Underwater(6)

“He’s tall. And summery.”

“Summery? What does ‘summery’ mean to you?” Her voice is calm, like petting a cat.

And then I tell her about soft sand and crisp ocean water. Of bright blue skies dotted with seagulls and airplanes. Of those same blue skies turning dark and dotted with the moon and stars. I tell her of bonfire smoke and surfboards. Of tank tops and short shorts. Of beach cruiser bicycles and snow cones. Of string bikinis and tan lines. Of parties and promises. Of cold beer and warm kisses.

I tell her all the things I used to be before this. It’s not the first time I’ve told her, but she seems to be listening extra hard today. I think it must be because I sound wistful.

“Do you miss it?” she asks me.

And that makes me cry.

She hands me a tissue, and I sit like a lump on the couch.

“Missing summer is a good thing,” she says. “It will be here before you know it. You can be ready for it. You can enjoy it again.”

After she’s gone, I feel better for a little bit. I don’t hate thinking about summer. But then I think too much about other stuff. I curl up into the fetal position, knees tucked into my chest, waiting for the memories to pass.

*

An hour after that, there’s a knock on my door. I’m still curled up, but I’ve stopped crying. My nose is stuffed up with snot, and I snort it down into my throat. My eyelids are puffy, and the throb of a headache bangs at my temples. I want to be alone. I stay very still and hope whoever is knocking will go away. But they don’t. Whoever it is wants me to know they are there.

“Who is it?” I ask through the door.

“Superman.”

Even though that makes me smile, I tell Evan I’m not dressed. “I can’t open the door.”

“Well, get dressed. I’ll wait.”

So I do. I don’t know why, but I do.

I scrub my face. I run a brush through my hair. I dab deodorant under my armpits. I put on a clean bra and change my stained shirt. I do it all in five minutes flat.

When I crack open the door, Evan’s holding some envelopes and a white to-go cup of something. There’s a lid on top with three holes poked through it, like the lids of jars Ben uses to collect bugs from the planter at the entrance to Paradise Manor.

“First off, we got some of your mail,” Evan says, handing over a credit card bill and some grocery store coupons.

“Feel free to keep them.”

He smiles. “Second, I brought you some soup. To make you feel better.” I can smell the garlic through the lid when he holds it out to me. “My aunt owns a restaurant. They make good soup.”

“I like soup.”

“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?”

I shrug.

I watch Evan take me in. “Wow, you don’t look so good.”

“Okay, then.” His words hit me hard. I shouldn’t have opened the door. I don’t need this cute boy from Hawaii to bring me soup and tell me I’m not pretty. There was a time in my life when I knew I was pretty. But I don’t feel that way right now.

“Aw, man.” He runs his hand through his hair, flustered. “Look, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. That sounded like I think you’re ugly or something. Which you’re not.” He looks down at our welcome mat. “You just look sick. That’s all.”

Right. Sick. I push my hair back from my face with my free hand, knotting it on top of my head without a ponytail holder.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“I just meant you seem worse today. So maybe it’s one of those things where you have to get worse before you get better.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I pull the lid off the soup. A stream of steam hits the air between us. The smell of garlic goes from pleasant to overwhelming.

“I didn’t want it to get cold. That’s why I needed you to open up,” he says.

“Thanks, Superman.”

He grins like he’s relieved I’m calling him that. I notice dimples digging into his tan cheeks. There’s a part of me that wants to nudge my pointer finger into one of them because they’re so cute.

“I’m not Superman. Clark Kent, maybe. Not Superman.”

“Yeah, okay.” I smile.

Evan kicks the front of his flip-flop against the edge of our welcome mat.

“So did you learn to play the guitar yet?” I ask.

“Nope.” He laughs. “Did you write any songs?”

“Oh, yeah. Dozens.”

“I better pick up the pace then.” He grins and those dimples show up again. “But right now, I better go do my homework. This trigonometry class is way ahead of where we were at my old school.”

“Trig, huh? So are you a junior?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Same.” I don’t tell him I’m already in calculus and that math is the one of the few subjects I haven’t let slip.

“Well, you need to get well so you can show me around town, okay? I don’t know anybody here.”

I think about how fun that would’ve been a year ago. When I was the way I was before. I would’ve taken him to Clyde’s Coffee for frozen hot chocolate. And I would’ve shown him the strip of beach where the locals hang out and the tourists don’t. I would’ve shown him which hill it was fun to ride down on your bike, and I would’ve let go of my handlebars and let my arms fly out like wings while the wind whipped past my ears. And on a Saturday night, I would’ve taken him to a party and leaned into him so his lips would’ve been close to my ear when he talked. That move always worked. I would’ve shown him the alcove in the hallway by the auditorium at school where I used to think I could hide and nobody would find me. I would’ve shown him my world. Now, I can’t show him anything but a tiny apartment and a girl who can’t walk out the front door.