Sparks Fly

One Daisy

One

Daisy

Late-afternoon rays of sun stream through the sliding glass doors and splash across the faux marble island (don’t tell my

mom I admitted it’s fake) as I dance absent-mindedly into the kitchen, earbuds blasting. Beyond our backyard, and the neighbor’s

yard, and across the street from them, you can see about one centimeter of the Atlantic Ocean, twinkling in summer light.

Well, it’s the Sage Port Bay, actually. But according to Sage Port, Rhode Island Realty, our home is considered “ocean view”

because of this very glimpse.

I swing open the fridge door, prowling for a LaCroix at the same time that I’m trying to perfect a very specific hip roll I learned on TikTok.

I’ve been in party mode for a while now: The last weeks of school before summer break are always one languorous stretch of warm days, hitching rides around town with whoever has a driver’s license (not me), every class full of pointless filler activities and extra-credit projects no one cares about.

I’ve been especially bouncy and happy as May morphed into the early days of June—I can’t quite put my finger on why, but I suppose you could say I’ve been party-moding-for-two, because Georgia is the one who graduated this spring; I’m only finishing my sophomore year.

My older sister has her future all planned out—Duke University with her boyfriend, Rhys, then Yale Law, then marriage (to

Rhys, obviously), then two children with great manners and healthy teeth—so I guess to her, finishing high school is just

one more check mark on the neatly arranged little list in her brain, not a cause for mindless celebration. It almost seems

like she’s signing yearbooks and hugging old friends and trading copies of the last school newspaper of the year on autopilot;

a pretty smile plastered on her face.

It’s Georgia who should be experiencing senioritis. But it’s Georgia, so she’s mostly experiencing her floral planner, which has “Georgia Holliday’s Personal Itinerary and Visioning” penned

carefully on the inner cover. I mean, you don’t even have to read what’s in the planner, you can tell by how clean the handwriting is, every page filled with meetings, to-do lists, and personal goals.

It makes me tired just thinking about that planner. Tired and maybe a tiny bit envious, if I’m being honest. It would be nice to have any idea what I’m doing with my life. Then again, Izzy Reynolds,

our grief therapist, would probably say it’s my sister’s way of dealing with loss.

“We all have our own methods of coping, Daisy,” she’d say, in that tone where I can tell she’s implying something about me, but I’m not sure what.

It’s true that when Dad died I was pretty messed up for the rest of eighth grade.

I barely went to class for a while, and my grades plummeted.

But that seems like an average response to something as shocking and horrible as what happened to us.

One day, Dad was here, larger than life.

Everybody loved Mitch Holliday, down to our dentist and the postman.

Then snap, he was gone. Crazy. How can that not screw you up mentally?

Also, maybe I wasn’t meant for advanced algebra.

But it’s been almost three years since then, and there are entire days, even weeks, that go by when I forget to miss Dad.

And that’s sad in a whole different way.

Still, it’s been nice to not be thinking about grief too much and have a bounce in my step lately. It’s probably because this

summer we’re finally going back to Laurel Lake! We grew up going to my mom’s lake house up in the Catskills every year—it

was a Holliday family tradition—but after Dad’s death, we stopped going. It was always such a happy place for all of us. So

I know that even if we have to deal with some hard memories, Izzy would say it’ll be very therapeutic for us to return, and I can’t wait.

I mean, I think that’s why I’ve been in such a good mood.

There could be other reasons.

My phone pings with a text from my friend Owen Adams.

Owen:

Daze, Project Invisible Shopper is near completion!

He’s referring to a remote-control shopping cart he’s been working on in his garage, in case that wasn’t obvious.

Daisy:

Ready for a test run? Just make sure no Shaws employees catch you.

Because he’s building it with a stolen shopping cart.

Owen:

Should I take it for a ride at Jenna’s later?

Daisy:

I’m sure it’ll be a real hit. Some guys impress all the chicks with their new cars, but not you, my friend. You’re an original.

Owen:

I need to put something in it. Like a parade float. Like maybe a giant inflatable clown?

Daisy:

Adams, why.

Owen:

So it looks like the clown is driving the cart.

Daisy:

No, I get it, but like why . . . do you have to be so YOU?

Owen:

?? Ok so that’s a no to the clown? Maybe something less disruptive, like an inflatable cow?

I laugh.

Daisy:

Where are you going to find an inflatable cow in the next hour?

Owen:

The army probably keeps some in reserve somewhere. Maybe I can phone a local base.

