Summer Doesn't Last Forever Read online

  Summer Doesn't Last Forever

  Magdalene G. Jones

  Copyright © 2020 Magdalene G. Jones

  Cover Copyright © 2020 Hannah Monroe

  Edited by Patricia Monroe

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  I dedicate this book to you

  And you

  And your brother

  And your sister

  And your best friend

  I dedicate this book to myself.

  And the ones I love most.

  And the One I love the most.

  These are all the things I never said.

  May we not live in fear any longer.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Tarni Bird

  Chapter Two: Unfortunate Pillow

  Chapter Three: Operation-Don’t-Be-Sad’s Headquarters

  Chapter Four: The Hunt

  Chapter Five: Strategy, Honoring, and Fake Medals

  Chapter Six: The Impromptu Party

  Chapter Seven: Fading Summer

  Chapter Eight: Shattering Home

  Chapter Nine: Luke

  Chapter Ten: Rose-Colored Past

  Chapter Eleven: Where Summer Lasts Forever

  Chapter Twelve: Honoring

  Chapter Thirteen: For a Moment

  Chapter Fourteen: Goodbye

  Epilogue: A Song of Spring

  My Story.

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  Chapter One: Tarni Bird

  When I was five-years-old, I said twenty goodbyes in one day.

  Few things stick to my memory from that day. I remember tears streaming down my face as I tried to smile. I remember the smell of the airport carpet, new luggage, and conveyor belts. I remember the picture I excitedly took with my family ‘cuz, gosh, heck I was moving to Africa!

  And I remember twenty goodbyes.

  I didn’t know then that the number would grow until it hurt to count. I didn’t think every place I visited would take a piece of me forever. I didn’t know one word would become the anthem of my life.

  Goodbye.

  I wipe my eyes. The bitter taste of sleep lingers in my mouth. My journal splays out on my lap, catching stray tears. I clutch my blue pen so hard my brown knuckles turn white. An ocean rages within my chest, begging for words to set it free.

  Like it has for the past five months.

  I sniff and scrawl the date at the top of my page.

  8:46 A.M. 30/5/19,

  I hesitate a moment, scribble so fast the words blur in my teary vision.

  Loneliness Central,

  Summer doesn’t last forever.

  I mean, duh. It’s a season. But it’s true. Summer. Doesn’t. Last. Nor does anything like it. Swimming? Nah, bruh, it’s too cold come September. Lemonade? You drank it. Freedom from routine? Jokes on you, school will start again. Friendships? You have to say goodbye. People? God takes them away. Home? Ha, what home? You’re lost and abandoned. It all ends.

  Summer. Ends.

  And it’s time I learned that.

  I slam my journal shut, mocking my melodrama. I lean my head against the back of my bed and close my eyes.

  I hadn’t always been like this. I have hated goodbyes and felt the sting of the life I live from a young age. But five months ago, I wasn’t abandoned and alone in a hard, dry, hot African land. Five months ago, my friends were still with me.

  No one really wants to be normal. Not even the dumb Y.A. heroine you read of on every other shelf. We all want to be unique and special. We delight in the things that set us apart—as long as others do too.

  No one wants to be normal, but we want to be sane. We want to be loved. We want to be found. And sometimes that means wishing your life held a bit of normalcy.

  We all hate being abandoned.

  I hold in a groan. My friends had not abandoned me; they had been “called away.” But that was worse. God had taken them from me, and I didn’t even have the comfort that the government kicked them out.

  I’m so selfish.

  I stare down at my shaking fingers. A twisting ache of guilt slides up and down my burning throat, bringing darkness with it.

  “Tarni. Tarni!”

  I jump and frantically wipe my eyes, “Yeah?”

  The door bursts open, and a burst of energy takes its place—energy with bouncing, blond-tinted fluffy curls.

  “What happened to knocking?” I cross my arms.

  My little brother ignores me as brothers do. His bright smile reveals missing teeth, and his dark eyes sparkle against his brown skin. He’s short for a nine-year-old but makes up for it by jumping. Frequently.

