Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter Three

The end of the
summer is always a sad letdown to me. Every year, school ends and I just feel
that I am right on the cusp of something awesome and exciting. I search and
wait all summer for it to show up. And I’m reminded by mid-August of who I am,
and that awesome and exciting things do not, and will not ever, happen to me.
With just graduating, I have been under the delusion that it could still
happen. I should know better by now.

I’ve
worked my summer away as I usually do. My normal job is to manage the
campground part of the trailer park in the summer. The majority of my days are
made up of keeping the bathhouse and mini-laundromat clean. Kyle helps me
collect the trash each morning and evening with an old, beat-up, tiny Toyota
truck that looks fun-size. It used to be a bright vulgar yellow in its nineteen
seventies youth, but now it is a montage of colors that Max has swiped from his
buddy’s paint shop. Max thought at one point he may one day become a
car artist
as he calls it, and so he has
practiced on the work truck over the years with leftover paint and an old paint
gun. The hood is a metallic black with spatters of silver. This was one of
those times that the paint gun jammed and splattered instead of spraying, so
the effect is what we call
stars in the
night
. The sides are various wavy streaks of neon green, glittery orange,
and metallic blue, which looks like a drunken psychedelic rainbow. The bed of
the truck and the tailgate is graffiti of black music notes dancing over the
red pearlescent paint underneath. The music notes were added by Dillon, of
course. Is it lovely? No. It looks like a paint shop threw up all over the poor
truck. But at least it’s not that gross yellow anymore. Plus, it’s a work in
progress. You never know when Max will come home with another paint stash and
more ideas.

To
help pay Aunt Evie back for bailing us out and paying the court-ordered fine
for the boat-stunt-gone-bad, I have taken on cleaning vacation rental condos on
the other side of the lake. Not fun work, just let me tell you. Those people,
who are so posh and spoiled, don’t know how to pick up after themselves. They
are pigs, quite frankly. I think they live by the motto:
it stays where it lands until the help cleans up
. I guess people
like that have better things to do than to clean up a spill they cause or
actually toss trash into the trash can. They can afford to pay someone, aka me,
to worry about such things. They are too lazy to even pack all of their junk,
so I have acquired a nice supply of beach towels, sunglasses, suntan lotions,
perfume that costs more than I would make for cleaning that day, and plenty of
unopened food. The boys love this, of course. It never fails that Max and Mave
conveniently hang out at Aunt Evie’s trailer on the days I clean. They are
always more than willing to help take care of the food supplies I lug home. The
only thing I’m required to turn in is money and jewelry. Everything else is
considered a bonus, and I normally walk away with a trunkful of bonuses on a
regular basis.

So
my days are spent cleaning and cleaning and cleaning some more… I clean up
after the poor campers and then go clean up after the spoiled, rich
vacationers. What a life…

Not
everything sucks so badly though. I have been asked to do a few articles this
summer for the paper, which surprised me after what happened during spring
break. I finally cooled off enough to give them a statement about the ordeal. I
explained to them how it was merely a boring night gone awry and that it was a
complete accident. I was even more surprised when the paper came out with the
police report and then a brief editorial write-up about how it was an
unfortunate event that most teenagers find themselves in at one point or
another. The editorial writer felt the charges were a bit tough on us. Yes, I was
pretty shocked and glad, and so very thankful that I didn’t lose my small foot
in the door at the paper.

It’s
around six in the late afternoon. We just finished an alfresco supper of canned
Spam and saltines with RC colas on the dock. You may not think that’s very
appealing, but we are used to eating whatever is in the cabinets and fridge. At
least it was more substantial than the mayonnaise sandwiches we had last night.
Times have been tough. Beggars can’t be choosers, but dessert was quite nice. I
had cleaned a condo today where the vacationers were flying home, so they left
all sorts of food. I’ve stashed most of this in the cabinets and can’t wait to
show Aunt Evie when she gets home. It will be a big help to her that she
doesn’t have to go grocery shopping tomorrow as planned.

A
pile of gourmet ice creams were left in the freezer. So after we cleaned three
cans of Spam and polished off two sleeves of saltines, I hustled back to the
trailer and grabbed pints of the fancy gelato and some plastic spoons. The
crowd acted as though it were Christmas morning when they saw what I had, and I
was pleased to be able to share this small, unexpected treat with them. We
peeled the carton lids off and passed them around so we could sample them all.
There was chocolate hazelnut so rich and smoky, strawberry and peach flavors
that both tasted fresh and summery, and a few vanilla ones. This ice cream was
creamier than any I have ever had.

I’m
now stretched out on the sandy shore under our favorite willow tree, watching
as the lazy sun begins to droop. Leona has a date tonight, so she left us after
dessert. She’s going dancing at a local club. I wish I had enough energy to do
such things, but I’m wiped out and dateless anyway. Kyle and the twins agreed
to do the last garbage round-up since I so kindly shared my ice cream. Fine by
me. I cleaned two double condo units today, and I’m flat worn out. They’ve just
left to take care of the task at hand, so it’s just me and Dillon now on the
quiet beach.

I’m
lying on my back and am watching the long, lacy willow branches dance to the
acoustic melody Dillon is creating with his guitar. He’s playing softly, like a
lullaby. I’m dozing off when the chords hush abruptly. I glance over to find
him with his head bent down, his midnight brows pinched together from focusing
on making notations in his leather music journal. His Bible is sprawled open
beside him. This book has so many words written in the margins, I hardly see
how it could hold one more single word. I asked him once about his obsession
with the Bible, and he answered reverently that the most beautiful lyrics ever
written are in that book. All I could say to that was, wow. He’s such a poet.

I
have to agree. I’ve fallen in love with songs he has created from Bible verses
alone. He strings them together on a melody so sweet, you know beyond a shadow
of a doubt he is fully worshiping God with them. They seem sacred and holy.