This is classic Owen. Just utter batshit, but always so funny. It is highly possible he is really going to bring this thing

to the party later tonight, but my bets are on it not working, left abandoned on Jenna Greenberg’s lawn.

Daisy:

Just please don’t get yourself arrested. This is our last chance to hang before I leave.

Owen:

Oh dang. June 19th. That’s tomorrow isn’t it. What time do you leave in the morning?

Daisy:

IDK. Early. You won’t be awake. And hopefully, you also won’t be in jail.

Owen:

That’s the beauty of a remote-control cart, Daze. They’ll never catch me.

Daisy:

Don’t you have to be within thirty feet to operate it?

Owen:

Details details.

Daisy:

Well I gotta go. But don’t forget, Owen. The squeaky wheel gets . . . increased amount of attention from its father.

It’s a very stupid running joke we have, where we purposefully butcher common idioms like “the squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

Owen laughs at my message.

Owen:

And every cloud has a . . . shape outlined by something brighter than the cloudy part of the cloud.

Daisy:

Lol.

Owen:

Later, Daze.

I shiver, realizing I’ve been texting while standing with the fridge door open. I shove my phone back in my pocket and I’m

in the midst of an angry boxing match with our semi-broken ice machine when someone tugs my ponytail, and I scream.

Frozen chunks go flying out of the machine’s open mouth, scattering and slithering all over the kitchen floor, and I look

up into Georgia’s face. She’s shouting something.

I pull out my earbuds. “What!” I yell, then realize without my music on that I’m yelling, and bring my voice to a normal level.

“Sorry, you scared the crap out of me. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Yeah, that’s because you listen to those at a decibel not designed for our species,” Georgia says matter-of-factly.

“I told Scarlet I’d learn this choreo so we can practice at the party later,” I explain.

We’re meeting at Jenna Greenberg’s sister’s graduation party in an hour, and Scarlet Diaz and I have a silly little tradition of performing TikTok dances in people’s backyards. I realize it sounds cringey, but we’re kind of the funny girls in our class, so people expect it.

Georgia has the grace not to roll her blue eyes, though I can feel how tempted she is.

“I was just reminding you to finish packing before you leave,” she says, tucking her blond hair behind her ears.

“Yeah, sure. I’m almost done,” I say, which isn’t exactly the truth, because I haven’t started. But that’s what the frantic

fifteen minutes before we leave is for.

“Okay,” she says. “I need you to pack an extra charger, in case the one in the car dies before you find the cabin.”

“Oh my god, Georgia, we’ll be fine. Mom’s been driving up to Laurel Lake her entire life practically, she doesn’t even need

GPS. And also, Dave will be with us.”

If I’m not mistaken, Georgia flinches ever so slightly at the mention of Dave. As in Dave Carmichael, Mom’s boyfriend. They’ve

been dating since last fall, but lately it seems like it’s getting more serious than any of us expected—least of all Mom.

He’s going to be joining us for the entire summer up at the lake, which is maybe weird.

But, like, I’m happy for Mom. She’s a writer and spends most of her days completely alone. The woman deserves some joy. Though

I get the impression Georgia is less enthused.

She’s rushing in, I’ve heard Georgia say on more than one occasion.

I just don’t want her to get blindsided.

And What do we really know about this guy?

As if he’s some potential criminal. He’s an aquatic expert who took Mom to the Sage Port Aquarium for their first date. How

many of those turn out to be killers? I’d wager zero percent. Georgia’s just protective.

“I’m going to be gone by the time you’re home from the party tonight, so I want to make sure you have everything in order.”

“Georgia.” I put my hands on her shoulders, which are, annoyingly, still a couple of inches higher than mine. I am convinced

I’m never going to catch up. She got Dad’s height genes, and I got Mom’s. “We are going to be fine, and we’ll see you up at

the lake. Just enjoy your weekend in New York with Eden, and please document every single second of it because I’m jealous

as heck and I hate you both.”

Georgia laughs and gives me a hug. “Okay. Be good tonight. By the way, are you wearing that? Or . . .”

I look down at my cutoff jean shorts, Rolling Stones T-shirt, and no bra. (I very much embrace having small boobs and hope

they never grow. Freedom from the constraints of female undergarments and shapewear!) “Yes?”

She sighs. “Whatever. Love you. I’m gonna go say bye to Mom.”

“You should probably hit the road if you don’t want to end up driving in the dark,” I tell her, because I can tell she’s dragging

her feet.

Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, you’re right.” Now who’s the good planner?

“Love you, Georgia. Go!”