Amy Doan - The Summer List

I didn’t need to read any more.

“Your mom,” I said.

“I’m going to strangle her.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Do you want to go?”

* * *

When Casey stomped to the refrigerator for the rosé she found it had been replaced by a six-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers with a fat manila envelope taped on top. Girls, it said on the outside, in Alex’s unmistakable curly handwriting.

Alex had even remembered our flavor preference from senior year. Junior year our favorite had been Snow Creek Berry, but by the fall of 1998 we’d transitioned to Peach Bellini, and that’s what she’d bought.

We sat on the sofa with our drinks, Alex’s envelope between us. Casey studied her bottle’s label, circling the round B&J logo with her index finger.

“Do you want to open it?” I said.

“You’re the guest, you should have the honor.”

“I need a minute.”

“She turned in a pretty goddamned good performance of acting surprised when I showed her the letter,” Casey said. She swigged her Peach Bellini, her grip on the bottle so tight her knuckles blanched. “I mean, Golden Globe–worthy.”

“She took that acting class in Pinecrest,” I said softly. When was it? Sophomore year? It didn’t matter, but it was all I could handle at the moment, that one fact, so I concentrated hard until I pulled it from my memory. Spring of sophomore year. Endless monologues from Uncle Vanya and Streetcar .

“Right. Then suddenly she said it would be better if she wasn’t here, if the two of us had ‘quality time’ together. And today she blew town with Elle.” Casey’s cheeks had reddened. Her angry clown look, Alex had always called it.

I could leave.

But Casey hadn’t kicked me out. She’d hot potato’d the question of what to do right back at me.

In the Stay column, at least Casey was sharing a piece of furniture with me.

In the Go column—she could not be farther away. The sofa had two big seat cushions, and while I sat in the middle of mine, Casey was so far away, wedged against the opposite arm, that she’d made her cushion lift up in the center of the sofa like she was raising a little padded drawbridge between us.

Another for the Go column—she was gripping her wine cooler so tight I could see the raised outline of the delicate center bone inside her wrist.

I sipped my sickly sweet peach drink.

Jett settled on the floor between us. Casey stretched her leg out so her heel could rub circles around Jett’s fluffy midsection. I put the fact that she was petting my dog in the Stay column. “Let’s at least open the letter.”

“You do it, I’m too pissed.” Casey took another swig of her drink and set it on the coffee table. She squeezed her left hand into a ball, then radiated her fingers out again like a magician in the “abracadabra” moment of the act. A de-stressing technique I used myself sometimes.

I set my bottle down a respectful distance from hers and tore open the envelope. Alex had taped a hundred-dollar bill to the top of a handwritten note. I carefully peeled off the cash and waved it.

“What’s that for?” Casey said.

I scanned the letter. It was all so perfectly, ridiculously Alex I couldn’t help smiling in spite of everything.

“What’s funny?” Casey said.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“The hundred’s a bribe? It’s not even a decent one.”

“It’s not a bribe, listen,” I said. “‘Girls. I know you must be a little angry, and...’”

“Ha. Just a little.”

“...‘and I don’t blame you. Okay, maybe you’re more than a little angry.’

“‘But remember you’re angry at me, not at each other. It was always that way, wasn’t it? I was to blame then, too. I was the adult.’”

Casey snorted.

“‘Correction. I was supposed to be the adult.’ Supposed to be is underlined...” I tried to meet Casey’s eyes but she wouldn’t look at me. She was staring at her bottle.

“‘So please see this for what it is: my attempt to make things right.’

“‘Or see it as one last scavenger hunt. They were fun, weren’t they? At least at first? I want this to be fun for you, too.’”

I waited for Casey’s comment.

“Fun. God, I’m going to kill her... Sorry, sorry.” Casey held up her free hand in apology. “Keep going.”

“‘I’ve made up a list.’” I fished out another piece of white paper, this one printed from a computer and folded in half. I held it up for Casey, who had inched closer. I didn’t open it. I set it between us, facedown, so it bridged our couch cushions.

“‘There are ten things. Five photos to take and five things to find, just like when you were in high school. I put a lot of thought into choosing the items. I couldn’t find the right film for the old Polaroids so I got you a new instant camera at the Sharper Image...’”

“Unreal.” Casey closed her eyes. “Doesn’t she realize we can take pictures with our phones now? Not that we’re going to be taking pictures anyway...”

“Wait, listen... ‘I realize you can take pictures with your phones now...’” I pointed at Casey and gave her a chance to get her sarcasm in. We had a nice rhythm going.

“Because that makes this totally reasonable,” she said.

“...‘but I thought it’d be more fun this way. More like old times, you know? The camera is in the top left drawer of my dresser. A couple of these clues will take you out of town (hint, hint) so the money is for gas and incidentals.’”

“My mom did not write incidentals . What is she, a corporate accountant all of a sudden?”

“She did write incidentals .” I tilted the letter so she could see.

“‘I’ll be monitoring your progress so no cheating. This will only work if you do it right.’

“‘When you’ve finished all ten things on the list I’ll trade you for something you’ve both wanted for a long time. Something I probably should have given you years ago.’

“‘Please trust me one last time. I know that’s a lot to ask. But you have to complete this game before I give you your prize. You’ll understand Sunday, I promise.’”

“That’s it?” Casey said.

“No. She signed it. ‘Love, Alex.’”

I unfolded the paper and skimmed the first few clues. They were written in rhymes, but didn’t seem too hard. Not by Alex’s old standards. “Want to know what’s on the list?”

“Let me guess. A syrup jug from the Creekside. The mayor’s watering can. A picture by the drinking fountain at school.”

“You’ve got the basic idea. A guided trip down memory lane. It’s all summer stuff.”

“Adorable.”

“So what do you think the prize is? Something we’ve both wanted for a long time .”

“Right now I want to throw a Sharper Image novelty Polaroid camera at her face. No, I want to punch her in the face.” Casey clenched and unclenched her fist again, as if imagining the satisfaction she’d get from delivering the blow.

She grabbed the list, crumpled it up without reading it, and tossed it, aiming for the wall opposite us. It barely cleared the coffee table. Jett bounded over and returned it to her, wagging her tail. “She even got your dog into the act.”

I patted my knees. “Give it, Jetty.”

I unfolded the damp paper on my lap. “She wrote the clues in rhymes. Five-line rhymes.”

“Those are called quintains. You missed the morbid poetry phase she got into after 9/11.”

“The clues seem pretty easy,” I said. “Listen to this one:

“‘Here you used to glide and spin

Young and swift and free

On hoofs of brown and orange you’d...’”