Supernatural Summer

Skye Genaro

Kobo Edition. Electronic edition published by Brighid Press, August, 2013. Copyright © 2012 by Skye Genaro.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo copyright © 2007 by Simona Moon,
simonaion.blogspot.com.
 

Cover design copyright © August, 2012 by Brighid Press.

Joshua.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was seated with three of his lacrosse teammates at one of the long tables at the far end of the covered patio. They were having a great time flicking pickle slices at the garbage can and squirting each other with straws full of Coke.

"Totally juvenile," my best friend Audrey said.

"He could set his farts on fire right here on the patio and I wouldn't care," I responded.

"Uck. You've got it bad."

Her tone was mocking, but I didn't care. I was too busy ogling from a safe distance.

The open-air restaurant stretched in front of me,
and a light breeze blew across the veranda. The lunch crowd had thinned, and the few remaining customers sat on the patio beyond the covered section, basking in the Santa Barbara sun. From my position, half-hidden by the cash register, I had an unobstructed view of Joshua. Brown hair lightened by the sun. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders muscled from football in the fall and lacrosse in the spring.

He'd been in my class since seventh grade, but I'd rarely uttered a word to him. Now I was working at Backspace Burger for the summer and had come to find out this was the lacrosse team's favorite hangout. I should have been elated. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity to connect? The serendipity I'd longed for? No. This was utter disaster.

Audrey opened the shaved ice machine and stabbed at its inner workings with a screwdriver. "I predict this will be a dream-come-true year for you."

"How so?"

"You and the Josh-hottie are going to become great make-out buddies," she said.

"Yeah, like he even knows I exist." Audrey's proclamation thrilled me, but I knew enough not to get my hopes up. She was famous for making overblown predictions about herself and other people:

Mrs. Jackson will get pregnant and we won't have to suffer through her Sophomore Lit class; I'll be recruited off the street to star in a blockbuster movie, but we'll always be
BFFs no matter how famous I get.

And my personal favorite:
You'll go through a growth spurt and be shopping for C-cup bras by your sixteenth birthday.
By some wicked twist of fate, it was Audrey's chest that grew two sizes, adding more curves to her already enviable figure. Next to her, I felt like a pixie sidekick.
 
 

As time went by, I learned to dismiss her prophecies as soon as they came out of her mouth. Until recently. Not long ago, Audrey had made a prediction that was coming true daily. One loathsome, horrible statement that cast a black shadow over my days:
Summer, your affliction is going to get worse, and you are going to let it rule your life.
 

The idea turned my stomach, but she was right. Here I was, hiding behind the cash register when I should have been looking for an excuse to talk to Josh.

I'd spent years waiting for this opportunity, evolving from a weird, home-schooled kid to an accepted—if overlooked—member of my high school. In middle school, I sailed through classes and got good grades. While the popular kids were sharing tips on sniffing glue, I was trying to fit in by raising my hand in class and impressing the teacher with my knowledge of feminist poets and hippie capitalism—topics my mother taught my brother and me with passion.

Now headed into my junior year, life was looking great. I had money to spend, a small circle of friends, and a great tan. Then, two weeks ago, without warning, my body began to betray me in ways nobody could ever have imagined.

"This might not be my break-out year, man-wise," I said.

"Because of your bizarre affliction?"

I gave her my best
well, duh
face.

"Not everyone's going to spaz out when you show them. I mean, look how well I took it."

I rolled my eyes. When I'd invited Audrey to my house to show her how I could telekinetically move my desk chair across the floor just by changing my mood, she screamed and ran out of the room. Just for fun, I sent the chair chasing her down the hallway. It took some coaxing to get her to come out of the bathroom.

"You thought I was possessed," I said.

"Yeah, but, like, only for a minute," she countered. "Now, I think you rock. You've got to embrace this for what it is: the coolest pubescent transformation ever."

I scrunched my face. "
Pubescent
? Could you think of a grosser word?"

"From the Latin
pubes
as in—oh my, look who needs a refill."

Audrey's gaze had shifted to the patio, where Joshua eased his long legs out from under the table and rose, his soda cup in hand. He strode toward the counter.

Audrey tossed the screwdriver aside and grabbed a dishrag. She looked like she was planning an exit strategy.

"Don't you dare leave me here," I hissed.

"Don't get your panties in a wad. I'd never do anything that wasn't in your best interest."

Joshua's eyes were steady on mine as he approached. He smiled. I smiled back and took a deep breath. I flicked my eyes at Audrey and whispered, "Okay, I got this, but stay back here in case anything weird starts to happen, alright?"

Audrey held her hand to her ear, pretending to hear someone call her name.

"What's that? Zombie invasion in section two? I'm on my way!" She skirted around the end of the counter and onto the patio, where she re-arranged chairs and brushed invisible crumbs off freshly wiped tables.

"Audrey!" I whisper-yelled after her.

She knew what would happen when Joshua started talking to me. She knew, and she'd abandoned me anyway.

"Hey," Josh said.

"Oh, hey Josh."
Everything's cool,
I silently reassured myself.
I'm casual and relaxed and in control.
 

"Is the shaved ice machine working?" Joshua leaned on the counter. His voice was low like we were sharing a secret.

A thrill swept through me, beginning with a tingling in my toes that surged up through my legs, past my pounding chest, and settled in my cheeks. I clung to this wave of energy, willing it to stay inside my body or, at the very least, quietly dissipate into the atmosphere.

