Summer Doesn't Last Forever Read online

  9:56 PM

  I shut off my phone and put it back into my bag.

  “Do you want to change it?” Koa’s small hand pats mine.

  I frown slightly, “Change what?”

  “That picture,” he points at my phone.

  He goes to his Kindle lock-screen. An old, dingy family Christmas photo looks up at me.

  “What should I change it to?” I can’t hold back a smile.

  He gestures for me to get my phone back out. I shrug but obey. He opens the camera and holds it in front of us.

  “Say . . . new year, new me!” He grins.

  “What? In June?” I laugh.

  He snaps the picture and hands back my phone, “There you go! Set that as your lock-screen.”

  I hesitate, gazing at the blurry picture. Koa’s peace sign frames his black eyes like he’s wearing half of a superhero mask. I’m caught mid-laugh for the first time in months. I impulsively open settings and change out screensavers.

  I don’t want to go to camp, but it’s time to stop moping. Yes, I will still miss my friends. I will still be sad, but I can be sad without making myself nostalgic every time I look at my phone.

  “Thanks, bud,” I ruffle Koa’s fluffy hair.

  “Hey!” He ducks away from me with a dirty scowl. “Back off.”

  “Wow. Touchy. I didn’t know boys cared so much about their looks,” I hold up my hands.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I raise my eyebrows, “Watch it.”

  He smiles angelically and looks upstairs, “I think we should move.”

  “Sure, you do, Koa Bird.”

  “Look for yourself before you doubt me.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter Two: Unfortunate Pillow

  Exhaustion is all I can muster as I walk down the aisle of our second plane. Koa stumbles after me, gripping my hand to stay upright. I had ditched my abaya and hijab a plane ride ago, but half-wished I left it. My hair’s frizziness is reaching unbearable, even in its bun. And though thrilled to be wearing comfy jeans and a tee-shirt again, I can feel the travel disordering me. I blink down at our tickets, then up at the numbers, then down again. I glance ahead with a grimace.

  “Koa, would you mind if I sat in the window seat?” I whisper.

  “What?” He yawns.

  “Can I sit in the window seat?”

  “What?” His sleepy face turns into a frown. “Tarni, no! You promised I could have the window seat on both flights. You promised.”

  “Koa, please,” I keep moving.

  “No,” he crosses his arms.

  “You can’t even see. It’s dark out.”

  “Don’t care.”

  I sigh, nervousness twisting my stomach again. We stop at our seats, and a blond boy around my age looks up.

  “Oh, sorry,” he stands and moves out of the way.

  Koa darts into the window seat without a thank you or a moment’s consideration for his poor, weary, socially anxious sister—yours truly. I give the American, blond boy a tight smile and sit beside Koa. I keep my expression serene as the boy resumes his seat beside me. I refuse to glance at him.

  Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me.

  Conversation is reserved for places of comfort. And aeroplane chairs at one-o’clock in the morning aren’t that.

  To my relief, the blond kid puts on headphones and shuts his eyes. I release a tight exhale, glowering at the plane lights. I buckle over my loose white shirt, kick off my flip flops, and dig through my bag. I pull out my yellow journal—brighter than ever in the fluorescent lights—and blue pen.

  Colors mean things. Yellow means happiness and contentment almost universally, but blue is much more elusive. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes it’s comforting. Sometimes it’s soothing because it’s sad. Other times it’s just the color of the sky. It’s soft and achingly strong.

  No color is ever forgotten, but yellow and blue sit in two opposite wonderlands of our hearts like two extreme music genres.

  I sometimes wonder if being content and healthy is when those two wonderlands come together and burst into green. Because if so, I am far from that. Even if I put them together with blue ink on yellow paper.

  I shake off my exhausted musings and begin writing.

  1:05 A.M. 1/6/19,

  Seat 15K on “Flight to Summer (TM)”

  I’ve seen sunsets and sunrises from above the earth. Isn’t that insane? I’ve sat in a metal teleportation device and watched the world turn below me until we reach the sun. But right now, all I see is dirty seatbacks and these annoying fluorescent lights. What a representation of my life. I’m going to Greece for the first time, but all I can do is dread it. I have to dread it. It isn’t fair, but there’s no way to be free of this dread without cursing myself to something worse.

