Every Summer After(9)

“That’s okay,” he said. “I want it to be just like yours.”



* * *





THE NEXT MORNING I scarfed down breakfast, then raced to the water with my kit. I sat cross-legged on the dock and fastened the bracelet to my shorts with a safety pin to work on it while I waited for Sam.

When his footsteps tramped across the dock next door, it was almost like they were right beside me. He was wearing the same navy shorts as yesterday; it looked like they might fall off his narrow hips at any moment. I waved at him, and he raised his hand and then dove off the end of the dock and paddled toward me. He was in the water in front of me in under a minute.

“You’re fast,” I said, impressed. “I’ve taken swimming lessons, but I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

Sam gave me the crooked grin, then hauled himself out of the water and plopped down next to me. Water dripped off his hair and ran in rivulets down his face and his chest, which was almost concave in form. If he was at all self-conscious about being half-naked next to a girl, I wouldn’t have known it. He pulled on the strands of embroidery floss I was working on.

“Is that my bracelet? It looks great.”

“I started it last night,” I told him. “They don’t actually take that long to make. I should be able to finish it for you tomorrow.”

“Awesome.” He motioned to the raft. “Ready to collect your payment?” Sam had agreed to show me how to do a flip off the raft in exchange for the bracelet.

“Definitely,” I said, taking off my Jays hat and slathering copious amounts of SPF all over my face.

“You’re really into sun safety, huh?” He picked up the hat.

“I guess. Well, no. It’s more that I’m not into freckles, and the sun gives me freckles. They’re okay on my arms and stuff, but I don’t want them all over my face.” What I wanted was a creamy, unblemished complexion like Delilah Mason’s.

Sam shook his head, baffled, then his eyes lit up. “Did you know that freckles are caused by an overproduction of melanin that gets stimulated by the sun?”

My jaw dropped.

“What?” he said. “It’s true.”

“No, I believe you,” I said slowly. “It’s just a really random fact for you to know.”

He grinned. “I’m going to be a doctor. I know a lot of”—he made air quotes—“?‘random facts,’ as you call them.”

“You already know what you want to be?” I was blown away. I had no clue what I wanted to do. Not even close. English was my best subject, and I liked to write, but I never really thought about having a grown-up job.

“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, a cardiologist, but my school kind of sucks. I don’t want to be stuck here forever, so I learn stuff on my own. My mom orders used textbooks for me online,” Sam explained.

I took this in. “So . . . you’re smart, huh?”

“I guess.” And then he stood, a stack of arms and legs and pointy joints, and hauled me up by my arms. He was surprisingly strong for someone so weedy. “And I’m an awesome swimmer. C’mon, I’ll show you how to do that somersault.”

Countless belly flops, a few dives, and one semi-successful somersault later, Sam and I lay outstretched on the raft, faces to the sky, the already-hot morning sun drying our bathing suits.

“You’re always doing that,” Sam said, looking over at me.

“Doing what?”

“Touching your hair.”

I shrugged. I should have listened to Mom when she told me bangs wouldn’t work for my hair type. Instead, one spring evening while my parents were marking papers, I took matters—and Mom’s good sewing shears—into my own hands. Except that I couldn’t get the bangs to lie evenly, and every snip just made things worse. In less than five minutes, I had totally butchered my hair.

I crept downstairs to the living room, tears running down my face. Hearing my sniffles, my parents turned to see me standing with scissors in hand.

“Persephone! What on earth?” My mother gasped and flung herself at me, checking my wrists and arms for signs of damage, before hugging me tightly, while Dad sat agape.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get this fixed,” Mom said, stepping away to make an appointment at her salon. “If you’re going to have bangs, they need to look intentional.”

Dad gave me a weak smile. “What were you thinking, kiddo?”

My parents had already put in an offer on a lakeside property in Barry’s Bay, but seeing me clutching those scissors must have sent them over the edge, because the next day Dad called the Realtor and told her to up the offer. They wanted me out of the city as soon as the school year ended.

But even today I think my parents were probably overreacting. Diane and Arthur Fraser, both professors at the University of Toronto, doted on me in a way particular to older, upper-middle-class parents with just one child. My mom, a sociology scholar, was in her late thirties when they had me; my father, who taught Greek mythology, was in his early forties. My every request for a new toy, a trip to the bookstore, or supplies for a new hobby was met with enthusiasm and a credit card. Being a child who preferred earning gold stars to causing trouble, I didn’t give them much need for discipline. In turn, they gave me a very long leash.