I still cannot stand to write about real life, so youâre getting another short story. Donât want to read fiction? Tough luck, kid. This is now sophomore English, and I expect a 250 word essay on the symbolism of âSummer Readingâ by tomorrow.
Didnât read last weekâs story? Here.
This one comes from the same atmosphere of that end of summer haze. I was inspired one afternoon while walking my dog when a light rain shower started. We hung out for a few minutes under some branches that extended to the edge of the street, and I thought, hey, this would be a great setting for a story.
I hope you enjoy!
Clara would be incorrigible until she knew of love. Her mother quietly reviewed the symptoms one evening before the start of Survivorâmelancholy, a propensity for staring out of windows, rush to anger, forgetfulness. With a free hand, the other draped on her daughterâs shoulders, her mother mimed a thermometer between Claraâs sour lips, warm hand pressed to warm forehead. âYep, youâve got it,â she said while shaking the invisible device, reviewing the results.Â
âGot what?â Clara pleaded, still young enough to get caught up in jest, not yet hating the human inconsistencies of her mother like she would unavoidably do. It was that not-quite-summer, not-quite-autumn time of year, and Clara was already anxious for school to begin.Â
âYouâre lovesick,â her mother said. A medical diagnosis, she was a pediatrician after all.Â
âIâm thirteen,â Clara said, the resolute air of someone who just found the joke.Â
Her mother shook her head with gravity, âThe perfect age to contract it, Iâm afraid.â
Clara shed her motherâs words and wriggled from around her embrace to the other side of sofa, gently nudging the cat between them.
She was not lovesick but already in love, to be exact. Love is different than lovesickness. It breeds its own clarity and self-righteousness. His name was Jacob, and he lived three streets down. She knew of him from school in the general way you know all members of the opposite sex at that ageânot very well and then all at onceâbut she grew to adore his bony, budding shape from the pool, glimpsing his feet under the water, tagging along for every game that the group devised to pass the time between breakfast and dinner. All to be close.
Not close enough to touch; no, touch was not even part of her fantasies in those days beyond the vagueness of what felt good and what didnât, not yet having a firm enough grip on the endless possibilities of a relationship.Â
She imagined long looks across the street and short words exchanged behind the pool house, and those small gestures would eventually lead to loud proclamations in front of the world just like she had seen played out in film. Her future summoned from fiction.Â
She was looking at Jacob, and when he wasnât there, she was thinking about his parked bike along the fence and the clang of the metal gate when he entered the poolâanticipating the entry of a beloved character in a play she had seen hundreds of times before.Â
Jacob had grown four inches that summer, swim shorts revealing the white tenderness of his thighs, but Clara shot up seven seemingly over one weekend. She wore her cover-up when out of the water, embarrassed at her inability to control the borders of body, scared of the ridicule her skin would attract.Â
Clara sat with the other girls and flipped through water logged magazines that the lifeguard left out to dry. The perfume samples faded, but she pushed them to her nose and imagined the scent. The pages crinkled and set off a buzzing feeling at the top of her skull. Her summer reading assignment sat untouched in her bedroom. Her nail polish was always chipped, and her shoulders a constant shade of red. She lost two pairs of sunglasses that summer. Her hips were beginning to round and soften, and they could not fit over her favorite pair of shorts. Nothing would stop long enough for her to enjoy the changes.
Summer got away from them all, and in the week leading up to the start of school, the weather abated, giving way to the needed comfort of evening showers.Â
These were not the dramatic acts that one tends to experience this time of yearâloud, booming affairs with fallen trees and evenings over candlelight. No, these were welcome mists. Sometimes it would take several blocks to notice that you were in the middle of one. The sky stayed gray for three straight days, and some of the more enthusiastic unpacked lightweight sweaters and pulled out autumnal-themed candles.Â
Clara was in the middle of her love, alone, walking from a friendâs house before dinner. She was confused and upset with her mother after a sharp phone call full of the potential for a fight. Her mother demanded that Clara return home immediately. She discovered the intact spine of her book in the dusty gap between bed and nightstand. âYouâll spend all night reading if necessary.â
A motherâs expectations change day by day, and she wondered if it was because their love had changedâor had she changed? That morning her mother had once again brought up the subject of Claraâs listlessness, and she worried it would become their repertoire. This was all some big production they were leading up to.Â
She slowed her steps to stave off any confrontation that awaited. It was on that day, the third day of rain, drops began to patter along her skin and sink into her t-shirt. It became a sheet of rain within seconds, and she sought out refuge at a shaded mailbox under one of the sentinel oak trees. It was quite a beautiful effect: the ringing streetlights and lingering bit of sun back lit the rain. She was hidden behind a waterfall. The clear, rippling glass taking on an orange glow. The asphalt beyond the reach of the overhanging branches turned black, and brown water began to flow along the curved wall of the sidewalk in the direction of home.Â
After those first boastful seconds of adrenaline, Clara realized she was not alone under her umbrella. Of course, the figure huddled on the other side of the brick mailbox was Jacob because this was still childhood, full of wonderful coincidences that felt like magic.Â
He was sitting back on his heels, the wide toes of his sneakers dipped into the sidewalk river, and the hood of his jacket hung precariously from the back of his head revealing the large upper curves of his ears. She had never noticed his ears before, often hidden behind springy hair, now freshly buzzed. A school cut. His shy, dark lashes hid his thoughts, attention was still momentarily preoccupied with the book in hand. It looked like he was nearly done.Â
Large, wet eyes looked up. She was unprepared for this moment or the impending silence that followed as they stared wide-eyed at each other. She nearly stepped out of the canopy and continued her walk, but the rain reached a swell.Â
âAre you in Ms. Fieldâs class?â She asked over the roar, surprised at her own forwardness. He nodded, his reading was the current bane of her home life, but it did send a flush to her checks knowing that they would share a class.