  I glance at Koa. He’s already fast asleep, curled up in his chair like it’s a pile of pillows.

  Mum says goodbyes are a part of life no matter where you live. And if that’s true, I guess someday I’ll have to learn to cope with them.

  Today, tomorrow, this week, this summer, won’t hold that day.

  Isn’t it wrong that every hello holds a goodbye? Isn’t it hard every flight carrying you somewhere is also taking you away? There is never enough time to recover from one goodbye before you are plunged into another situation holding even more.

  Camp will be a nightmare. There are nearly a hundred people, and after thirty days, I will leave them all again.

  Why is this so hard?

  I gaze up at the ceiling, weary tears threatening my throat. My fingers rub the yellow page back and forth. I need to sleep. I really need to sleep.

  If I start crying on this plane, I will never forgive myself.

  Is there a third option? A way to love camp, but not suffer at the end? What if no one likes me?

  I smirk, even though my heart aches.

  Well, Tarni, prepare yourself to not be liked. That way, you won’t suffer at the end. You can have fun with the games and not have to worry. You are gloomy, strange, awkward, too talkative, too dramatic. Your best friends somehow loved you despite that, but not everyone can.

  Nope. I wish people liked me, but the best I can hope for is being tolerated.

  I shut the notebook and slide it and my pen back into the bag. I lean back as the plane accelerates, lifting into the air. Am I being overdramatic again? I shift with the aircraft. People like me a little bit, at least? Or . . . maybe they don’t. I’m not supposed to care.

  Guilt and resignation ache in my stomach. I shouldn’t care about what people think, but I do. Way too much. I have been abandoned -. Not abandoned, it wasn’t their choice. Left so many times, I yearn for someone who sticks around.

  But no one ever does.

  They leave, and I fade out of their memory. I had learned that lesson young, but not young enough. My throat aches, and I shut my eyes.

  Eleven-years-old, long braids, standing in the church hallway. Only three years before that memory, I had walked to Sunday School with a crowd of friends, laughing over eight-year-old foolery.

  But the eleven-year-old stood alone, nervous excitement twisting through her stomach. When she opened the door, she would be home. Everyone would look up and cheer. So many arms would wrap around her, she would fall right over. The rest of Sunday School would continue in excited whispers because she was back. She was home.

  Eleven-year-old Tarni opened the door to ear-ringing noise, and the ideal picture came crashing in.

  Not noise for her.

  That little girl stood frozen in the doorway, staring. She scanned the faces to see . . . questioning. People were missing. People had joined—loud, bright, tall girls who glanced at her with slight curiosity before returning to their games.

  Eleven-year-old Tarni sat alone in a corner. She clung to her journal, head ringing and heart beating far too fast for her little chest. She had never felt so small, so forgettable. So alone.

  I
lick my lips and try to inhale. I had been painfully naive, but the incident had taught me a lot. I learned that day that I was forgettable, I had a kind of social anxiety, and cliques don’t pick the girl who preferred writing to talking.

  Stop. I sniff and wipe my eyes. Tears smear on my lenses, making the world spin. I take off my glasses, put them in their case, and slide them into my backpack. You need to sleep. You really need to sleep.

  The lights finally dim. I adjust my position and shut my eyes. Stop thinking. Sleep. Sleep.

  :•─.•─:•─.•─:•☾☼☽•:─•.─•:─•.─•:

  “Tarni. Tarni! We’re landing,” Koa hisses.

  His words pass out of my head like mist, and I groan, burying my head deeper into my pillow. I need to sleep.

  But then my pillow clears its throat.

  My eyes pop open, and I jerk upright. Heat floods my face. My heart pounds against my chest. No, no, no, no. I swallow hard, gathering the courage to glance at my “pillow.”

  Gosh, darn it.

