The Lion's Den(8)

“She’s at work.”

She lit the cigarette and inhaled. “She’s always at work.”

“Yeah.”

My poor mom had been pulling double nursing shifts at the hospital in an effort to save money. Turned out college was likely gonna cost far more than my parents had thought, and their salaries weren’t nearly as great as they’d hoped––just good enough not to qualify for financial aid. But they valued learning, and a higher education free of debt was the one extravagant gift they wanted to give their children, come hell or high water. So while I studied hard in hope of obtaining a scholarship, they worked every available hour to make sure I’d be able to attend the best of the out-of-state universities that boasted the theater programs I was interested in, regardless.

Summer exhaled, and the smoke hung in the air. “God, it’s hot out here.”

“You should get in. The water’s almost cool.”

She shook her head. “Just did my hair. Anyway, I gotta go with Rhonda to meet Three for lunch at the club. Wanna come? We could play tennis after.”

Rhonda was on her third marriage, to our next-door neighbor, a lawyer I’d heard my dad call an ambulance chaser more than once. Summer never used his real name unless he was in the room.

“Can’t. I gotta hang with my sister when she gets home.”

Summer flicked her cigarette. “She can just go home with my sister.”

“I promised I’d take her to the movies this afternoon.”

Our sisters were both eleven, and my mom still made me babysit Lauren, while Rhonda not only let Brittani stay home alone, but also let her watch R-rated movies. My mom, of course, had figured this out and would allow Lauren to go over to Brittani’s only if I was there as well. But Summer didn’t need to know this.

“Anyway, I was thinking about dyeing my hair pink later,” I said.

Summer wrinkled her perfectly upturned nose. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always wanted pink hair.” I pushed out of the water and flopped down on the lounger next to her.

“Nice suit,” she said. “God, I wish my boobs were as big as yours. I’m getting new ones as soon as I’m eighteen.”

“Well, they’re not the same size,” I confided. “Righty hasn’t quite caught up with lefty.”

She stared at my chest. “I can’t tell.”

“That’s because I added padding from of one of my push-up bras.” I removed the pad from under my right boob and showed it to her.

Her liquid green eyes crinkled with laughter as she took a long drag of her cigarette, then offered it to me. I didn’t smoke, but sometimes I’d have a drag of hers, just for solidarity. “Can’t,” I said. “Lauren’ll rat if she smells it on me.”

She shrugged and stubbed it out, then washed away the mark on the pavement with pool water, flicked the butt into the bushes, and covered it up with dirt. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She extracted a novel from her purse and set it on the lounge chair. “I finished this last night. It’s really good.”

“Thanks! That the one about the kids who murder their friend?”

“I don’t want to give it away.”

Summer was the only girl I knew who was as avid a reader as I was. Most of the girls in our class could barely make it through the assigned reading, but Summer and I could easily rip through a novel in a matter of days if it was a good one.

She gave a little wave as she latched the gate behind her. “See you at class tomorrow. And don’t dye your hair pink. Guys hate fashion colors.”



The next morning I bounded down the stairs to find my mom sitting at the kitchen island reading the paper in her robe, coffee cup in hand, her wavy blond hair pulled up in a scrunchie. She should’ve been Summer’s mom, not mine. Even at forty-four, sans makeup, she was still what they call a knockout. Of course, I got my dad’s genes.

She looked up and smiled. “Morning, honey.”

“Morning. I’m late for French. I gotta go.”

I noticed her eyes slide to my hastily selected mismatched clothes and unbrushed hair, but she stopped herself from saying anything. “At least grab a banana out of the bowl. I’m late shift tonight so I won’t see you, but there are leftovers in the fridge. Kiss?”

She proffered her cheek, and I planted a kiss on it.

Windows down, bumping Snoop Dogg in my mom’s old station wagon, I parked near the battered NEWBURY HIGH SCHOOL sign and hurried through the glass doors, down the wide hallway to the one open classroom, marveling at how much quieter the school was during the summer. The new teacher stood with his back to the class, writing French conjugations on the blackboard in front of twenty or so kids.

I slid into the empty desk in front of Summer. “You’re blocking my view,” she whispered, cutting her eyes toward the front of the class as the teacher turned around. Damn. He looked like a young Johnny Depp, but athletic and without the weird hair and clothes. A ripple of energy passed through the girls around me as he began to speak, welcoming us to class—in French. Well, at least I’d be paying attention this summer.

“Good morning, class. Welcome to French Three, where we will be speaking only in French.”

A groan went up from the class.

“I’m Mr. Stokes, and I’ll do my best not to make your summer-school experience torture.”