Every Summer After
: Chapter 4

I’d never had a boy in my bedroom until that first evening when Charlie dropped Sam off on the doorstep of our cottage. As soon as we were alone, I was tongue-tied with nerves. Sam didn’t seem to have the same problem.

“So what kind of name is Persephone?” he asked, stuffing a third Oreo into his mouth. We were sitting on the floor, door open at Mom’s insistence. Given how sullen he was when we met, he was a lot chattier than I expected. Within minutes I learned he had lived next door all his life, he was also starting eighth grade in the fall, and that he liked Weezer well enough, but the shirt was actually a hand-me-down from his brother. “Almost all my clothes are,” he explained matter-of-factly.

Mom hadn’t looked happy when I asked if Sam could stay for the evening. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Persephone,” she said slowly, right in front of him, then turned to Dad for his input. I think it was less about Sam’s boy-ness and more that Mom wanted to keep me away from other teenagers for at least two months before we went back to the city.

“She needs to have a friend, Diane,” he replied, to complete my mortification. Letting my hair fall across my face, I grabbed Sam by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

It took five minutes for Mom to check on us, holding a plate of Oreos like she did when I was six. I was surprised she didn’t bring glasses of milk. We were munching on the cookies, chests speckled with dark crumbs, when Sam asked about my name.

“It’s from Greek mythology,” I told him. “My parents are total geeks. Persephone is the goddess of the underworld. It doesn’t really suit me.”

He studied the Creature from the Black Lagoon poster and the stack of horror paperbacks on my bedside table, then fixed his gaze on me, one eyebrow raised.

“I dunno. Goddess of the underworld? Seems like it suits you. Sounds pretty cool to me . . .” He trailed off, his expression turning serious. “Persephone, Persephone . . .” He rolled my name around in his mouth like he was trying to figure out how it tasted. “I like it.”

“What’s Sam short for?” I asked, my hands and neck heating. “Samuel?”

“Nope.” He smirked.

“Samson? Samwise?”

He jerked his head back like I’d surprised him.

“Lord of the Rings, nice.” His voice cracked over the nice, and he gave me an off-kilter grin that sent another thrill zipping through my chest. “But, nope. It’s just Sam. My mom likes one-syllable names for boys—like Sam and Charles. She says they’re stronger when they’re short. But sometimes, when she’s really pissed, she calls me Samuel. She says it gives her more to work with.”

I laughed at this, and his grin turned into a full-blown smile, one side slightly higher than the other. He had this easy way about him, like he wasn’t trying to please anyone. I liked it. I wanted to be just like that.

I was polishing off a cookie when Sam spoke again. “So what did your dad mean downstairs?”

I feigned confusion. I’d been hoping he somehow hadn’t heard. Sam squinted and added quietly, “About you needing to have a friend?”

I winced, then swallowed, not sure of what to say or how much to tell him.

“I had some”—I made air quotes with my fingers—“ ‘issues’ with a few of the girls at school this year. They don’t like me anymore.” I fidgeted with the bracelet on my wrist while Sam pondered this. When I peered up at him, he was looking right at me, brows drawn like he was working out a math problem.

“Two girls in my class were suspended for bullying last year,” he finally said. “They were getting the boys to ask this one girl out as a prank, and then they’d tease her for believing it.”

As much as she despised me, I don’t think Delilah would have gone that far. I wondered if Sam was part of the prank, and as if he could see my mind churning, he said, “They wanted me to get in on it, but I wouldn’t. It seemed mean and kind of messed up.”

“It’s totally messed up,” I said, relieved.

Keeping his blue eyes trained on me, he changed the subject. “Tell me about this bracelet you keep playing with.” He pointed to my wrist.

“This is my friendship bracelet!”

Before I was a social outcast, I was known for two things at school: my love of horror and my friendship bracelets. I wove them in elaborate patterns, but that was secondary to picking just the right colors. I carefully chose each palette to reflect the wearer’s personality. Delilah’s was pinks and deep reds—feminine and powerful. My own was a trendy mix of neon orange, neon pink, peach, white, and gray. Delilah had always been the prettiest, most popular girl in our class, and even though the other kids liked me, I knew my status was due to my proximity to her. When I got requests for bracelets from every girl in our class and even a few of the eighth graders, I felt like I finally had my own thing aside from being Delilah’s funny sidekick. I felt creative and cool and interesting. But then one day, I found the bracelets I’d made for my three best friends cut up in little pieces in my desk.

“Who gave it to you?” Sam asked.

“Oh . . . well, no one did. I made it myself.”

“The pattern is really cool.”

“Thanks!” I perked up. “I’ve been practicing all year! I thought the neons and the peach were kind of funky together.”

“Definitely,” he said, leaning closer. “Could you make me one?” he asked, looking back up at me. He wasn’t kidding. I hopped up and dug out the embroidery floss kit from my desk. I placed the small wooden box with my initials carved on top on the floor between us.

