“Um, no. Haven’t gotten down to the beach very much.” I will away a blush.
Thankfully, Hana doesn’t notice, or if she does she doesn’t say anything. “I know. I was looking for you.”
“You were?” I shoot her a look from the corner of my eye.
She rolls her eyes. I’m glad to see her attitude is coming back online. “I mean, not actively. But I’ve been down there a few times, yeah. Haven’t seen you.”
“I’ve been working a lot,” I say. I don’t add, to avoid East End, actually.
“You still running?”
“No. Too hot.”
“Yeah, me too. Figured I’d give it a rest until fall.” We walk a few more paces in silence and then Hana squints at me, tilting her head. “So what else?”
Her question catches me off guard. “What do you mean, what else?”
“That is what I mean. I mean, what else? Come on, Lena. It’s the last summer, remember? The last summer of no responsibilities and all that good stuff. So what have you been doing? Where have you been?”
“I—nothing. I haven’t done anything.” This was the whole point—to stay out of trouble, to do as little as possible—but saying the words makes me feel kind of sad. The summer seems to be narrowing rapidly, shrinking down to a fine point before I’ve even had a chance to enjoy it. It’s already almost August. We’ll have another five weeks of this weather before the wind starts cutting in at night and the leaves get trimmed with edges of gold. “What about you?” I say. “Good summer so far?”
“The usual.” Hana shrugs. “I’ve been going to the beach a lot, like I said. Been babysitting for the Farrels some.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. Hana’s always had a thing against children. She’s always staying they’re too sticky and clingy, like Jolly Ranchers that have been left too long in a hot pocket.
She makes a face. “Yeah, unfortunately. My parents decided I needed to ‘practice managing a household,’ or some crap like that. You know they’re actually making me work out a budget? Like figuring out how to spend sixty dollars a week is going to teach me about paying bills, or responsibility or something.”
“Why? It’s not like you’ll even have a budget.” I don’t mean to sound bitter but there it is, the difference in our futures cutting between us again.
We go silent after that. Hana looks away, squinting slightly against the sunlight. Maybe I’m just feeling depressed about how quickly the summer is cycling by, but memories start coming thick and fast, like a deck of cards being reshuffled in my head: Hana swinging open the bathroom door that first day in second grade, folding her arms as she blurted out, Is it because of your mom?; staying up past midnight one of the few times we were ever allowed to have a sleepover, giggling and imagining amazing and impossible people for our matches some day, like the president of the United States or the stars of our favorite movies; running side by side, legs beating in tandem on the pavement, like the rhythm of a single heartbeat; bodysurfing at the beach and buying triple cones of ice cream on the way home, arguing about whether vanilla or chocolate was better.
Best friends for more than ten years and in the end it all comes down to the edge of a scalpel, to the motion of a laser beam through the brain and a flashing surgical knife. All that history and its importance gets detached, floats away like a severed balloon. In two years—in two months—Hana and I will pass each other on the streets with nothing more than a nod—different people, different worlds, two stars revolving silently, separated by thousands of miles of dark space.
Segregation has it all wrong. We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.
Maybe Hana’s feeling nostalgic too, because she suddenly comes out with, “Remember all our plans for this summer? All the things we said we’d finally do?”
I don’t even skip a beat. “Break into the Spencer Prep pool—”
“—and go swimming in our underwear,” Hana finishes.
I crack a smile. “Hop the fence at Cherryhill Farms—”
“—and eat the maple syrup straight out of the barrels.”
“Run all the way from the Hill to the old airport.”
“Ride our bikes down Suicide Point.”
“Try and find that rope swing Sarah Miller told us about. The one above Fore River.”
“Sneak into the movie theater and see four movies back to back.”
“Finish off the Hobgoblin Sundae at Mae’s.” I’m fully smiling now and Hana is too. I start quoting, “‘A gargantuan sundae for enormous appetites only, featuring thirteen scoops, whipped cream, hot fudge—’”
Hana jumps in, “‘And all the toppings your little monsters can handle!’”
Both of us laugh. We’ve probably read that sign a thousand times. We’ve been debating making a second attack on the Hobgoblin since fourth grade: That’s when we tried the first time. Hana insisted on going there for her birthday and took me along. Both of us spent the rest of the night rolling around on the floor of her bathroom, and we’d only made it through seven of the thirteen scoops.
We’ve reached my street. A few kids are playing in the middle of the road. It’s a makeshift game of soccer: They’re kicking a can around and shouting, bodies brown and shiny with sweat. I see Jenny among them. As I’m watching, a girl tries to elbow her out of the way, and Jenny turns around and pushes her to the ground. The younger girl starts to wail. No one comes out of any of the houses, even as the girl’s voice crescendos to a high-pitched scream, like a siren going off. A curtain or a dish towel flutters in a window: Other than that, the street is silent, motionless.
I’m desperate to keep riding the wave of good feeling, to fix things between Hana and me, even if it’s only for a month. “Listen, Hana”—I feel like I’m working the words past an enormous lump in my throat; I’m almost as nervous as I was before the evaluations—“they’re playing The Defective Detective in the park tonight. Double feature, Michael Wynn. We could go if you want.” The Defective Detective is this film franchise Hana and I used to love when we were little, about a famous detective who’s actually incompetent, and his dog sidekick: The dog always ends up solving the crimes. A lot of actors have played the lead role, but our favorite was Michael Wynn. When we were kids, we used to pray to get matched with him.
“Tonight?” Hana’s smile falters, and my stomach sinks. Stupid, stupid, I think. It doesn’t matter anyway.
“It’s okay if you can’t. No worries. Just an idea,” I say quickly, looking away so she won’t see how disappointed I am.
“No—I mean, I want to, but—” Hana sucks in a breath. I hate this, hate how awkward we both are. “I kind of have this party”—she corrects herself quickly—“this thing I’m supposed to go to with Angelica Marston.”
My stomach gets that hollowed-out feeling. It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me—such bullshit. “Since when do you hang out with Angelica Marston?”