to the door and threw it open. “What? What? What?”

J.T. smiled, as if he had not been standing there pounding till his knuckles were raw. “Oh, hi, Marquez,” he said. “Can I come in?” He stepped past her without waiting for an answer. He noted the paints lined up ready on the counter, and noted the fact that she had cleared everything off a large part of the floor.

“What do you want?” Marquez demanded.

“I just came by to see you,” he said.

“Well, I’m busy.”

“Doing the floor, huh? Good. It’s about time. I knew you’d be painting,” he said smugly.

Marquez calmed herself enough to talk reasonably. “J.T., look, I’m sorry I ran out on you and Summer. Okay? Now can you just leave?”

“Yeah, I knew you’d be painting,” he said. “You always do when you get upset. Or when you’re hurt. Or even when someone you love is hurting.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, J.T. You’re the one with the messed-up head.”

“True, true,” he said equably. “Although I’m feeling a lot clearer now. How about you?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Afterward I’ll do whatever you want. Just go away now.”

“I love you, Marquez,” he said.

This tack unsettled her a little. “I know. You said that the other night.”

“And you love me,” he said.

“Okay, so everything is happy happy, joy joy,” Marquez said. “I love you. Now go away.”

Instead he sat on the edge of her bed. “It wasn’t what any of us thought,” he began. “I was right about my parents not being my parents. About not having a birth certificate around anywhere, just a baptismal paper from when I was two.”

Marquez fretted impatiently. She really wanted to be painting now. And J.T. was just distracting her.

“But all the reasons I’d worked out were wrong,” he said. “I’m not Jonathan. I’m not some little kid who was kidnapped.”

To Marquez’s surprise, he started to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Why do you care?” he said coyly.

“Look, just tell me the stupid story. You started it, now finish it.”

“I don’t know, Marquez,” he said dryly. “It’s got all these emotional parts, people getting hurt, people with problems. Like me. Complications. You wouldn’t want to have to feel any of that, would you?”

“Fine, then go,” she said. “No, wait. Listen to me, J.T., you think you have me all figured out, but you’re wrong. I have a right to decide stuff for myself. I have a right to stay away from people who are going to drag me down, because I don’t want to be dragged down. Go talk to Diana—she gets off on being depressed. I don’t. I’m not an emotional person. What is that, a crime?”

J.T. just laughed. “You’re not an emotional person? Marquez, you are so pathetic. You’re the most emotional person I know. You feel everything, that’s your problem. You
feel
and then you can’t stand it, so you run away. You run away and put it all up there, on the wall. You didn’t run away from my parents’ house today because you’re some coldhearted, unfeeling person. A person like that wouldn’t have minded a little family tragedy. That’s why I wasn’t mad at you. That’s why I knew you’d be here, trying to get it all out of your head and your heart and putting it on the walls, where it would be safe.”

“Oh, yeah?” Marquez said, unable to think up any better comeback.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a bunch of crap,” Marquez said without conviction. She sat down on the bed, and J.T. moved beside her.

“You’re right,” J.T. said kindly. “Just a bunch of crap. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that underneath it all you’re a warm, sweet, generous person who really cares about her friends.”

Marquez shuddered. “You’re making me sick.”

J.T. kissed her hand. “You want to hear the rest?”

Marquez sighed dramatically. “Like I have a choice?”

“It was my dad’s sister. She was my mother.”

“Excuse me?”

“She got pregnant—no one is exactly sure who the father was, or is. Anyway, my dad’s sister got pregnant. But when I was being born, there were problems. She died in childbirth.” J.T. shook his head in wonder. “She died
because
of childbirth. My folks didn’t want me growing up with that kind of burden. I knew my dad had a sister who died, but I never knew she was my biological mother. That’s why they never had a birth certificate around—it would have shown my real mother’s name. Then I would have known, and I guess I would have grown up feeling as if I had been responsible for my mother’s death.” He gave her a rueful smile. “You think I’m messed up now? Just imagine how messed up I might have been.”

“I don’t know,” Marquez said. “It might have been good. If you were even more messed up, I might have gotten the floor painted before now. So…” Her face grew sad. “So Summer’s brother really is dead.”

“Or at least he isn’t me,” J.T. said. “She tried to hide it, but I think she was kind of upset.”

“She was,” Marquez agreed. “I saw her at the Bacch. She was drinking punch.”

“Summer? Drinking?”

“She was bummed. So naturally I took off,” Marquez said unhappily.

J.T. squeezed her hand. “She’ll be okay. Know how you’re not as tough as you think you are? Well, she’s tougher than everyone thinks she is.”