“I’ve got a bunch of different colors, but I’m not sure if I have anything you’ll like,” I said, pulling out the rainbow loops of thread. I’d never done one for a boy before. “But tell me what you’re into, and if I don’t have it, I can get Mom to take me into town to see if we can replace it. Usually I know people a little better before I make them. It might sound silly, but I try to match the colors to their personality.”

“That doesn’t sound silly,” he said. “So what do those colors say about you?” He reached out and tugged on one of the strings dangling from my wrist. His hands were like his feet, too big for his body. They reminded me of the oversized paws of a German shepherd puppy.

“Well . . . these don’t really mean anything,” I stammered. “I just thought it was a sophisticated palette.” I returned to organizing the embroidery floss, lining them up in a tidy row from light to dark on the wood floor between us. “Maybe I could make it in blues to match your eyes?” I said, thinking aloud. “I don’t have a ton of blue, so I’ll just need to get a few more shades.” I glanced at Sam to see what he thought, except he wasn’t looking at the floss; he was staring right at me.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I want it to be just like yours.”

THE NEXT MORNING I scarfed down breakfast, then raced to the water with my kit. I sat cross-legged on the dock and fastened the bracelet to my shorts with a safety pin to work on it while I waited for Sam.

When his footsteps tramped across the dock next door, it was almost like they were right beside me. He was wearing the same navy shorts as yesterday; it looked like they might fall off his narrow hips at any moment. I waved at him, and he raised his hand and then dove off the end of the dock and paddled toward me. He was in the water in front of me in under a minute.

“You’re fast,” I said, impressed. “I’ve taken swimming lessons, but I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

Sam gave me the crooked grin, then hauled himself out of the water and plopped down next to me. Water dripped off his hair and ran in rivulets down his face and his chest, which was almost concave in form. If he was at all self-conscious about being half-naked next to a girl, I wouldn’t have known it. He pulled on the strands of embroidery floss I was working on.

“Is that my bracelet? It looks great.”

“I started it last night,” I told him. “They don’t actually take that long to make. I should be able to finish it for you tomorrow.”

“Awesome.” He motioned to the raft. “Ready to collect your payment?” Sam had agreed to show me how to do a flip off the raft in exchange for the bracelet.

“Definitely,” I said, taking off my Jays hat and slathering copious amounts of SPF all over my face.

“You’re really into sun safety, huh?” He picked up the hat.

“I guess. Well, no. It’s more that I’m not into freckles, and the sun gives me freckles. They’re okay on my arms and stuff, but I don’t want them all over my face.” What I wanted was a creamy, unblemished complexion like Delilah Mason’s.

Sam shook his head, baffled, then his eyes lit up. “Did you know that freckles are caused by an overproduction of melanin that gets stimulated by the sun?”

My jaw dropped.

“What?” he said. “It’s true.”

“No, I believe you,” I said slowly. “It’s just a really random fact for you to know.”

He grinned. “I’m going to be a doctor. I know a lot of”—he made air quotes—“ ‘random facts,’ as you call them.”

“You already know what you want to be?” I was blown away. I had no clue what I wanted to do. Not even close. English was my best subject, and I liked to write, but I never really thought about having a grown-up job.

“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, a cardiologist, but my school kind of sucks. I don’t want to be stuck here forever, so I learn stuff on my own. My mom orders used textbooks for me online,” Sam explained.

I took this in. “So . . . you’re smart, huh?”

“I guess.” And then he stood, a stack of arms and legs and pointy joints, and hauled me up by my arms. He was surprisingly strong for someone so weedy. “And I’m an awesome swimmer. C’mon, I’ll show you how to do that somersault.”

Countless belly flops, a few dives, and one semi-successful somersault later, Sam and I lay outstretched on the raft, faces to the sky, the already-hot morning sun drying our bathing suits.

“You’re always doing that,” Sam said, looking over at me.

“Doing what?”

“Touching your hair.”

I shrugged. I should have listened to Mom when she told me bangs wouldn’t work for my hair type. Instead, one spring evening while my parents were marking papers, I took matters—and Mom’s good sewing shears—into my own hands. Except that I couldn’t get the bangs to lie evenly, and every snip just made things worse. In less than five minutes, I had totally butchered my hair.

I crept downstairs to the living room, tears running down my face. Hearing my sniffles, my parents turned to see me standing with scissors in hand.

“Persephone! What on earth?” My mother gasped and flung herself at me, checking my wrists and arms for signs of damage, before hugging me tightly, while Dad sat agape.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get this fixed,” Mom said, stepping away to make an appointment at her salon. “If you’re going to have bangs, they need to look intentional.”

Dad gave me a weak smile. “What were you thinking, kiddo?”

