The Summer of Letting Go (13 page)

Somehow, Saturday gets here. Way too early, I put on my pre-chosen outfit and my green Converse sneakers, pin my hair back in barrettes, put a little eye shadow and lip gloss on, and study myself in the mirror. I look as good as I ever will.

Mom and Dad are in the living room on the couch, engaged in some sort of serious conversation. They shut up the minute they see me. Dad gives me a fatherly once-over.

“Hey, Beans, you're headed out, then?”

“Yes. The mall, remember? And a movie, maybe. With Lisette and her boyfriend and his friend.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. “Well, that sounds awfully like a date. Good for you! You look beautiful. So, perhaps it actually is?” He winks.

I roll my eyes at him. “Just friends. Like I said.”

“Well, have fun anyway. But check in. And be home by eleven.”

“I will.”

“No later than that,” Mom says.

When the horn honks, Dad cuts me off at the door and heads out first, so I'm already feeling self-conscious. I trail behind, my eyes searching frantically for my date. The top is down, Alex is driving, Bradley's in the passenger seat. My heart starts up at the sight of him.

In the back is Lisette. Lisette and my mystery date.

I stop in my tracks.

My heart sinks.

My mystery date is Peter Pintero.

Not Michael Peach.

Not even close to Bradley Stephenson.

I want to turn back, go inside, but I force my legs to walk forward, fighting the tears that want to come. It's not like he's a bad guy or anything. He's just not who I was hoping for.

Bradley smiles as I approach. “Hey, Frankie, good to see you.”

“Hey.” I keep my head down so as not to give away my crashing heart.

From the backseat, Peter parrots him. “Yeah, hey, Frankie, good to see you.” He laughs like it's a joke or something, but if it is, I'm not in on it. Still, I need to smile and suck it up and not ruin the day for Lisette. She was trying to do a good deed. And it doesn't have to be a date if I don't want it to be.

Bradley opens the door and gets out, holding the seat forward for me. I slip past him into the back, my arm tingling where it brushes him. Next to me, Peter smiles dumbly, punches my arm all friendly, like the stupidest sort of hello.

Dad stands at the driver's side talking with Alex. My parents have known the Sutters forever. I stare down at the floor wondering if Lisette realizes that I know Peter from the club. She must, but if she did, wouldn't she think to ask me if I liked him? It's not like I've mentioned him at all.

Then again, I've been close-lipped about everything lately, so I know it's my fault, not hers. I still feel blindsided, though. I begged her to tell me who my date was. If she had, I could have said no.

“Okay, kids, not too late. And try to have fun.” Dad winks at me and pats the car in permission for us to go, then starts back toward the house. The smell of suntan lotion fills my nose. Has it only been two weeks since I went to the beach with Lisette? It feels like a century ago.

“So, fancy meeting you here, huh, Schnell?” Peter cracks up like it's hilarious. Whatever. It's not like there are guys lining up for me.

“Hey, Frankie!” Lisette leans forward, and Peter's eyes dart down her shirt. I want to tell him to put his tongue back in, but it's not like I even care. “No hello for your BFF?” She reaches across and squeezes my bare thigh, a trace of alarm on her face.

I try not to look her in the eyes, because I'm afraid if I do she'll see how disappointed I am.

“Okay, everyone set, then?” Alex asks, turning the radio to blasting and taking off in the direction of the beach.

• • •

Between the music and the wind, there's not much chance to talk. Fine by me; I don't have much to say.

Lisette sings, and Bradley alternates air guitar and dashboard drums in the front. I can feel Peter watching me, so I just keep my eyes straight ahead.

Out of the corner of my eye, I check out Lisette. Her outfit is similar to mine: little black micromini with a pink T-shirt. Not that it would matter what she wore. Her bikini straps show through, which makes me realize I should have worn one, too. I guess I wasn't thinking about swimming.

When we reach the beach, Alex drops us at the steps. “What time, guys?” he asks, and Lisette says, “Not sure if we'll skip the movie or not. I'll text you later, around six, okay?” Alex salutes her and speeds off.

Lisette slips her hand in Bradley's and the two walk ahead of us, laughing and kissing as they head up the steps and across the walkway that crosses the dunes. Peter hangs back with me. I can barely get my legs to move. I pray he doesn't try to take my hand.

