Page 60 of One Happy Summer

“Briggs Homer Dalton has a ring to it, though.”

“Not really,” I say, thinking my real middle name doesn’t sound half as bad as some of the ones Presley’s been guessing, but then I think of it and . . . no. I still hate it.

Presley looks up at the sky again through the binoculars that were once Keith’s. He loved anything to do with the cosmos and knew so much about constellations and planets. He’d take me out at night to look sometimes. It’s one of the fondest memories I have with him. I wish I had told him that before he passed.

“It’s kind of funny,” Presley says, still looking at the sky, “to think how insignificant things really are when there’s this whole universe out there.”

“That was deep,” I say, my voice teasing.

“I mean it,” she says through a chuckle. “Why do people care so much about me?”

I think about that for a few seconds. “Probably because in your profession, you’re under a microscope. Like Sirius right there.” I point to the brightest star in the sky. “You stand out more than others and so you get the most attention. You’re the most studied.”

“Now who’s being deep?” she asks. She lets out a long exhale. “I think when this all passes, when I have to go back to my acting life, I’m doing things differently.”

“How do you plan to do that?” I ask her.

In my peripheral vision, I see her head turn toward me, so I reciprocate.

“I don’t want to play any more of the stupid games they make me play,” she says, tucking some hair behind her ear. “I think I’m going to take fewer contracts, not put myself out there so much. And no more pretending to be with someone for exposure. Or going places just to be seen and photographed. I just want to be real.”

“You seem pretty real to me,” I say, reaching over and poking her in the arm, as if she might be an apparition.

She chortles. “I think you’ve gotten to see the most authentic me I’ve been in a long time. A part that’s felt buried until recently.”

“Well then, I like the real Presley Shermerhorn.”

“That’s Presley Renee Shermerhorn to you. I freely share my middle name, not like some people I know.”

“Actually, Google shares your name freely with people.”

We’re smiling, our heads turned toward each other. Then Presley’s smile falters and she looks back at the sky.

“Maybe I want to quit my job and start something new,” she says after some silence.

“Quit acting? I thought you loved it.”

“I do love it,” she says. “But just the acting part. The other parts, like the having to put my best foot forward all the time part, can really suck sometimes. Most times, really. And when I don’t do that, for once in my life, it turns into a viral video for all the world to spread and talk about and judge me for.”

I don’t say anything in response because what is there to say? There are no words to soothe her or to take away the ugliness of people.

“The dumb part is,” she continues, “if you don’t play the game, then you are forgotten. And if you are forgotten, then you don’t get work.”

“Who could forget you?” I ask.

She smiles. “Lots of people.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I could never forget her. That I’ll never be able to forget her or this summer. Probably for the rest of my life. Even if it ended tomorrow and she went back to LA, it would still be the best summer I think I’ve ever had.

But I don’t say that. Because it feels like too much, too soon.

“Well, you could always be a heart surgeon,” I say, remembering what she told me when we were roasting marshmallows.

“That’s way too much school,” she says.

“True,” I say. “How about something in . . . finance?”

She snorts out a laugh. “No one wants me managing money. That would be a terrible idea.”

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