She had always liked his silence. It was what had drawn her in after memorizing the look of him. She could assign whatever voice she saw fit. Now, in their momentary intimacy, he did not speak the words she had imagined, and she was at a loss of what to say next after relying on their assigned parts in her head.Â
The street gave no guidance. The lot to the left was abandoned and overgrown with scrawny trees suffocated by kudzu and the woods beyond were shielded by large, waxy magnolia leaves. It was a favorite hangout for all the children though the mosquitos had been too unbearable these last weeks.Â
âIs that mine?â He asked.Â
Clara snapped back from the slow crawl through the verdure of her mind at those words. Those particular set of words that were expectant of a reply. Jacob closed his book on his thumb. She fingered the frayed hemp around her wrist. âNo,â she said, and this was the bit of dialogue she would play for days, years even, when time wrought mature responsibilities that seemed impossible under a tree in the rain, she would think about her response: âMy boyfriend gave it to me.â
Jacob lingered on her wrist a second longer, but it would fester in her soul. She could have just as easily told the truth. She found the necklace at the bottom of the pool, she knew it was his, and she wore it because she knew he had once worn it. The necklace-turned-bracelet was a typical souvenir from a tropical vacation. There was nothing to distinguish it as Jacobâs beyond the style of braid, but future Clara knew that past Jacob knew the truth of her half-crafted lie.Â
âWho's that?â He asked.Â
âA guy from camp. He lives in Vermont.â She did not know the imaginary boyfriendâs name, but she knew where he was from. Lies can be silly. It was good that Jacob did not seem that intent on inspecting further.Â
He nodded but didnât return to his book, open to conversation but still expectant of her to perform the bulk of their interaction. âIs it good?â She asked.Â
âYou havenât read it?â His indignation made her pause. She thought he would like that she had not read it yet. She had mistaken carelessness for cool, but he was clearly surprised at her ignorance. Now, he would forever see her as an idiot and that felt worse than being a liar. âIâve started, but I was just going to knock it all out this weekend,â she said.Â
âI donât get this guyâs deal.â Jacob stood, stretching out his cramped feet. He rolled the paperback and stuffed it into his back pocket. She had never seen anything cooler, and her mouth went dry. âRainâs let up a bit.â He squinted. âWanna see if anyone is down?â
The rain had in fact let up a little, but she doubted anyone would be in any of the hollowed out spots in the woods. She wondered if he knew that. Jacob had never shown interest in anything or anyone beyond the groups of three or more that he was always surrounded with. He was glimpsed best from over the tops of heads or across a sea of other distractions.Â
She had never seen him under the microscopic observation of the individual. For all she knew, he had never made a decision or forged a path, but here he was, leading her through the overgrowth after a second glance back to the road, the responsibilities of home abandoned in this glimmering.Â
In those moments, she had no need for her own judgement because this was all she ever wantedâever in the sense of a seasonâand it was dumb to revoke at the moment of creation. She was alone with Jacob.
Damp leaves. Clumped pine needles scattered on the floor. Scraps of wood nailed to the trunk of the thickest trees. Yarn woven in branches. New minds prayed to old gods in these woods. With a steady sight and clear day, the pool house could be glimpsed through the line of trees, but there was no wailing of children or any indication of the greater world. The time spent alone with a boy means something.Â
Her boyfriend in Vermont was the exact opposite of Jacob. He was blonde. Much older. Charismatic and loud. What would he think about her current predicament? Jacob asked so much. âOh, we understand each other,â Clara said. She and the boy from Vermont would break up in the coming weeks even though she did not tell anyone this. It would be an amicable and quiet break up. A distant friendship would form that was encouraging yet sanitized. They would like each other's posts and pictures for years, and then one day, he would marry a girl he met in college. Clara would send a present from their registry, a small one, like a marble paper towel holder or a set of stemless wine glasses.
