Last Summer (3 page)

Creeping along the backside of the cottage,
I peer through the same window as earlier . . . and he’s nowhere to
be seen. Where the hell did he go? One look around the vicinity and
inside the house tells me he’s left. Now, more relaxed, I traipse
through the dense grass to the front door. The house is as empty
and quiet as it was when I arrived earlier, before he showed
up.

But his belongings are still piled in the
corner.

Placing the sandwich, Doritos, and bottled
water by his backpack, I turn to leave. Sunlight glimmers off the
metal tip of the syringe lying on the floor, and I’m fascinated.
What does this toothpick-sized object give him? Ecstasy? Momentary
rapture from real life? If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my
high school years it’s that one doesn’t touch a needle—HIV and all
that—but now that I’m face to face with the gadget, I can’t look
away; it’s like telling a child not to grab for candy in a candy
store.

Okay, I won’t
really
come in contact
with it, but I am critically questioning my self-control at the
moment.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I whirl around, nearly tripping on my own
feet. There, in all his glory, is the boy . . . and he’s soaking
wet, T-shirt removed.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look convinced
of my apology. “I-I brought you something to eat. I thought you
might be hungry.”

He breezes past, heading toward his
property. After one glance, he pivots to confront me. “Did you
touch my shit?” His eyes are a fierce green, the color magnified
only by his intense expression.

I shake my head. “Uh, no.” One of his
eyebrows rises in disbelief. “Honestly, I didn’t. I looked, but
didn’t touch.”

Pursing his lips, he says low and slow,
“Don’t go near my things, and don’t come near me again. I’m warning
you.”

A feathery tickle brushes up my spine. Who
the hell does he think he is, threatening me? My little pep talk
with the mirror thirty minutes ago is still fresh on my mind.
“First of all, don’t talk to me like that. Second, I’ll touch
whoever’s shit I want to. You’re not the boss of me.”
Way to go,
Chloe. You’ve officially won first place in the
I-sound-like-a-sixth-grader competition.

Surprisingly, he smirks. “Is that a
fact?”

“It’s a fact.”

We glare at each other for what seems like a
matter of minutes, but in reality, I’m sure it’s less than ten
seconds.

“You should go,” he says finally, breaking
the glacial ice that has wedged its way between us.

I huff. “And leave you here? Not gonna
happen.”

The quizzical look on his face speaks
volumes.

I continue, “You need help, and I’m here to
offer you mine.”

I expect a rampage, a riot, something of
that sort, but all I receive is laughter, dark and intimidating,
echoing from deep inside. Eventually, the laughter dies down, as
does his comical expression.

“Get lost, bitch,” he states flatly.

Oh. Hell. No.
Because my adrenaline
has spiked, and because he’s pissing me off, I do the only logical
thing my brain can process: I walk straight up to him and punch his
face. Reeling back, I shake away the surge of pain tingling through
my hand and wrist.

“Ow!” He retreats, rubbing his cheek. “What
the hell was that for?”

“Because you need some sense knocked into
you. Now, I’ll say this again: I’m not leaving until you eat, and
I’m not leaving until you accept some form of assistance, whether
it’s from me or otherwise.”
Good, Chloe. Remember: don’t just
stand aside and watch this main event unfold.

“Fuck this,” he says, packing what little
items he owns and shouldering his backpack. On his way out, he
stops by my side, shoulder to shoulder, so close I can feel his
breath on my cheek. “You know, it’s people like you who made me
this way.”

And with that, ladies and gentlemen, the
hellion exits the building.

Three
•
Logan

H
elp me? When has
anybody ever helped me? The one and only time my parents offered to
do anything remotely close, they were ready to shell out thousands
of dollars for
other
people to recommend what I should and
shouldn’t be doing with my life. Not them. Not my so-called family.
And my friends? To hell with them. They’re long gone by now.

Well, you could at least tell me if I
need to call someone for you.
Even if I took the bitch up on
her offer, who will she call when it’s all said and done, when I’ve
sobered up?

