The Summer List, page 1
Copyright © 2021 Ginger Walls
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Ginger Walls
This book is dedicated to those
who became family when they
didn’t have to and stayed through the hard
times when they could have left.
Contents
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
acknowledgments
about me
1
mackenzie
The room is cold. My breath forms a cloud in front of me with every exhale. It smells like bleach and disinfectant. It smells just like the spray Mrs. Harris used on my knees when I fell off my bike once. The lights are blinding fluorescent rods. It's like I'm looking directly into the sun. I have to shield my face with my arm. Then there's the beeping. I follow it into the hallway. It just leads to another room similar to the first one I was in. This room smells different. A little sweeter. It feels familiar. Suddenly the beeping stops, and the room goes dark.
"Mackenzie. Are you still with me? Mackenzie?" Ms. Crawford asks, waving her hand in front of my face. I'm shivering. I can still feel the coldness of the room.
"Yeah, I'm here," I finally say, shaking off the nightmare and focusing on her face again.
"Where were you just now?" Ms. Crawford asks, sitting up straighter in her chair with a pen in her hand.
I should let her know she is asking the wrong questions. Because if I knew where I was, I probably wouldn't be here every Tuesday afternoon staring at posters of inspirational garbage on her walls.
This is what happens every week. Ms. Crawford wants me to talk about things I don't know anything about. She just sits there with her eyes boring into mine and waits. She waits like a tiger stalking its prey. Only she is hunting for a tidbit of information to analyze. She wants something new to sink her teeth into and mull around in her brain. I've got nothing. I'm blank.
"Nowhere. Sorry. I just spaced."
I could tell her about the nightmares that keep me up at night. The random places I pop up in at three am or when my mind starts to wander during the day. I could tell her about the flashes of light that pop up in my brain like an old slide show. I get one second to memorize the image before it disappears.
I don’t recognize the faces looking back at me. I can’t pinpoint where I am. It’s like I’ve been dropped in the middle of a movie I don’t remember watching. How is she supposed to figure out what is happening when I can’t even explain it?
"Humph. You know, Mackenzie." Ms. Crawford put her pen and notepad down on the table beside her, covering the top of my file. She clasps her hands together and tilts her head down until she reaches my eyes. I take her bait and lift my chin to look at her.
"One of these days, you will have to talk about it. You don't want to open up to me. Fine. But you need to talk to someone." She says this like I’m a pickle jar that needs to simply twist to the left and remove the lid that has been holding back my words for so long.
I drop my head again and start picking at my cuticles. It's a terrible habit I can't seem to stop. I pick at the cracked skin until they bleed. I don't want to hear this speech again. It is the same conversation every time.
Ms. Crawford is a broken record. Every week she skips back to the chorus. You never get to the melody. It's just the same words every time that spins around in your head over and over again until you want to scream.
Mackenzie open up.
Mackenzie share your feelings.
Mackenzie talk about what happened.
Mackenzie I want to help you.
I don't want to hear it. I'm tired of this song. It's overplayed now. I have been meeting with Ms. Crawford every Tuesday during sixth period for the last two years. Before her, it was Mr. Lawrence, the middle school counselor. He smelled like tuna and tobacco. A terrible combination. He had an unruly beard, and his hairline was starting to recede on the sides, leaving one thinning patch in the front. He was the last person I would ever talk to about anything.
Ms. Crawford, on the other hand, has a petite frame. Her dirty blonde hair is styled to fit the current trend. She wears colorful dresses with mixed patterns and can be spotted immediately in a crowded hallway. I always appreciated that. It made it easier for me to avoid bumping into her between classes.
Ms. Crawford still cares. She is fresh out of college and is determined to save the broken. Unfortunately, she hasn't realized the broken rarely want to be saved.
"I don't see why. I'm fine. Everything is fine just the way it is." I don't see the point anyways. There is nothing I can say to change what happened. There is no going back in time and changing the trajectory of my life. Sitting here every week is just a bad reminder. It's sour milk rolling over my tongue. It's rancid bile stuck in my throat. I want it to end.
I watch as she scribbles away in my file. I wish I knew what she was writing so furiously. My file is thick and full of several years of opinions and test results. My guess, it says something like Mackenzie Turner is a nice girl. She is quiet but troubled. She is in denial about the trauma she endured and has no desire to make the necessary changes to move forward.
Ms. Crawford takes a sip of coffee from her monogrammed cup, then changes the subject and asks, "Any plans for the summer? Vacations? Parties?" And after a short pause. "Boys?"
I lean forward in my chair, narrowing my eyes on her, and ask, "I don't know. Do you have any plans with boys this summer?" She scolds me with her eyes, and I reign in my contempt. "No boys. They don't like me like that." I say and look down at my white Chuck Taylor shoes.
"Probably because you close yourself off to all relationships, but that is a talk for another day." I try not to look relieved.