  The blond boy smiles uncomfortably, his cheeks flushed bright red. I quickly look away. Embarrassment burns through my skin and boils in my gut. No, no, no, no! I try to speak.

  “Sorry about that,” I manage, fussing with my hair to give my hands something to do.

  “No problem,” he clears his throat again. “I fell asleep too.”

  Good. Because if you had let me sleep on your shoulder, I might have killed you and myself.

  I can’t look at him. For once, I wish my hair would be just a little poofier and hide me from view. Humiliation boils in my eyes. I try to ignore Blondie’s scent filling my nose and probably clinging to my clothes.

  Koa, you are going to get it for not letting me have the window seat!

  The blond boy doesn’t say anything either. Please don’t look at me, don’t talk. I rub my stomach, breathing evenly.

  “We’re about to be in Greece, Tarni!” Koa goes back to bouncing, despite the early hour.

  “I know, Koa,” a snap sneaks into my voice, and I bite my tongue. “I know. Get your things together.”

  “I didn’t get anything out. I just looked out the window.”

  I stare at him, “You didn’t sleep?”

  “A little bit. I woke up soon after takeoff,” Koa makes a face. “And I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  I blink, wondering how to best kill him for not waking me up before Blondie realized I was sleeping on his shoulder! I clench my hands together, searching for mental equilibrium.

  “I see,” I gaze at the ceiling.

  “Uh-huh.”

  We land. I pick up my backpack, check that my glasses case is still inside, and stand. Koa joins me, but peers out the window.

  “It’s so dark,” he pouts.

  “The sun won’t rise for several hours,” I tense my jaw.

  “It’s disappointing.”

  I ignore him, gazing straight ahead. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door and let me get away from Blondie forever.

  The door opens, and the crowd begins moving forward. “Blond Boy” stands, gathering his things. I gaze determinedly at my feet. I feel him staring at me for a moment as if debating whether he should say something. Then he steps out into the aisle. I follow.

  “Come on, Koa,” I call.

  We grab our suitcases from the overhead and hurry down the row of seats to the door, leading directly into the airport. (The Athens airport had aerobridges, unlike most African ones.)

  “Thank you. Have a nice day!” the stewardesses at the front chime.

  “Thank you!” Koa waves for us both.

  I’m brooding too hard to say anything. I look over my shoulder and smile.

  My mistake.

  I trip and lurch forward. I yelp, squeezing my eyes shut and expecting my face to slam against the carpeted floor.

  “Whoa!” Hands catch me.

  I look up. And dread pours over me again. Blondie’s blue eyes stare into mine. My gut lurches as I see the imprint of my hair on his right cheek. I straighten, freeing myself from his grasp.

  Tears were imminent. Too imminent.

  “Are you okay?” One of the stewardesses hurries over.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and steady myself, “Yes, thank you. I’m just not wearing my glasses.”

  “I’ll hold your hand, Tarni!” Koa grips my brown hand in his and gives me a brilliant smile.

  Embarrassment surges through me. I tremble in a mixture of humiliation-formed-terror and adrenaline.

  “Sorry,” Blondie moves his bag—the one I tripped over. “That was my bad.”

  “No problem,” my voice trembles with fake cheerfulness.

  He nods and hurries after his family, the back of his neck bright pink. Koa giggles.

  “Not a word,” I shoot him a look.

  “I wasn’t even thinking about it,” he juts out his lower lip.

  I roll my eyes and walk into the airport, pulling Koa and my suitcase behind me. Tears burn the back of my throat.

  It’s all right. You will never see Blondie again. Chill, for goodness sake, Tarni Bird!

  We make it through immigration and customs without a problem. Then pass checked baggage—TCKs pack light—walk into the arrivals area, and sit by a red coffee shop, noise echoing around us. I lean against the back of my chair, trying not to think about my embarrassment. Or my exhaustion-induced headache. Koa and I fall silent. I stare into the crowd, my eyes hurting with each blink. Koa chuckles beside me.

  “What?” I turn.

  He holds up his Kindle. My stomach tightens, and heat floods me again.

