Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

When we’re sitting in the car, buckled in and ready to go, I talk. “What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I drag you out here for that crap session? I am a sucky, sucky friend. You deserve much more than half my kingdom.”

She chuckles and hands me a tissue. “I dunno, Robin. You just got stuck on him, I guess.”

“No more,” I say. “I am no more stuck on him. He is a jerk and a creep and you can quote me on that.”

The car is silent for another second. We’re still sitting in Trent’s driveway. I turn the key.

Click.

“Nonononononono…” I turn the key again.

Click.

“God! Let this start!” I scream, and stomp on the gas. “I will not be stuck in this shit anymore!”

RumrumrumRUMMMM… The engine sputters to life and the radio blasts Robin’s Best-Ever Mix VII. I punch the Power button to kill it, preferring the music of my tires spinning in new gravel. The boat trundles up the driveway and down his country road. I keep an eye out for deer through my angry tears.

“In my bag,” I say after a minute, “is my phone. Can you get it?”

“Yeah,” says Jenni. She digs through my bag until she finds it. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Go to the most recent text,” I say, “and text back. Say ‘What are you doing on Friday?’ and ‘Remember that craft fair we talked about?’”

She looks up at me. “Is this… ?”

“Yeah. It is. Let’s give it a shot.”

Carter

The traffic in Westfield is terrible.

I think that’s the first time that sentence has ever been written.

I wait in a NYC-worthy line of cars. For once, I’m afraid I won’t find a place to park my bike.

Robin said she’d meet me on the steps of the Presbyterian church in the middle of the park. I squeeze my bike into an impossibly small spot and make my way towards the steeple- the tallest point in town. It’s not easy- there are people crowding the sidewalks and the park. On the way I run my fingers through my hair, my fingers brushing against the scar behind my right ear. My hair is sweaty and starting to curl but thankfully not squished to my head from the helmet. I flap my t-shirt a couple times to get some air under there. My leather jacket is stowed in the lockbox on the back of my bike.

I come down the sidewalk and look towards the doors of the big church. After a little searching, I find her. She’s sitting on the steps with a gorgeous redhead. Ah. Jenni. Barry will be thrilled. He made me promise a double-date if Robin said she’d hang out with me again. I think he called it a “finder’s fee.”

Robin looks up and I wave. A smile lights her face and she waves back.

“Hi!” she signs as she stands up. She looks around, avoiding uncomfortable eye contact as I walk the last fifty yards to the steps.

“Hi,” I sign. There’s an awkward moment when I feel like I should hug her or something but she’s just standing there with her hands in the back pockets of her cutoff jean shorts. Not the best hugging position, really. So I just shrug, feeling like a middle schooler at a dance.

“This is Jenni,” she introduces, slowly spelling Jenni’s name and indicating her gorgeous friend.

“Hi,” signs Jenni timidly. She flicks her hair like a shampoo commercial.

“Hi,” I sign back. I wonder if Jenni is going to hang out with us the whole time. Not that I mind, but I’d hoped it would just be me and Robin.

I take out my pad and paper. “So… this is a craft fair!” I write.

Robin nods and smiles. “It’s my favorite thing,” her mouth says. She signs, “Love.” So I guess she’s looked up a few more signs since the picnic on the hill.

“Let’s see it,” I sign. She nods and her smile sparkles up into my face. After a moment of hesitation, I reach for her hand. She takes it, her sweaty palm against mine. It’s nice.

Jenni takes that moment to tap me on the shoulder. “My family’s having a yard sale,” she writes. She makes an apologetic face but she’s hiding a smile. “Gotta help them. Sorry I can’t come with you guys.”

“It’s okay,” I write. Robin says something to her. I catch the words “See you at the” and “an hour,” but she’s half-turned away so I can’t see everything. We wave good-bye and head into the crowd.

It’s chaotic, to say the least. Kids, families, and middle-aged white ladies are everywhere. In fact, everybody’s white. I think there are three brown people in the whole place. It’s always a culture shock, coming from the city, where I am often the lightest-skinned person in the room, to coming out here to the country and being the darkest. I don’t think a single one of my friends from home even has blue eyes.