My parents had already put in an offer on a lakeside property in Barry’s Bay, but seeing me clutching those scissors must have sent them over the edge, because the next day Dad called the Realtor and told her to up the offer. They wanted me out of the city as soon as the school year ended.

But even today I think my parents were probably overreacting. Diane and Arthur Fraser, both professors at the University of Toronto, doted on me in a way particular to older, upper-middle-class parents with just one child. My mom, a sociology scholar, was in her late thirties when they had me; my father, who taught Greek mythology, was in his early forties. My every request for a new toy, a trip to the bookstore, or supplies for a new hobby was met with enthusiasm and a credit card. Being a child who preferred earning gold stars to causing trouble, I didn’t give them much need for discipline. In turn, they gave me a very long leash.

So when the three girls who formed my closest circle of friends turned their backs on me, I was unaccustomed to dealing with any sort of adversity and I had no idea how to cope except to try my hardest to win them back.

Delilah was our group’s uncontested ruler, a position we bestowed upon her because she possessed the two most important requirements for teenage leadership: an exceptionally pretty face and total awareness of the power it gave her. Since it was Delilah whom I angered, and Delilah whom I needed to win back, my attempts to gain readmittance to the group were targeted at her. I thought cutting my bangs like hers would demonstrate my loyalty. Instead, when she saw me at school, she raised her voice in an exaggerated whisper, and said, “God, does everyone have bangs these days? I think it’s time to grow mine out.”

Every morning I dreaded the school day—sitting alone at recess, watching my old friends laugh together, wondering if it was me they were laughing about. A summer away from everything, where I could read my books without worrying about being called a freak and swim whenever I wanted to, felt like heaven.

I looked over at Sam.

“Where’s your brother today?” I asked, thinking of how they’d goofed around in the water the day before. Sam turned onto his stomach and propped himself up on his forearms.

“Why do you want to know about my brother?” he asked, his brows knitted together.

“No reason. I just wondered. Is he having friends over tonight?” Sam looked at me from the corner of his eye. What I really wanted to know was if Sam wanted to hang out again.

“His friends were over really late,” he said finally. “He was still asleep when I came down to the lake. I don’t know what’s going on tonight.”

“Oh,” I said limply, then decided to take a risk. “Well, if you want to come over again, that’d be cool. Our TV’s kind of small, but we have a big DVD collection.”

“I might just do that,” said Sam, his forehead relaxing. “Or you could come over to our place. Our TV is pretty decent. Mom’s never home, but she wouldn’t mind you being there.”

“You guys are allowed to have friends over when she’s not there?” My parents were by no means strict, but they were always home when I had people over.

“One or two is okay, but Charlie likes to have parties. Just small ones, but Mom gets mad if she comes home and there’s, like, ten kids in the house.”

“Does that happen a lot?” I’d never been to a real teenager party. I crawled to the edge of the raft and dangled my feet in the water to cool off.

“Yeah, but mostly they’re pretty boring, and Mom doesn’t replace out.” Sam came and sat beside me, plunging his shoestring legs into the lake, kicking them back and forth. “I usually stay in my room, reading or whatever. If he has a girl over, then he tries to get rid of me like last night.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?” I asked. Sam pushed back the hair that had fallen over his eye, and gave me a suspicious sideways glance. I’d never had a boyfriend, and unlike a lot of girls in my class, getting one wasn’t high on my priority list. But I’d also never been kissed and would have given my right arm for someone to think I was pretty enough to kiss.

“Charlie always has a girlfriend,” he said. “He just doesn’t have them for very long.”

“So,” I said, changing the subject. “How come your mom’s not around a lot?”

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?” He didn’t say it harshly, but his comment sent a prickle of fear down my neck. I hesitated.

“I don’t mind,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder. I felt my body relax. “Mom runs a restaurant. You probably don’t know it yet. The Tavern? It’s our family’s place.”

“I do know it, actually!” I said, remembering the packed patio. “Mom and I drove past. What kind of restaurant is it?”

“Polish . . . like pierogies and stuff? My family’s Polish.”

I had no idea what a pierogi was, but I didn’t let on. “It looked really busy when we went by.”

“There aren’t many places to eat here. But the food’s good. Mom makes the best pierogies ever. But it’s a lot of work, so she’s gone most days from the afternoon on.”

“Doesn’t your dad help?”

Sam paused before responding. “Uh, no.”

“Okaaaay,” I said. “So . . . why not?”

“My dad’s dead, Percy,” he said, watching a Jet Ski roar by.

I didn’t know what to say. What I should have said was nothing. But instead: “I’ve never met anyone with a dead dad before.” I immediately wanted to scoop the words up and shove them back down my throat. My eyes went wide with panic.

Would it make things more or less awkward if I jumped in the lake?