It isn't my aversion to sharing my feelings that keep the boys away. I have been interested in plenty of boys in the past. The problem is everyone at this school knows I am a walking head case. No one in their right mind would take me on.
"I have to be honest here. I am worried about you." Ms. Crawford continues, "I need to know you are going to be okay during the summer. You will be away from most of your peers and a big part of your support system." My eyes roll so far back in my head I can see the clock behind me. I think I'm better off without this support system she speaks of.
"I'll be fine. I have a job. And I have Nat." Nat is my best friend. Some might even say my only friend. Ask anyone, and that is precisely what they would say. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm good. Maybe I will try that journaling thing you keep talking about. I will come back in the fall as my old self." Ms. Crawford's eyebrows scrunch up together, and her lips tighten into a thin line.
"Mackenzie, you will never be who you used to be. You are a different person now. You need to understand that the trauma you went through has changed you." She leans forward in her chair as she speaks to me. I look away and start reading one of the many posters on her wall.
The room is small, almost claustrophobic, and covered in posters of inspirational quotes and how to recognize your feelings. I am always drawn to the one about anger. "There is no going back. Only forward. You will need to accept what happened to you to do it, though," she says.
I can feel the vein on my forehead start to pop, and I let out a low snarl. "I'll try it. Can I go now?" I reach for my bag and make my way to the door. She jumps from her seat so fast you would think it caught fire.
Ms. Crawford stands in front of me, puts her hands on my shoulders, and clutches onto them. She sinks the pads in her fingers as deep as she can without causing alarm. "Promise me you will try." Her plea is sincere. I bite my lower lip and nod once in agreement. I walk into the hallway without a word.
The final bell rings, and the hallway floods with students. My senses are inundated with Acqua Di Gio and Coco Chanel. It looks like a walking Abercrombie catalog. I pull my arms in tight, making myself as small as possible, and push my way through the crowd to my locker. I need to finish cleaning it out before I can walk out of here. I will be done with this place and everyone in it.
Except for one person, I think to myself as Natalie approaches. "You still coming over later?" Natalie asks, rushing to my side. I peer around my open locker door and smile at her. She is the only good thing about school and my life at the moment.
"Of course. Tradition is tradition." I put the last of my books in my bag and closed the door shut. "Are you okay?"
"Yep. Of course. Why?"
"Your eye keeps twitching, and you keep biting your lip. You look nervous or something. I don't know. It's not the last day of school vibe I thought you would have."
"You've been spending too much time wi
"Ew. Forget I asked." The thought of being like Ms. Crawford and analyzing people makes me shudder.
"Erased." She says, tapping her forehead. "I got to catch up with Dillon, but I'll see you later." Natalie gives me a quick hug before she disappears into the crowd.
I head in the opposite direction towards the parking lot. I snake my way through clusters of people I don't know, people I should probably know. They know me. They know my entire life story. It was all over the news. I hear them saying their goodbyes and talking about summer parties I will never be invited to.
I wonder what it's like to have a normal life. A life where you only have to worry about what you will wear or how you will do your hair, instead of what you will cook for dinner and if you paid the electric bill on time.
I keep pushing my way through, and suddenly the hallway clears. I can see the exit doors in front of me. My pulse starts racing in excitement. It's the finish line at the end of a brutal marathon. Adrenaline kicks in. I pick up my pace and speed towards the door. I keep my eyes on the tile floor and count my steps to freedom.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, -
CRASH.
I run headfirst into a brick wall. Not a brick wall. A wall of muscle. The impact pushes me back and sandwiches me between the boy and the wall of lockers. My head hits the metal hard, and there is a metallic tang in my mouth. I must have bit my tongue when my head buckled.
"Turner, you, okay?" I feel his callused hand on my arm steadying me and pulling me up from the floor.
There is a constant ringing in my ears. I feel like I'm underwater. All his words are muffled. I blink my eyes a few times until I find a face to focus on. It's Nate, Natalie's brother, and I feel a rush of heat and embarrassment roll through my body.
"I'm fine," I say, shaking off the throbbing I feel in the back of my head. I want to run, but I'm too dizzy. I fall back down into Nate's arms. His amber eyes are staring into mine. All four of them. "I...I... I have to go," I say, trying to find the ground beneath my feet.
"Yeah, sure." He says, handing me my notebook that fell on the floor. Neither one of us moved for a moment. We are suspended in time. Locked together in some weird trance neither one of us understands.
"Bye," I say abruptly and scoot around him.
I elbow my way past Nate's football friends, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I practically run to the door letting the crowd swallow me. Letting out a deep breath, I hesitate before pushing the door open. I turn to the sea of strangers, searching for a familiar face, but he is just a ghost. His touch still haunting me.