There are a million little tents with candles and fudge and pottery and photographs and knickknacks and everything has hearts or checks or plaid. It smells like sweat and sun and kettle corn. Robin obviously loves it.

Every time she sees something she likes, her whole body changes. She goes up on her toes and stretches out her neck like happiness is trying to lift her off the ground. When she likes one particular thing, she taps on my arm and shows it to me—a cream-and-sugar set, a beaded bracelet, a blown-glass paperweight. “Nice,” I sign, unable to suppress a smile. She doesn’t buy anything, and she doesn’t expect me to buy anything for her, she just wants me to see it. Crowds aren’t really my thing, and crafts aren’t really my bag, but she just glows. I’d come here every day if I could watch her like this.

One booth is entirely full of photographs, and I browse through a bin of pictures of Amish country. I imagine my life without my phone, without my videophone, without my bike… I wonder how the deaf Amish live. Robin’s hand slips out of mine after a few minutes. I glance up briefly and she just holds up a finger, telling me to wait, before she slips into the crowd.

I decide to buy a photograph that was taken from the same overlook where we had our picnic. This one was taken in the winter—in the snow, before the lake had frozen over. The sparkling snow contrasts with evergreen trees and the distant bright blue expanse of the lake. For once, I have something to show her instead of the other way around. The only problem is I can’t find her. When I finally spot her, she looks like she belongs to the booth she’s in. A white guy with dreadlocks and a modal T-shirt is nodding in rhythm from his spot in the booth, which sells handmade instruments.

She’s playing a kind of flute or something. It’s copper and it’s held out in front of her, more like a clarinet than a flute. I’ve never seen anything like it. Her fingers are flying and people in the crowded aisles are stopping to listen. A little boy grabs his sister and they dance around in a circle. People start clapping in unison and the man who owns the booth starts to tap one of his drums with a little wooden mallet. Somebody grabs wooden spoons off the display case and smacks them between his hand and his knee, like a hillbilly from a movie.

Robin’s eyes are focused down, on her fingers, but her smiling eyes flick up to the crowd from time to time. The wind blows her ponytail and her face is pink from sun and people watching. Finally, with a flourish, she finishes the song. The crowd breaks into applause, the little kids run back into the crowd, and the man with the spoons starts to inspect them like he might buy them.

Laughing, her eyes find mine. They are twinkling and crinkling and sparkling. More than the motorcycle. More than the picnic. More than me. The guy from the booth taps her on the shoulder and she turns to him, still laughing. She gives the flute back and he pushes it into her hands, trying to convince her to buy it. She shakes her head, ponytail swinging.

I pull the pad out of my pocket. “How much?” I write on it, and start to walk over. I intend to buy it for her. I really do. I could buy anything for her. But I shove the paper in my pocket. I don’t want to buy my replacement.

Robin

“No really, I can’t afford it.”

I hand the pennywhistle back to the guy. A handmade pennywhistle? Awesomeness “instrumentified,” but costing way more than a penny, and I need to keep my money for the Dread Pirate Martin. Maybe at the end of the summer, I’ll have enough left over for a beautiful handmade pennywhistle, which I have already christened Francis Flute. From Midsummer Night’s Dream. Obviously. I look up to see Carter stepping across the aisle to me, hands in the air, parting the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea. “Deaf applause” he called it on the hill, but something is wrong. He’s got that gun-to-his-back forced smile again.

I smile at him. “Thank you! Thank you!” I sign to my nonexistent audience, and when I look at him again, he’s smiling. Real smiling.

He shows me a picture he bought that was taken from the overlook. I’ve never seen it in winter—the park is closed then. “Beautiful,” I sign.

He nods.

I check my phone. Yup, it’s been an hour. I wipe off my sweaty hand and take his, weaving through the crowd. His hands are strong, but not farmer strong and not football strong. They’re strong in a classical pianist way. Or a surgeon. I pull him into a little booth and take out my waitressing pad.

“What are you doing after high school?” I write.