“So, Schnell, a little weird seeing you like this, huh?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“It was Brad's idea. When I told him you work at the club, he was like, let's all hang out. Since you and Lisette are best friends.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Best. But I didn't realize you and Bradley were friends.”

“We don't hang out all that much, but Coach holds a few summer practices, and since we're on the team together . . .” He bends and picks up a rock in the sand and chucks it. “Though, not in the same league. He'll play for college, for sure; he's that good. Me, I mostly sit. At least I made varsity.” He shrugs. “I'm a better swimmer. Went eight and two in 'fly this season. Pretty good.”

I feel a little bad for him now. I guess that's why I didn't realize he was on the team.

“So, what about you? How's the job with the Schyler kid?”

“Frankie? It's good. He's funny.”

“You seem good at it.” My ears turn hot at the compliment.

We walk up the narrow steps to the dunes. I stay pressed against the railing, careful not to brush against him, which is dumb. I don't know what's wrong with me. Peter's actually nice. I'm the one being a jerk here.

“His mother seems a little nuts,” he's saying, “and she drinks, which is why the kid's always running amok. But, of course, she's friends with Mr. H, or they probably would have banned her long ago.”

“Really? She's nice,” I snap. “I feel bad for her.”

He shrugs. “She's hot, that's for sure. Anyway, you must be doing okay, because the kid hasn't drowned yet.” I flush bright red and look away. “Shoot. I'm really sorry, Frankie. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant I've had to fish him out of the pool more times than you can count . . .” He stops and jams his hands into his pockets. “And, well, about your brother, I really didn't mean that drowning thing like that.”

I look past him, down to the water where Lisette stands in the surf with Bradley. I wonder how much she's told Bradley about Simon, and what he's told Peter in turn. There are things she promised to keep private. But she wouldn't. I know she wouldn't tell him it was my fault.

“It's okay,” I say, walking again. “Let's just catch up to those guys.”

We stop short of them, where they stand with their backs to us in the surf, dark silhouettes haloed in golden sunlight. Bradley has his arm around Lisette's shoulder, the water sparkling beyond them. They look like cheesy models on a Hallmark anniversary card.

Bradley turns around and sees us and nods.

“Hey,” Lisette says, turning, too, “you guys good?”

No! I want to say, I am not good. I am very, very bad. I can't even begin to believe you'd think I'd like Peter Pintero. He's a tot
al
insensitive dork. And, by the way, what did you tell Bradley about my brother? But instead, I say, “Yeah, sure, fine,” although I can tell I don't sound too convincing.

“Dude, the water's kind of rough,” Bradley says. “You guys want to walk down to the inlet instead?”

I'd forgotten all about the inlet about a half mile down the beach, a narrow strip of water that runs perpendicular to the ocean along the dunes. When the tide isn't too low, there's a tide pool that collects at the entrance, and you can wade in and find all sorts of cool things in there. We used to go down there with Simon.

As we walk, my heart aches for Simon, though in my mind I've started confusing him with Frankie Sky. I stay quiet as Lisette, Bradley, and Peter gossip about the usual stuff—who's dating who, which teachers suck, and what they've been doing so far this summer. In his defense, Peter tells some pretty funny stories about the club and lifeguarding, and some hilarious ones about Mr. Habberstaad. Apparently, his enormous distaste for the paper umbrellas is a well-known fact around the club.

Peter includes me in the stories, too, making it sound like I actually have a social life, saying things like, “Right, Frankie? You know, the weird dude who works in the pro shop, who looks like Mr. Magoo?” which makes me feel somewhat connected and good.

We reach the inlet. The water is thigh-high and crystal clear. Lisette strips off her T-shirt and skirt and tosses them in the sand. I don't have a bathing suit on, so I just slip off my Converse sneakers and wade in.

The tide pool brims with sea life. Horseshoe crabs, minnows, even a few harmless moon jellies. Still, Lisette is squeamish and wants to get out. She suggests we go in the ocean instead. “At least we can swim there,” she says, wading out gingerly. “Something's going to bite me in here.” I remind her that the same sea life is around her in the ocean as is here. “Yeah, but I don't step on it in there.” She shudders, making her way back out. “I'm telling you, Frankie, there are freaking crabs all over the bottom!”

