Read Online Twenty Boy Summer by Sarah Ockler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Ockler
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tell if they're talking, but Frankie is leaning between the two front seats.
For a brief moment, I miss my parents. Dad in his Parkside Realty sport coat. Mom with her coupons. Calm. Predictable. Normal. I wonder if they miss me, too, thousands of miles away in their quiet normal house where seals don't bark and families don't cry in the car.
The backyard is about the size of our school swimming pool and has six wooden steps on the far edge leading down to the beach. I know there are six of them because Matt used to tell me about how he'd run out the back door, off the deck, across the lawn, and jump down to the sand, sailing right over the steps as Aunt Jayne yelled after him about breaking his neck.
I kick off my flip-flops and walk across the wet grass to the steps, sitting on the bottom one and digging a little tunnel in the sand with my feet. It's wet and cold under the hot surface, just like Matt said.
As the waves shush against the shore, I look out over the ocean and watch a few families scattered along the beach. In front of me, a mother stands knee-deep in the water, waving and calling for two little boys to come in for lunch.
When someone you love dies, people ask you how you're doing, but they don't really want to know. They seek affirmation that you're okay, that you appreciate their concern, that life goes on and so can they. Secretly they wonder when the statute of limitations on asking expires (it's three months, by the way. Written or unwritten, that's about all the time it takes for people to forget the one thing that you never will).
They don't want to know that you'll never again eat birthday cake because you don't want to erase the magical taste of the frosting on his lips. That you wake up every day wondering why you got to live and he didn't. That on the first afternoon of your first real vacation, you sit in front of the ocean, face hot under the giant sun, willing him to give you a sign that he's okay.
"There you are!"
I jump. It's Frankie, coming down the stairs. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I move over to make room for her on my stair and put my head on her shoulder. "I was just thinking about him."
"Me, too." Her eyes are red and glassy, but she's smiling. "I think the hard part's over. We're officially out of the car."
I laugh, pulling my feet out of their sand caves.
In the distance, tiny triangles -- some white, some red, some rainbow -- navigate along the rise and fall of a thousand saltwater peaks.
"Isn't it amazing, Anna?" She looks out across the water. "It makes you feel kind of small, huh?"
"Yeah." I don't want to say too much; to break the thin glass bubble spell, my head resting on her shoulder, my oldest friend reflective and serious and still capable of being amazed.
"You know what the best part about California is?" She puts her arm around me, her Matt-bracelet cool against my shoulder. "No one knows me here. No one knows that they're supposed to feel sorry for me."
I think about the faces at school as we passed through the halls -- eyes looking away, mouths whispering. There goes Matt's sister. Hey, isn't that the best friend?
"Except for you," she says. "You're the only one who knows the big black secret. And you're a locked vault when it comes to keeping secrets." She laughs, kicking at the sand with her toes.
We dust off from the sandy steps and walk out to the shore. Up close, the water churns and rolls, shifting between hazy blues and grays. As each new wave slides up to our bare feet, the tide pulls it back, lifting the water like a blowing skirt to give us a peek at the colored stones beneath.
The water is cooler than I expect. It bites at my toes until I'm used to the temperature and can no longer tell the difference between air and water on my skin. I kneel and scoop up a handful of silt and rocks, staring into my cupped palm as dark, wet sand lightens in the air.
"Where do you think it came from?" I ask, dropping my hands into the water to let the waves wash over
For a brief moment, I miss my parents. Dad in his Parkside Realty sport coat. Mom with her coupons. Calm. Predictable. Normal. I wonder if they miss me, too, thousands of miles away in their quiet normal house where seals don't bark and families don't cry in the car.
The backyard is about the size of our school swimming pool and has six wooden steps on the far edge leading down to the beach. I know there are six of them because Matt used to tell me about how he'd run out the back door, off the deck, across the lawn, and jump down to the sand, sailing right over the steps as Aunt Jayne yelled after him about breaking his neck.
I kick off my flip-flops and walk across the wet grass to the steps, sitting on the bottom one and digging a little tunnel in the sand with my feet. It's wet and cold under the hot surface, just like Matt said.
As the waves shush against the shore, I look out over the ocean and watch a few families scattered along the beach. In front of me, a mother stands knee-deep in the water, waving and calling for two little boys to come in for lunch.
When someone you love dies, people ask you how you're doing, but they don't really want to know. They seek affirmation that you're okay, that you appreciate their concern, that life goes on and so can they. Secretly they wonder when the statute of limitations on asking expires (it's three months, by the way. Written or unwritten, that's about all the time it takes for people to forget the one thing that you never will).
They don't want to know that you'll never again eat birthday cake because you don't want to erase the magical taste of the frosting on his lips. That you wake up every day wondering why you got to live and he didn't. That on the first afternoon of your first real vacation, you sit in front of the ocean, face hot under the giant sun, willing him to give you a sign that he's okay.
"There you are!"
I jump. It's Frankie, coming down the stairs. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I move over to make room for her on my stair and put my head on her shoulder. "I was just thinking about him."
"Me, too." Her eyes are red and glassy, but she's smiling. "I think the hard part's over. We're officially out of the car."
I laugh, pulling my feet out of their sand caves.
In the distance, tiny triangles -- some white, some red, some rainbow -- navigate along the rise and fall of a thousand saltwater peaks.
"Isn't it amazing, Anna?" She looks out across the water. "It makes you feel kind of small, huh?"
"Yeah." I don't want to say too much; to break the thin glass bubble spell, my head resting on her shoulder, my oldest friend reflective and serious and still capable of being amazed.
"You know what the best part about California is?" She puts her arm around me, her Matt-bracelet cool against my shoulder. "No one knows me here. No one knows that they're supposed to feel sorry for me."
I think about the faces at school as we passed through the halls -- eyes looking away, mouths whispering. There goes Matt's sister. Hey, isn't that the best friend?
"Except for you," she says. "You're the only one who knows the big black secret. And you're a locked vault when it comes to keeping secrets." She laughs, kicking at the sand with her toes.
We dust off from the sandy steps and walk out to the shore. Up close, the water churns and rolls, shifting between hazy blues and grays. As each new wave slides up to our bare feet, the tide pulls it back, lifting the water like a blowing skirt to give us a peek at the colored stones beneath.
The water is cooler than I expect. It bites at my toes until I'm used to the temperature and can no longer tell the difference between air and water on my skin. I kneel and scoop up a handful of silt and rocks, staring into my cupped palm as dark, wet sand lightens in the air.
"Where do you think it came from?" I ask, dropping my hands into the water to let the waves wash over
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