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

to Stratford, and I feel like I should apologize, but … for what?

“You could’ve interrupted.”

“You and the legendary Chase Harding? I would never.”

The words suggest she’s hurt or mad or maybe both, but her tone doesn’t suggest either one. If anything, it sounds like she’s in on a joke.

How do I respond to that?

“Anyway, turns out I don’t even need to know you to get a party invite, so.”

“I heard. And apparently you’re the person to go to for an invite now.”

Her full lips, uncharacteristically bare and lightly chapped, curve into a smile. “I suppose I am.”

“So,” I ask, genuinely unsure, “do I make the cut for your inaugural Stratford party?”

She slips into her car then, taking a seat behind the wheel and closing the door, although the window is wide open. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Three

“You didn’t tell me Jasmine was moving here,” I say accusingly to my mother the second she walks into the kitchen after a day spent taking messages for my former friend’s father. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“I hope you had a lovely day too, milaya.” Her keys jangle as she puts them next to her bag on the laminate counter, eyeing the bowl of salted edamame sitting in front of me. Normally I’d have popcorn mixed with a healthy dose of M&Ms like I’ve been having every day since I got back, but after seeing Jasmine, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Unfortunately, soybeans were the next most appealing snack in the house. “And I didn’t realize you needed to be told, given you were inseparable this summer. She didn’t call you?”

I refuse to dignify that with a response and dig my teeth into another pod to scrape its insides.

“Ah. If it helps, it was a pretty last-minute decision, from what I gather. Declan didn’t even enlist my help. I only found out today, when he told me to order flowers to his house to welcome her home from her first day.”

I am slightly mollified by this, but still irritated overall. “Can I go to Shannon’s for dinner?”

She sighs. “It’s your first day of senior year, Larotchka. Possibly your last first day of school ever while living at home. Can you please humor your mother and tell her about it over frozen pizza?”

Now I feel like an asshole. It’s not my mother’s fault Jasmine is a jerk. “What kind of toppings do we have?”

“Only half a jar of olives, but they’ll be delicious because they were added with love.” She kisses the top of my head. “Go do your homework and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I go to my room, but I don’t start my homework. Instead, I head into my closet and stand on the lowest shelf to reach the scrapbook hiding on the highest one. Shannon would laugh her ass off if she knew I’d made something so sentimental. For that matter, so would Jasmine. But I’m relieved to have it, to have evidence this summer was real and not some wild delusion.

And there they are: ticket stubs from the movie theater in Kill Devil Hills, the Elizabethan Gardens, the Lost Colony show, and the ferry to Knotts Island. Photographs taken hugging lighthouses and pretending to fly in front of the Wright Brothers memorial. Papers from ice-cream cone wrappings, smooth shells from the beach, a joker from a well-used deck of cards, and even a cherry stem Jasmine tied into a knot with her tongue at a house party. There’s no shortage of memories in these pages.

Truth is, I don’t need snapshots or wrappers or stubs to remember this summer, despite some of it being hazy even while it was happening. Hell, even though I came back from that first party drunk as balls, I still remember every minute through at least the first three shots.

That was when I knew the summer might not suck.

THEN

I don’t know what to wear to Jasmine’s friend’s party, not because I don’t know how to dress, but because my summer nights were gonna consist of being a slug on the couch and binge-watching Netflix with my mom. I’d packed tons of bathing suits, shorts, and tanks, but for nighttime, all I have are a couple pairs of jeans and some cozy sleep pants in case I wanted to sit out near the water during chillier hours. Party clothes hadn’t entered the equation.

Boring jeans and a polka dot tank top will have to do. Shannon would cringe if she saw me wearing flip-flops to a party, but Shannon is in Paris wearing heels and little scarves around her neck, so.

With nothing else to do, I’m ready embarrassingly on time, and, afraid to look overeager, I trap myself in my room, texting with Kiki and watching stupid YouTube videos. Finally, I hear movement outside, followed by “Tinkerbell, where are you?” hollered like a banshee.

I grab my bag and jolt off my bed to meet Jasmine, who looks a hundred times more stylish in a white tank top and pink capris, a row of bangles jangling on her arm. White is a color I avoid until we’re at least two weeks into summer, but it pops enviably against Jasmine’s naturally tan skin and dark, glossy hair.

I wait for a once-over, part of the pre-party ritual with Shannon, Gia, and Kiki, but all Jasmine says is, “Ready?”

I nod. It isn’t until we’re getting into her car that I ask, “Tinkerbell?”

“Tiny, blond, and could probably fit in my pocket. Plus, I still haven’t perfected your mom’s ‘Larotchka.’”

I burst out laughing at her attempt at the wide-open A and the Russian roll of the R. For the most part, my mom’s accent is only lightly traceable; she’s been in the US since college. But when she says my nickname, it comes out in full force, and it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s weird to have someone so comfortably pick it up in a single day. Clearly, Jasmine has some powers of observation.

She grins