Page 27 of The Summer of Everything

Quickly, Cooper lowers his phone, but, from the corner of his eye, Wes can still see him typing away.

Mrs. Rossitsksbefore folding her arms across her chest. “You know, Ella, it’d be wonderful if you were, I don’t know,on timefor your shifts. Especially in situations like this.”

“Uh, my late is the new punctual around here,” Ella says, hopping onto the front counter.

“You have no respect for this store or the customers.”

Ella looks around. “Um, what customers? No offense, Lucas.”

Lucas waves her off.

“Also,” Ella says, smirking, “the customersloveme.”

Chuckling, Cooper hides his face behind both hands. Wes can’t blame him. He wants to do the same.

“Be quiet, hellspawn,” Ella snaps.

Wes turns his attention to Mrs. Rossi. She’s gone from pale white to emergency-exit red. Ella leans back on the counter, unfazed. This isn’t a new occurrence. Their arguments are part of what makes Mrs. Rossi and Ella’s relationship functional. It usually involves shouting and storming off and doors slamming. And Wes, against his better judgment, is always the peacemaker.

“Just take your job seriously,” Mrs. Rossi hisses.

“It’s a bookstore,” Ella deadpans.

“And it’s my life!” Mrs. Rossi leans on a bookshelf, her hands shaking.

Ella, however, doesn’t flinch. It’s a testament to who she is. She’s the type of person to stare a fire-breathing dragon in the eye and dare it to blow smoke her way.

“You’re young,” Mrs. Rossi says, the edge in her voice dulling. “You don’t understand it yet, but the day you do, I hope you remember all of this. I hope you remember the person youthoughtyou were. And I hope you don’t regret missing what life has been trying to hand you, but you continue to act as if it’s charity rather than an opportunity.”

Ella’s mouth is a thin, white line, but she doesn’t crack.

Mrs. Rossi turns her sad eyes on Wes. Before she can speak, he says, “I’ll make sure Anna’s okay.”

Finally, Mrs. Rossi exhales. The “thank you” is implied in her defeated smile.

The thick, eerie silence after Mrs. Rossi exits reminds Wes of being in the loft after his parents had an argument. He’d sit in the middle of his bedroom floor until Leo wandered in and sat next to him. They wouldn’t speak. They’d barely make eye contact. But Leo would grab Wes’s iPad and log into YouTube, and they’d watch funny animal videos together.

“Hey.” Cooper lowers his voice. “She hasn’t rejected my songs yet.” He motions in Ella’s direction.

She’s still parked on the front counter, examining her nailbeds with a neutral expression. Wes expects that much. Ella never lets up on her poker face.

“I’m wearing her down,” Cooper says, all teeth and dimples.

Wes highly doubts that. Cooper’s playing Simple Minds. Unlike most of his peers, Wes likedThe Breakfast Club. Don’t get him wrong, it’s problematic and cliché and John Hughes must’ve never met an actual person who wasn’t white in the ‘80s, but he likes this band. He says, quietly, “Word of advice—stay away from Fleetwood Mac. Ella thinks Stevie Nicks is a fraud.”

“Noted.”

“This is bullshit,” Ella huffs. She jumps down from the counter. “She can pretend all she wants, but I know the real deal.”

“What’re you talking about?” Wes asks.

Ella ignores him. She tugs out her phone and thumbs at the screen for a second, then stomps toward the door. Over her shoulder, she shouts, “And Coop? Canceled!” before disappearing.

Unquestionably, Kyra is one ofWes’s favorite human beings. If there was room for a sixth thing on his list of things he loves, Kyra would own that spot. She has huge, loose, dark-brown curls, an addiction to colorful sneakers, and a “California” tattoo running horizontally across the underside of her forearm. The black ink stands out so boldly against her golden brown skin tone.

But it’s not Kyra wheeling into the store on the back of a skateboard that has most of Wes’s attention. He adores her, a fact, but she’ll never be number one on his list.

“Clear the way!” she shouts. One hand holds a cardboard cup above her head while the other grips a narrow hip that Wes only knows in a platonic sense.

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