Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

“Your turn,” I sign. We’ve played this game enough that I know how to say that.

He thinks for a minute. “What’s your favorite… ice cream?”

“Moose Tracks,” I spell. This earns me a nod of approval.

“Me too,” he signs. He hesitates, then signs slowly, “Have you ever had mint Moose Tracks?”

“OMG, yes!” I sign. I don’t know why it had slipped my mind! “I love it!”

“The best!” he signs, his face beaming. Then he signs something really fast.

“Sorry, what?”

“I can never find it,” he signs, back to his slow, overenunciating ways. He perks up. “Do you know anywhere… ?”

I shake my head. “Sorry,” I sign. It seems to be the one I use the most.

“We should fix that,” he signs, a grin on his face. “My sister is coming to town next week. She needs mint Moose Tracks ice cream.”

“Needs?” I sign.

“Needs,” he confirms.

He gets up and folds the top of the bag of chips down with one hand, typing something into his phone with the other hand. Taking the bag of chips back up to the kitchen, he puts the phone in my hand. There are eight ice cream shops within fifteen or twenty miles of Chautauqua. He comes back down and I hand him the phone, grinning.

“Let’s go!” he beams down at me.

I copy his movements. “Let’s go!”

Carter

I reach out with my tongue to catch a drip of ice cream that’s speeding toward the bottom of the cone. When I look up, Robin’s smiling at me between licks of her own ice cream battle. We are both losing.

With sticky hands I sign, “Good, but no mint Moose Tracks.”

She grins at me, pulls her waitressing pad out of her back pocket, and writes, “This, my friend, is mint-ting-a-ling. Even better than mint Moose Tracks. And you know, there are about a billion grocery stores that probably carry mint Moose Tracks. Even in this county.”

“Not the same thing and you know it!” I sign back.

She nods and crunches the bottom of her cone before walking into the grass. Finding a spot, she sits, leaning back on her hands, throwing her head back, her face to the sun. I snap a picture and wipe the fingerprints from my phone before shoving it back in my pocket and joining her on the grass.

She squints at me, then shades her eyes with a hand and sits up straight, cross-legged.

“No mint Moose Tracks in NYC?” she signs. Even in the blazing sun a shadow covers her smile. I resist the urge to take out my camera to show the difference just two minutes can make.

I nod. “We have mint Moose Tracks,” I sign.

“So what’s the big deal?” she writes.

I nudge her with my shoulder. “We don’t have roadside ice-cream stands where you can sit on the grass and talk to pretty girls,” I write.

She gives me a look. “There are no pretty girls in the whole city?”

“Well, there are none as pretty as you.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You just want to get into my pants,” she writes. She shoots me a teasing look.

I know she’s not serious, but it stings a little. Walking away from her at my house was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. One minute we were moving in sync; like the bike, we were racing together down the same road. Then she slammed on the brake and locked up the front tire. That’s a wipeout.

I shake my head. “Regardless, there are very few ice-cream stands with grass, Central Park excluded,” I write.

“Do you go there a lot?” she signs, leaning closer to me.

“Central Park? Yeah!” I sign. “Trees, grass… good for the soul.”

“What about the Village?” she writes.

I laugh. “It’s not exactly what you think,” I write. “It’s pretty posh. Not like in the days of Dylan.”

“You know Dylan?” Her surprise is palpable.

“Well, I’ve never heard his music,” I sign with a smile. For once, she doesn’t look embarrassed at my little joke. Just anxious, hanging on my every word. “But I know his lyrics. His poetry.” I fingerspell the last few words so she gets them.

“Oh God, the Mamas and the Papas; Peter, Paul and Mary; Simon and Garfunkel; Kingston Trio…” The pen flies across the page.

And now we’re in foreign territory. My face must say as much. She looks up from the notebook and grimaces before looking down to write again. “Sorry. They’re bands who all got their start in the Village. Some of them even met in the Village. I would kill to go there.”

I take the pen from her. “Well, when you visit me in NYC, I’ll be sure to plan a trip.”

