Phantom Summer Read online

Mom goes to work wearing a pair of purple booty shorts and a white tank top that has the Twin Peaks Steakhouse and Bar logo across the boobs. It's clearly a rip off of the Hooters uniform. She tells me there's food in the fridge and to help myself, then she gives me this awkward as hell kiss on the forehead like I'm three years old.

  The back door is a set of glass sliding doors that open into a small patio that leads to the beach. I stand on the concrete patio and let the salty air wash over me. A faded lawn chair and a little table are out here, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sits on top.

  The beach is empty as far as I can see, with only the remnants of sand castles showing any signs of life. This isn't what I expected of Sterling Island. I know the Texas coast isn't as glamorous as Hawaii or the Florida Keys, but this beach is a dump. The waves are teensy little baby waves, like tiny wrinkles in the ocean. The water is brown. Black. Sort of clear on the shore. The sand is just sand. Ugly sand.

  I sink into the lawn chair and watch the beach get wrinkly like old lady hands until I fall asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Mom's passed out in her recliner, the bottle of alcohol still gripped in her hand. I have no idea what time it is, only that it's dark. I slept all afternoon, in that ratty old lawn chair, and it was still had the best sleep I've had in weeks. Maybe being away from Brendan's memory is exactly what I need.

  Unfortunately, now I'm awake. Very awake. I take the bottle from her warm hands and hold it up to my nose, inhaling. The smell is so strong, my nostrils are on fire. I look at Mom and then back at the bottle. Then I look at the clock on the microwave. It's two-thirty in the morning. And what Mom doesn't know won't hurt her.

  I take a swig. And then another. I shudder, letting the liquid sear down my throat. Every breath I take burns. This is serious liquor—not the wine cooler baby stuff Brendan and used to drink when his parents were out of town.

  The room starts to feel suffocatingly small, so I go outside. My toes sink into the sand as I walk closer to the water. It is cool and soft and crunchy all at the same time. I take a deep breath and let the salty air fill my lungs. It feels amazing. I take another deep breath. The air cleanses my soul. Someone far away screams in delight as she is chased around the sand by a muscular man in board shorts. Their life is normal. I walk a few steps closer to the water, and then closer still until my toes reach the wet sand. I wish my life was normal. I wish I was here with friends, with Brendan. Or even with my own family, but a real family, not a broken, drunk, family. Water rushes toward me in a low wave, only a foot high. The water curls over and splashes down, swooping over my toes and feet and then past me before receding back into the ocean. It takes sand with it when it goes, and I feel the tug at my feet as the sand around my toes sucks into the ocean. It's almost enchanting.

  Far away on the beach, someone douses their camp fire with water. The flames sizzle and smoke bursts into the air. The girl's laughter slowly wanes as they pack up their stuff and get ready to leave. It's late. It's time to go home to their warm houses and sleep in their cozy beds. Soon, I am the only person on the beach for as far as I can see.

  I know I won't sleep tonight.

  I must not think about the bad things.

  The bad things creep into my head anyway. Amber calling me out on not having a cell phone in home ec. "God, even poor kids have phones these days. You must be some kind of uber poor."

  Mrs. Morgan telling me my grades needed to improve or I'd have to repeat my junior year. Brendan kissing me in the tree house and then telling me he has a girlfriend.

  Me getting pissed off and telling him to leave.

  Here is a list of things to say to someone when they're about to drive away:

  "Have a safe trip."

  "Be careful.”

  "See you later, alligator."

  Here is something you should never say, under any circumstances, no matter how mad you are:

  "I never want to fucking see you again."

  Because they just might die. And you really won't ever see them again. And no matter how mad you were at the time, it will never be worth it. You will never learn to forgive yourself and you will never feel okay about what you did.

  Stop, I scream inside my head. Just stop thinking. Don't think about it. Don't picture it. Don't remember it. Just stop.

