The Summer of Lost Wishes (13 page)

“Not yet,” Rooks says. “Let’s ride the
Ferris wheel. I mean, we have to. It’s like a county fair
tradition. You can’t go to something like this and not ride
it.”

“Ferris wheel? With Mr. I Don’t Do Thrill
Rides?” I ask. I shake my head. “No way. I’d prefer to not go home
covered in puke.”

He throws his head back laughing. “I can do
the Ferris wheel,” he says. “I could do the other stuff, but I hate
how it makes me dizzy for an hour afterward. Hector loves that kind
of stuff, so I was really just trying to get rid of him.”

The Ferris wheel glows purple ahead of us.
The lights spin around, changing colors like a kaleidoscope. Some
cheesy boy band sings about having the music up and the windows
down. The bass vibrates in my throat.

“If I die with these letters in my purse, I
hope you know we’ll be the new topic of conversation in this town,”
I tell him. I pat my purse for good measure. “I don’t exactly want
them found with my corpse.”

“We’re not going to die,” he assures me.
“I’ve ridden this thing plenty of times. It’s not even that scary.
But it’s part of the experience, so we have to.”

He hands over the last of his tickets, and
we step onto the seat-like bucket. I leave my purse over my
shoulder. I may not want to be found with these letters, but I sure
as hell don’t want them falling to their own death and being
stolen.

Rooks lowers the bar onto us, and it clicks
into the place. The ride’s worker double checks it and says we’re
good. I hand the flamingo to Rooks.

“You don’t want it?” he asks. His eyes
appear confused, maybe even sad.

“Yes, I want it, but you’re guarding it on
here,” I say. “I can’t be responsible for my own life, the
flamingo,
and
the letters. I’m sixteen. I never asked for
this type of responsibility.”

He laughs and scoots closer to me. He wedges
the flamingo between himself and the side of the seat. Then he
wraps his arm around my shoulder.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to
you. I swear,” he says, hugging me with his arm.

“Because my mom would murder you?” I
retort.

He scrunches his face like he’s debating it.
“Well, a little bit of that, yeah,” he says. “But it’d kind of
break my heart too, and we can’t have that.”

The seat jolts up so the next people in line
can get on the ride. We sway in the air, and my heart may have
fallen and splattered on the concrete. I’m not sure if it’s the boy
or the height, but my heart is definitely out of my chest.

“I’m telling you,” Rooks says. “This charm
is going to work its magic one of these days.”

Oh, honey, it already has. It worked its
magic the day I saw you from the balcony of my new bedroom. That
charm is definitely effective.

“You think so?” I ask instead. I don’t know
why I even bother with wit or sarcasm. Mom told me to guard my
heart, and I’ve already let it flop away.

“Think about it,” Rooks says, talking with
his one hand that’s free. “We’re already involved in this top
secret hidden letters scandal together. You know about my lobster
theft, and I’m already aware of the deer heads that most girls
would hide for as long as possible. Those are serious
milestones.”

“So you’re a criminal, I’m part redneck, and
we’re harboring buried treasure,” I say, turning toward him.

“Exactly. This is about as real as it gets,”
he says. “And somehow I managed to get you on a Ferris wheel with
me, all the way up here where you can’t escape. You know, if I
wanted to, I could kiss you right now and you can’t even run.”

I don’t think I can even breathe right now.
Someone on the fairgrounds has clearly stepped on my splattered
heart and ruined any chance of survival.

“You wouldn’t,” I whisper.

“Oh, I would,” he says. “And I bet you won’t
stop me.”

His fingers trail along the side of my
cheek, and he leans in. He’s right. I don’t stop him. He lifts my
chin so my lips meet his. I close my eyes and fall victim to the
smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy. His mouth is warm and
inviting, like the glowing lights on the carousel, opening all of
my senses to this hopefulness and freedom that I thought couldn’t
possibly still exist.

The ride jolts again, shaking us apart by
mere inches.

Rooks laughs and leans over to my ear. “Told
you that you wouldn’t stop me,” he whispers.

