That Summer(23)

He thought for a minute, still petting. He had the freckles, a faceful plus the ones Casey had lost once she hit fourteen. “Vegetables,” he said slowly, pronouncing it carefully, then added, “probably.”

“Yeah.” I hit the sidewalk in full stride for the one hundred and fourteen squares of cement, cracks and all, that led to my own front walk. “Probably.”





I saw Sumner again later that week at the mall, during my midevening break from Little Feet. It had been a long night, too many tiny shoes to put on smelly feet, too much pressure to move the socks, always the socks. I bought a Coke and took a seat facing the stage in front of Dillard’s, now complete with its fall decorations, big leaves in all different colors, with black silhouettes of glam-looking girls interspersed. I was studying the sign sitting center stage that said FALL FASHION PREVIEW! FEATURING ... THE LAKEVIEW MALL MODELS AND FASHIONS FROM YOUR FAVORITE MALL MERCHANTS ... COMING SOON! with a hokey tear-off calendar counting down the days, as if anyone was that excited about it.

It was almost eight o’clock, which meant I had one more hour of Little Feet before I could leave. The mall was clearing out now that it was prime time, and I tossed my cup and was heading back to the store when I saw the little mall golf cart heading erratically my way. The horn was beeping. Loudly.

It whizzed right up in front of me, dodging ferns and benches and the fountain, skidding to a flourishing stop. Sumner, the Lakeview Mall Security Man. The uniform was too big, rolled up at the cuffs, and his name tag said Marvin. He was grinning at me.

“Hey there. Want a ride?” He extended one arm across the passenger seat, “Price Is Right” showcase style. “It’s better than walking.”

“Are you supposed to drive people around in that?” I asked, sure I’d never seen Ned, the other guard, taxiing the help up and down the mall.

“No.” He grinned. “But you know me, Haven. I call it my Chariot of Love. Now get in.”

So I did. He waited until I was settled, then turned us around and hit the gas, and we zoomed down the center of the mall with Yogurt Paradise and Felice’s Ladies Fashions and The Candy Shack whizzing by in a blur. Sumner was laughing, barely dodging obstacles and people, yet managing to look official whenever we passed anyone who appeared to be important.

“If we get stopped by management,” he yelled at me above the whirring of the engine as we blew past Little Feet and my boss, who was selecting socks for someone, “act like you’re injured. Say you sprained your ankle and I’m rushing you to help.”

“Sumner,” I said, but he couldn’t hear me. We did another lap, slowing down a bit for the scenic tour. Sumner beeped the horn occasionally, scattering groups of teenagers in front of the arcade or pizza parlor, before finally being flagged down by a woman in a flowered dress, towing a toddler.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sumner said, pulling up smoothly beside her.

“I wonder if you could tell me where I might be able to buy a personalized letter opener.” She had a high-pitched voice, and the kid was drooling.

Sumner reached to the back of the cart, pulled out a clipboard, and rifled through it, concentrating. “Your best bet would be Personally Personalized.” He snapped a sheet of paper from the clipboard, drew a long winding arrow on it, and said, “Here’s a map. We’re here”—he put a black mark on one spot—“and it’s there.” Another mark. “Ought to be able to find it with no difficulty.” He put his pen back behind his ear as he handed her the page, one smooth movement.

“Thank you,” the woman said admiringly, map in hand. “Thanks very much.”

“No problem,” Sumner said. I expected him to salute or something. “Have a good evening and shop with us again.” And we cruised off, maneuvering smoothly through a thicket of potted plants.

“You were born for this job,” I told him. We took another pass by the stage, coming to a stop by the side steps.

“I was born for every job,” he said with a smile, climbing out of the cart and onto the stage. He walked to the sign in the middle and reached for the calendar, pulling the top sheet so that six days were left instead of seven. Then he stood at center stage and took a long from-the-waist bow, low and dramatic, before an invisible adoring public.

After climbing back down the stairs he jumped back in beside me and handed me the seven. “For you.”

“Thanks so much.”

“So,” he said, shouting over the sound of the engine. “Where do you work?”

“At Little Feet.” I realized how stupid it sounded even as I said it.

“Selling shoes,” he said, smiling. “I did that one summer. It sucks, huh?”

“Yeah.” The mall was whizzing by again, storefronts and people blurring past. Traveling with Sumner next to me, the mall was like an undiscovered country. He’d always had a way of making even the ordinary seem fun; during that summer at the beach he stayed in the water with me almost all the time, bodysurfing and doing handstands, diving for shells and making up games. Ashley spent the whole week on the beach with her towel and sunscreen, tanning, while Sumner and I swam until our fingers were pruny and white. He was the only one who had time to play with me. If Ashley pouted and made a fuss when he tried to include me, he could usually get her to come around. And when he couldn’t and we fought, he had a way of taking my side without it looking like he was betraying her. He stuck up for me, and I never forgot it.