I drive home with the windows down and the music loud. I need to drown out my run-in with Nate, but it is all I can think about. After cleverly avoiding him and the rest of his goonies all Sophomore year, I run into him on the last day. It figures. We were friends once many years ago, but things changed. Feelings change.
"I'm home," I yell into the empty kitchen as I toss my bag on the dining table. On the kitchen counter, I see a note and an envelope. Cindy was here. She's gotten really good at avoiding me. I open the cabinet where I keep the lockbox and drop the envelope of money in with the rest of them. I throw the note in the trash.
The house feels cold even with the burst of heat from outside. I shiver walking into the living room. The curtains are drawn tight, making the room feel like a cave. Dark and claustrophobic. It's an open space, but it still manages to suck all the breath from your lungs in a panic. The window above the front door is the only source of light. The sun skates across the ceiling and highlights the dust mites dancing in the air.
The dust never settles here. It has nowhere to go. There are no picture frames or tchotchkes to attach themselves to. They spin and spin into a void of nothing. The room is like a museum exhibit with an imaginary rope shielding you from entering and touching the dated couches and deserted side tables.
I've learned to ignore the room altogether. I take a tight right turn down the hall leading to my room. The carpet is worn down from years of abuse. This is the only path I take in the house, and it shows.
I read once in a magazine that your bedroom says a lot about you. Anyone can walk in your bedroom and make a snap judgment based on what you have on display for anyone to see and what you keep hidden away in a drawer like a dirty little secret.
I lost count of my secrets. I keep them so hidden, and out of reach even I don't know what they are anymore. My room is vanilla. Plain with very little flavor. Anyone could inhabit my bedroom. There is nothing in here that would lead you to think it was mine.
There is a bookshelf in the corner surrounded by stacks of books to be read. An oversized reading chair is angled perfectly to catch the morning sun.
I have a wire hanging above my bed with photographs clipped across the front—the only personal item on display. Most of the pictures are candids of Nat and me.
My favorite is the two of us at the State Fair two summers ago. I didn't want to ride the Ferris wheel, but Nat quickly reminded me that we don't say no to the list. Before I knew it, we were at the highest point of the Ferris wheel. Nat and I were sitting on top of the world with the carnival lights shining bright behind us. I was scared witless. Call me crazy, but a ride that can be put together and taken apart in less than twenty-four hours doesn't seem safe. Add in my irrational fear of heights, and I was in hysterics. But Nat, Nat was fearless.
The list is our summer ritual. It is our way to keep the break interesting. Otherwise, I would spend every day inside murdering my “to be read” pile and binging Netflix. We started it when we were in elementary school. It was Nat's idea to do it. She loves lists and being a taskmaster.
I remember in fourth grade we decided to stay up for forty-eight hours. I don't know why we thought that would be fun. I ended up falling asleep face-first on my plate of spaghetti at dinner.
The summer before freshman year we started adding riskier choices. We were daring ourselves to make moves and create precarious situations with the opposite sex. As if writing something down on a piece of paper gave you the balls to follow through. I wish it did.
I go into my closet and change into some cutoffs and a t-shirt. I'm sure Nat is already waiting for me. The last day of school tradition is dinner at her house and finalizing the list for the summer.
I grab my notebook from my backpack on the table and start to sprint through the backyard towards Natalie's house.
2
mackenzie
The sweat is already streaming down my face as I hit the trees that divide our property. I take a moment to catch my breath once I'm hidden in the shade of their branches. At one point in time, these were our woods. Looking at the treehouse with its rusty nails and torn roof, I try to remember life before the accident, but nothing comes.
I make my way across the creek, balancing on the larger slabs of rocks. Nat's house is perched on the top of a grassy slope. It isn't very steep, but it is long and brutal on hot days. My thighs begin to burn halfway up. My movements get slower with every step and sweat is gluing my shirt to my skin. I keep pulling my shirt away, allowing a little air to circulate.
As I suspected, Natalie is already waiting for me by the pool. She is stretched out in the lounge chair in a bikini top and cut-offs like mine. I'm not brave enough to flaunt around her house in a bathing suit. I spot a small cooler in between the chairs, and my body starts begging for water.
"Please tell me there is water in there. I'm dying. Water. Me. Please. That hill. I hate that hill." I try to catch my breath. Each word is stealing the last bits of energy I have.
"It used to be easier, right?" Nat asks as she passes me water from the cooler. I can't speak. I nod and open up the water bottle.
"So, Mack, about our summer plans," I did my best to listen while gulping down the bottle of water. My heart was still racing, and I was now sweating profusely. I always thought it was weird that your body sweats more after you stop moving.
Nat, however, looks like a sun goddess with her pecan complexion glistening in tanning oil. I am more like a shade of pale winter snow. I've already decided 'getting a tan' will be a top priority for me on the list this year. Nat, however, can go ahead and check it off hers. She is perfect.
