Day 41 #2
The second part of our date is dinner at The Cherry Pit, because Asher told me once that he’s never been there, even though the delightfully tacky cherry-themed restaurant is basically its own kind of tourist destination around here. We’re sitting in a booth, sipping on cherry-ade.
“Maybe tonight we can decide what we’re putting in Nadine’s yard?” We haven’t pranked her in weeks. Well, not together, at least. I like to think my birthday yard show was more of a gift—to both of us—than a prank. I doubt Nadine sees it that way, but still.
“My mom wanted to take a picture of all of us flipping her the bird.” Asher smiles. “Wants to put it in her mailbox as we leave town.”
“Really?” That doesn’t sound like Sylvie at all.
“Oh yeah, she can hold a grudge.”
Sweet Sylvie? Who knew? “I like it, but it seems like the kind of thing that would end up on the internet and keep us from getting a job someday.”
Asher nods but doesn’t say anything. I don’t say anything.
I’m not sure if it’s in my head, or if it’s the looming terror of the questions I know will eventually come, but it feels like silence hangs between us.
I can’t take it for another second, I have to rip off the bandage.
“Okay, do your worst.” I set my hands on the table, crossing them over the giant red cherry face that serves as the menu. “Let’s get this over with.”
Asher smiles and takes another sip of his drink.
He shifts in his seat a little and his hand pops up, his fingers wrapped around a stone.
“How long ago did you paint this?” Asher’s fingers peel back and sitting in his palm is a small, pale gray stone, long and thin.
I thought he’d start with something a little easier, but no, he’s going right in for the kill.
“I picked that rock because it reminded me of the shape of the lake.” It’s true, I remember holding the delicate boomerang-shaped stone up to the old poster in Lake House A, making sure it wasn’t just in my head.
“There’s even a little divot over here”—I reach a finger out to the rock that Asher has placed between us on the table—“where our bay is.” Our bay.
The word rings between us like I just struck a gong.
“The bay where our house is,” I clarify, hoping I don’t sound as defensive as I feel.
He doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows as if to say, Great, but when did you paint this topographically accurate rock?
Asher isn’t stupid; that rock is duller than the rest. Its glossy coat is fogged with age and it just looks …
worn. Like paint that has been subjected to the elements for …
“Six years ago.” I take a sip of my cherry-ade, willing myself to sound more confident.
“That first summer.” But nothing about me feels confident right now.
I gave Asher the challenge of finding the rocks because I needed something to force me to open up with him.
I should be able to just do it, but I can’t.
And just telling Asher to ask me questions seems ridiculous.
So here I am, luring him into it. I had expected him to ask me about my most embarrassing moments.
To pry into my questionable dating past, and make me admit embarrassing things like who my first kiss was with.
I didn’t expect him to find out that six years ago I was scribbling our initials on rocks like some sort of lovesick psycho.
I had completely forgotten about that rock; it should have been scooped up by some little kid years ago.
“I was thirteen, so, you know, keep that in mind.” My cheeks redden and I feel a little sick, but Asher distracts me by staring at my chest. Blatantly.
Which is not like him at all. And just as I’m about to call him a pig and remind him where my face is, I realize what he’s actually looking at.
My necklace. His necklace. And it feels like we’re on even footing again, me with my love-rock and him with his necklace.
And before I can think more deeply about the fact that the L-word just flew through my brain, the waitress arrives with our food.
Asher sweeps the stone off of the table and tucks it back into his pocket.
When it’s just the two of us, I swallow a chunk of cherry chicken salad before saying, “Okay, hit me with the rest.”
Asher talks around a bite of his cherry cheeseburger. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
“You think that was easy?”
“I’m not using them all tonight, Sid. I want to keep you on your toes.” He takes a sip of his drink and smiles, but he looks nervous. “I do have one more for you tonight.”
“I used to stuff my mouth full of food when I was little. So full I’d panic and spit it all out.”
He shakes his head at me, looking completely bewildered. “What?”
“Chipmunk. That stupid nickname you and my dad torment me with. You asked me once where it came from.”
“Not it,” Asher says.
I shrug. “Okay, well, I’m deducting a question for that anyway, because you would have gotten around to it.”
“I want to know why it all started.”
I look at him blankly, hoping he doesn’t mean what I’m 99 percent sure he means.
“The pranks, the hating me…” Asher takes a sip of his drink. “Spill.”
THE FIRST SUMMER
Sidney
Once a week or so, Mom and Sylvie like to load us all up and take us to one of the little towns nearby.
Quaint, cute, and cozy are words they use to describe the small streets lined with touristy shops.
Windows are filled with clothes, and art, and the kind of signs you’d hang in a vacation home, with sayings like HOME IS WHERE THE LAKE IS.
It’s not usually too bad—the parents don’t mind if Asher and I wander off on our own.
The last trip, the two of us had lunch at one of the little restaurants where the tables on the patio are made of crisscrossed metal, and everything smells like fish from the river nearby.
Asher paid for us, and I told myself it wasn’t a date, but it sure felt like one.
But this trip is painful, because Mom didn’t invite Sylvie or Greg, or Asher.
It’s just the two of us, popping in and out of shops.
Mom is apparently trying to shove a summer’s worth of shopping into her last week.
I get a book at the town’s little bookstore, and Mom lets me replenish my paints in the craft department of the megastore we pass on our way back to the lake.
When we get back to the house I deposit my things on the kitchen table and stop in my room to see what I can do to tame my hair a little. And then I set out to find Asher.
Asher spends most of his time—well, with me.
He’s usually the one to find me, and that realization sends a little bubble of something warm into my chest. We only have four days of vacation left, but it’s not like I can’t see Asher again.
Our parents usually get together every couple of months, and while we’re not usually included, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us hanging out.
Maybe they’d get together more often if Asher and I were—were what, dating?
Do eighth graders actually long-distance date?
It would only be a couple years until one of us could drive, and this isn’t exactly a normal situation, seeing how our parents are best friends.
I bet Mom and Dad would drive me to his swim meets, and Sylvie and Greg would bring him to mine. We could text and video chat.
I’m lost in my head, thinking about everything, when I come around the corner of Lake House A, and find Asher on the swing set.
We’ve spent a lot of time on the swings.
They’re tucked away behind Lake House A, with a little hedge of overgrown shrubs next to them.
It’s a nice escape from our parents during the day. Or at night.
Last week, there was a moment when I was sure Asher was going to kiss me on the swings.
There was music playing on his phone—this guitar-heavy ballad about girls and cars—and he wrapped his arm around my chain, so we were right next to each other.
But it didn’t happen, and I don’t know if that was me or him.
Maybe we were both just waiting. For what? I don’t know.
But right now, Asher isn’t waiting for me on the swings.
He’s not even alone on the swings. Lindsay is on my swing, her seat swaying gently, as she and Asher kiss.
I shouldn’t watch, but I do. Because I hope that he’ll pull away.
That he’ll scream, “No, I’m saving my swing-kiss for Sidney,” and he’ll shove her into the dirt.
But that’s how my twisted brain works, not his.
Because he doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t push her, but inside all I can do is scream.
That night, I don’t go down to the fire.
I tell my mom I’m not feeling good—which is true, I feel like my insides have been ripped out—and while everyone else is roasting marshmallows and smashing them between graham crackers, I get to work filling Asher’s shampoo bottle with mayonnaise, and adding cayenne pepper to his toothpaste tube.
I manage to avoid Asher for a full twenty-four hours, but the next day I fall on my face when my flip-flops are glued to the stairs outside our deck. Asher thinks he can kiss Lindsay and knock me on my ass? Anger coils inside me. If he wants war, I’ll give it to him.