He lets out a little grunt but I can tell he wants to laugh. “This is probably our last summer, Chipmunk.”
“Don’t call me that.” I practically growl the words.
“But it’s so cute.” I can hear the mock pout in his voice, can see his lake-blue puppy dog eyes, even without looking at him. I will never forgive my father for letting that nickname slip in front of Asher.
“I’m going todestroyyou,” I say with a smile. “You’ll be calling me something very different by the end of the summer.”
“Sounds dirty,” he says, and I let out an irritated grunt. “Looking forward to it… Chipmunk.” There’s a smile in his voice.
As we descend onto the wooden deck, we both abandon our illusion of normalcy andracefor the chair. It’s sitting along the far side of the square deck, its soft, thick cushion the lone pop of color in a string of hard, white plastic lounge chairs. The unicorn chair, as I like to call it. The one comfy, padded lounge chair. A mystical, magical chair amongst a sea of cheap plastic ones. I hip-check Asher and twist toward it, but he lunges from behind me, throwing an arm around my waist.
“Let me go,” I grunt, trying to pull away, my feet kicking at his ankles. But he pulls me tight to his chest and twists us. And then I’m falling. I’m free-falling, until I’m in his lap, on top of the lounge chair. I twist this way and that.
“How much do you hate me right now?” The words whisper against my neck and send a shiver up my spine.
“Hard nine,” I say through gritted teeth, and his chest shakes against me in unreleased laughter. “Let. Me. Go.”
“Gladly,” he says, loosening his arm and reclining back onto the plush green pad.
I stand there for a minute, staring down at him, his head tipped back, eyes closed, laid out on the unicorn chair like a summer prince. At his long, tan legs stretched out in front of him, and the messy golden brown hair that skirts across his forehead. Asher has a swimmer’s body. Broad shoulders, slim waist. Lean muscles I wish I could look at without scowling. But I can’t, because Asher Marin is the absolute worst. And by the end of summer, I’m going to make him regret all of the summers that came before this one. All of the pranks and the snarky comments. It doesn’t matter who started this between us so long ago, because this summer I’m going to finish it.
I’m about to lay my towel on one of the hard plastic monstrosities on the opposite side of the little deck, but then stop. Asher may have speed and brute strength to his advantage, but I’m more patient. He’s a bomb, but I’m a sniper’s bullet.
“Enjoy your chair,” I say, a smile on my face. Then I turn and walk back toward the houses. I veer a little once I get to the top of the stairs, letting him wonder which house I’m going to and what I’ll do there. He can’t see me now; I’m blocked by the hedge of wild bushes that grow along the top of the hill. Let him get used to not knowing where I’m headed—because what I have planned for him this summer? He’ll never see it coming.
Asher
There’s a one-in-four chance Sidney Walters is going to murder me someday. Except no one will ever suspect her, because she’d be neurotic enough to make a checklist—or ten—and cover all of her bases. Sidney would do research (probably annotated) on how to hide my body. She’s been researching it for the last tenmonths, for all I know. Maybe since we were thirteen and started vacationing together here.
Even though Sidney’s favorite part of summer is screwing with me, shelooksinnocent. Like now; she is almost certainly about to soak all of my underwear in sugar water (that attracts ants and other bugs, in case you were wondering) or lace my body wash with something only detectable by dogs. And when the neighborhood Chihuahuas start trailing me through town she won’t even bat an eye.
It’s also possible she goes after my food—there was the time she used a syringe to put vinegar in the grapefruit I ate every morning. Total serial killer move, right? Sadly, Sidney could walk right into our cabin with a fistful of syringes and a backpack full of hair remover, and my mom wouldn’t blink an eye. She’d probably offer her a cup of coffee and ask how her senior year had gone before sending her on her way with a smile. Because Sidney Walters is a proverbial ray of sunshine—with everyone but me. Awesome, very likable (if I do say so myself) me.
I fought for this chair—threw half of my oatmeal away for it—so I’m sure as hell going to sit in it. Leaving now would be admitting fear, which is as good as admitting defeat when it comes to Sidney. I close my eyes, put on my headphones, and try to listen to the beats of my favorite song. But my mind keeps wandering back to my room, and if I remembered to put my things in all of their strategic spots. Summer (for me, at least) is about self-defense and preservation as much as it is about offensive strikes. Minimizing vulnerabilities. Making my attack zone smaller. I’m not sure when I started thinking like a Navy SEAL.
