The Summer List, page 6
"I'm sure." He rolls his eyes. "Number Five: Try a new restaurant. Six: Do something nice for a stranger. Seven, ah, here we go. First Kiss." Oh, Lord. I want to crawl into a hole. I held my breath because I know what is coming next. "Number Eight: Fall in love." I can feel his eyes on me, but I'm too afraid to look at him. He can't see how flustered I am. "I'm guessing these are for you since Nat has a boyfriend. How do you plan on getting these crossed off?" He is so smug. I'm glad my humiliation is entertaining to him.
"None of your business."
"Actually, it is my business because we are doing this together. Remember?" I want to slap that smirk off his face.
"I'll let you know after I talk to Troy." I don't know why I said that, but it worked. Nate's face went slack. He looks defeated for once. "Give me the book." I held my hand out, and he pushes it away. I jump out of bed and stand over him in the chair. "Give me the book Nate."
"Not a chance." He says, standing up. I put my hand on his shoulder, ignoring how close I am to him. His bicep hardens as he raises the notebook high above his head. I try to jump and snatch it, but there was no point. He towers over me.
I let out a loud huff and flop back onto the bed.
Nate continues, "Number Nine: Sleep under the stars. I'm guessing this is with whoever got to be number seven and eight?" I pull my sweatshirt over my head and die of embarrassment. When Nat and I make the list, it is exciting. We are hopeful. This is just mortifying. "Number ten: Skinny Dip. Now, this sounds like fun. Why didn't I think of this? When are we doing this one?"
"NEVER!" I yell from the inside of my sweatshirt.
"Oh, come on, Turner. It's on the list. You don't say no to the list, remember?"
"Not in your lifetime Harris."
"Let's see what else we have here. Road trip, carve initials in a tree, learn a new skill, get a tan. Ha, good luck with that one, Casper." I throw a pack of candy at him. "Scary movie marathon, go on a hike, swim in the lake, go to a concert, go fishing, night swim, take a risk, watch the sunset and sunrise, visit their grave." He looks up at me, stunned. "Really?" He asks softly.
I pop off the bed and grab the book. Nate doesn't fight me this time. "No. Nat puts it on there." I haven't been to their grave since the funeral over eight years ago. I don't have any intention of going either. "She writes it down. I nod and smile, but we don't go. And we won't go either." I stare him down until he nods in agreement. "So, what are your ideas?"
Nate pulls a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. He clears his throat and starts to read, "Fix the truck up. Make sure that is at the top of the list." I roll my eyes. I'm already tired of hearing about this truck.
"Next."
"Video game marathon."
"I am not playing hours of video games."
"Then I'm not watching movies, shopping, or any of the other bullshit things I don't like doing."
"Who doesn't like watching movies? But, whatever. Video games. Yay." I say with fake enthusiasm. "What else?"
"Prank someone. I have a few ideas for this one. Go camping, go to a baseball game." He waits for me to catch up writing things down. "Get a tattoo."
"You've lost your mind. I'm not getting a tattoo."
"We'll see about that."
"No, we won't. It will never happen." I am not permanently marking my body. So what, in 40 years, I can look back and remember how stupid I was? I'm good. Thank you.
"Never say never." I roll my eyes.
"Anything else?"
"I have fishing written down, but you said that already. Roller skating and bowling were the last two on the list." Roller skating surprises me. He never liked skating when we were in middle school. The three of us went every Saturday night, but he never skated. I, however, spent the entire night wishing he would.
He interrupts my thoughts and asks, "What should we do first?"
I scan the new list, and there is nothing I want to do with him. This is a bad idea. "I guess we can go fishing. It is on both of our lists. Seems like a fair place to start."
"Okay, but I get to pick the spot."
"Right. I wouldn't want to run into any of your friends."
"It's not that. I just know a good spot." He tries to sound reassuring, but I know he doesn't want anyone to know about our arrangement any more than I do. Running into someone from school will just raise questions neither one of us wants to answer.
"It's fine. I don't care. When do you want to go? Natalie doesn't leave until Friday. How about Saturday?"
"Can't. I have to work in the morning, and then I want to start on the truck." I'm going to get brain damage from rolling my eyes so much.
"Sunday then? I swear if you say you are working on the truck, so help me, God."
"Sunday is good."
"Perfect. We'll work out the details later."
"Perfect." Nate stops by the tray of snacks and fills up his cargo shorts. I don't blame him. It's slim pickings back at his house.
"I'll get you a key to the house too. That way, you can come and go when I'm working."
"Thanks." He says and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. He stops and looks back at me. I saw a faint smile spread across his face knowing he caught me watching him. I roll my eyes and close my bedroom door.
My phone buzzes. It's from Nate.
NATE: Now that you've stopped staring at me, you can clean out the garage.
Ugh, he's so irritating. I ignore him and check my other messages. It's from a number I don't recognize.
