Invincible Summer

Invincible Summer by Moskowitz, Hannah




one


Gideon keeps falling down.

He and Claudia slipped outside to the beach

and were out there for at least ten minutes before my parents or Noah or I noticed they were gone. They’re greasy and gritty now with sand and seawater, so there’s no point in dragging them back inside and getting everything dirty our first night here. Plus none of us feels like putting in the effort to chase them. My mother, who’s a little too old and way too pregnant to run around outside and parent them hands-on like she used to, drifts to the porch off the first floor to watch them and make sure they don’t kill themselves, one hand on her stomach, one on the railing.

Noah and I linger by the windows on the other side of the family room, our foreheads pressed against the glass. We’re moaning every time we see a particularly good wave roll by and looking at each other—maybe we should go out? Maybe we can? No.

Outside, Claudia is laughing loudly enough for us to hear. She always says she’s way too old to play with Gideon, and she’s not going to, no way, and if we want a babysitter, we can pay her. But she always ends up playing with him anyway, at least when we’re here. Here no one is too old.

Except Mom and Dad. And Claudia and Gideon are the two youngest, so they get shoved together and there is no way to avoid it, even though Claudia’s eleven and Gideon’s barely six.

Dad says, “Aren’t you two going out?”

We can’t. Even though there’s sand stuck to our feet

from the walk from the car, up the stairs, inside, and back, and back, and back, while we hauled in suitcases. Even though the carpet smells like old sunscreen. Noah and I know that it isn’t quite summer. Not yet. Summer can’t start at night, first of all, and it definitely can’t start before we see the SUV roll up outside the Hathaways’ beach house. And until it comes, we’ll wait here. That’s tradition, and Noah and I do not kill tradition. If we get here before the Hathaways, we wait.

Dad says, “You boys are sticks in the mud.”

“Heathen,” Noah mutters.

Dad’s not pregnant, but he acts like he is, complaining that he’s so tired from the drive, that he needs to put his feet up. He sits on the scratchy couch—the one with years of our sand embedded between the cushions—and complains, like every year, that the renters have moved the furniture.

We’re totally not listening.

“Boys,” he says. “They’re probably not coming until tomorrow.”

“They always come the same day we do,” I say.

Dad says, “You’d be able to hear the car from the beach.

Go outside and make sure Gideon doesn’t get dizzy.”

Making sure Gideon doesn’t get dizzy is one of our family duties, along with getting Mom’s slippers, thinking of a name for Chase’s song, washing the makeup off your sister’s face are you kidding me she is not leaving the house like that, and finding out where the hell Noah is.

Mom laughs from the balcony and reports, “He’s tipping over every which way.”

“Claudia will catch him,” Noah mumbles. “Claudia’s catching him,” Mom calls in.

I can just barely see Claudia and Gideon if I crane my neck and press my cheek around the window. Noah laughs because I look silly with my face all squished , but I like seeing my little siblings, pushing each other over, spinning in circles, always getting up. I can see Claudia’s hands moving, but she’s too far away for me to know what she’s signing.

God, I can taste the ocean. I’m weak. “Let’s go out, Noah.”

He shakes his head and says, “We’ve got to wait for Melinda and the twins.” This is so weird, because usually it’s Noah trying to go somewhere—the movies, out for a run, college—and me begging him to stay, to wait, though I never have a specific thing for him to wait for.

“Noah, Chase, come sit with me,” my father says. “You’ll still be able to see the headlights, I promise.”

This is enough of an excuse for me to abandon our stakeout. I give Noah a little head jerk, but he frowns and, instead of staying where he is, shows how disappointed he is by heavyfooting into the kitchen to put away groceries. He could not act more put-upon if it were his job. Whatever. I join my father on the couch and tuck myself under his arm while he strokes my hair.

I’ve just barely closed my eyes—the grain of the couch against my cheek, Noah’s malcontented grumblings in my ear—when I see the headlight glare through the windows and through my eyelids.

“Noah, they’re here!”

We run barefoot across the street to the Hathaways’ and maul Melinda, Bella, and Shannon as soon as they step out of the SUV. Their parents laugh, pushing back their sweaty bangs, hauling duffel bags out of the car. Shannon pulls out of my hug and taps his fist against mine, sticks his hand in my hair. “Welcome back, soldier,” he says.

“Welcome home, Shannon.”


“Can we make s’ mores, Mom?” Bella asks. She’s clinging to one of Noah’s arms, which is kind of weird. I wrap the hem of Noah’s shirt around my finger until I have a good enough hold on him to tug him away from her.

He’s not even paying attention, because Melinda is milling by the other arm. She’s nineteen, older than Noah, and so thin that she always looks like a part of her is missing and the rest of her might be about to go find it. Her long fingernails close the gap between her hand and Noah’s wrist. I’ve seen Claudia do the same grip when she wants Noah to do something.