Peter, who hasn't taken his eyes off her bikini'd body, says, “I'm game!” and follows her out like a puppy.

I wait for Bradley to go with them, but he stays here, in the inlet. In fact, he's not even watching Lisette. He's bent over, swishing his hands through the water. “Man, look at this one. It's enormous,” he says, hauling a horseshoe crab out by its tail.

“Come on, guys!” Lisette says, then looks back at me and cringes apologetically. She doesn't know that I've been in there, in the ocean, swimming with Frankie Sky.

“It's okay, I forgot a suit, anyway,” I say. “I'll hang here. You guys go ahead without me.”

Peter doesn't seem to care either way. He whips off his shirt and follows Lisette toward the surf. When she gets there, she turns and yells, “Hey, Brad, aren't you coming in with us?” I'm wondering the same thing, my heart beating fast, as he sloshes up next to me.

“I'll be in soon!” he yells back.

I stare down, away, to anywhere but next to me.

“So, it's just us, then,” he says.

I don't answer because I'm finding it impossible to breathe.

“Aren't you going in?”

Bradley looks at me, and I look at him, and there's this weird, awkward moment where our eyes lock.

“Nah. I'm going to hang back here and explore for a while. You want to come with me?”

Yes! “Won't Lisette mind?”

He shrugs. “I doubt it.”

I look down the beach after her, wondering what I should do. But Bradley is right. She's already swimming out into the waves.

We move to the edge of the inlet where it's easier to slog along. My heart is having serious palpitations, which makes it hard for me to think.

Why did Bradley stay back? Does he feel sorry for me?

“Man, look at that!” He points up to where a large bird swoops overhead and disappears into the dunes. “You know what that was?” I shake my head, pretty sure it wasn't a pelican. “That was a great blue heron! They don't even live here; they build their rookeries on Gardiners Island, but they come here to feed.”

“Rookeries?”

“Yeah, nests. They have these huge nests they call rookeries. But not over here. Is it okay if we head in that direction?” He points away from the ocean toward the dunes.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, barely managing two words.

As we walk, Bradley points out plants and animals, amazing things I never knew existed here. Not just horseshoe crabs, but minuscule bugs that skim the very top of the water. He makes Long Island sound like some sort of exotic paradise. He points out eel grass (which grows in meadows and can grow up to four feet tall), eastern oysters (their pearls are pretty, but not worth much), and orange-billed winter cormorants (his favorite birds, even if they're common, because they all stand facing in one direction, their beaks making goofy expressions). He tells me how when bluefish feed in a frenzy, it appears as if the water's surface is boiling. He shows me how clamshells have rings that tell you their age, the same way a tree trunk does. As he talks and points and digs, his eyes sparkle, and it gets harder and harder to remind myself that he's Lisette's boyfriend rather than mine.

Every few minutes, he wades deeper into the inlet to scoop up another handful of life-filled silt and sand.

“See this?” he asks, pushing at a little white speck.

“Yeah?”

“It's a mole crab. They're so small, you can't tell which side is their head and which is their butt. So you have to watch how they walk. Because they walk backward, so, see, if I touch him like this, he goes that way, so his head is over here.”

I try to watch as he pokes at it, but I'm lost in his lips and the sound of his words.

“How do you know all this stuff?” I finally manage.

“AP Biology. Mr. Barrett. Plus, I went to this camp in Florida one year. I thought I wanted to be a marine biologist.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don't anymore?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. I just think all this ocean stuff is cool.”

“Oh.”

“What do you like?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, I realize how very true this is. I'm starting eleventh grade and I haven't even thought about it. As if I have no permission to really want or care about anything. I guess I should start thinking about it soon. “I like the water,” I suddenly whisper. “And swimming. And I love my job with Frankie Sky.” Tears spring to my eyes when I say this, and I turn my head so he won't see.

He looks off across the inlet politely, letting me collect myself. “That's so cool that you do,” he says finally. “So, are you thinking about your brother?”

“Yes,” I say, “I guess I am.” I stop, but it's not because I don't want to tell him more about Simon. In fact, it surprises me how much I want to be open with him.