She imagined the woods behind this faceless, nameless boyâs house. The woods looked the same because there was no other place to imagine when Jacob leaned against the scabbed trunk of a pine, shoulders wet, and scratched the skin behind his ear. âI like your haircut,â she said, pushing the unclear future of Vermont out of her mind.
âNext weekâs gonna suck,â he said, and she nodded her agreement. He was splitting time between his motherâs house and his fatherâs apartment across town. He would take two different bus routes depending on where he stayed. Clara was struck by the inclusion of the personal. She had no training on the exchange of traumas. Yes, the brooding love interests always had deep cuts to their psyche, thatâs what made them so dark and mysterious, but this was real and common and something she could relate to.Â
Her own father left a week after her eighth birthday, but she did not say anything to Jacob, worried to sour their physical proximity, instead nodding along when he said the world was fucked up and that he wanted to blow up his fatherâs apartment complex.Â
Her father lived in Winston-Salem with a woman named Kristen, and he always mixed up their names when talking about the other like some strange Oedipus double reversal. âDad, Iâm Clara,â she said on the phone when he was talking about the nursing program Kristen just graduated from.
Her mother never talked about her father or Kristenâs age. She was always wrapped up in the mundane responsibilities of their day-to-day that Clara assumed that was all she cared aboutâpiano lessons, softball practice, this thing with the book.Â
âMy mom gets annoyed about everything.â
âMy dad hit me with a shoe once,â Jacob said. Clara could not compete.Â
âI should get going,â she said, uncomfortable with the way Jacob lacked emotion with such a shocking confession, and she felt guilty in her own misgivings. She should go, but she did not move. His thick eyebrows straightened. The early formations of a cleft chin stuck out.Â
Jacob sensing the primal need in Clara, melted closer to her, and whispered, âYou know what Eddie Baker says about you, right?â She shook her head, a pleading at the tip of her tongue. She wanted to know every thought every person had about her. âHe says youâve got the smoothest tits.â His eyes slipped down.Â
At once, confusion clouded any presumption because there was no way for Eddie Baker to know what was smooth and what was rough, she had never been close enough for him to touch, and secondly, what did this have to do with all of Jacobâs confessed rage at his father? Her body became wholly alive in his sights. She was aware of her baggy t-shirt and how it formed to her chest. She did not wear a bra regularly, yet.
He promised to not tell anyone as he slipped his hand under her shirt, and she relented as he cupped her breast in his hand. She was an egg yolk. The rough pads of his finger brushed every surface. He was a palm reader, and she wanted to know the future. He began to gently knead.
During high school, she would laugh at the way the actor in the demonstration video inspected her own breasts for cancerous growths, taken back to that day with Jacob. For now, though, she was painfully aware of the sweat on her chest. She could only hope that everything was agreeable as she clenched her hands at her sides and held her breath in hopes of quieting the booming of her heart.Â
The absence of Jacob left a chill. He looked down at his shoes. They did not speak another word, instead catching their attention on the various bends and twists in the rooted up terrain. Clara tapped her heel on a springy root that gave way under her weight.Â
She was annoyed at the sudden timidity after the heat of his touch because it felt like she was to blame. Had her breast not been up to Eddie Bakerâs imagined standards? They would talk about it later, Eddie and Jacob. A secret like this never stayed in the woods.Â
She wanted to know what he thought of her, but she did not ask. There was nothing left to say and all her imagined conversations paled in comparison to what they shared now. It felt very much like she was a car with its hood pulled up for an inspection, and she didnât know if she liked being clinical observed.Â
They walked back out and took their separate routes home, pitiful waves and sideways glances. What awaited her at home, worse now that it had been delayed, returned to her in the warm breath of shame. She placed a hand on her breast, over the shirt, while walking. To anyone else she would appear out of breath, maybe she was. There was nothing ulterior about her own touch. It was like touching her chin or her fingernails. She tried to imitate the same brushes and grip, moving to the other side, but it didnât feel the same.
When Clara was sixteen, rearing and bucking under the weight of life, she told her mother that she would rather drown herself in the fish pond than spend another night under her roof, and her mother would respond, countenance just as spiteful but twisted with jest, that it was impossible to drown when there is a way out. Clara felt that now, even though she did not have the language for itâit was impossible for her to drown in the disappointment of Jacob.Â
Her mother leaned against her bedroom door frame. âI am going to watch you read the first chapter,â she promised. Clara bent back the front cover and flipped through the first pages with purposeful leisure, pushing the opened spine to her nose and breathing deeply. Instead of admonishing Claraâs obtuse behavior, her mother sat beside her on the bed. âLet me get a smell,â she said.Â
Her mother breathed in, setting the book right back in her open hands, bare wrists, and breathed out. The earlier passion dissipated, and from the outside to any observer, mother and daughter understood the other.