I felt like I was caught in a net. I sat there, mouth hanging open, my throat and eyes burning. And then the straight line of his lips curled up at one corner, and he laughed.
“Just kidding,” he said. “Not about my dad being dead, and actually you do have a big mouth, but I don’t mind.” My relief was instant, but then Sam put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a little shake. I stiffened—it was like all the nerve endings in my body had moved to beneath his fingers. Sam gave me a funny look, squeezing my shoulders gently. “You okay there?” He shifted his head down to meet my eyes. I took an unsteady breath.
“Sometimes things just come out of my mouth before I think about how they sound or even what I’m really saying. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry about your dad, Sam.”
“Thanks,” he said softly. “It happened a bit over a year ago, but most of the kids at school are still weird about it. I’ll take your questions over the pity any day.”
“Okay,” I said.
“No more questions?” he asked with a smirk.
“I’ll save them for later,” I said, standing on shaky legs. “Want to show me that somersault again?” He jumped up beside me, a crooked smile on his mouth.
“Nope.”
And then in a flash, he grabbed my waist and pushed me into the water.
* * *
WE FELL INTO an easy routine that first week of summer. There was a narrow path by the shore that ran through the bush between our two properties, and we went back and forth several times a day. We spent the mornings swimming and jumping off the raft, then read on the dock until the sun got too hot, and then we’d hit the water again.
Despite how often she was at the restaurant, it took Sue just a few days to figure out that Sam and I were spending more time together than apart. She showed up on our doorstep, Sam in tow, holding a large Tupperware container of homemade pierogies. She was surprisingly young, like, way younger than my parents, and dressed more like me than a grown-up, in denim cutoffs and a gray tank top, her pale blond hair pulled back into a swishy ponytail. She was small and soft, and her smile was wide and dimpled like Charlie’s.
Mom put on a pot of coffee and the three adults sat out on the deck chatting while Sam and I eavesdropped from the couch. Sue assured Mom and Dad that I was welcome at her house anytime, that Sam was a “freakishly responsible kid,” and that she’d keep an eye on us, at least when she was home.
“She must have had those boys right out of high school,” I heard Mom telling Dad that evening.
“It’s different up here,” was all he said.
Sam and I ended up spending most of our time in the water or at his place. On the days when the sun was too hot, we’d head up to the house, which was built in the style of an old farmhouse, painted white. A basketball net hung above the garage door. Sue hated air-conditioning, preferring to keep the windows open to feel the breeze off the lake, but the basement was always cool. Sam and I would flop down at either end of the cushy red plaid sofa and put on a movie. We were starting to make our way through my horror collection. Sam had seen just one or two, but it didn’t take long for him to catch my enthusiasm. I think half the fun for him was correcting any (and every) scientifically unsound detail he picked up on—the unrealistic amount of blood being his favorite sticking point. I’d roll my eyes and say, “Thanks, Doc,” but I liked how closely he paid attention.
We took turns picking what to watch, but according to Sam, I “went all weird” when he wanted to watch The Evil Dead. I had my reasons—the movie was why my three best friends no longer spoke to me. I ended up telling Sam the entire story, which involved a sleepover at my house and an ill-advised screening of the bloodiest, raunchiest film in my collection.
Because Delilah, Yvonne, and Marissa liked the horror stories I read at school, I had assumed The Evil Dead was a no-brainer. We huddled around the TV in nests of blankets and pillows, wearing our pajamas, with bowls of popcorn in hand, and watched a group of hot twentysomethings head to a creepy cabin in the woods. During the most disturbing scene, Delilah covered her face, then sprang from the sofa and ran to the bathroom, leaving a wet spot behind on the Ultrasuede fabric. The girls and I looked at each other wide-eyed, and I hurried to the cupboard to get paper towels and a bottle of cleaning spray.
I hoped Delilah would forget about the whole peeing-her-pants thing by the time we returned to school. She did not. Not even close. If she had, I would have been spared the next few months of torture.
“That was pretty disgusting,” Sam said when the credits were rolling. “But also awesome?”
“Right?!” I said, jumping onto my knees to face him. “It’s a classic! I’m not weird for liking it, right?” His eyes popped at my sudden display of energy. Did I sound nuts? I think I probably did.
“Well, I can see why that Delilah girl was so freaked out by it—I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight. But she’s a jerk, and you’re not weird for liking it,” he said. I slumped back down onto the couch, satisfied. “You’re just weird in general,” he added, holding back a grin, and I lobbed a cushion at him. He raised his hands and laughed, “But I like weird.”
I would have been thankful for any friend that summer, but finding Sam was like winning the friendship lottery. He was nerdy in a good way and sarcastic in a hilarious way, and he liked to read almost as much as I did, though he was more into books about wizards and magazines about science and nature. There was a whole shelf of National Geographic magazines in his basement, and I think he’d read all of them.
Sam was fast becoming my favorite person. And I’m pretty sure he felt the same—he always wore the bracelet I made him. He once pulled it down to show me the pale ring of skin underneath it. Sometimes he’d leave for an excruciatingly long morning or afternoon to hang out with his friends from school, but when he was home, we were almost always together.
By midsummer, a smattering of freckles dotted my nose, cheeks, and chest. As if they had somehow escaped my notice, Sam leaned in close to my face one day when we were lying on the raft, and said, “I guess SPF 45 wasn’t strong enough.”
“I guess not,” I growled. “And thanks for reminding me.”
“I don’t understand why you hate your freckles so much,” he said. “I like them.” I stared at him, unblinking.
“Seriously?” I asked.
Who in their right mind likes freckles?
“Yeaaaah.” He drew the word out and gave me a Why are you being so weird? look, which I chose to ignore.
“Swear on it?”
“Swear on what?” he asked, and I hesitated. “You said swear on it,” he explained. “What do you want me to swear on?”
“Umm . . .” I hadn’t meant it literally. I looked around, my eyes landing on his wrist. “Swear on our friendship bracelet.” His brows furrowed, but then he reached over and hooked his index finger under my bracelet, giving it a gentle tug.
“I swear,” he vowed. “Now you swear that you’ll drop this weird freckle obsession.” A small smile played on his lips, and I let out a little laugh before reaching over and curling my finger around his bracelet, tugging on it like he had.
“I swear.” I rolled my eyes, but secretly I was pleased. And I didn’t worry too much about my freckles after that.
* * *
HALLOWEEN IN AUGUST was the official name Sam and I gave to the week we devoted to bingeing the entire Halloween franchise. We had just put on the fourth movie when Charlie loped down the basement stairs in his boxers and launched himself over the couch between us. Charlie, I had learned, was always wearing a smile and rarely a shirt.
“Could you get any further away from her, Samuel?” he chuckled.
“Could you get any more naked, Charles?” Sam deadpanned.
Charlie’s face split into a toothy smile. “Sure!” he cried, jumping up and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.
I yelped and covered my eyes.