UNKNOWN: Hey. It's Troy. We said hi yesterday at Nate's.
UNKNOWN: He gave me your number. I hope you don't mind.
I quickly add Troy's number to my contacts and then make him wait for a response.
7
mackenzie
I didn't clean out the garage that night after Nate left. I didn't do it the next day either. Instead, I spent the entire day texting Troy Bishop. Willow Park's starting full back and fantasy boy toy to half the girls in my school. That Troy Bishop.
We started texting around eleven in the morning. I sent back a simple text saying, 'Hi. I remember.' It took him about twenty minutes to respond, but then it was non-stop banter back and forth until dinner. The conversation was effortless. Text after text came without any awkward pauses. Maybe it was because we weren't face-to-face, but I felt comfortable with him.
If Nate weren't texting me to clean out the garage incessantly, it would have been the perfect day. Doesn't he have anything better to do? I get it. You get your truck tomorrow.
I don't want to get up. I want to stay in bed and re-play yesterday all day in my head. Even better, I want to live it again. Nat said I should play hard to get and make him text me first. Considering she is the one with a boyfriend, I am going to take her advice.
Reluctantly I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I let out a deep breath when I looked at myself in the mirror. People say I look like her. You have your mother's eyes. A woman at the grocery store told me once. They went to high school together or something. I wanted to say to her I wouldn't know because I don't remember my mother's eyes, but I chose to say thank you instead.
My parents died in a car accident when I was eight years old. I don't remember much about the accident or the days that followed. I only have a few memories from their funeral. The rain, my black dress, the way my Aunt Cindy's hand felt in mine.
She was a mess, my Aunt Cindy. She was always crying and drinking—more drinking than crying. Mrs. Harris had to take me to school most days because Cindy wasn't sober enough to do it herself. You would have thought I was her guardian and not the other way around.
About a month after their funeral, I came home from school to an empty house. "I redecorated," she said when I asked where everything was. "There was too much stuff. All this clu...clutter. Just collecting dust," she added, slurring her words and waving around her glass of bourbon.
I cup my hands under the faucet, collecting water until it's ice-cold, and then I dunk my face in it. The cold feels good against my warm skin. I don't know what I'll see when I walk into the garage today. No one has been in there in years. It was forbidden.
I get dressed in an old t-shirt and gym shorts and head to the kitchen. I notice for the first time the rain pouring outside. It's making the kitchen darker and more ominous than usual. It's also making me realize how much I don't want to do this right now. I should just text Nate and tell him to forget the whole thing. But he would like that, wouldn't he? Then he would be right. He knew I would struggle with this. He knows me better than I thought.
The house is quiet. The only sound is the rain bouncing off the windows and roof. I take a few steps toward the garage door wiping the palms of my hands on my shirt. With my eyes closed, I place a hand on the doorknob. I let out a quick breath and turn the handle.
The heat escaping the room was suffocating. It smells musty and sweet like perfume. I wonder if this is what my mom smelled like. I shake off the thought, ignore the tears begging to fall, and make my way down the cement steps. The hoard is overwhelming. There are boxes stacked wall to wall and floor to ceiling filing up the entire garage. Everything they've ever owned. Their whole lives have been packed up and stored in old liquor boxes.
There is no turning back now. Time to rip off the band-aid. I grab the first box off the stack and move it to the living room. I don't care what's inside. It doesn't matter. I'm going to move it all back as soon as Nate is done with the garage.
I don't know who these people are anymore. The memories I have are distant and barely recognizable. They are the nightmares that haunt me at night. They are the visions that stalk my daydreams.
Their memories try to surface in my mind, but they never fully develop. The image is a blur or a fragment of the memory. A hand reaching out to me. A face hidden by a camera. I assume they are my parents, but I can't say for sure.
When I was in the sixth grade, my teacher asked to meet with Cindy. You can only imagine how difficult that was. It turns out the meeting was with my teacher and the guidance counselor, Mr. Lawrence. I waited in the hall while they talked, but I could still hear them.
They were concerned about my behavior. I wasn't acting out. It was the opposite. I wasn't socializing enough. I kept to myself, except for Natalie, and I didn't participate in class.
They both suggested that I talk to someone. Cindy claimed I was fine, and I had her to talk to. I didn't need to see a therapist. Therapists are for crazy people. Mackenzie isn't crazy, she told them. Mr. Lawrence asked if she would allow me to see him every week on a trial basis. Cindy was reluctant but agreed.
After a few sessions with Mr. Lawrence, it was determined that I had dissociative amnesia. This is when someone can't remember parts of their life due to a traumatic event. My parents' accident caused me to remember very little from the first eight years of my life. It's like their death blacked out all our history. Whenever they died, so did every memory I had of them.
Then Cindy made sure I never remembered them again by packing up everything that would lead me back to them.