Watching
him search and compose music now is such a divine experience. He is here
physically, but he is in his own spiritually creative world. It’s magical, and
I know I am blessed to witness it.

I
don’t realize I’m holding my breathing while I watch Dillon, until he begins
playing the guitar again and I release a long exhale. He strums a few chords
and softly croons lyrics to the notes.

Though the
waters roar with trouble

Though the
mountains may shake

There is a river
that will flow with peace

So be still and
always know

Be still and
always praise

Be still and
always love

Let the peaceful
light shine down

All the days…

Dillon
plays a bit more, humming all the while with his eyes closed, face turned
skywards as his shaggy black hair dances in the breeze. I smile while watching
my friend get wrapped up in the spell God’s words has cast on him. It’s a
beautiful sight, and this is my most favorite way to spend an evening. This boy
has a faith I desire to obtain, but don’t know if I ever will.

The
music trails off as he opens his eyes and catches me staring. I can’t help it,
nor can I look away. He watches me just as intently and then begins strumming a
new song. It’s a song that I’m unfamiliar with. He sees my questioning
expression, and I’m awarded by a one-dimple appearance before his gaze goes
serious again.

“What
song is this?”

He
shrugs. “It’s not a song yet. Just a
promise
of a song.”

I
don’t know what it’s promising, but it is beautiful. I can see it becoming my
favorite. It’s slow and seductive and bittersweet as though it is full of
longing.

“I
love it.”

“I
hoped you would,” he says softly.

We
stay in our own bubble with him serenading me with the promise of a song until
the boys zoom by in the little colorful truck, whooping and hollering for
Dillon to join them. He shrugs a shoulder at me again before gathering his
stuff and jogging over to the truck. He hops in the back with Mave. Who knows
what they have conjured up to do now?

I
shout out to Kyle, “Don’t you dare break that truck!”

He
grins and waves as he pops the transmission in gear and takes off down towards
the old sheds. I guess they are going on a new treasure hunt.

I
lay back and take in the stillness of the early night sneaking up on me. I
still have that feeling that something awesome and exciting wants to happen. I
don’t like this antsy feeling. I feel like I’m missing out on something
spectacular and, that maybe, I’m just not good enough to obtain it. I
eventually drag my tired, disappointed body to our small trailer to wash the
condo cleaning off.

After
my shower, I find Aunt Evie sitting at her normal spot at the small table with
her devotional book. I saved one carton of gelato. It’s cherry and my aunt’s
favorite flavor. I grab it from the hidden spot in the freezer and walk it over
to the table with a spoon to present her with my small gift.

She
lights up when she sees it. “Awe. Thanks, sweetie. You scored big today.” She
opens the lid and offers me the first bite. I decline. She should enjoy the
treat, yet here she is thinking of me before herself—as always.

“Enjoy
it. It’s all yours.” I sit beside her and prop my chin in my hands.

“Are
you sure?” she asks as she works the spoon in the creamy treat.

“Absolutely.
I’m not too crazy about cherries,” I lie. I want her to enjoy all of it. I
watch as she takes her first bite and her eyes roll to the back of her head
from the pleasure of it. That makes me smile. “The cabinets and fridge are
stocked, too. If we can keep the twins away, we should be good for another
week.”

“Really?
That’s great, Jillian,” Aunt Evie says with much relief. I suspected she didn’t
have grocery money, and she just confirmed it for me.

“We
really need to put our foot down about the past-due renters,” I say as I pick
at my nails angrily. They are looking pretty frail from the cleaning products.
I wear gloves as often as possible, but those suckers are hard to keep up with.

“You
let me worry about that, please,” she says between bites. “People are having a
hard time making their ends meet right now.”

“We
are barely making it, Aunt Evie. If they don’t pay, then how are we going to
make
our
ends meet?” I know what I’m
saying is going to make her worry worse, so now I wish I kept my mouth shut.
Being broke is no joke. The uncertainty and unrelenting nagging in your
thoughts, as to how to make things work, leaves you feeling totally hopeless.

“Things
will get better.” She tries to reassure me, but I can tell she doesn’t believe
her own words.

“No
worries. I’ve saved enough to handle our bills for the month.” I pat her on the
arm and fish out the money to hand it over to her.

“Jillian...”
Her voice seems strained. I know she doesn’t want to accept it, but times are
tough and she has no choice but to do so.

“I
like doing my part. It’s the least I can do.” I place a kiss on her cheek and
give her a warm smile before heading to my room. I drop the smile once my back
is towards her. I was hoping she would tell me that some people came through
with their rent. Of course that didn’t happen, so now I am left with no gas
money until my next paycheck. Worst part is I rolled up on fumes earlier. I
gave her every cent I had and now I’m flat broke, but that was the only way we
were going to keep our heads slightly above water this month. I will have to
bike it for the next week, and I’m not looking forward to that at all. By the
time I arrive to the condos, I will already be washed in sweat. And by the time
I finish cleaning, I will be way too tired to pedal a blame bike. I get that
these people are poor and struggling, because I’m in the same boat. But I don’t
sit around and whine about it and do nothing. I grab up my bicycle and go to
work. Ugh.
 

It’s
late by the time I snuggle in the bed this night. I’ve been restless, so I went
through all of my clothes and trinkets and have gathered a bagful of potential
sales at the thrift store. I’ll swing by on my way to cleaning tomorrow and
hope to scrounge up at least a tank of gas out of the deal. I lay here
listening to Dillon serenading the trailer park. He’s playing his promise of a
song, and the melody feels to be longing more so tonight. Maybe it’s just me
who’s longing and feeling it in the song. Dillon and I seem to be on the same
page a lot of the time.