  “It’s time for breakfast,” Koa marches farther into my room, crossing his arms over his Avengers tee-shirt. “We leave tomorrow, Tarni!”

  I roll my eyes. Koa has been counting down for the past six weeks. And too often, has announced the date to me.

  “Yay,” I mutter.

  “Oh, come on,” he sits on the little carpet beside me. “You’re the lucky one, Tarni! I mean, Grandma and Grandpa are great, but you will get to be with actual kids like us again. Not only TCKs, but ones who all live in Africa too.”

  I turn away, my throat tightening, “Tell Mum and Dad, I’m coming.”

  Koa shrugs. He gets up and walks out, slamming my door behind him. I hug my knees. I struggle to force my tears back into my chest, where they belong. Hollow sobs shake my shoulders.

  Camp can’t fix this. Camp will only make it worse.

  I eye my tossed journal, sitting on a pile of clothes. My room has looked like a train wreck for months.

  Five months.

  I reach for my bright yellow journal and stroke the front. My grandma gave it to me two Christmases ago. “Think happy things,” and a verse reference decorates the front in fake black ink. (Philippians 4:8 never mentions “think happy things,” in case you were wondering).

  I tried to follow the journal’s instructions. For the first month or so, after everyone began leaving, I pretended it would be all right. “They would keep in touch.” “I would see them on ‘home assignment.’”

  That naivety is lost now.

  I stand and walk over to a closed window. Dust dims the brown, sprawling, sprawling, African city, and a donkey’s bray itches at my ear. I press my face against the glass. My tears run down the windowpane, cleaning dust as they go.

  Wednesdays are the worst, followed by Sundays. I can’t help but remember our discussions. Our laughter. Our fake fights. My friends were everything to me. My anchors through the challenges of the life I led (and lead).

  And then they were gone, taking pieces of my heart with them.

  Abandoned.

  I shut my eyes against the hard city. Mum insists it’s no easier for Koa, but Koa is a boy. He can play football and rugby and go into the street without fear. I can’t. Here, girls my age are in their homes, at school, or visiting some other house. I have no one.

  “Tarni Bird!” My mom calls cheerfully.

  “Coming!” I yell back.

  I step away from the window, guilt shooting through my gut. I rub my face free of tears and turn to my vanity. I scowl between my large mirror and the picture leaning against it. My heart stings as I focus on the framed photo.

  My best friend Everly had gathered us together after a Christmas party over a year ago. And with
a cry of “Merry Christmas!” she’d captured a snapshot of us. Us. As we were and should have always been.

  We girls still wear our hijabs. The boys look torn between laughing and rolling their eyes at Everly and me (as per usual). Asher tries to make a peace sign, but his fingers blur. Everly smiles charmingly—all dressed up in Christmas green. Luke half-smiles behind the rest of us. And Adam turns last second to glance at me. I didn’t notice at the time.

  And I am caught in the middle of laughter. The wind twists my hijab and bright red abaya. My brown face sparkles with the makeup my mom had let me use, and my gold earrings swing like time turners. My dark eyes are bright, my messy hair is hidden, and I am wholly happy and free.

  I look up at my reflection in the mirror. My reflection stares back, tears haunting its brown eyes. Mud streaks my brown cheeks—yellowish from lack of sunlight. And my hair is a tangled mess.

  Five months can make all the difference.

  I grab my hairbrush and rip it through my mop. I sniff, wishing I could erase the tear tracks.

  So melodramatic. I snarl at myself, adding twenty split ends to my mess of can’t-quite-be-curls. Why can’t you brace up like Koa? Your nine-year-old brother handles this better than you! You. Are. An. Idiot!

  I slam my hairbrush on my vanity. My hair puffs around me like Hermione Granger turned half-Aboriginal with straw instead of hair. The desert has not been kind to it. Though, in all fairness, I’m not particularly good at taking care of my mane either.

