Fifteenth Summer

In the car on the way home, I texted Emma:

You awake?

YEAH, YOU?

Duh, I’m texting you! And it’s lunchtime out here. How’s the intensive?

INTENSE! I’M DOING THE PAS DE DEUX FROM DON Q.

I have no idea what you just said. Guess what? Have news.

WHAT KIND OF NEWS!?!?!?

The boy kind.

?!?!?!?!?!?!

His name is Josh. We kissed! Last night.

DEETS!!!!!!

He works in a bookstore! He’s so cute.

I stopped typing for a moment. My deets were true, but they only scratched the surface of what I liked about Josh. All the things I really thought of him couldn’t possibly fit in a text. Which was, I thought, a very good thing. I had a big, goofy smile on my face as I typed, How’s Ethan?

GOOD!!!! I THINK . . .

You think?

NO, NO, HE’S GOOD. HE’S JUST, WELL, IT’S NOT LIKE HE’S GOING TO JUST SIT AROUND WAITING FOR ME AFTER MY DAYS AT LAB. HE’S GOT A LIFE TOO.

Deets?

HOW’RE THINGS GOING WITH YOUR FAMILY? IS IT STILL SUPER-SAD?

I frowned at my phone. Could Emma have been more obvious with her subject change? Yeah, a little, but it’s okay. My dad is working through it by killing small animals.

WHAT???

We just went fishing.

OH. GROSS.

Know what’s not gross anymore? Kissing! You were holding out on me.

ARE YOU KIDDING?!? I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING.

Bunhead, I was being sarcastic!

LATE FOR CLASS! LUV U.

I snapped my phone shut and frowned again. The conversation wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would have been by Emma’s backyard pool with ginormous smoothies.

Then again, I reminded myself, if I was poolside with Emma right now, I wouldn’t be here in Bluepointe. With Josh.

I smiled through the rest of the drive.

When we got home, Mom was in the vegetable garden. She was decked out in a floppy hat and gloves the color of Pepto-Bismol. She was shoveling with such force that she was out of breath, red-faced, and sweaty.

“What are you doing?” I asked. There was a big pile of dead plants and weeds next to her.

“I just couldn’t stand this mess of a garden anymore,” my mom said. “Something needed to be done!”

“What are you going to do with it?” I wondered.

“I don’t know . . .” Mom trailed off, gazing at the big patch of bare earth as if she were seeing for the first time what she’d done. “I hadn’t gotten that far.”

She waved as Abbie and my dad carried our big cooler around the house to the back.

“How was the fishing?” Mom asked as she pulled off her gloves and tossed them to the grass.

“Check it out!” my dad said, flipping open the cooler and pulling out his big fish. It looked dull and stiff and very, very dead.

My mom clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes immediately welled up.

“Rachel—” my dad said in a What did I do? voice.

My mom shook her head and waved him off.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Aren’t you excited to have fresh fish for dinner?” Dad asked a little wanly.

“Of course!” Mom said. Her voice was doing that perky thing, but it was choked up, too. “Listen, I’m tired after all this digging. I’m just going to take a little nap.”

She almost ran to the house, and by the time we followed her in, Granly’s bedroom door was closed.

My dad heaved a big sigh, then tapped on the bedroom door and went inside.

The three of us wandered into the living room. I peeked into the cabinets in the hutch. The jewelry boxes, board games, and photo albums were right where they’d always been—untouched.

Abbie gave her head a little shake and whispered to us, “Beach?”

“Let me get my stuff,” Hannah whispered. “I’ve got some reading to do.”

“I’ll get some food,” I said.

I went to the kitchen hoping I could find something that wasn’t a baked good with a hole in it. As I fished some peaches out of the fruit bowl, I noticed that my mom had left her laptop open on the kitchen table.

I’d barely looked at a computer since we’d arrived. How funny that, other than texting with Emma and a couple other friends, I’d barely wondered what was going on at home. Maybe the long drive out here had made my “real” home feel far away and unreal. Or maybe it was the fact that when you’re in a place like Bluepointe, it’s kind of hard to believe a place like LA even exists.

Or maybe it was because I’d been preoccupied with a certain boy . . . .

It was partly guilt that made me log in to Facebook to see if I’d missed any big news. But there wasn’t anything that caught my eye.

I took a big bite of peach and clicked on my messages. I scrolled quickly through them, until I got to the last e-mail. It had just arrived a few minutes earlier.

When I saw who it was from, I let out a little shriek.

It was from Josh Black, of Bluepointe, Michigan, born February fourth, the same year as me.

The message said: Kai’s long, shiny locks reminded Nicole of the black keys she’d so loathed during her years of piano lessons. But now she was just itching to touch them.

I clapped my hand over my mouth so my family couldn’t hear me laughing.

