“I just wanted to see if you would tell me.”
Today, a long burgundy dreadlock falls into her face, and she tucks it back into the other chunk of dreads she has fastened with an oversize ponytail holder at the nape of her neck. I can see the string of tiny silver loops that line her lobe when she does it. And the peace sign tattoo etched into the skin behind her ear. I pull the door all the way open, and she comes inside.
She sits. She is to the left of me because she knows. She takes out a notebook and a pen. She has pages filled about me. I’m sure she goes back to her office after we meet and types the notes into her computer. She didn’t tell me that. I just know. I’d be stupid not to know. Everyone keeps everything on computers.
She pulls the remote from my hand and shuts off the TV with a click.
We stare. We start.
“So. How have the last couple days been for you?”
I tell her about the mundane stuff that happened yesterday and today. Soup. Soap operas. School assignments. And then I tell her about Evan.
“A boy? Your age?” She’s intrigued. I can tell by the way she taps her pen against her notebook. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s tall. And summery.”
“Summery? What does ‘summery’ mean to you?” Her voice is calm, like petting a cat.
And then I tell her about soft sand and crisp ocean water. Of bright blue skies dotted with seagulls and airplanes. Of those same blue skies turning dark and dotted with the moon and stars. I tell her of bonfire smoke and surfboards. Of tank tops and short shorts. Of beach cruiser bicycles and snow cones. Of string bikinis and tan lines. Of parties and promises. Of cold beer and warm kisses.
I tell her all the things I used to be before this. It’s not the first time I’ve told her, but she seems to be listening extra hard today. I think it must be because I sound wistful.
“Do you miss it?” she asks me.
And that makes me cry.
She hands me a tissue, and I sit like a lump on the couch.
“Missing summer is a good thing,” she says. “It will be here before you know it. You can be ready for it. You can enjoy it again.”
After she’s gone, I feel better for a little bit. I don’t hate thinking about summer. But then I think too much about other stuff. I curl up into the fetal position, knees tucked into my chest, waiting for the memories to pass.
*
An hour after that, there’s a knock on my door. I’m still curled up, but I’ve stopped crying. My nose is stuffed up with snot, and I snort it down into my throat. My eyelids are puffy, and the throb of a headache bangs at my temples. I want to be alone. I stay very still and hope whoever is knocking will go away. But they don’t. Whoever it is wants me to know they are there.
“Who is it?” I ask through the door.
“Superman.”
Even though that makes me smile, I tell Evan I’m not dressed. “I can’t open the door.”
“Well, get dressed. I’ll wait.”
So I do. I don’t know why, but I do.
I scrub my face. I run a brush through my hair. I dab deodorant under my armpits. I put on a clean bra and change my stained shirt. I do it all in five minutes flat.
When I crack open the door, Evan’s holding some envelopes and a white to-go cup of something. There’s a lid on top with three holes poked through it, like the lids of jars Ben uses to collect bugs from the planter at the entrance to Paradise Manor.
“First off, we got some of your mail,” Evan says, handing over a credit card bill and some grocery store coupons.
“Feel free to keep them.”
He smiles. “Second, I brought you some soup. To make you feel better.” I can smell the garlic through the lid when he holds it out to me. “My aunt owns a restaurant. They make good soup.”
“I like soup.”
“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?”
I shrug.
I watch Evan take me in. “Wow, you don’t look so good.”
“Okay, then.” His words hit me hard. I shouldn’t have opened the door. I don’t need this cute boy from Hawaii to bring me soup and tell me I’m not pretty. There was a time in my life when I knew I was pretty. But I don’t feel that way right now.
“Aw, man.” He runs his hand through his hair, flustered. “Look, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. That sounded like I think you’re ugly or something. Which you’re not.” He looks down at our welcome mat. “You just look sick. That’s all.”
Right. Sick. I push my hair back from my face with my free hand, knotting it on top of my head without a ponytail holder.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“I just meant you seem worse today. So maybe it’s one of those things where you have to get worse before you get better.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
I pull the lid off the soup. A stream of steam hits the air between us. The smell of garlic goes from pleasant to overwhelming.
“I didn’t want it to get cold. That’s why I needed you to open up,” he says.
“Thanks, Superman.”