The Last Summer

Adam I already knew the year I was going to die, the year I turned fourteen. I’d been sure of it for the past years of my life, and fourteen wasn’t such a bad time to die, I supposed. I mean, you experience childhood as well as being a teen-ager, but you never have to worry about adult troubles. But still, it was sad. And my thirteenth birthday was kind of bittersweet, because it was the start of the last full year of my life. When I turned fourteen, I hadn’t told my parents I was going to die the next year, but I figured they already knew. It was a pretty much obvious fact, given our family history. My cousin Adam got leukemia and died seven months after he turned age fifteen. An automobile hit my mother’s brother when he was fifteen. And my second-or-third-cousin, Emberly or something, died at fifteen too. It was family history. It wasn’t an unfounded fact. Somehow, someway, we were fifteen-cursed, like thirteen is an unlucky number for some people. But my unlucky number was thirteen plus one. Whenever I got fifteen place or was number fifteen alphabetically in my class, I got upset. Just like people say bad things happen on the thirteenth floor of apartment buildings, I avoided the fifteenth floor at all costs. In fifth grade, I had a friend named Rick, who lived on the fifteenth floor of his building. So somehow, I always managed to get him over to my house so I wouldn’t have to set foot on that wretched floor. Rick moved to California, anyway, but the frightening experience of the elevator door opening on fifteenth lies with me still. Anyway, I turned fourteen in April, April ninth, only two months away from June. And if you say, “June,” to me, well, that word just reeks of summer. And so, I knew that two months after I turned fourteen would begin maybe the last summer of my life. “Hey, Sarg, if you had only one more summer to live, what would you want to do in it?” It was the middle of May, almost June, and I was hanging with Sarg. Sarg is string-bean skinny, fog-horned big-mouthed, and cool as ice. Sarg thinks he’s a ladies’ man but most girls at school think otherwise. Today he was wearing shorts—it was hot—and for some reason, a giant lumberjackplaid shirt that smelled like it had been soaked in cologne. I betted it was his older brother’s. “I dunno. Get a girlfriend, maybe,” said Sarg. For all his talk about experience with the chicks, Sarg had never dated a girl. I was the only one who knew. “But I’ll probably be old when I take my last breath, y’know?” I hadn’t told Sarg about my dying next year. “You never know, man. You might die tomorrow, who knows?” “Don’t say ‘die’. It’s inconsiderate. Say ‘croak’. Or ‘kicked the bucket’.” (Oh yeah, that’s Sarg, just a real comedian.)

“But seriously, Sarg. If your last summer was this summer, your thirteenth summer, what would you do?” “I told you, get a girlfriend.” “But that’s so stupid!” Sarg rolled his eyes. “You’re so immature. I mean, if you go, you go, right? There’s not much you can do about it. But you can decide how you want to go. Like, don’t you want to go, knowing that you were one smoothtalking dude? That you were real good with the ladies?” He placed his foot on a fire hydrant like he was conquering Everest. “A cute girl, preferably.” A Frisbee hurtled our way like a lightning bolt, and Sarg easily caught it and sent it back to some stupid hair-gelled fifth graders, who wore their pants up high like Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee. They lunged for the disk and missed, stumbling onto the ground. Sarg smirked, and some teacher yelled, “Edward, play nice!” “Sure am, Mr. Cosbyrd!” Sarg hollered back, looking innocent. Then he turned to me. “But, man. Next year we’re ninth graders, freshmen! Ka-chow! High school, baby! And that isn’t no time to go dying on me, okay?” “Yeah, yeah,” I said all casual-like, like I didn’t mean anything at all. But deep down inside, I was wondering how I was going to break the news to him that this was going to be my last year on the good sweet earth. RRRRRRR-IIIIIIIIINNNNNGGG! The school bell shrieked; us kids shrieked louder. Summer was here, school was out. No more homework no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. Sarg was chanting that beside me, screaming his head off as we raced out of the building. Beside us, big football player John rolled his eyes, probably wondering what kind of friends he got stuck with. The second we could hear ourselves talk, away from the babbling, giggly girls and howling class clowns, John said, “Where are we going?” although of course he didn’t need to ask. It was obvious; we went the same place after school each year. And so we raced away from the crowd, down the lane, up another avenue, and charged up Wallaby St., one of the steepest hills in maybe the whole country. When you run up Wallaby, your calves and thighs start burning after going up one-fourth, almost at one-half and you’re struggling, at when you finally get a bit more than halfway you’re dying. Even the track stars have trouble going up Wallaby. We were doing the survival shuffle at three-quarters, breathing hard, panting. Even John looked winded, and normally we would have stopped— normally we wouldn’t even be going near Wallaby—but with end-of-school, start-of-summer motivation, you go harder than you would have. But then—at the top—the creek. The creek flows around the top of the hill at Wallaby before funneling down to some reservoir or other down at Camptown Springs. There are the fattest frogs and dragonflies, and a whole bunch of times you can see salmon or trout in the clear, glassy water.