Her eyes shine at me for one glorious instant before dulling. She shrugs and takes up the pen. “Nah, it would be boring for you.”

I write back, pressing hard into the notebook, the handwriting getting messy. “Boring, my ass. I would love to see you on my streets.”

I can only imagine the look that would be on her face as she visited the places where her idols were born—like the craft fair times a thousand. I would give anything to see her there. And in the world where she comes to visit me, this relationship wouldn’t have an expiration date. We would continue past August twenty-eighth. I swallow hard and keep writing, “Comes with the territory of being a New Yorker. I would take you on all of the touristy stuff—whatever you want: Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Radio City Music Hall…”

“Really?” she writes.

“Yeah! Whatever clubs, concerts, restaurants… I don’t know.”

“Brooklyn Bowl?”

I laugh. How does she know about that? My friend lives close and we went once—dark and crowded but if it’s on her list… “Yeah,” I sign.

“Mercury Lounge?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Sure! Whatever you want!” I sign.

“Thanks!” she signs. She sits back and rests on her hands for a couple of minutes, staring into the sky.

I’m just about to ask if she wants to get back on the bike when she turns to me. “I don’t want you to leave,” she signs simply. She gives an apologetic shrug and waits for my reaction.

I give her a little smile. “But if I don’t leave, I won’t be able to show you the Village,” I write.

“That’s okay,” she writes. “I’ll take the trade.”

“Really?” I write. “You’d give up Dylan? The…”—I consult the list at the top of the page—“Kingston Trio?”

She shrugs again. “If it means you would stay… ? Absolutely. I would give up…” She looks up from the notebook, a light in her eyes, like she’s deciding between two delicious candies. She decides, writing, “anything.”

I throw her a mock-doubting look and sign, “Motorcycle rides?”

“Yes,” she signs without hesitation.

“The lunch shift at GCD?”

“YES!”

I almost do it. I almost sign, “Music?” but at the last second I change my mind. “Mint-ting-a-ling ice cream… ?”

She pretends to think about it hard, then shakes her head. “No,” she signs, then writes, “I couldn’t give that up. Go back to the city, you.”

A grin on my face, I lunge for her most ticklish spot—right above her knee. She jumps up and backward, her mouth open in a gleeful squeal. I jump to my feet and chase her, grabbing her around the middle and picking her up. She grabs at my arms, her face still grinning, and I set her down. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me.

“Okay, okay,” she signs, when she lets me go. “You can stay.”

“Good!” I sign. But I can’t stay. I don’t know if I would stay, even if I could. I live every day as an island here. I feel my grin begin to fade. When I look down at her, her face has also turned thoughtful. I throw my arm around her and we walk toward the notebook and our helmets in the grass.

“Question,” she signs, turning toward me under my arm.

“Yes,” I answer, the smile back on my face.

She laughs and runs to the little notebook, writing, “I didn’t ask it yet!”

“Go on… ,” I sign.

She starts writing. “I’m playing guitar in church next week. I know it’s not really your thing, but I’d love it if you came.”

“Sure,” I sign.

“Really?” she signs.

“Yes!”

Her eyes light up. “Thank you, thank you!” she signs. “I was afraid you would say no!” There’s an eagerness to her excitement that turns my stomach a little bit.

“I’d love to see you play,” I sign. I take up the notebook. “It will be a great way to end the summer.”

Her hand gently turns my face toward hers. “Don’t say that,” she signs, her mouth happy, her eyes sad. “We’ve got three more weeks.”

I kiss her once, then hug her tight.

Three more weeks, and then forever.

Robin

“They’re here!”

The text comes as I’m practicing. I stretch my hands, shaking them out and rubbing life back into the red calluses. Denise and her friend must have arrived.

“Yay! :)” I text back. My heart flutters and sinks a little, which is funny and unexpected.

I go back to my song. I’ve warmed up with a few boom-chunk chords and a song about old Joe Clark’s house, which doesn’t have a whole lot of meaning, but it’s something I can do without thinking.