Sam turned to me slowly, blinked once, stared straight into my eyes, and said, “I’ve never met anyone with such a big mouth before.”

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 replaceing 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.

“Jesus, Charlie. Cut it out,” Sam yelled, his voice cracking.

Both the Florek boys liked to tease; whereas I was the object of Sam’s gentle ribbing, Sam was subjected to Charlie’s relentless digs about his scrawniness and sexual inexperience. Sam rarely talked back, and the only sign of his irritation was the red stain on his cheeks. At the lake, Charlie pushed Sam into the water at every possible chance, to the point that even I found it annoying. “He does it more when you’re around,” Sam told me one day.

Charlie laughed and plunked back down on the couch. He elbowed my side and said, “Your neck’s all blotchy, Pers.” He pulled my arms away from my face and put his hand over my knee and squeezed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” I glanced at Sam, but he was staring at Charlie’s hand on my leg.

We were interrupted by Sue calling us up for lunch. A platter of cheese and potato pierogies waited for us on the round table in the kitchen. It was a sunny space with cream cabinets, windows overlooking the lake, and a sliding glass door onto the deck. Sue stood at the sink in her denim cutoffs and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled back into her usual ponytail, washing up a large pot.

“Hi, Mrs. Florek,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to three massive dumplings. “Thanks for making lunch.”

She turned around from the sink. “Charlie, go put on some clothes. And you’re welcome, Percy—I know how much you like my pierogies.”

“I love them,” I said, and she gave me one of her toothy, dimpled smiles. Sam told me pierogies had been his dad’s favorite and Sue had stopped making them at home before I came around.

After I finished my serving, I piled more onto my plate along with a large dollop of sour cream.

“Sam, your girlfriend eats like a horse,” Charlie laughed. I winced at the g-word.

“Cut it out, Charlie,” Sue snapped. “Never comment on how much a woman eats, and don’t tease them. They’re too young for any of that, anyway.”

“Well, I’m not too young,” Charlie said, wiggling his eyebrows in my direction. “Want to trade up, Percy?”

“Charlie!” Sue barked.

“I’m just messing around,” he said and stood up to clear his plate, knocking his brother across the back of the head.

I tried to catch Sam’s eye, but he was scowling at Charlie, his face the color of a field tomato.

AS THE LAST week of summer vacation came to an end, I began dreading heading back to the city. I had dreams about going to school naked and replaceing Sam’s bracelet cut up into orange and pink pieces in my desk.

We were lying on the raft the afternoon before I was leaving. I had tried my best all day not to be a downer, but apparently I wasn’t doing a very good job because Sam kept asking if I was okay. Suddenly, he sat up and said, “You know what you need? One last boat ride.” The Floreks had a small 9.9 motor on the back of their rowboat that Sam had taught me how to drive.

I grabbed my book, and Sam gathered his rod and tackle box. We folded our towels across the benches and set off in our damp bathing suits and bare feet. I drove to a reedy bay, which Sam claimed was a good spot for fishing, and cut the engine. I’d been watching him cast off the front of the boat when he started talking.

“It was a heart attack,” he said, his eyes on his rod. I swallowed but stayed quiet. “We don’t talk about him much at home,” he added, reeling the line in. “And definitely not with my friends. They could barely look at me at the funeral. And even now, if they mention something about one of their dads, they look at me like they’ve accidentally said something super offensive.”

“That sucks,” I said. “I can tell you all about my dad if you want. But I warn you: He’s totally boring.” He smiled, and I went on. “But seriously, you don’t have to talk with me, either. Not if you don’t want to.”

“That’s the thing,” he said, squinting into the sun. “I do. I wish we’d talk about him more at home, but it makes Mom sad.” He set down his rod and looked up at me. “I’m starting to forget stuff about him, you know?” I climbed into the middle bench, closer to him.

“I don’t really know. I don’t know anyone with a dead dad, remember?” I nudged his foot with my toe, and he huffed out a laugh. “But I can imagine. I can listen.” He nodded once and ran his hand through his hair.

“It happened at the restaurant. He was cooking. Mom was at home and someone called to tell us that Dad had fallen and that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital. It only took us ten minutes to get there—you know how close the hospital is—but it didn’t matter. He was gone.” He said it quickly, like it hurt to get the words out.

I reached out and squeezed his hand, then twisted his bracelet around so the best part of the pattern faced up. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Explains the whole doctor thing, huh?” I could tell he was trying to sound upbeat, but his voice was dull. I smiled but didn’t reply.

“Tell me what he was like . . . when you’re ready,” I said instead. “I want to hear all about him.”

“Okay.” He picked up the rod again. Then added, “Sorry for going all emo on your last day.”

“Suits my mood, anyway.” I shrugged. “I’m kind of depressed about summer ending. I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”

He bumped my knee with his. “I don’t want you to go, either.”