There’s an old wooden sign that was carved years ago and is somehow rotting away. It says, “Welcome to…” but the rest of the words are hard to read, except for one word, “Creek.” John thinks it says “Crystal Creek,” but Sarg is convinced it doesn’t say creek but croak. So he says that means it’s “Welcome to my turf, I hope you croak.” But I know what it says. It says “Bluegrass Creek,” because my dad lived here for years and that’s what they called it, Bluegrass. We dipped our feet into the cool, refreshing water and let it run over our ankles, our toes brushing against the smooth, river-buffed stones. Just as we were relaxing, though… “Oh god, look who’s here. It’s the Three Stooges.” I looked up and saw Megan. She was standing right in front of me, her hand resting kind of sassy on her hip, her lips pursed like she was some Hollywood diva. “We were here first, Dumbo-big-ears. Go find your own creek.” A few feet away, Megan’s stupid friend Anne-Marie just sniggered behind her hand, kicking up our creek water with her painted toenails. I couldn’t figure out at first what Megan and Anne-Marie were doing here, and then I remembered middle school got out half an hour earlier than us. “We were born before you, Fathead.” “Oh yeah?” Megan tossed her brown hair over her shoulder. “Hey, Dumbo, is there a taxi with its doors open behind you or is that your ears?” “God, how did you get that forehead through your shirt hole?” “It’s like cauliflowers coming out of your head!” “If you need to sneeze but hold it in, does it get to the size of beach ball or what?” Anne-Marie said kind of softly, “Guys, stop!” I glared at Megan. She glared at me, and then at last gave her hair one last flip and strode away. “Fathead,” I hissed, and she stuck out her tongue. John had been watching the whole thing with an amused look on his face, like it was a sitcom or something. Then he kicked water in my face, a huge wave of water that soaked through my shirt. I yelped, and Sarg howled with laughter, but got a mouthful of water in return. Megan was sitting with Anne-Marie over there, a good distance away from us. They were giggling—doing stupid girl stuff—probably talking about nail polish or whatever. Suddenly I heard a loud splash behind me, and turned around and saw John up to his waist in the deeper part of the creek. Although he was wet, he looked absolutely red with anger, pounding his meaty fist into his palm. Sarg was sitting on the bank, roaring with laughter. “I’m gonna get you,” warned John, making his way to the bank. I saw Sarg’s eyes widen nervously. John was one big kid, and Sarg knew he would be down in a minute.

“Fine, fine,” Sarg said jokingly. “You don’t need to push me in. I’ll do it myself.” He grabbed the edges of his shirt and called over to Megan and Anne-Marie, “I’ll be taking off my shirt now, ladies. Try to restrain yourselves.” Anne-Marie made a face at Sarg. He blew her a kiss. I know for a fact he’s been eyeing her for ages, but of course he’s too old for her. And too weird. Anne-Marie’s always been the good girl, and I can’t really see her flipping head over heels for a nutcase like Sarg. Anyway, Sarg yanked off his shirt—I heard a few puking noises coming from the girls over there—and plunged into the water. A second later he was crawling out, dark hair hanging in front his eyes, spitting out water. “Refreshing,” he told me. “You should maybe try it some time.” Sarg was trying to act cool, but I saw that he was shivering a bit ‘round the shoulders. He should have known—no matter whether it’s the climax of summer, no sunlight seems to warm the creek. I think the water comes straight from Greenland. John came out of the creek in one big step—he put his foot on the bank, and then pulled himself out. When he flopped onto the ground, I could swear I felt the earth shake. “So, what are you gonna do this summer?” Megan and Anne-Marie giggled over something dumb, and I glared at them. In response, Megan rolled up some saliva in her mouth and spit it out between her teeth. (She’s the best spitter in our neighborhood, while I hate to admit it.) “Me? This summer?” Sarg grinned. “Last week of July my dad’s taking me L.A. for his work.” He whistled, long and low. “I’m gonna meet some beach babes.” There was a lot of eye rolling between John and me. Like I said, Sarg acts real smooth with the ladies, but Lord knows he isn’t. Down by the part of the creek that they unrightfully claimed, Megan teased, “Hey, Sarg, don’t make them Cali chicks cry because of your ugly face!” Sarg just winked, got down on one knee next to the creek. He cupped his hands like he was holding a ring. “Anne-Maaaarieee!” She whirled around, surprised. “What?” “Anne-Marie, baby, will you marry me?” crooned Sarg like he was one of those jazzy guys from Mom’s old black-and-white movies. “C’mon, baby, say yes. Baby, please, say ‘I do.’” I might’ve felt sorry for Anne-Marie if I wasn’t rolling on the ground laughing until my stomach hurt like crazy. Megan was howling, too, so hard she had tears in her eyes. And John let out a chuckle—which for him, is like waving flags and declaring you the funniest guy on earth. It was funny, Sarg’s face, and he kept saying, “Baby, I love you,” real Southern style or something.

Poor Anne-Marie, she just turned beet red and ducked her head, all embarrassed like. I think I heard her say, “Oh, shut up,” which, for AnneMarie, is same as cussing like a sailor. A few minutes later, John was in the creek again, raging mad, and Sarg was darting over to where Anne-Marie was. He jumped behind her, soaking wet, and pointed to John. “Fair maiden, look at that monstrosity yonder! Save me from his evil curses—only a kiss will do!” Megan cracked up. Then she slapped Sarg upside his head, sent him back over here, and yelled, “Hey Mushroom-Head! Keep your kooks over in your loony bin!” John was fuming mad, and he pushed Sarg into the water as soon as the clown was near enough. We hung out until dark, when the fireflies buzzed in the electric summer air. Then we trooped down Wallaby, John, with Megan trying to hold onto Anne-Marie, who was being relentlessly sweet-talked by Sarg—and me. I have to admit, I’d almost forgotten about dying the next year. It was only in bed, that night, that I remembered.