“That must've been hard,” Bradley says, sloshing forward again. “My mom lost her brother, too, when she was, like, eight years old. He was only five, so it's kind of like the same as what happened to you.” I nod, overwhelmed by his telling me this. I wonder if Lisette knows. “He died in a car crash. Her father was driving. My grandfather. My mother wasn't in the car. She still remembers him to this day.”

“Yeah, I don't think you ever forget,” I say.

He stops again and looks at me. My stomach churns, in a good way. “That was dumb of me,” he says. “I didn't mean it like that, like you'd forget him. What I meant is she still misses him, like a lot, like every single day. And she's forty-three, so I know it must be really, really hard.”

I look down at the water.

“Anyway.” He bumps my shoulder with his, nudging me to walk again. “I didn't mean to be morbid. I can find you more mole crabs.” I laugh, and he smiles this cute sideways smile he has. After a while, he says, “Hey, you want to sit down for a minute?”

I look back toward the ocean for Peter and Lisette, but we've walked so far, it's hard to make out much from here except a few big boats dotting the horizon.

“How far out do you think those guys are?”

“No idea.”

“How come you didn't go with them?”

“Me? I don't know.” He steers us up toward the dunes. “I guess I'd rather be doing this.”

The sand toward the dunes is warmer and feels good on my toes. I try to walk a few paces ahead of him to keep our shoulders from touching. Because I want them to be touching so badly.

My mind races through everything—from his invitation to the movie and Lisette telling me he thinks I'm pretty, to the other day on my front stoop—but I can't form a solid, reasonable thought.

“Hey, hold up. Check this out!” He kicks at something in the sand, then leans down and fishes it out. “Wow, cool. Here, for you.” He places a flat, white disk in my hand.

I blink at it. It's a sand dollar.

I feel light-headed at the sight of it and at the swirling sense that everything lately is unexplainable, bigger and more powerful than I am.

“What?” he says. “What's wrong?”

“It's just that these things, they're rare, and . . . Well, never mind. It's stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“You want to know?”

“I do if you want me to.” My heart goes tumbling when he says that.

“It's just that, when I was little, I was kind of obsessed with shells. I collected them. Nautilus shells, jingles, scallops, everything. But I didn't have one of these. And I really wanted one, so I was always hunting for them. And, well, it's what I was looking for the day my brother died.” My voice cracks, but I manage to keep back the tears. I've never told anyone that part, about the sand dollar, not even Lisette. I don't know why I'm telling Bradley now.

“Wow,” he says, “that's pretty crazy.” I nod and swallow, closing my fingers around the perfect circle in my hand. “So, do you want to sit for a second?”

“Yes, okay. I think I do,” I say.

He drops down in the sand, and I sit next to him, my knees folded up, my arms wrapped around them. I open my palm and look at the sand dollar again. No doubt it is magical.

“Are you okay, Frankie?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem so sad.”

“I'm not sad.” My heart starts up again with all the things I want to say. “Not now, anyway. It's just that this summer, so far, it's been the weirdest thing. Ever since it started.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, you said you believe in reincarnation, right?”

A look crosses his face, confusion then recognition, like he remembers Lisette was asking for me. “I do,” he says. “I believe in lots of stuff like that. But definitely in karma and reincarnation.”

“How come?”

“Why not? I mean, take a computer. You plug it in, and there's electricity in the wires, in the walls, so it runs. When you unplug it, the computer doesn't run anymore, but the electricity is still there, right? It doesn't just disappear. So I guess I think of our bodies like that, full of energy and information. And when we die, that has to go somewhere. So I think it does. It travels into another person's body.”

“Do you mean like a soul?”

He shrugs. “I guess. Why are you asking me, Frankie?”

I look him in the eyes, and it kills me how deeply he looks back at me. Like he really cares what I'm thinking.

“I don't know, exactly. Well, kind of I do. Promise you won't think I'm crazy.” He nods. “Okay, this kid I'm watching . . .” I stop because my breath goes away. Because he's resting his knee against mine.

“Yeah?”

Like, actually touching mine.

“It's just that this kid, he looks exactly like my brother. And his birthday—it's the same day my brother died.” I pause and take a deep breath. “Which wouldn't be that weird, except he was here, at this same beach, the day my brother died.”

“Wow.”

I nod, because I don't know what else to say, because I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, and I don't really care, either, as long as I'm talking about it with Bradley.