But it was no use. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the pot of daisies at the end of the counter. The flower heads that had been reaching for the sunlit patio homed in on the bliss radiating from my aura. Slowly but discernably, they forgot the lure of the sun's radiance and strained their tender green necks toward me.  

I shifted to one side, hiding the flowers from Joshua's view.

"Um, shaved ice? Doubtful. Audrey was trying to fix it, so we'll probably need to call the repair guy." It sounded kind of snotty, but she'd bailed on me. "Can I get you…" I gestured at his empty cup.

"No, I'm good," he said, and he tossed it over the counter and into the garbage can in a clean arc.

An awkward moment passed while I stared at him, wondering if he'd really wanted shaved ice at all. He fidgeted and cleared his throat. I was afraid he would leave.

"I was going to try out for girl's lacrosse this year," I blurted.

"Really, what position?"

Shoot. He would have to ask that. I knew nothing, and I mean
nothing
about the sport, except that Joshua looked incredibly hot in his outfit, er, uniform.

"Um, I'm not sure? I never got a chance to think about it. My mother's convinced that any sport where the players wield sticks is an activity that propagates violence."

"That's a pretty harsh stance," he said.

"She's got wacky theories about everything."

"I mean, croquet players seem pretty harmless." Joshua smiled. His left cheek dimpled, and my legs went soggy. It was always his left cheek.

I shook my head. "You might think so, but actually? Mass murderers in the making."

"And badminton?"

"Gateway to white slavery."

He laughed. My pulse raced. The pile of napkins next to the register fluttered toward the ceiling.

"Whoa." Josh jerked back, but thankfully, the smile never left his face.

In one swift move, I swept the napkins together and returned them to the holder. "They do that a lot. There's, like, a wind tunnel through here?" I begged myself to hold it together, if only for a few minutes more. I had to find out what was on his mind.

Josh looked over his shoulder at his buddies. They were pushing back their chairs and gathering their trays. "So," he said, and he smiled again.

The To-Go menus quivered in their stand. I shoved them aside and leaned toward him. Lifted my chin and softened my eyes, hoping that I looked alluring.

"Yes?"

"Your friend Audrey, is she going out with anyone?"

Oh no. A sour taste hit my tongue and I eased myself out of his personal space.

"Not that I know of," I answered. My smile never waivered even though I felt like I'd been set up for a painful blow.

The flowers that had been drawn to me swung away and aimed their dainty heads toward the sun. The cash register
chinged
loudly, and I jumped. Josh gave me a strange look and pulled away from the register. Then the phone rang. Always the phone. I did my best to ignore it.

"Why do you ask?" I said. But the phone's clanging unnerved me. It always seemed decibels louder at times like this, when I knew it was possessed by a phantom energy and there was nobody on the line.

"Don't you need to get that?" Josh asked.

"Yeah, I guess." He didn't know it would stop ringing on its own, after he left, as soon as my downtrodden heart stopped shooting its sad, electric current into the nearby appliances.

I turned to the wall behind me and picked up the receiver. A series of beeps and electronic moans were the only sounds coming through the earpiece. An ache spread through my chest as Josh got up and headed toward his friends. Then I did the same thing as always, when I had to answer the phone even when I knew nobody was there.

"Palisades Bistro. Yes. We close at nine-thirty." I spoke these words into the ether, in response to the ghostly hum coming through the receiver, and watched Josh leave without looking back.

*****

Audrey offered to give me a ride home, but I insisted on walking. I told her I needed time alone and left her with the impression that I was still pissed because she left me to my own devices with Joshua. I didn't have the strength to tell her he was probably going to ask her out.

I tried to console myself. Told myself that Audrey was getting the date because she had that zing factor the guys loved; I shouldn't see this as personal failure. Still, the look on his face told me everything I needed to know.
Steer clear of the freaky chick
. Or, at least, that's how I read it.

I reached the front gate to our house and walked up the path leading to the porch. When people visit for the first time, they usually ooh and aah at the gardens that lead to our towering Victorian. They gape at the front porch and comment on the embellishments and scrollwork. It was a pretty house, with a kind of fairy tale appeal.

The gardens were in full bloom, and the trellises were heavy with blossoms. Low-growing plants tumbled onto the flagstone path. That is, until I stepped into their territory. The birds might have been singing and bees flitting from blossom to blossom in a happy trance, but I saw none of this. Everything around me felt dead and gray.

As I moved through the garden, the plants receded from the flagstone. Halfway to the door, I stopped to look at a patch of lilies near my feet. The entire plant pulled back, strained away from me as far as their stems would allow. I stepped closer, and the tips of its long, sword-like leaves began to brown and curl inward. I stomped onto the porch and slammed the screen door behind me.  

Sitar music floated from the parlor-turned-studio. I winced, realizing I'd probably interrupted my mom's class. I peered through the French doors leading to the studio to see what New-Age exercise fad she was teaching today.

A dozen women sat with their eyes closed and their legs folded beneath them. Their upper bodies flailed in a rhythmic free-form display. They twisted and writhed, undulated to the music, arms flopping about like wet noodles and jaws falling slack as they inhaled the beat. They looked like my schoolmates when they dropped acid at Carey Morgan's summer party.

The music skipped a beat and began to scramble and warp. The lights in the studio flickered. Everyone opened their eyes and looked up at the light fixture.