  He’d taken a picture of Blondie and me. No, worse. A video. I turn away, fighting the urge to murder my brother.

  “No, no, no, watch!” he shoves it into my hands, giggling.

  Curious and horrified at the same time, I push the play button.

  I sleep peacefully on Blondie’s shoulder, but my face looks almost sad. He—also fast asleep—drops his head against mine. (Right-now-me gulps.) Koa’s chuckling scratches through the speakers. (And from beside me.) Video Koa turns the camera to focus on him, then back on Blondie and me. The video stops. I shiver.

  “Koa Bird.”

  He stops laughing.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I push the Kindle back at him. “Ever. Do you understand? Wake me up. Tell me. Just don’t do that. Okay?”

  “Tarni, it wasn’t that bad.”

  I groan and bury my head in my hands, “Just shut up.”

  “Hmm,” he doesn’t test me further.

  After several long minutes, my grandparents arrive. And the reunion pushes my anxiety away. My mum’s adopted parents have lived overseas most of their lives. And now, with grey hair and stories wrinkling their faces, they continue traveling. We hug and chat until a man walks up to the coffee shop with a sign. “Celemedra Summer Camp.” I groan.

  “See you again soon, Tarni,” Grandpa pats my hand.

  Grandma nods, fussing with my backpack straps, “Go get some sleep!”

  “I’ll send you the video!” Koa pushes me towards the man with the sign.

  I glower over my shoulder at him but join the growing crowd of kids. I shiver and hug myself. My stomach tightens at the swelling numbers. After a roll-call, the man leads us outside. I offer my grandparents and brother one last wave and get onto the bus. This time, I am free to take the window seat, and I lean against the glass as we pull forward.

  We are carried out of the Athens airport. Then out of the city. I watch graffiti walls and dingy apartments pass us by empty streets. The drive continues, but I don’t sleep. I have learned my lesson too well. I stare into the dark towns and roads and beyond them, the outlines of mountains.

  Forty minutes later, we pull through the resort gates. I straighten as we pass masses of little buildings. The bus stops before a large hotel-looking entrance. The crowd climbs out, blinking blearily. In a haze, I walk inside the lobby. My flip-flops smack against the marble fl
oors.

  “Sign in over here,” an accented voice calls. “Over here, children. Please.”

  I nod and trot across the room. The lady, dressed in a blue hotel uniform, passes me a clipboard. I sign in, fighting a yawn. She checks the board and smiles.

  “Bungalow Crete, number five,” she fishes in a basket on her table and hands me a key.

  “Thank you,” I nod, forcing a smile.

  I march back out and grab my suitcase from the back of the bus. I look around, dizzy with lack of sleep. I yawn and bite my lip.

  “Do you kids need a ride?” A man in a golf cart waves a hand.

  I blink and glance over my shoulder at the other confused, weary ones behind me.

  “Yes, please,” A tall boy steps forward.

  I hesitate but follow the little group. We each recite our room names to the driver and are off. Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me . . . I keep my head down, ignoring the kids around me. But no one is awake enough for conversation. After minutes of hazy eternity, I pull my bag off the cart, thank the driver, and walk up to my door.

  The white bungalow looks like a mini, two-story apartment. I haul myself and my bag up the steps to Crete 5. I knock once on the bright blue door—apparently, the resort was going for the Santorini vibe—and let myself in.

  Two bunks sit opposite each other on the other side of the room. In the space before the door, a coffee table, two armchairs, and a couch make a veritable obstacle course for sleepy, glasses-less Tarni. My sleeping roommates fill the air with soft breathing. I take off my shoes and pull my suitcase into the bathroom with me so I can change. Then, without even checking to see if my roommates were present or how many of them there were, I collapsed into the empty bottom bunk.

  Exhausted, embarrassed, and thoroughly ready to forget the day, I went to sleep.

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

  “Good morning, Roomie!”

  The cheerful voice burns through my sleepy mind. I groan, cuddling my pillow—real pillow—closer.

  “Oh dear, Maya,” another voice laughs. “Looks like we have another sleepyhead on our hands.”