Summer and I sit in the back of Mom’s car as she drives through the streets of Montclair. Mom is such a slow driver, it’s hard to tell if she’s going forward or backward.
“Take a left at the corner,” Summer says.
Mom stops at the stop sign and then waits almost twenty seconds before taking the turn.
“We should have you home by morning,” I whisper to Summer.
“Is everyone in your family so careful?” she says.
“There’s a whole story behind it.”
A Dad story, but I don’t want to talk about that.
“Will you tell me sometime?” Summer says.
I nod.
Headlights pass by, briefly lighting up the inside of the car. I see Summer’s face in profile looking out the window. It’s like a snapshot, a second of Summer followed by blackness.
It makes me think about another time I was in the back of the car. A time with Josh.
We were in the backseat arguing about something. Mom turned around to tell us to cut it out. Only she wasn’t driving. She was in the passenger seat.
It seems like such a small moment, barely worth a memory.
When was it?
I looked out the car window. Flowers bloomed on the side of the road, the hills sprinkled like a Monet painting.
When was it?
Now I remember.
It was summertime. Our last trip to New Hampshire.
Dad was driving.
“It’s the yellow house on the right,” Summer says.
She slides all the way over on the seat until she’s pressed up against me.
“Thanks for your help,” she whispers.
She gives me a kiss on the cheek.
It happens so quickly, I don’t have time to react.
I wish I could freeze the moment. I’d like to stay here forever, next to Summer in the back of the car, her warm lips pressed to my face.
But it’s over in a split second.
She slides back to her side of the car as Mom creeps to a stop in front of the yellow house.
“This is it,” Summer says.
“I hope we see you again soon, Summer,” my mom says.
“Me, too,” Summer says. “See you at rehearsal, Ziggy.”
She gets out and shuts the door.
Mom and I wait as she walks towards the house.
“Who’s Ziggy?” Mom says.
“Forget it.”
“But I’m interested.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry,” she says.
Summer disappears into her house. Mom puts the car in drive.
“Do you want to stay in the back?” she says.
“If it’s okay. I like it back here.”
There’s something nice about riding in the back of a car. It makes you feel like a kid again.
Mom pulls away.
She doesn’t say anything for two blocks, and then she says: “Is that the girl you were asking me about the other day?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you two dating?”
“This is not the type of thing you want to discuss with your mother,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says.
“Stop saying sorry. You’re driving me crazy.”
I hear Mom sniffle.
The engine is whirring softly. Stars are twinkling.
Mom sniffles again.
“I’m sorry I’m the only one here for you to talk to,” she says.
Suddenly the night feels heavy. It’s all around the car, pressing in on me. It’s hard to breathe. I get the empty feeling inside like I do in the dream.
I reach into the back pocket of the car seat and take out one of the glow sticks I store there. I crack it open and shake hard. The back of the car fills with a green glow.
Mom glances in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t say anything. She’s seen me do this before.
I hear a final long sniffle, and Mom blows her nose in a tissue.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say.
Mom clears her throat.
“I don’t want you to get upset,” she says. “You’ve had enough of that. I want you to be happy.”
“I know you do.”
“If this girl could make you happy—”
“It’s complicated, Mom. I can’t explain.”
“You could try.”
“She’s an actor,” I say.
“Is that bad?”
“It’s just … impossible.”
“It sounds like a high-school thing.”
“It is.”
“Maybe you could call Josh and talk to him about it.”
“Great idea,” I say.
“He’s good with these kinds of problems, isn’t he?”
“Very good,” I say. “I promise I’ll call him.”
“That makes me feel a lot better,” Mom says.
I don’t tell Mom I’ve called Josh half a dozen times in the last few months and he never calls me back.
She’s stopped crying for now. That’s all that matters.