You need help.
Her words reverberate
through my head. God, why can’t it be that easy? Why can’t I turn
myself in and let somebody show me the light, or whatever it’s
called. I mean, yeah, obviously it’d be nice for a change.

I shake my head.

No, it wouldn’t. I’ve chosen this. I’ve set
my destiny in motion. One day, I’ll die because of this obsessive
love for all things bad, and my parents will be void of one less
child. Then I think of Lucas, my younger bro. What does he think
about me leaving? What have Mom and Dad told him? I never said
goodbye to the little man. I’m supposed to be some kind of an
example—aren’t all big brothers?—but that idea flew out the fucking
window a long, long time ago when they kicked me out of my own
home.

Gahh. Frustrating sons of bi—

“Where are you going?”

I glance over my shoulder. Great. She’s
following me now. I officially have a stalker.

Ignoring her, I press on. What’s with this
girl, anyway? I can’t count on my fingers and toes the number of
times people have passed me in the street without offering their
help, so why her? Why now?

Although, she is pretty hot; I will give her
that. I’ve always had a thing for blondes, especially ones with
big, blue eyes, but she’s a-whole-nother level, one that’s out of
my league. Besides, I meant what I said about people like her
getting me into this mess. If I had never joined the football team
with those rich, preppy fuckers, I’m positive everything would be
different. Fate, however, had a different plan for me.

“So, you’re just going to ignore me and
wander off without a shirt?”

I snort.
Yes and yes. Can I be any more
obvious? Take a damn hint.

“You know,” she says, “I’m just going to
follow you until you give in.”

Okay, that does it. I wheel around. “Dude,
what’s it going to take for you to leave me alone? You’re not going
to follow me, and I’m not going to listen to you. I don’t need your
help or anyone else’s. Don’t you think I would’ve been treated by
now if I really wanted the extra hand? Don’t you
get
it?”

Her eyes widen, then return to their usual
arrogant glower. “Fine.” She shrugs. “Have it your way. When you
realize how badly you need my help, I’ll be waiting in the lake
house down from the cottage. You can’t miss it; it’s pastel yellow
with white shutters.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Won’t happen.”
Turning my back on her and walking away, I shout, “Run home to
Mommy and Daddy,” and chuck deuces in the air.

I head in the general direction of town;
there’s an alley somewhere out there, calling my name. I’ll hang
around the area until dusk, and then find a place to sleep. I find
myself reminiscing about the first night I snoozed on concrete,
lodged between the day’s leftovers and other shit I don’t even want
to remember, outside Bernie’s Bar & Grille. I was so damn
hungry I had to force the bile down my throat long enough to
scrounge through the dumpsters for a semi-eaten meal. It was
utterly disgusting. Probably the grossest thing I’ve done in my
life.

But that’s become the norm for me. How else
would I still be alive? All the money I had saved was withdrawn
from the bank the day my parents pushed me out of our home, and the
cash was used to buy what I was already addicted to—heroin. Now I
have to stay away from Big P and his boys. I owe them a serious sum
of funds. Funds I don’t have. I’ve led them on for this long, but I
don’t know how much more this can continue. If they find out about
my family . . .

I shake away the thought. Every move I’ve
made has prevented them from learning about Mom, Dad, and
Lucas.

I often wonder if I’ll ever run into my
parents in Sandy Shores. They live in the next town over, but
surely they’ve figured out by now that I’m not remote. I mean, I
guess I could’ve hitched a ride to a city far from here, but what
good would that have done? Can they still feel me in their hearts,
or have they given up on me completely?

Stopping by the side of the road, I drag a
shirt out of my backpack and pull it over my head. Cars coast by,
lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Once there’s a
break, I cross the main street. Up ahead, Jake strums his guitar
and croons a song he wrote, while tourists empty the contents of
their wallets into his case. If I had a natural talent like his,
I’d be set for life.

“’Sup, Jake?” I say in passing.

He nods once, his dreads swaying a little,
but continues singing the melody. He and I have known each other
for a few months now. His family split in different directions, and
he chose songwriting and performing over an alternative lifestyle,
never looking back. I wish I had the ability to do the same, but
every day I’m haunted by images of a life that might still exist
for me if I choose to go a dissimilar route.

