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

New York. There’s no crime in being a Yankee who doesn’t know how to eat crawfish. Just admit it.”

My face flames, but the others smirk and eat another one each, building the pile of shells in the bowl in front of us.

Jasmine laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you. Pick one up.”

I watch her fingers as she carefully pries the shell from the fish, mint polish catching the sunlight. I grab one and try to replicate her movements, but I end up squishing it in my hands and shrieking in surprise.

Everyone else cracks up, but Jasmine grins and says, “Okay, let’s at least make sure you get to taste it.” She tips the shell holding the juice into my mouth, and I’m determined not to be grossed out. It actually is good, in fact, especially followed by the fish itself, which she frees and holds for me to eat from her fingertips.

“Fine, that’s good,” I concede, “but I’m clearly not up to cracking them open myself.”

“I’ve got you covered.” Jasmine opens another and feeds it to me the same way, and we laugh as I manage to spill on myself. After a while, we get into a messy rhythm, and I can’t even count how many the five of us eat as the sun sinks below the horizon.

By the time the party dies down and cleanup begins, I feel like a beached whale, but it’s worth it. This might be the most fun I’ve had the entire summer. I miss my friends, but the ones I’ve made here are so awesome, it’s impossible to wish I’d chosen cheer camp with Gia, or be jealous of Shannon’s trip to Paris or Kiki’s to Japan, and I’m certainly no longer wishing I were dusting off shelves at the Book and Bean.

Keisha and Owen even stay to help clean up. Keisha and I are clearing glasses and cans from the table when she says, “You two are cute.”

I cock my head. “Who two?”

Her eyebrow rises all the way up. “Seriously?”

A billion crawfish slosh in my stomach, swimming in apple-flavored wine cooler. I don’t know why, but I want to hear her say it out loud, maybe so I can stop feeling delusional. But I already played clueless, and to acknowledge that I know who she’s referring to is to acknowledge that I see something too. Which is not an option. I shrug instead.

She rolls her eyes, but lets it go. She’s certainly had enough annoying experience with people trying to pair her up. “Do you think you’ll come back next summer? Or is this a one-time thing for you and your mom?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that we might never do this again. But then, I haven’t really given much thought to this ending, life going back to the status quo. It’s too hard to imagine waking up in a home that isn’t filled with the sound of Jasmine tunelessly humming her favorite indie rock songs, or going to parties where no one’s taking bets on how many drinks it’ll take Owen to challenge someone to a dance-off. (He always loses. He’s a horrible dancer, whereas Jack’s classically trained in ballet, Brea’s so flexible her body moves like liquid, and Keisha’s number one goal after declaring a computer science major her sophomore year is to join the Georgetown step team.)

Could I be part of this group for real? I think I’d like to be. I love my friends at home—how much fun we have and how much we push each other and are there for each other—but here I feel like … I get to be and do other things. I don’t have to know exactly who I am and what I want. I’m a summer girl, living my highlight reel. Maybe I don’t want anything realer than that.

But, much like I didn’t have a choice this summer, I won’t next time either.

“Depends on my mom’s job,” I say, already afraid to get too attached to the idea. “But I’d like to. I like hanging out with you guys.”

A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips that says, “Yeah, I know who you like hanging out with.” And even though it’s absurd and terrible, I want her to press the issue one more time, out loud, to tell me we look like something even though I don’t know if I want us to look like something. But Keisha’s not that person, and we finish cleaning the table in silence.

NOW

I make an excuse to leave the party and pull out my phone as I steal into the backyard. I’ve only spoken to Keisha a few times since the summer—commenting on each other’s selfies, a group chat to tell us she made the step team so we could send every celebratory emoji in existence—but I call her without hesitation. I don’t want to have this conversation without hearing her tone of voice.

“Hey, girl,” she greets me, instantly transporting me back to the deck of her parents’ house, to afternoons spent playing spades and hearts over sweet tea and messing around in her closet with Brea and Jasmine while she played Fortnite with some friend from school. “What’s up?”

The question that’d been dancing on the tip of my tongue dies. “Long time, no speak,” I say, despite it being one of my most hated phrases. “I’m at a party and I was thinking of you. Thought I’d say hi.”

It’s not a total lie, anyway.

“Ooh, is that the same party Jasmine’s at? It looks like fun!”

I blink slowly. “How did you know Jasmine’s here?”

“I helped her pick an outfit over FaceTime, and I just saw her karaoke performance on IG Live. That was hot.”

You have no idea. Just like I had no idea they spoke so often in the off season. So much for baring my soul to Keisha. “Did you know she was transferring here?”

“I mean, it was a pretty last-minute decision, so I didn’t know until the night before. All she told me was that her