I rushed to my room and snatched my copy of Coconut Dreams off my nightstand. Abbie was just snapping the strap of her swimsuit’s halter top into place.

“Aren’t you gonna change?” she said.

“Go on without me,” I said, waving her away. “I’ll meet you down there.”

“O-kay,” she said slowly. “Let me guess—your J-boy?”

I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew what it felt like to be the odd girl out, when everybody else seemed to be in a constant state of swooniness.

“Is that . . . is that okay?” I asked.

“Whatever,” Abbie said, fishing her goggles out of her beach bag. “I’m doing my two miles, so I don’t have time to hang on the beach anyway.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Chelsea,” Abbie said. She smiled at me. “It’s fine. I mean it. He seems really sweet.”

I smiled, hugged Coconut Dreams to my chest, and headed back to the kitchen.

I flipped through the book until I found the perfect passage.

Nicole and Kai danced on the sand, and the gossamer moonbeams danced with them, I typed. When Nicole placed her slender fingers upon Kai’s chest, she felt that his heart beat in time with her own; it beat for her.

I bit my lip through a grin and hit send.

The chime of his reply came only a couple minutes later.

So, can I go ahead and get that number from you?

My hands shook a little as I typed my number into the reply box.

It only took a minute or two for the phone in the pocket of my khakis to start buzzing.

I felt happier than I had in a very long time. I was sure Josh would be able to tell through the phone when I answered.

But that was okay. I wanted him to.

I flipped the phone open.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me.”





The funny thing about dating Josh was that it took us a while to go on an actual date.

Our obvious first choice—seeing the fireworks on the Fourth of July—got squelched by a massive thunderstorm.

For days after that we were both scheduled to work. So we did a lot of flitting back and forth between Mel & Mel’s and Dog Ear.

He was the first one to sit in my section, for instance, whenever I started my afternoon shift at the coffee shop.

The third time he showed up at precisely two p.m. and settled himself into my section’s corner booth, I laughed and said, “Oh, you again?”

“Can I help it if I really, really like pie?” Josh asked. “I get peckish at two p.m.”

“You did not just use the word ‘peckish,’ ” I said.

“I read it,” Josh said, holding up the book he’d brought with him. “It’s no Coconut Dreams, but . . .”

“Oh!” I said. “Allison Katzinger? I love her! But . . . wait a minute! Leaves of Trees? I’ve never heard of that one, and I’ve read all her books. Or at least I thought I had . . .”

“This is a galley of her book that’s about to come out,” Josh said. “She’s coming here in August and I’m doing the poster, so I thought I’d re—”

“Oh my God!” I said. I sat down across from him and grabbed the table. “Why didn’t you tell me you had the new Allison Katzinger? And she’s coming here? To Bluepointe?”

“Yeah,” Josh said with a shrug. “My mom arranged it. That’s her favorite part of having a bookstore.”

“So, is it good?” I asked Josh. “What am I saying? Of course it’s good. But is it devastatingly good? I mean, is it one of her funny ones or one of her tragic ones? I can never decide which kind I love more—”

“Listen,” Josh offered, “I’ll need it back, but if you want to read it, you could bor—”

Before he could finish his sentence, I’d reached across the table and snatched the book out of his hand.

“Really?” I blurted. “You know I’ll read it so fast. I can’t believe I have to wait six hours to start. I’m sooooo excited.”

“I’m beginning to think you just like me for my books,” Josh said.

“Just like you like me for my pie,” I said. I passed the book back to him and let my fingertips touch his for a quick, thrilling moment before I stood up. “Hold that for me? I’ll be right back.”

When I returned, I presented him with a slice of lemon meringue.

“Is this what you normally do?” Josh said, giving me a confused smile. “Choose pie flavors for your customers?”

“I know what you were going to order,” I said.

At the same time we both said, “Cherry.”

“But trust me on this?” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder to make sure neither of the Mels was within earshot. “You want to go with graham cracker crust for the next couple days. Melanie’s, erm, tinkering with the fruit pie crust.”

“Don’t tell me . . . ,” Josh groaned.

“Yup,” I whispered, “mayonnaise. I’m afraid to try it.”

Josh grinned as he took a big bite of his lemon pie.

“Mmm, good choice,” he said.

I felt a little zing. I loved that I knew Josh’s favorite pie flavor, just like he knew that I took my coffee with five creamers and two sugars (even if he did make fun of me for it).

He’d told me that he loathed his dictator-like high school art teacher and had learned most of his drawing techniques on YouTube.

And I’d told him that I read Little Women at least once a year, but still cried every time Beth died.

Sharing things like that with Josh made kissing him even better. Knowing what was going on inside his head was what was really making me swoon. This was the part of having a boyfriend I’d never imagined—the best friend part. I’d dreamed about the kissing and the hand-holding. But I’d had no idea that the most mind-blowing part of dating could be the talking. Looking into a boy’s eyes and understanding what you saw in them. And each day learning a few more of the little quirks and details that made him him.