This time of day, everyone is either eating
dinner or concluding shopping on the strip. Although it’ll never
happen, I silently implore that, at some point, my parents and
Lucas will stroll up one of the sidewalks and we’ll bump into each
other. Lucas will throw his tiny arms around my neck as I squeeze
him in a hug. Mom and Dad will apologize, and then invite me home.
We’ll pretend none of this ever happened.

But that’s just it—pretend. Make believe. My
mind working overtime.

Still, I scan both sides of the street.

I can always tell the difference between
tourists and locals. Tourists frequent the T-shirt shops more than
anyone, searching for the perfect souvenir, the perfect reminder of
their vacation. A trinket to set on a shelf to collect dust until
the next year. Locals unwind, enjoying the sun and food.

I slide into a chair on the deck at
Bernie’s, setting my backpack into the seat beside me. A waitress
wastes no time pausing by my table, asking what I’d like to
drink.

“Water,” I tell her.

She eyes me up and down, like a pest who
doesn’t belong. I sympathize with her, because in a way, I don’t
belong anywhere.

“Will that be all?” she asks, pen at the
ready above her notepad.

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“You’re not going to eat?” Now she’s wound
up.

Later, when I rummage through your
garbage bins.
“Nope.”

She rolls her eyes and sashays inside.
Returning with my drink, she practically drops the cup on the
table, water sloshing over the rim. I jerk back. She cocks one
eyebrow, daring me to say something, but I give up, deflated, and
she moves on to another table.

I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until I
take the first swig. Between injecting myself and going for a quick
swim, apparently my mouth dried out. My stomach growls, too, but
I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I want to sip my water,
chill, and question the motives for that annoying girl at the lake.
Does she think I’m a charity case? Or was she just throwing a pity
party? Either way, there’s something different about her. Something
I haven’t faced in a long time. Given the right circumstances, and
the right mindset, I might’ve agreed to her offer. As it stands,
though, she’s too damn proud to win me over. I rub my cheek,
wondering if it’s red from her hit. She has an arm, but nothing I
can’t handle.

My thoughts are jolted back to reality when,
behind me, there’s commotion. Women cry out, shuffling their
children out of the way. Husbands guard their wives. What the hell?
I squint, as if that will actually give me heightened, catlike
senses to see what’s going on. As the crowd moves aside, my heart
thrums five times faster.
No.
Big P and his boys are
heckling Jake, their voices carrying to the outdoor patio where I
sit.

“Where is he, man? I know you know,” Big P
taunts.

Jake shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t
know, man. Haven’t seen him around here in a while.” He strums
three chords on his guitar, as if that will make Big P get the hell
out of dodge.

Oh, shit.
I shoulder my backpack and
prep myself to run when Big P snatches the guitar out of Jake’s
hands and smashes it against the concrete, wood splintering into
several pieces.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jake yells, standing up.
“What’s your problem, bro?”

“My problem,” says Big P, “is that you know
where he is and you’re covering his damn tracks. Now, tell me where
I can find him before your face is the next thing to collide
against the street.”

“Look, man, if I knew, I’d tell you.”
There’s a nervous tinge to Jake’s voice.

No, no, no, Jake. Don’t let them hear
that.

Too late.

Two of Big P’s boys—B and Ice—fist the back
of Jake’s shirt, picking him up midair, and slamming him to the
ground. His face meets the concrete with a loud
crack
. Damn
it. They pick him up again, his nose spouting blood, and prepare to
do the stunt all over again.

“Last chance,” says Big P. “Where is
he?”

Jake can’t even utter words; he’s probably
in shock, and pain.

B and Ice get the nod of approval from Big
P, but before they do some serious damage to his face, I shout,
“Hey, assholes! Over here!”

That gets their attention. They drop Jake
and gradually stalk my way. By now, everyone on both sides of the
road watch in anticipation of what’ll happen next. I’m surprised
nobody’s called the cops. God, that’s the last thing I need.