I stare out over the inlet, trying to ignore what his knee is doing to my stomach—oh, and his hand, which is also on my leg now—and figure out how I got sucked into this vortex. This horrible, wonderful, amazingly dizzying vortex.

My sparkler wish flashes through my mind.

“Like the Christmas Island crabs,” Bradley is saying. “Did you ever hear of them?”

“The what?” I blush. I can barely think, let alone follow the conversation.

“The red crab migrations.” He sits up straighter and pulls his knee away from mine. I try to focus on what he's saying, but my brain has fled a million miles away.

“No. I'm sorry, the what?”

He laughs. “The Christmas Island red crabs.” He draws a circle in the sand and puts legs on it. Then pincher claws.

“No, why?”

“Well, Christmas Island is this place in Australia. I don't know why it's called that, so don't ask. But it's covered in these bright red crabs. Like millions and millions of them.”

“Millions?”

“Yeah. I swear. Anyway, they're land crabs, but they need to lay their eggs in salt water. Don't ask me why about that, either. They just do. So every year they migrate from the land to the ocean to lay their eggs. Then, as soon as they're done, they head right back to land again.” I nod, but my head feels buzzed, like the night at the beach with Lisette. “Anyway, it takes days for these crabs to make the trip, and there are so many of them it's crazy, like a red carpet moving sideways across the roads. You should see it, Frankie.”

“I'd like to.” I want to say more, but can't muster anything because I'm dizzy from the combination of his story and the way he says my name, but also from the fact that his hand is on my leg again, and his thumb is rubbing my thigh. I do everything in my power to keep it from trembling.

“Yeah, it's cool. But the point was, you were asking about karma.” I was? I don't remember what I was asking. “Because it takes them forever to do all of this, and there are so many crabs that they have to close the roads, so the cars can't use them for days. Except they can't close all of them, so the crabs that pick the wrong roads get crushed to bits, hundreds of thousands of them. So how can you explain that? I mean, except by having bad karma?”

I have no idea because your finger is moving on my leg.

“Frankie?”

“Yeah? Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

God, I don't know! Sorry that the crabs get crushed. Sorry that there's such a thing as bad karma. Sorry that I'm sitting here with you, because whatever's about to happen, I know I won't be able to stop myself. Because even though I want to be sorry, I'm not. I'm sorry I'm not sorry! I'm the opposite of sorry.

“Frankie?”

“Yes?”

And then there are no more words, because Bradley Stephenson's lips are on mine, and he's kissing me, his warm tongue nudging its way in and swirling around with mine. And Lisette is right, because the whole world goes spinning, and the air bursts with sparkler bits, silver-white wishes erupting like light through a dark sky.

Exactly the way I imagined.

And then he stops. “Shoot,” he says. “Shoot.” He looks down.

I look down, too. I don't know what to say.

Neither of us says anything.

Finally, he says, “It's getting late. We should probably get back to Pete and Lisette.”

I push myself up, but I'm off balance. I start to walk the wrong way, but then realize and turn the right way. I walk fast, my arms wrapped around me. The sand feels cold now, and I wish I had my shoes. My sneakers are back at the tide pool.

The tide pool, which seems like hours ago.

God, what if Peter and Lisette are looking for us?

Bradley speeds up behind me, the sand crunching under him. “Frankie . . .”

He catches my arm, but I yank it away. “It's no big deal, don't worry about it . . .” he says. But I just focus on the sound of the sand. “Frankie, wait. Talk to me!”

I want to cover my ears, block him out, block it all out—everything except the part where his hands are on me and we're kissing.

• • •

When we reach the tide pool, it's empty, quiet. The sun is starting to dip, but Lisette and Peter aren't in sight. Their stuff is still there, though, on the edge of the inlet, so I guess they haven't come out yet.

I turn to Bradley, my arms still wrapped tight to my chest.

“We can never do that again, period. Okay?” I can barely make the words come out, and in my heart, I mean them less than anything I've ever spoken. I wish I could unsay them, throw myself into his arms like in one of those cheesy romances that Mrs. Schyler has on her shelf, but Lisette doesn't deserve that. And I don't deserve it. It's no big deal, he had said.

“Right,” he says. “I got it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, veers away from me toward the edge of the tide pool.