  I'm six red lights away from Mom's apartment when the feelings start to go away. I'm walking along the seawall, truck keys gripped in my hand in case I need to stab someone in self-defense. It's late, very late, but the sky is cloudy and luminescent with the full moon. All the shops along the beach are closed but most of them still have lights on, so it isn't dark. I'm not alone when it isn't dark.

  I try to take it all in as if I'm on vacation. The lights, the souvenir shops with fake mermaids and big fiberglass crabs by the doors. By morning this place will be bustling with energy and tourists with big cameras hanging around their necks. But now, as the dark sticky air touches my face, I feel like this beach is mine alone. The waves crash along the shore, just like they do in the movies. There are no manmade sounds; just nature. I walk along the seawall, passing the red lights as they turn automatically from red to green to yellow and back to red. No cars are on the street, but the lights dance and change colors anyway.

  My stomach growls. The boardwalk turns to concrete and the public beach ends with a big wooden fence. Private property it says. Up ahead are gray buildings, some with several floors and a few parking garages. It looks like a hospital or a business park. I stop at the big, uninviting fence. Behind me, the sky is still a misty gray, the street lights are all green, and I have no clue how far it is to get back to Mom's apartment. I should probably turn around. But I know better. If I go back, the bad thoughts will return. I won't sleep. I'll end up sitting in the Ford crying until it becomes a prison. And it's too precious for that.

  So I bend under the fence and keep walking.

  Chapter 5

  Half the streetlights are broken. Between tiny bursts of dingy light bulbs, everything is black, black, black. This isn't what Sterling Island is supposed to be about. The commercials call it a place for tourism and historical richness. What a joke. The only thing I've seen for blocks is buildings and parking lots and nothingness.

  A rock tumbles across the sidewalk in front of me.

  "You aren't from around here."

  I freeze. The voice came from my right. At least I think it did. It happened so suddenly, and I was lost in a daydream that I hadn't really known what happened until after I heard it. I squint to see under the bright street lamp overhead. "So?" I shoot back, trying to sound sarcastic and so not intimidated. Footsteps come from the darkness. He's walking down stairs, one at a time by the sound of it, like he's placing both feet on each step before he takes the next one. I still can't see him.

  I spit my gum on the ground, all gross and man-like. If I look unattractive then I won't be kidnapped. But if he even tries, he'll be sorry when he gets a Ford key in the eyeball. A shadow appears under the glow of the street light. It's small and thin. It doesn't look like it belongs to a mass murderer. I breathe a little easier.

  "No girl around here would visit The Face by herself."

  "The Face?" I ask. I chance a look around me and see nothing but buildings and a parking lot with one car parked in it. Why hadn't I noticed that car before?

  The shadow takes a few steps closer and stops four feet away from me. He's about my age, maybe a little older. There's something weird about him, and it's not just because his clothes are so black it makes his head appear to be floating in the darkness. He's really…sharp. His face is unreadable. His features are so sharp and precise they almost scare me. His hair looks like it was just cut, all sharp ended and straight.

  "Turn around," he says, pointing behind me.

  I know there’s nothing but a big gray building behind us. It's several stories tall and has no windows. I have no idea why he tells me to turn around, but I do. And I see it immediately. Dark gray on the g
ray wall, it's like a portrait of a man from long ago. He has bushy hair and long sideburns and a stern look on his face.

  "Holy shit," I say. The guy with his crisp shiny leather jacket and silky black hair is suddenly right next to me. I watch him as he looks at the face on the wall. He smirks.

  "It's always here," he says. "Though sometimes it moves."

  "What, like a movie?" I ask, realizing how stupid I sound.

  "No, its position on the wall. You see the upper left corner?" I look where he's pointing. The wall there is shiny, not textured like the rest of the wall. "Yeah."

  "That's where he first showed up. They sand blasted it off, and then he appeared over there." He points to the bottom of the wall to another shiny spot of concrete.

  "No way," I say. The face on the wall is so realistic. It looks like someone spray painted it with a can of primer and a stencil. "Who's doing it?"

