Chapter 4 #3
Sam and I ended up spending most of our time in the water or at his place.
On the days when the sun was too hot, we’d head up to the house, which was built in the style of an old farmhouse, painted white.
A basketball net hung above the garage door.
Sue hated air-conditioning, preferring to keep the windows open to feel the breeze off the lake, but the basement was always cool.
Sam and I would flop down at either end of the cushy red plaid sofa and put on a movie.
We were starting to make our way through my horror collection.
Sam had seen just one or two, but it didn’t take long for him to catch my enthusiasm.
I think half the fun for him was correcting any (and every) scientifically unsound detail he picked up on—the unrealistic amount of blood being his favorite sticking point.
I’d roll my eyes and say, “Thanks, Doc,” but I liked how closely he paid attention.
We took turns picking what to watch, but according to Sam, I “went all weird” when he wanted to watch The Evil Dead.
I had my reasons—the movie was why my three best friends no longer spoke to me.
I ended up telling Sam the entire story, which involved a sleepover at my house and an ill-advised screening of the bloodiest, raunchiest film in my collection.
Because Delilah, Yvonne, and Marissa liked the horror stories I read at school, I had assumed The Evil Dead was a no-brainer.
We huddled around the TV in nests of blankets and pillows, wearing our pajamas, with bowls of popcorn in hand, and watched a group of hot twentysomethings head to a creepy cabin in the woods.
During the most disturbing scene, Delilah covered her face, then sprang from the sofa and ran to the bathroom, leaving a wet spot behind on the Ultrasuede fabric.
The girls and I looked at each other wide-eyed, and I hurried to the cupboard to get paper towels and a bottle of cleaning spray.
I hoped Delilah would forget about the whole peeing-her-pants thing by the time we returned to school. She did not. Not even close. If she had, I would have been spared the next few months of torture.
“That was pretty disgusting,” Sam said when the credits were rolling. “But also awesome?”
“Right?!” I said, jumping onto my knees to face him. “It’s a classic! I’m not weird for liking it, right?” His eyes popped at my sudden display of energy. Did I sound nuts? I think I probably did.
“Well, I can see why that Delilah girl was so freaked out by it—I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.
But she’s a jerk, and you’re not weird for liking it,” he said.
I slumped back down onto the couch, satisfied.
“You’re just weird in general,” he added, holding back a grin, and I lobbed a cushion at him.
He raised his hands and laughed, “But I like weird.”
I would have been thankful for any friend that summer, but finding Sam was like winning the friendship lottery.
He was nerdy in a good way and sarcastic in a hilarious way, and he liked to read almost as much as I did, though he was more into books about wizards and magazines about science and nature.
There was a whole shelf of National Geographic magazines in his basement, and I think he’d read all of them.
Sam was fast becoming my favorite person.
And I’m pretty sure he felt the same—he always wore the bracelet I made him.
He once pulled it down to show me the pale ring of skin underneath it.
Sometimes he’d leave for an excruciatingly long morning or afternoon to hang out with his friends from school, but when he was home, we were almost always together.
By midsummer, a smattering of freckles dotted my nose, cheeks, and chest. As if they had somehow escaped my notice, Sam leaned in close to my face one day when we were lying on the raft, and said, “I guess SPF 45 wasn’t strong enough.”
“I guess not,” I growled. “And thanks for reminding me.”
“I don’t understand why you hate your freckles so much,” he said. “I like them.” I stared at him, unblinking.
“Seriously?” I asked.
Who in their right mind likes freckles?
“Yeaaaah.” He drew the word out and gave me a Why are you being so weird? look, which I chose to ignore.
“Swear on it?”
“Swear on what?” he asked, and I hesitated. “You said swear on it,” he explained. “What do you want me to swear on?”
“Umm . . .” I hadn’t meant it literally. I looked around, my eyes landing on his wrist. “Swear on our friendship bracelet.” His brows furrowed, but then he reached over and hooked his index finger under my bracelet, giving it a gentle tug.
“I swear,” he vowed. “Now you swear that you’ll drop this weird freckle obsession.” A small smile played on his lips, and I let out a little laugh before reaching over and curling my finger around his bracelet, tugging on it like he had.
“I swear.” I rolled my eyes, but secretly I was pleased. And I didn’t worry too much about my freckles after that.
HALLOWEEN IN AUGUST was the official name Sam and I gave to the week we devoted to bingeing the entire Halloween franchise.
We had just put on the fourth movie when Charlie loped down the basement stairs in his boxers and launched himself over the couch between us.
Charlie, I had learned, was always wearing a smile and rarely a shirt.
“Could you get any further away from her, Samuel?” he chuckled.
“Could you get any more naked, Charles?” Sam deadpanned.
Charlie’s face split into a toothy smile. “Sure!” he cried, jumping up and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.
