The Days of Summer

She dug through her bag pretending she had an ID. “It’s here somewhere. I’m certain of it.” She moved her face so close she could smell the old sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in the bottom. “Give me a second.” Her cheeks felt hot. She shoved her wallet into a dark corner at the bottom and looked up. “I’m sorry. My wallet isn’t here.”

“I can’t serve you any liquor without an ID.” Why did his voice sound like he was hollering on the ship’s loudspeaker? “Can I get you something else?”

She glanced at the board, then at her bag. “No wallet,” she lied, then walked away without looking back. She straight-armed one of the swinging doors, and the air hit her flushed face.

At the back of the boat, the seats were sheltered from the wind and spray. She sat down on a bench where she could lean her head back against the side of the ship and hide. Seagulls drafted alongside the boat and the mainland was a distant outline of dusky hillsides, where pinpoints of light began to sporadically wink back at her. It was still light out when the ship’s overhead lamp flickered on. The light was bright and white, so she opened her bag and pulled out her book, then reread the last page she’d read on the bus.

Someone came around the corner and stopped—a yellow shirt. She pulled the book so close she couldn’t read a word. The change jingled in his pocket as he sat down next to her.

How do I pretend I’m not the moron who was just carded?

He set down a plastic glass between them and sipped a beer.

Was she supposed to reach for it? If it wasn’t for her … well, she would just die … again. She shifted and looked down at the lonely glass.

“Are you going to let the ice melt in that wine?”

She lowered the book. “What?”

He handed her the plastic glass. “This is for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” My God, but he was good-looking, and watching her with eyes the color of blue ice. “It’s good. Thanks.”

“That’s heavy reading you’ve got there. Is it for an economics class?”

“No.”

He laughed. “What kind of girl reads Wealth of Nations for fun?”

She closed the book and looked at the front jacket, then at him. “It’s a shame really. I had nothing else to read. I left all my Barbie comic books at home.”

“With your wallet?” he shot back.

“Yes.” She had to laugh, too. “With my wallet.”

“Okay,” he said. “I deserved that Barbie comment. I didn’t say that right at all, did I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“And here I was trying to impress you.”

“You were? Why? Do I need impressing?”

He watched her for a long few seconds. “Maybe I was wrong again.”

“Maybe buying me a drink was impression enough. That was very sweet of you.”

“You looked thirsty.”

“Did I?” She laughed softly. “I thought I looked embarrassed.”

“That, too.” He sipped his beer and glanced out at the water.

She stared down at the drink in her hands and felt every awkward second of silence. “So what do you like to read?”

“After what I just said, I’m surprised you aren’t asking me if I can read.”

“Actually, I was thinking your reading material might be the kind that has staples in the centerfold.”

He burst out laughing. “I deserved that.”

“You probably did.”

“You’ve got a great sense of humor.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t think I’m going to answer that. I’ll just get into more trouble.” He stood up. “I’d like another beer before they close. Do you want another drink?”

“No, thanks.”

She was smiling, probably a goofy smile that told the entire world what she was thinking. He was coming back. She sipped her drink at the railing, watching the island and the glimmering lights of Avalon, home after her mother moved them there when Laurel graduated high school. Moving was tough when she’d lived in a place where her friends had been her friends since they’d all played in a sandbox together. In a new town, Laurel was suddenly the outsider. All those lights before her and not a friend among them.

“We’re almost there.” He walked toward her, a dripping beer bottle in his hand.

“That didn’t take long.”

“No line.”

She felt different when he looked at her—like he was doing now—as if she weren’t a friendless, lonely thing. She longed to say something clever and memorable.

“Okay.” He braced his arms on the railing next to her, his beer in his hands. “Time to come clean. You didn’t leave your wallet at home.”

“No.”

“So, I’m guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” There was a softness around his eyes and mouth, no judgment or censure.

“You could say that.”

“How minor?”

Laurel contemplated lying. In the right clothes, she looked at least twenty, but wanting to be older didn’t make you older. She faced him. “I’m seventeen.”

He choked on his beer. “Seventeen? You’re kidding.”

“No. I’ll be eighteen soon.”

He watched her, probably half hoping she would suddenly age five years, then swore under his breath. His gaze dropped to the drink in her hand. Without a word he took it and tossed it in the water.