  I release a long sigh, turn into the bathroom, and scrub my muddy cheeks with a towel. My nose wrinkles as I look in the mirror. I prod my nose. Then my cheeks. I grind my teeth, picking at the acne tracing my hairline. And blackheads on my nose.

  I pull myself away from the mirror. I walk back into my room and pick up my well-worn, black glasses. I had bought them over three years ago and hadn’t changed the lenses in eight months.

  I don’t like change.

  I slide on my glasses, vanishing my nose bridge, and hurry downstairs.

  The Bird family—Mum, Dad, and Koa—look up from their plates of scones as I walk into the dining room. Mum smiles. I don’t know how she looks so pretty in the morning. She’s full Aboriginal (Kaurna, we think.) And though her hair requires more maintenance than mine, she just puts it in a bun, calls it quits, and it still looks good. Her brown eyes and rich, dark brown skin are so piercingly warm, her smiles look like sunshine.

  “I already made your coffee,” Mum holds out a cup.

  “Thanks,” I slide into the seat between her and Koa.

  I pick up the mug and clasp it close to my chest like I’m in a Starbucks commercial. Dad winks a blue eye at me.

  All-white American, my dad often looks out of place with my mum, brother, and me. Honestly, I think he likes it. He, with Germanic nose, straight brown hair, and white man’s tan attempt, enjoys people’s shocked faces when he introduces the Bird family.

  Basically, we are a show wherever we go.

  Dad bows his head, “Heavenly Father.”

  I check that Koa bows his head before taking a sip of coffee. The milky, sweet caffeine stings in my sore throat.

  “Amen,” Dad finishes.

  Koa bites his scone, but I eye my breakfast. I rarely can eat in the morning without feeling sick.

  “Are you packed, Tarni?” Mum asks.

  “No . . . ,” I sip my coffee and avoid her gaze.

  “Honey,” Mum pushes back from the table. “You’ll be gone for a month! You can’t keep putting it off.”

  “I just need to gather a few more things.”

  Mum purses her lips, “Hmm. Clean your glasses.”

  I reach for my shirt, but Dad clucks. He passes me a glasses wipe across the table.

  “You’ll see better,” he promises, adjusting his pair.

  “Yeah,” I take my glasses off and wipe the lenses. “Thank you.”

  Several moments of silence pass. I nibble at my scone.

  “I am so excited that you get to go to camp,” Mum squeezes my shoulder. “If my hair wasn’t greying, I might sneak in.”

  “I wish I could! Are you sure they won’t let me in?” Koa gives Mum puppy eyes.

  She chuckles and shakes her head. I bite the inside of my cheek, looking down.

  “Tarni,” Mum’s grip relaxes.

  “Yeah?”

  Mum kisses my cheek, “It’ll be good, sweetie. I promise.”

  I swallow the yells, snarks, and passive-aggressive comments that rise to my throat. I don’t say a word.

  “She was crying again,” Koa shrugs.

  “When am I not crying is the real question,” I grumble under my breath.

  Dad looks up and swaps glances with Mum, and I clench my jaw. Those looks have become far too familiar.

  “Tarni Hope,” Dad reaches out his hand.

  I take it.

  “I know you are mourning, and we don’t want to rush you. Being surrounded by people is likely the last thing you want. But these kids will understand you, Tarni, in ways that I can’t,” he strokes my thumb. “You cannot let fear hold you captive.”

  I shake my head, tears clogging my voice. Why don’t they see? Why doesn’t he understand? Sending me off to some stupid summer camp for “kids like me” as if we have some sort of disease! I shut my burning eyes.

  I know my parents want to help me. After all, Mum is a TCK—a third culture kid—too. Mum understands the loneliness and the heartbreak of goodbyes. But I am not my mom. Her thinking has always been bigger than her “right now.” She talks about life and the world in beautiful seasons.

  All I know is that summer ends.

  This summer camp will end. So even if I go and enjoy it, it won’t last. I’ll be stolen right back to the desert, abandoned again.

  “It won’t,” I release Dad’s hand and pick up my coffee. “It can’t make this better.”