I yelped and covered my eyes.
“Jesus, Charlie. Cut it out,” Sam yelled, his voice cracking.
Both the Florek boys liked to tease; whereas I was the object of Sam’s gentle ribbing, Sam was subjected to Charlie’s relentless digs about his scrawniness and sexual inexperience.
Sam rarely talked back, and the only sign of his irritation was the red stain on his cheeks.
At the lake, Charlie pushed Sam into the water at every possible chance, to the point that even I found it annoying.
“He does it more when you’re around,” Sam told me one day.
Charlie laughed and plunked back down on the couch. He elbowed my side and said, “Your neck’s all blotchy, Pers.” He pulled my arms away from my face and put his hand over my knee and squeezed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” I glanced at Sam, but he was staring at Charlie’s hand on my leg.
We were interrupted by Sue calling us up for lunch.
A platter of cheese and potato pierogies waited for us on the round table in the kitchen.
It was a sunny space with cream cabinets, windows overlooking the lake, and a sliding glass door onto the deck.
Sue stood at the sink in her denim cutoffs and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled back into her usual ponytail, washing up a large pot.
“Hi, Mrs. Florek,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to three massive dumplings. “Thanks for making lunch.”
She turned around from the sink. “Charlie, go put on some clothes. And you’re welcome, Percy—I know how much you like my pierogies.”
“I love them,” I said, and she gave me one of her toothy, dimpled smiles. Sam told me pierogies had been his dad’s favorite and Sue had stopped making them at home before I came around.
After I finished my serving, I piled more onto my plate along with a large dollop of sour cream.
“Sam, your girlfriend eats like a horse,” Charlie laughed. I winced at the g-word.
“Cut it out, Charlie,” Sue snapped. “Never comment on how much a woman eats, and don’t tease them. They’re too young for any of that, anyway.”
“Well, I’m not too young,” Charlie said, wiggling his eyebrows in my direction. “Want to trade up, Percy?”
“Charlie!” Sue barked.
“I’m just messing around,” he said and stood up to clear his plate, knocking his brother across the back of the head.
I tried to catch Sam’s eye, but he was scowling at Charlie, his face the color of a field tomato.
AS THE LAST week of summer vacation came to an end, I began dreading heading back to the city. I had dreams about going to school naked and finding Sam’s bracelet cut up into orange and pink pieces in my desk.
We were lying on the raft the afternoon before I was leaving.
I had tried my best all day not to be a downer, but apparently I wasn’t doing a very good job because Sam kept asking if I was okay.
Suddenly, he sat up and said, “You know what you need? One last boat ride.” The Floreks had a small 9.
9 motor on the back of their rowboat that Sam had taught me how to drive.
I grabbed my book, and Sam gathered his rod and tackle box.
We folded our towels across the benches and set off in our damp bathing suits and bare feet.
I drove to a reedy bay, which Sam claimed was a good spot for fishing, and cut the engine.
I’d been watching him cast off the front of the boat when he started talking.
“It was a heart attack,” he said, his eyes on his rod.
I swallowed but stayed quiet. “We don’t talk about him much at home,” he added, reeling the line in.
“And definitely not with my friends. They could barely look at me at the funeral. And even now, if they mention something about one of their dads, they look at me like they’ve accidentally said something super offensive. ”
“That sucks,” I said. “I can tell you all about my dad if you want. But I warn you: He’s totally boring.” He smiled, and I went on. “But seriously, you don’t have to talk with me, either. Not if you don’t want to.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, squinting into the sun. “I do. I wish we’d talk about him more at home, but it makes Mom sad.” He set down his rod and looked up at me. “I’m starting to forget stuff about him, you know?” I climbed into the middle bench, closer to him.
“I don’t really know. I don’t know anyone with a dead dad, remember?” I nudged his foot with my toe, and he huffed out a laugh. “But I can imagine. I can listen.” He nodded once and ran his hand through his hair.
“It happened at the restaurant. He was cooking. Mom was at home and someone called to tell us that Dad had fallen and that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital. It only took us ten minutes to get there—you know how close the hospital is—but it didn’t matter.
He was gone.” He said it quickly, like it hurt to get the words out.
I reached out and squeezed his hand, then twisted his bracelet around so the best part of the pattern faced up. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Explains the whole doctor thing, huh?” I could tell he was trying to sound upbeat, but his voice was dull. I smiled but didn’t reply.
“Tell me what he was like . . . when you’re ready,” I said instead. “I want to hear all about him.”
“Okay.” He picked up the rod again. Then added, “Sorry for going all emo on your last day.”
“Suits my mood, anyway.” I shrugged. “I’m kind of depressed about summer ending. I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”
He bumped my knee with his. “I don’t want you to go, either.”