I drove past the drive-in theatre the other
day. I was out with my dad. In that moment, I wanted to tell him. I
wanted to tell him that I didn’t want to marry Hanna or work in the
factory or stay in Coral Sands forever. I didn’t, though, because I
knew he’d be mad. He’d be hurt or disappointed. But the more I
think about leaving, the more determined I am to do it.

I want that freedom, to be able to breathe
without feeling like someone is standing behind me to make sure I
inhale correctly. I want that escape, the one you talked about that
night when we were only halfway watching the screen at the
drive-in.

Maybe next time I’ll take you out dancing
instead. You still owe me a dance...or two or three. I want out as
much as you do. I just don’t know where to go. I’ve hardly been
outside of Coral Sands. I don’t know what the rest of the world is
like.

But how amazing would it be if we were the
rebels of our generation? If we were the ones who went against the
odds and chose something other than the path that’s been paved for
us?

We should do it.

I daydream of the words you write. I long
for that freedom, to walk into a night club, to order a drink with
my fake ID, to dance under the lights like no one is watching us.
But they’ll always be watching us.

The problem isn’t just that you’re promised
to Hanna or that your family has secured a life for you in Coral
Springs. Even if you walked away and defied all that you have set
for you, you still couldn’t be with me. The world wouldn’t allow
it. They wouldn’t allow us to be together. We’d always have to fear
retaliation or harm. You wouldn’t be given the opportunities you’ll
have with Hanna if you were to have me standing by your side. It’s
our harsh reality. It’s my reality.

But it doesn’t have to be something you
face. The only way we could ever live freely would be to sail far
away to an island where no one could find us. It’s a silly thought.
These last few weeks have been a dream. I’ve felt like I was on the
verge of freedom.

But I know how this ends. Summer will
arrive, and there won’t be letters waiting for me at the Crane
Pavilion. I’ll see your wedding announcement in the newspaper. And
all of my wishes will be lost like those falling stars I can’t
catch.

It’ll be the summer of lost wishes.

I feel a little crazy. Maybe it’s the lack
of sleep from texting Rooks half the night or maybe the adrenaline
hasn’t drained from my body yet, but that goofy-happy feeling from
the flamingo has amplified. I turn over on the air mattress and
stare at the fluffy pink stuffed animal. She smiles back at me,
completely enamored by all things Rooks Carter. She may be an
inanimate object, but I know she’s enamored.

Even after reading about Seth’s secret girl
and her summer of lost wishes, I can’t shake this giddy feeling. I
have to find a way to erase this sappy grin off my face before I
encounter Mom this morning. She was in bed last night when I got
home, but I poked my head into her room to let her know I was home
safely and had locked all the doors.

She’s probably on her second cup of coffee
by now. She’ll be more than alert enough to pick up on the spring
in my step, or whatever lame term she would use for it. I want to
soak up this moment, though, like a sudsy bubble bath before all
the bubbles fade into the water. I want to absorb it and feel every
ounce of it like a warm summer day by the pool.

I don’t want to face the fact that I’m just
like Seth’s girl, looking at a summer of lost wishes. She may have
never gotten her summer, but my summer is as lost as hers. This
isn’t going to last. Rooks will leave town just as sure as Seth
would’ve unwillingly married Hanna. Why can’t I just catch a break
and catch one of those falling stars that she talks about in her
letters? I’d safeguard it, even more than my heart or the letters
themselves. I’d keep that star and all of its sparkly goodness in a
mason jar and let it shine on and on and on.

I force myself to sit up. If I wanted to put
a damper on last night, I’ve officially done that. I use my
new-found sullenness as motivation to get up, shower, and get ready
for the day. Our new dishwasher is being installed early this
afternoon, so I want to use the hot water before Mom goes on a
dishwashing spree.

An hour later, I’m presentable enough to
show my face in the kitchen. Mom sits at the bar on an old barstool
that I’m sure she’s ready to replace. Her laptop is open in front
of her. A coffee mug sits beside it.

“How was the fair?” she asks, not taking her
eyes off the screen. She reaches for her computer mouse and
clicks.

