My mom adjusts the volume down a handful of notches.
“Do you think we’re jumping the gun, Arch? Maybe we should have opted for an inspection before we arrived.” She draws the purple frames of her glasses down the bridge of her nose, revealing a pair of worried eyes.
“Nah.” He shakes his tousled hair. It curls at the ends just before meeting the collar of his AC/DC T-shirt. “I’ve seen enough of these; I know what to look for.”
That’s what he thinks, Mr. Architect. He may design custom homes for a living, but if it doesn’t have door handles that stick and floorboards that creak, then it’s not for him.
I choose to agree with my mom. Not because a ten-year-old has any worthwhile knowledge on the subject, but because I wasn’t given any stake in this decision. I thought I’d be spending my summer playing night games with Cozy and Baker at the park, not living in Timbuktu with my parents.
In fact, it never even crossed my mind they might consider this. But here we are—one real estate auction site and fully furnished cabin in Bear Lake later. Forty miles into a five-hour and three-minute drive away from our roomy suburban home in Boise, Idaho—I can’t imagine this place is any better than that.
I tug a chunk off a Nerds Rope with my teeth, elbowing a wall of cardboard boxes. I groan and nurse the tip with my hand. If it weren’t for the brand-new sketchbook in my lap, I’d be sulking right about now.
“I packed mouse traps,” my mom warns him, and I cringe.
It’s mouse-infested too? What has he done.
She pushes her glasses back into place and drops her gaze to theBetter Homes and Gardens: Summer Editionmagazine draped across her lap. I watch the trimmed salt-and-pepper whiskers of my dad’s five o’clock shadow lift in the rearview mirror.
“Sure, hon. And I brought the cheese.” He weaves his hand through the pile of belongings heaped in the center console and squeezes her bare knee.
My face must be frozen in a grimace because he asks, “What’s wrong, Teddy Bear?”
“Nothing,” I say, forcing my feelings down. I may be moping inside, but I can’t show it.
“Don’t worry, ladies, it will be the perfect adventure!” he says. Then he turns the radio back up four notches and continues his drumming, while I lose myself to a portrait of the summer I was hoping to have.
As an only child, I’ve learned to entertain myself by drawing. I carry a sketchbook like an organ I can’t live without. I guess exploring your creative talents comes naturally when you have an acrylic painter for a mom.
When an update from Siri tracks forty-one miles to our destination, I peel my eyes from my sketch to peer out the window. My jaw hinges open.
I don’t actually know what Timbuktu looks like, but the image I conjured up in my brain is not this. Steep rocky cliffs wind a trail through the Logan Canyon Scenic Byway. Countless evergreens stretch to touch puffy clouds scattered across the palest of blue skies.
I roll down my window, letting my hair tornado around me. The contrast of the sunshine’s warmth blankets my skin. Between the scents of pine and damp earth, I fight the urge to close my eyes and revel in my overloaded senses. We’re not in Boise anymore, that’s for sure, but maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
We pull onto a narrow road that curves like a centipede around a large body of turquoise water. Cabins of every shape, size, and color come into view, stamping the shoreline.
“Do you ladies mind if we make a pit stop before the cabin? I’ve heard of this place that makes incredible raspberry milkshakes,” he says, turning over his shoulder at the stop light to look at me.
My eyes brighten and I nod, sitting a little taller in my seat. If there’s one thing I can get on board for, it’s dessert.
A hand-painted sign welcomes us to the town of Garden City, population 600—home to a marina, safety station, ATV rental shop, and a handful of family-owned restaurants.
My dad drifts our car into a grassy parking lot tucked behind a small shack. Bright blue umbrella-covered picnic tables circle the building, and an oversized sign in the shape of a shake cup advertises LaBeau’s down the front of it.
The line to the takeout window snakes a good ten families deep as my parents rattle off the options from the menu. But I’m too distracted by the family in front of us to notice. A shortwoman in a neon pink coverup, her hair piled in a bun on top of her head, fields a twelve-way thumb war between six boys. They look like they just stepped straight off a speedboat with hair dried backward, wind-chapped cheeks, and all sporting matching fluorescent-patterned boardshorts.
“Stop it, right this instant,” she demands.
I stare in fascination as every boy ignores their mother’s request. My head tips forward as if my shrunken eyelids can shield me from witnessing the entire scene. I can’t recall a single time I’ve ever disobeyed my parents. But these boys wrestle and mock each other like they don’t have a care in the world.
When their mother fails to break them apart, she herds them out of line to the side of the building like a pack of wolves, leaving her very flustered husband to order alone. I crane my neck to see what will happen next and am struck by a twinge of jealousy.
I wish Cozy were here.
She may not be the built-in best friend that a sibling would be, but living down the street where I can walk to her house is much better than miles apart for the summer.
When the dad in front of us finishes ordering an army of food, the teenage waiter ushers my family forward and takes our order (three cheeseburgers, two raspberry shakes, and a large fry to share).