I try to mentally walk through everything on my dresser and remember what I left out, but I can’t visualize it. Instead, I focus on what I have lined up for Sidney this summer. I spend more time during the year than I’d like to admit thinking about these eight weeks of vacation. And this year in particular, itwas basically all I could think about for the last six months. Senioritis wasstrongwith me.
Could I do something more productive with my time this summer? Obviously. I could sit down and write that letter to Mr. Ockler. The one Dad has been on me about for months. A letter, not e-mail, because anything important comes in print, my dad says.All it takes is one letter, Ash. A quick note to show how passionate you are about financial planning.One letter, and in Dad’s eyes, I’ll be set for life. I’ll have an apprenticeship to work through college, and the second I graduate I’ll be ready to start building my own office. Walking door-to-door, telling people how I can help them enjoy their retirements. Just like Dad. All I have to do is write that letter—but thinking about pranking Sidney is so much more interesting.
I have a whole box of supplies, and to prevent it all from falling into enemy hands—Sidney’s hands—I have it stashed in the boathouse storage area underhercabin. With Sidney, it’s all about psychological warfare. She overthinks things more than anyone I’ve ever met. So when I need something I plan to stroll right into the boathouse in broad daylight, when she’s no more than twenty feet away. It’s sure to throw her off the scent—she’ll never believe I would hide anything that obviously.
Her first instinct will be to check, but then she’ll convince herself I’m just trying to distract her, or lure her into something, and she’ll decide not to go down there. Plus, it’s spider city in the boathouse; I can’t imagine her actually digging through the crap in there to get to my box without having a major bug-induced meltdown. And that would be its own kind of victory. A win for me, either way.
Sidney
My room—clad in dark wood paneling—is a little musty when I walk in. Probably it’s always a little musty, but I only noticeit the day we arrive each summer, before the scent takes up permanent residence in my nose and becomes my new normal. I don’t notice it again until I get home and unzip my bag, greeted by the damp earthiness of my vacation clothes. It’s not a bad smell; it’s almost comforting, the way it reminds me that for the next two months I can forget about test scores and papers, and focus on nothing but what my body can do when it’s racing through the water. And this summer, training will be my middle name. Because in ten short weeks I’ll be a collegiate swimmer. And I’ve been promising my mom for years now that I’m going to break her 1,650-yard freestyle record. The record that’s held for almost twenty-five years now. I’ll never have more time to train than I do this summer.Watch out, Mom, I’m coming for you.
I haul up my giant duffel bag, slamming it onto the squeaky bed that bounces like it’s a trampoline. The mossy-green comforter is the same one that’s been on this bed since I was twelve. Since that first summer we arrived at Five Pines Resort and Lake House A. I shove the wooden window open, letting the mid-June air, hot and wet, drift into my room. At home I’d die without air-conditioning—would murder and maim for it—but the heat isn’t the same here. We’re four hours north, in a little beach town that feels too small to exist outside of the months of June, July, and August. It’s always a little cooler here in Riverton—the breeze slides across the lake, like there’s some sort of spell over it, working in our favor as we lie out in the sun, draping ourselves over rafts and plastic chairs.
I abandon my bag—I should have unpacked last night when we got in, but it was late and the drive had zapped all of the energy out of me. But I can unpack later, when the sun is down and the water isn’t calling me. I make my way down the little hallway (also covered in brown wood paneling) and into the kitchen. The kitchen in Lake House A is a fraction of the size of our kitchen at home. It’s what Mom calls a postage stamp, tucked into a corner across from the little dining room and living room. The kitchenand dining room look out onto the yard and the neighboring house—Lake House B—and the living room has a row of windows that look out over the kidney bean–shaped lake.
Mom is unpacking bags and boxes, setting our toaster and a few pans onto the little counter—apparently all of us were a little lazy when we got in later than usual last night. Two months is too long for garage-sale pots and pans, Mom said the second summer we came here. She swore in the kitchen a lot that year. That summer, it was mostly just her and me. Mom working on her stained glass, and me turning into an almost-literal fish. We came up as soon as school let out and Mom had been set free from her classroom. Dad came up for a few sporadic weeks, and most weekends. That year, Lake House B was occupied by a nice older couple, who sat on their porch and brought freshly baked cookies out to the bonfire at night. The Wortmans.
I’m about to hit the door when Mom’s voice stops me. “Hey.” I pause, hoping I haven’t missed my chance at a clean break from unpacking, but knowing I have. “Can you run out and get me a few things from the store?”
“Big or little?”
“Little,” Mom clarifies.