  The ache of goodbyes cannot be mended, especially not by a camp full of them. I have been to France, Italy, Germany, the UAE, Ethiopia, South Africa, Tanzania, Socotra, Russia, China, Peru, Thailand. And of course, the USA, Australia, and the country I live in now. And every place I visit takes another piece of me away.

  More goodbyes.

  More heartbreaks.

  “Isn’t it worth a try?” Mum sets a hand on my shoulder.

  I fight the urge to shrug her off, “No.”

  Mum sighs and moves her hand.

  “I just don’t understand why you think it’s worth it,” I clear my throat, repeating points I had made dozens of times in the past months. “I would much rather spend time with Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “And I don’t understand why you are scared of it,” Mum rubs her forehead. “And you will get time with your grandparents. They will come back here with us.”

  My mouth clicks shut, and I bite the inside of my cheek, “It’s too soon.”

  “Five months, I know, isn’t long -,” Dad tries to meet my gaze again.

  “It’s too soon!”

  Koa drops his scone, “Whoa, Tarni.”

  I take a deep breath and shake my head.

  “Tarni, we have promised that if you can’t bear it, we’ll have Grandma and Grandpa get you. But please, give this a chance,” Dad lifts his eyebrows. “Can you do that?”

  I hesitate a moment, then run a hand through my hair, “I guess.”

  I knew I couldn’t expect anything more than that promise. After all, as much as they wanted to, my parents didn’t truly understand. If they could, they would think I need a counselor. Or worse, they would tell me to brace up. I swirl my coffee around in my mug.

  If I had counseling, maybe my sadness would feel, well . . . valid. Or maybe, my worst fears would be confirmed. Maybe, I am just an idiot. Panic and guilt squeeze my stomach. How selfish am I? Trying to make my parents waste hundreds of dollars on me?

  “Tarni, are you all right?” Mum presses her hand against my forehead.

  I shift out of her reach, “I’m fine, Mum.
”

  “Hmm, well, you do need to finish packing.”

  “I will,” I nibble more on my scone, then set it down.

  I can’t eat.

  :•─.•─:•─.•─:•☾☼☽•:─•.─•:─•.─•:

  That day passed far too quickly.

  I scowl at the dirty airport ceiling. Koa bounces at my side, still waving at our parents behind security. I elbow him.

  “Koa, shoes.”

  He nods and slips out of his trainers, setting them and his backpack on the conveyor belt. I follow his example. I breathe through my mouth, but the stench of hundreds of passengers invades my nose anyway. Noise fills my head. Everywhere I look, people shout in the language I barely know. I keep my head down, getting Koa and myself through security as fast as possible.

  We make it past security, passport control, another security pass, and reach our “gate.” Koa and I sit on the creaky, rusty airport chairs. And he. Keeps. Bouncing.

  “Koa,” I resist the urge to grip his arm.

  “Can we get some chips, Tarni?” He points at the small shop.

  “No. They’ll give us something on the plane.”

  “Maybe some crisps, but no chips.”

  I shake my head. Koa sighs, deflating. But only for a moment, then he’s bouncing again.

  I almost envy his excitement. I glance over at him. Well, I envy him for more than that. If I were going with him to our grandparents . . .

  I dig in my backpack and hand Koa his Kindle. He opens Minecraft, forgetting the chips disappointment. I chew my bottom lip and fight the urge to look around. Thankfully, we only have two flights—one from here to Turkey, then Turkey to Greece. I fuss with my hijab and glasses. If they were daytime flights, I would be much more comfortable. But traveling with my little brother, at night, without our parents . . .

  I swallow my nervousness, leaning back in my seat. I have fainted from stress before. Rather that on top of the smell of sweat, dehydration, and ten layers of clothing in the equatorial beach city of Aden.

  There’s no need to worry.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my phone. I check the time but freeze. My lock-screen (Adam’s smiling face beside mine and Everly’s) sends ice through my heart. Darn it. Why can’t you stop being nostalgic for ten minutes? I set my jaw.