“It was fun,” I say. I channel lost wishes
and fizzled stars to keep my voice steady.

“That’s good,” Mom says, completely
engrossed in whatever is happening on her computer screen. She
hasn’t even glanced my way.

I climb atop the other barstool and wait for
her to say something more than small talk and two-word answers. She
reaches for her coffee mug, takes a sip, and then looks up.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head.
“I’ve been refreshing my e-mail for hours now. The mayor in
Chesterfield is hosting a party, and I submitted a bid to do the
interior décor for it. They’re doing an elegant beach theme, and
it’d be the perfect project to start my portfolio.”

“That’s awesome,” I say, getting up and
walking to the refrigerator.

I search for something caffeinated that
isn’t black coffee. Luckily, Mom’s Dr. Pepper addiction is still
relevant because there’s a twelve-pack sitting in the fridge. I pop
open the can and grab a donut from Mom’s store-bought package.

Mom sighs and shuts her laptop. “I don’t
think they’ll choose me,” she admits. “I don’t have any known
experience. I have no former clients. All I have are photos of our
house at different stages as we’ve redone things. Maybe I should
stage some photos.”

Oh, no. The last thing we need is Mom
running around the house with paint swatches and beach decorations.
I can only imagine how many table settings she has in mind. I have
to stop her before she turns into a designing demon.

“Clients will come in time,” I tell her.
“You can do some local stuff, even if it’s small, to get your name
out there. Once you have some examples on your website and pass out
your business cards, you’ll be on a roll. And you never know, they
may choose you anyway.”

Mom sighs again, as if every word I just
said went in one ear and out the other. This role reversal stuff
isn’t my specialty. I bite into my donut and hope that’s all the
pep talking I have to do today.

“I need some sort of big exhibit,” she says.
“You know, something to launch me, to get my name out there. Like
an open house – our house! Piper, that’s it. We’ll have the ‘before
and after’ photos. We can do a grand reveal of the house. It’ll
show my style, and it’ll take away some of the mystery and novelty
of the house.”

There’s no turning back now, but gosh, how I
wish we could. I don’t like the thought of all the people in Coral
Sands coming into our new home and analyzing it and whispering
about it. I don’t want them criticizing Mom for changing up the
kitchen or expanding my closet. I don’t want people learning the
layout of our home so they can break in later. And heaven forbid
the person behind the prior break in show up. I don’t want them
back in our house.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mom says,
even though I’m certain she doesn’t know because she has no idea
about the letters. “You think people will come just to be nosy, and
there will be some who do, but this will help the town move
forward. They can see this house as something new. It’s a fresh
start for us. It won’t be ‘what could’ve been’ anymore. It’ll be
what is.”

With that, the doorbell rings and halts any
argument I could have put in place. Not that it would’ve mattered.
Mom’s made up her mind. It was made up the instant she said ‘open
house’ and the gears started turning in her coffee-coated brain.
Then again, everyone else is convinced that our intruder was a
group of nosy kids, not someone after buried treasure.

“C’mon in,” Mom says from the front door.
“Overlook the boxes. We’ve been unpacking.”

“Hopefully it’s starting to feel like home a
little more then,” Mr. Carter says in response.

I don’t even know what’s on his agenda for
today, so I get up and walk into the living room. He and Mac stand
with Mom, but there’s no sign of the pretty boy who’s usually
helping out.

“I have a few errands to run, but feel free
to start wherever you wish,” Mom says.

Mac mentions patching the bad spots in the
driveway, and Mr. Carter adds that they will repaint the bay
window. Mom assures them that she’ll be back before the dishwasher
installation, although Mr. Carter assures her that they’ll oversee
things if she’s not back in time.

Mom grabs her purse and is out the door
moments later. I didn’t bother asking where she’s going or what
she’s doing because it probably has to do with tea light candles,
jars of sand, and seashells. I’d rather just avoid the entire
design craze.

“I gave Rooks the day off,” Mr. Carter says
as I linger awkwardly, unsure if it’s rude to walk away before they
get to work. “He was on the couch eating cereal when I left. You’re
welcome to go over and make him useful if you want.”