It made me feel different. Changed. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I expected to see someone else there. Someone older, with a knowing glint in her eye (and maybe fewer freckles).

As Josh took another bite of pie, I leaned against the table and wondered, “How far do you think she can take this mayo-in-everything scheme? Can you think of anything grosser than mayo pie? I think all the egg fumes are starting to scramble her brain.”

“I heard that!”

I gasped and spun around to see Melissa glaring at me with her fists on her hips. Where had she come from?

“Oh, Melissa,” I gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“Listen, Melanie’s always been that crazy,” Melissa whispered. “It’s not the mayo’s fault. And besides, it seems like you’ve got mayo on the brain too!”

She tipped her head toward the specials board, where I’d scribbled a little paragraph in the empty black space beneath the list of pie flavors.

B. hoped nobody could see the shiny new horns beneath her bangs as she held out the platter. “Deviled egg?” she offered.

I shrugged and laughed.

Melissa grinned back at me.

“Do you know, since you put that up there the other day,” she said, “our deviled egg order has tripled? We had to send Andrea to the market for more eggs and paprika! Where’d you get such an idea, honey?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with a smile and a shrug. “I was just serving someone deviled eggs, and the name struck me as funny. Do you want me to erase it?”

“Are you kidding?” Melissa said. “Don’t you dare. And stop mooning over that boy and go give menus to that four-top over there. They want two blacks, two decafs.”

“You’re the best, Melissa,” I breathed.

When Josh left, he wrote on his check, Your Tip → with the arrow pointing at the Allison Katzinger book.

Of course, I had to stop by Dog Ear after my shift to say thank you.

And there just happened to be a wine-and-cheese happening for a local poet when I got there. Josh was working the cash register, so I stayed to chat with him during lulls. We debated Allison Katzinger’s funny books versus her tragic ones. I fetched Josh a plateful of artichoke dip and little endive leaves squirted with blue cheese and olives, and we agreed that they were as delicious as they were gross-looking. We had absolutely no privacy all night except for one brief moment, when the tipsy poet knocked over a stack of books with a sweep of her bangled arm, and Josh and I crept under the table to pick them all up.

But somehow it all felt romantic. More romantic than going to a movie or eating dinner in a restaurant with candles on the tables.

I didn’t know if this was because I had a warped sense of romance—or because anything I did with Josh seemed romantic, even gathering books off the floor, our fingertips touching as we reached for the same one.

But finally one afternoon a few days after the Fourth of July fireworks got rained out, Josh shook his head.

“Chelsea, look at us,” he said.

“What?” I replied. We were at the Pop Guy’s cart with E.B., scarfing down frozen treats during a ten-minute break. Josh was wearing shorts and one of his cute plaid shirts. He had a wad of plastic bags poking out of his pocket (kind of a must when you’re taking an overweight Labrador for a walk). I was still wearing my waitress apron. My fingers had ballpoint pen and neon marker (and probably mayonnaise) on them.

“You know, people sometimes see each other for longer than ten minutes,” Josh said. “Or without a cash register sitting between them. They might even get a little dressed up. It’s called a date.”

If only I hadn’t just taken a big, cold bite of my melting pop just as he’d said that. Then I could have given him a flirty pout and said something clever like, “What took ya so long?”

The truth was, though, that despite all the hanging out we’d been doing—the quick meetings, the texts, and, of course, the kissing—the idea of going on a date had never occurred to me. It seemed so old-fashioned, so formal.

“What, are you going to come pick me up at seven and shake my dad’s hand and pin a corsage on my dress?” I laughed.

“Um, that was kind of what I was thinking,” Josh said, looking sheepish. “I mean, except for the corsage part. Maybe a sparkler, though? It’d be a better fit for the DFJ.”

DFJ meant “Deferred Fourth of July.” The rained-out fireworks had been rescheduled, and the town had posted flyers about the event all over Main Street.

“That’s datey, right?” Josh said. “A picnic, fireworks, marching band music?”

“I’ve always found marching band music to be very romantic,” I said, laughing.

“Hey, it’s better than our usual sound track,” Josh said. “The little bell on the cash register.”

He reached out with the hand that wasn’t sticky with pop drips and brushed my cheek with his fingertips. It sent a jolt through me. I imagined being alone with Josh for an entire evening. “Dreamy” didn’t begin to cover it, which was why I thought there must be a catch.

“Aren’t your school friends going to be having a party or something?” I said.

“Maybe,” Josh said with a shrug. “I’d rather be with you.”

“Oh,” I whispered. Josh’s habit of bluntly saying what was on his mind still made me reel. But in a good way now.

“So . . .”

“So . . . ,” I said. I smiled at him, shyly at first, then with giddy excitement. “So, pick me up at seven, I guess!”