It took me all day, but I moved every box. I lined them from the back corner of the living room to the door. I left a small pathway from the front door to the kitchen. Looking at the mass of boxes makes me regret moving them to the living room. I should have put them in a spare room down the hall. It took me a year to forget they were in the garage. Now I have to walk by them every day. It's only temporary, I remind myself. One summer, and they are going back where they belong.
I sent Nate a picture of the empty garage so he would leave me alone about it. It's weird to think that he will be over here every day now. Maybe he will ask Troy to help him. A cheesy grin spreads across my face. I'm picturing Troy in the garage, my garage, with car grease on his face.
Nat asked earlier if I would make it to dinner at her house tonight, but I had to cancel. The thought of climbing the hill to her house after moving all the boxes today made me want to cry. I didn't think I would make it. My legs are complete jello.
I look in the pantry and freezer to see what I can scrounge up. Tonight I will have to settle for either a frozen pizza or peanut butter and jelly. After today, I deserve pizza. While the pizza cooks, I get out the jigsaw puzzle for this summer. It's never too early to start on the list. I know Nate won't help me put this together anyway.
I dump all the pieces onto the table and start sorting them into different piles. Out of habit, I put the edges in a heap across the table for Natalie. The puzzle is a picture of various lily flowers—all different shades of pink, yellow, and orange. As soon as I saw it at the store, I knew it was the one. I was drawn to it. As silly as it sounds, it made me happy looking at it.
The aroma of pepperoni and cheese is starting to fill the kitchen, making my stomach growl. I’ll connect a few more pieces of the puzzle. Then I'll check on the pizza and my phone.
I haven't heard from Troy all day, but I'm not going to obsess or panic. I'm not very experienced when it comes to boys, but I know obsessing over them is the fastest way to make them disappear. I don't want him to go anywhere. Not yet, at least.
I cut a couple slices of pizza and throw them on a paper plate. It's nothing compared to Mrs. Harris' fresh mozzarella and homemade sauce, but I'll eat anything right now. I just want to stuff my face and then soak every one of my muscles in a hot bath.
My mind keeps drifting back to Troy. I'm thankful for the distraction. If it weren't for him, I would be forced to think about Nat leaving in a few days or my living room full of boxes. I wonder what he is doing now. I wonder what he is wearing. I giggle at the thought. I keep sorting puzzle pieces and eating pizza lost in my imaginary world. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy.
"What the hell is all this?" And the moment is gone. I turn to see Cindy at the door with her eyes full of anger. "Mackenzie! Answer me right now. What the hell is all of this doing here?"
"You don't recognize it?" I ask as any rebellious teenager would. I did break one of her rules of the house. Under no circumstances do you ever go in the garage.
Cindy storms into the dining room. I haven't seen her this angry in a long time. I also haven't seen her in months. So, there's that too. "Not funny, Mackenzie. Now is not the time to give me lip."
"I'm not trying to be funny," I say, taking another bite of pizza.
"Why are they in the living room?" She slams her purse on the table and clutches the back of the chair so tight her knuckles start turning white.
"Because I put them there," I say and try to put a few puzzle pieces together.
"Why? You are not supposed to be in the garage at all. Why would you do this?" Her voice cracked as she spoke the last few words. I can't tell if she is just fuming or sad.
She has a lot of nerve telling me what I can and can't do in my own house. My house, not hers. She lost that privilege when she left.
"Nate needed a garage for the summer. I wasn't using it, so I told him he could. No big deal."
We both went silent. I watch as Cindy processes what I have just told her. "Nate needs the garage." She says quietly under her breath. Cindy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to collect herself and control her temper. "You need to call him, text him, whatever, and let him know the situation has changed."
"I'm not doing that." I can't do that. If I do, then I'm desolate all summer.
"You are." She says sternly. "I'm not leaving here until you do."
"You better get comfortable then because it isn't happening." The bitterness in my voice becomes more accessible the more parental she tries to be.
"Mackenzie! Do not talk to me with that tone." Cindy looks tired and very pregnant. She is about seven months along now.
"Don't tell me what to do then."
"Excuse me? Last I checked, I am still your guardian."
"Could have fooled me," I say and push away from the table. I open the fridge and pick out a soda. I take a big sip before sitting back down.
"Ouch. I guess I deserve that one." Cindy sits down across from me at the table. She gazes over the puzzle spread out in front of her. When she sees the top of the box, she lets out a quiet gasp and swallows hard. "Hormones." She says, blotting her eyes with her fingertips.
"I'm sorry." I'm not really. I meant every word. If she didn't start crying, I would have kept going. She left me by myself. As soon as I turned sixteen and I had my driver's license, she ghosted me. Except for her weekly money drops and the occasional visits, I never see her.
At first, I thought she was tired of being around children. But she moved in with her boyfriend Marc, and he already had two boys. Then she got pregnant. It turns out she was just tired of me.
