Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

“Thanks,” I say, accepting a kiss on the cheek. I call back to my mom that I’m heading out and wait until I hear her “Have fun!” before following him out to his car.

There’s no movie theater in Stratford, but the multiplex with the awesome seats is only a fifteen-minute drive, so we buckle in and make small talk about school and the movie’s reviews and work and the football team. More than once, I catch him checking me out at a red light, and by the time we get to the theater, I’m bursting to ask him the thing that’s been bothering me since the first day of school.

“Hey, can I ask you a weird question?”

He shuts off the engine. “How weird are we talking?”

“It’s … you’ve known for a while that I like you, right?” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “Like, it hasn’t exactly been the best-kept secret at Stratford.”

He grins, and I wish the overhead light hadn’t gone off so I could see him in better light. “A little while, maybe. But I like you too.”

“Yeah, I got that,” I say, and we both laugh. “I guess I’m just wondering … why now? Is it really the haircut? The blond? I hope it’s not the tan, because that’s already on its way out.”

“Those things don’t hurt,” he says, reaching out to lightly yank a golden curl, “but no, it isn’t that you’re prettier than before. You just seem different. You kinda … glow. I mean, you walked into school that first day straight-up strutting.” He laughs, more sheepishly this time. “God, that sounds dumb. But do you know what I mean? You seem happier, a little more fearless, a little less like…”

“Like…?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound awful.”

My stomach tightens. “Well, it can’t sound worse than this.”

“Fair enough.” He meets my gaze full-on, his eyes glowing with the reflection of the neon lights. “You seem less like you’re in Shannon Salter’s shadow. Like you somehow came into your own this summer. If that’s not a really stupid and terrible thing to say.”

I shake my head slowly. “It isn’t either of those things.” I hadn’t really put it into those words, but I think I felt some of that too.

The only problem was that sure, I hadn’t spent the summer in Shannon’s shadow, but maybe I’m in Jasmine’s shadow. Only no one knows it.

Jasmine is the one who inspired my haircut, who gave me the bravery for my piercing. Jasmine is the one who took me all over the Outer Banks, showed me how to find beauty in places I didn’t see it, including—cheesy as it is—myself. Jasmine is the one who showed me the real fun was never in following the crowd, and that sometimes the best things are the scary and the unexpected.

God, a part of me hates her so much.

But it hits me with a bolt that what Chase is seeing is that I love myself more after this summer, and for that, I will probably owe her forever.

“Good,” he says, and it isn’t until he says it that I remember where I am and who I’m with. “So, should we get some popcorn?”

THEN

We did hang out by ourselves the night after the poker game, but there was no ice cream; instead, we stocked up on graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows, and made good use of the fire pit in the backyard.

“What do you think happens if you leave a marshmallow in a bottle of soda?” Jasmine asks, holding up one of the many bottles of Coke we’d bought to accompany our s’mores, determined to taste test every one of its sweet varieties. “Do you think it explodes?”

“Uh-oh. Do you think having both in our stomachs at the same time will make them explode?”

Jasmine laughs and whacks me on the arm. “Shut up! This is serious. We should experiment. For science.”

“For science, you want to waste a perfectly good marshmallow by dropping it into a bottle of cherry Coke.”

“Would you prefer I waste a perfectly good marshmallow by dropping it into a bottle of orange vanilla?”

“Don’t you dare. Orange vanilla’s my favorite.” I grab the bottle of carbonated Creamsicle and chug it while using my other hand to throw a marshmallow square at Jasmine’s nose.

“Now who’s wasting a perfectly good marshmallow, Larissa?”

The combination of her using my full name and her mock-angry tone cracks me up, and my sugar high doesn’t help. This is so gross but also so delicious, and even without everybody else, even though we already spent the whole day together going through pictures and analyzing tedious details to pick the best shots, this is the most fun night I’ve had since we came down here.

“You’re such a dork,” I say, grabbing stuff to make another s’more. “But I’m glad we stayed in. It’s nice to chill out and wear comfy clothes and let my hair get all rat’s nest-y.”

She laughs. “Your hair is not rat’s nest-y, but yeah, isn’t it? Like, it’s fun to hang out with other people, but it all becomes about the same shit—everyone just wants to feel good at the end of the night, right? You get drunk to feel good. You hook up to feel good. You take other people’s money at the poker table to feel good. And it’s so much fucking work.” The smile has slid off her lips, and her face grows serious in the light of the fire, the sparks reflecting in her amber eyes. “It doesn’t have to be so much work. It doesn’t have to be constantly making sure you’re wearing the right thing, saying the right thing, drinking the right amount, worrying about who’s watching you do what.

“Sometimes it’s so fucking exhausting to feel good that it doesn’t even feel good when it should. We act like beer and boys are so necessary for a good time, for a real night, and