  He looks sideways at me, searching my eyes as if he can't possibly believe that I don't know the legend of how this painting got on the wall. From this angle he kind of looks like one of those models in fashion magazines. He's slightly too thin for a guy, entirely too clean and although I can’t believe I’m going to say it, chiseled. Chiseled like some kind of freaky serial killer. I bet he's an asshole. He's probably making all of this up just to screw with me.

  "No one does it, it just is."

  "So it's like paranormal?" I snort.

  "You really aren't from around here."

  I pull out my ponytail and redo it. "Well that's a good thing I guess, since people around here believe in shit that doesn't exist."

  "It would be terrible to go through life not believing in things that are right in front of your eyes."

  I look back at the wall. His voice is softer now. "Where are you staying?"

  "A hotel," I say, trying to remember one of the hotels I passed on the way to the beach. I'm not sure why I need to lie about this. Lying just comes natural for me. Sometimes I can't shut it off.

  "Do you need a walk back?"

  "No." I turn and walk away as fast as I can without making it look like I'm scared. Within a few steps, I hear him following me. "I'm fine, you know," I say over my shoulder. He falls into step with me. I'm starting to get winded so I slow down. He slows down too. "I would feel better if I walked with you."

  "Ah, so you're the scared one," I say. He smiles and brushes hair out of his eyes. "I am never scared."

  I focus on not thinking that he looks hot under the glow of street lights. "Look, if you're going to murder or rape me or something, you should just do it now. I don't want to walk all the way back to town with this weird will he or won't he question looming over my head."

  He laughs, and the sound bursts into the night air, giving me chills. I shudder to shake them away. He looks at me like I've just said the funniest thing in the world. "I don't rape people."

  I wait for him to tell me he also doesn't murder people.

  And then he shoves his hands in his pockets and laughs again.

  Chapter 6

  I wake up to the sound of seagulls making their weird quacking sound all around me. There's a wicked sharp pain in my neck from sleeping in an awkward position in the lawn chair on the patio. "Mom?" I ask, sitting up and rubbing my neck. That's when I remember I'm not inside.

  The beach is more beautiful in the daylight as the rising sun sparkles on the ocean. The waves are still, tiny little nothings. Maybe they aren't so horrible and pathetic. They are kind of calm and peaceful. And they can't swallow you whole. That's always a good quality.

  A man and woman jog along the beach with their dog. I watch the dog chase after the water and then run away when it crashes back on shore. I wonder what time it is. For a second I look at the rising sun and try to guess, but who am I kidding? I'm no freaking weather man. My mouth tastes like sewer, and last night comes back to me in a fog. Had I slept out here all night? Was my walk just a dream?

  No guys besides Brendan talked to me back at home. Definitely not tall, dark, mysterious guys with an interest in freaky ghost faces on concrete buildings.

  Guys like that, minus the ghost thing, are the sort of guys who would have thrown food at me as I walked past him in the cafeteria of my old school. But last night he didn't throw greasy pizza squares at me. If anything, he genuinely cared about my safety since he followed me all the way back to the Victorian Condos, a hotel I pretended to be staying at with my Mom. Thankfully, he didn't follow me past the doors to the lobby and I was able to make it back to the apartments a few minutes later. Without a house key, I crashed on the lawn chair.

  I try the patio door, and it swings wide open. Mom's snores filter in from her bedroom. I go to the fridge to find something to eat. The freezer is full of frozen TV dinners and the fridge has about fifty Lunchables, a few cases of beer and some orange juice, low pulp. I grab my wallet and head out to find something more suitable for breakfast.

  I get two bagels and coffees at a kiosk on the beach. When I return home, Mom is awake, yelling at the television, telling Judge Judy what she should do to the defendant. I set the cups on the coffee table and hand mom a bagel. "Coffee," she says, as if the one word sums up her entire being. She takes one and gulps it without adding any of the creamer or sugar packets. "You're an angel, Taylor."

  "So what are you doing today?" I ask, hoping the answer isn't to sit here and watch daytime television all day. I sip at my coffee because it's so hot, but Mom gulps hers, tilting her head back until it's all gone. "I picked up an extra shift at work today," she says, picking pieces off the bagel and eating them. "The question is more of what are you doing today?"

