Page 1 of The Summers of Us

Avery,

you deserve a rollercoaster.

June 13

I used to love the beach.

Whenever real life grew to be too much, I would shut my eyes and dream of lying on the shore, sand crawling into my bikini, the sun’s rays kissing my skin with burnt pink lip gloss.

I never envisioned the waves crashing too close. Never thought the sun was too hot. Never painted the ocean as a figure roaring across enemy lines.

It never gave me a reason to.

Summers at Piper Island weren’t real life. At least, they didn’t feel like it, but now, after last summer, I’m surprised I have the courage to drive back and pretend nothing ever happened.

When the ocean appears over the causeway—a blurry mirage in the distance—I force a smile at it, cracking the window to let the salt air make a mess of my blonde hair.

It’s instinctual, how my fingers find the cold necklace resting on my clavicle. There, eight coquina clam shells dangle—one for each summer spent here.

A cluster of palm trees sprout across the road, their leaves swaying in the wind. People drive past me on Main Street with their hands surfing the air outside the windows. Last summer’s tan has wilted from my own arms, leaving my skin the color of dried sand. It almost made it the year, but winter eventually kills everything still reeling from summer.

Aunt Blair’s house is a shell of its former glory—like a coquina clam shell, I suppose, with the snail slurped right out of it. A hole left behind as evidence of the carnage.

The rocking chairs have lost their rock. Last year’s flowers lie dead in their pots. Sky blue paint, once so welcoming, peels off the siding. It has faded into a bleak kind of gray that sneaks up on the summer sky and scares you off the beach.

I get out of the car and inhale; I can smell the ocean nearby: lurking, waiting, ready to pounce. I exhale the same air through my nose, readying myself to enter the house.

I walk up to the porch. It takes ten knocks for the door to swing open.

Age 10, June 13

I hugged my shivering knees to my chest, rested my chin on top. It was freezing in the car, just the way Mom liked it. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I rolled the window down to invite a warm breeze in. The air smelled different out here where the ground flattened toward the sea; it was fresher, less polluted by lines of traffic exhaust andcity.

Two months ago, I was in my aunt Blair’s room in our apartment, holding my baby cousin Hadley out of the way while Blair packed all her things in boxes. She tried her hardest to stay strong in the face of her boyfriend Josh, but it was no use. Hadley’s father had already chosen drinking over his family. I figured they’d been having problems, since Blair and Hadley moved in to our spare bedroom when school started last year, but Blair finally gave up.

Well,Joshgave up, so Blair had to as well.

That was why we were on the way to visit Blair and Hadley at their new house in Piper Island. For months, there was talk of inheritance from a great aunt I never knew. Chatter about savings accounts. Whispers of something called “child support.” A bunch of adult words I didn’t care about. One day, conversation shifted to “beach house” and “fixer upper,” words that stuck out like yellow dandelions in my front yard. Mom sold it to Blair, pocketed the commission, and sent her on her way.

I wished Mom would do something like that to help us start over too.

Mom was at least crazy enough to let me stay all summer, now that Blair was all settled in. She tried to talk me out of it with murmurs of “dangerous water” and “wet, sticky sand,” but “a bike ride from the ocean” and “sandcastles” from late night calls with Blair won out.

As homesick as I could get sometimes, I knew Blair’s house wouldn’t feel far from home at all.

“We are almost there.” Mom pointed to aPiper Island Welcomes You!sign surrounded by palm trees and other beach plants Raleigh soil wouldn’t dare grow.

I smiled. I’d never felt welcome by anything in my life, but suddenly, a massive sign was greeting me, wispy clouds were waving, and salt air was whipping my hair around. It didn’t make any sense, but it all felt like it was put there for me.

We drove over a bridge, the last stretch of road before we reached the island. I threw my hands in the air, fingernails grazing the top of the car, shouting like I was on a rollercoaster headed straight for open water. The deep blue horizon appeared in the distance, contrasting with the blue sky right above it. Miles of dark ocean pushed away from me. White ribbons sliced toward me, over and over, completing Quinn Kessler’s welcome parade.

Between my squeals, I thought even Mom laughed, despite her blank stare and her white knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

From the downward slope of the bridge, the whole town looked like a chessboard, houses all lined up on a grid. Pine trees, water towers, and businesses peeked out like chess pieces.

As we drove into town, I saw gas stations, mini golf, gift shops, and everything in between, boasting silly names like Seas the Day and Beachy Keen. Most houses were lifted above the ground, with golf carts, grills, and hammocks sleeping beneath them. Families unloaded from long car rides. Bikes zipped across crosswalks. Teens walked in hordes, wearing nothing but bathing suits. Barefoot beachcombers rested on pastel chairs outside an ice cream shop called Sunset Scoop.

Maybe one day I could do the same. I could bike barefoot along the stretch of trees, burn my fair skin into a tan, and eat ice cream beforeandafter dinner. Ice creamfordinner. I could be rule-less.Free, I supposed they called it. I pictured myself there, hoping the sand and salt water was enough to make a new version of me.

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