  "I don't know,” I say. Her whiskey bottle is on the end table. I wonder if she noticed that it's a little emptier than it should be. But there's like three more bottles in the fridge, so I doubt it. When my coffee is gone Mom looks at me and says, "I love you, Taylor. But if you're going to live with me, you need to find a job. I barely get by with just my own mouth to feed."

  "Right," I say, remembering our conversation a week ago when I had called and asked to stay with her this summer. Of course I need a job. Money is the whole reason I pawned Grandma's ring. "I'll look for a job today."

  Her arm slides around my shoulders and gives me a good hard squeeze. The motherly squeeze that only mothers, no matter how unmaternal, know how to do. I close my eyes and take in all the warm feelings that come from that squeeze. Everything will work out. Sure, my boyfriend is dead and my tree house is gone, and I'm living on a couch for the time being – but maybe that's okay. Maybe someone's life can be totally flipped upside down and the only thing that happens is that life goes on and things are fine.

  Maybe this is the answer to the question that has been running through my head all day. Why am I not freaking out about this?

  Chapter 7

  My stomach grumbles as I walk along The Strand. Tourists are everywhere, which gives me comfort in not being the only girl wandering around aimlessly in this part of town. The Strand is a long road, made of bricks instead of asphalt, which looks pretty old and historic but is full of modern day shops and bars. It's like a poor man's version of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I stand at an intersection, waiting for the neon walk sign to switch from stop to go. My plan is to stop at every shop and ask if they're hiring. But judging by the fact that I have no shadow, I'd say it's lunch time.

  I pass interesting museums and historical places along The Strand, but it takes me a while to find a food joint that doesn't look like a formal suit and tie type of place. When I finally find The Mexican Café, I order a burrito to go and check the neon clock on their wall. It's only a little past noon.

  I'm so bored, I could cry.

  And every time I feel like crying, I know what to do: make a list. Center myself. First thing on the list – eat. I finish the last few bites of my burrito. Done. Second thing on the list – find a job.

  With the money I have burning a hole in my pocket, and the next three shops on The Stra
nd clothing stores, I decide to compromise with myself and find an outfit that will help me land a job. The holey jeans and tank top I'm wearing now would only get me a job at a seedy diner. And I'm not working at a diner again. If I'm meant to have a new life in Sterling, I will make sure it's completely new.

  I buy three new outfits, one of them a red sundress which I wear out the door, and an oversized handbag to store everything. As I step out of the Maxine Boutique and onto the cobblestone sidewalk on The Strand, I look up at the sky. Beautiful white clouds and rays of sunshine and seagulls overhead bring a sense of peace to my heart. This isn't where I would have pictured myself three months ago. But it's not so bad after all.

  The road is made of old bricks and you could totally break your neck if you walked down it in high heels. Good thing I'm in a new pair of flip flops. All the buildings are from the nineteen hundreds or even earlier. They've been turned into restaurants, antique shops, bars, boutiques and museums. It's an entirely different atmosphere from the trendy part of the island along the beach. I stop in every shop and ask if they are taking job applications. Most of them tell me no.

  One of them says yes. "Of course, dear," an old woman tells me as she rifles through papers under the information desk. "We have several positions open." She slides an application across the counter to me. I'm at the Railroad museum. An elderly couple reads the sign on an old photograph of a train in the corner of the room. Besides them and the woman behind the counter, I'm the only other visitor.

  "Do you want the summer job?" she asks. I take a pen from the jar next to me and start filling out information, leaving the address part blank. "Do you have any full time positions?"

  She raises an eyebrow. "Surely you don't want to work full time in the summer! You're way too young for that."

  I force a smile and try not to say the rude things I'm thinking. "I'm trying to work so I can save money for college." This seems to impress her because she puts on a pair of reading glasses and gives me the look-over, like a grandma. "We do have a full time receptionist position open, but are you still in high school?"