A Different Kind of Summer

On the way home she’d stopped at the library. The book about the mammoth with grass in its mouth was there. She’d signed it out along with a few about orbiting planets and how caterpillars became butterflies. Charlotte’s Web, too, to read aloud.

From Iris’s kitchen window she saw Chris sitting under the maple tree in their backyard, a book open in front of him. He’d gone off with the whole pile, except for the one Bretton had recommended. She wanted to check it first then look at it with him, if she decided he should look at it at all.

She turned back to Iris, aware she’d gone a long time without finishing the story of the parent-teacher interview. “Anyway,” she said, wrapping it up quickly, “I kind of lost my temper. I hate losing my temper.”

“Once in a while you need to stand up for yourself.”

“Sure. And alienate your son’s teacher who already thinks you’re failing him.”

Iris pulled a pitcher of sangria from the fridge, put two wineglasses on the table, then slipped off her shoes and lit a cigarette. Gwyn sat across from her.

“There’s always somebody who thinks they know what we should be doing. You’ve got to ignore people like that, Gwyn. Leaning on Chris? Give me a break. You’re a great mom. You do everything you can for that kid.”

“He’s in knots about this, about the idea the weather’s changing. Obsessed.”

Iris shrugged. She tapped the end of her cigarette in the ashtray to put it out, but kept holding it as if she was going to take another puff. “It is different, isn’t it? Ice storms and floods, droughts, warm winters.”

“Maybe it only seems that way. We’ve got 24-hour news and a channel for the weather. They have to talk about something.”

“Could be.” Iris poured each of them some of the sangria, careful that the fruit in the pitcher didn’t plonk into their glasses. “Don’t worry about Chris. Kids get scared. Molly was a wreck about strangers after she started kindergarten. Forget the alphabet, the first thing they taught her was ‘be afraid, be very afraid.’ She didn’t want to go trick-or-treating that Hallowe’en. She wouldn’t sit on the mall Santa’s knee at Christmas.”

“What did you do?”

“Not a thing. She got over it.”

Molly came in the door just then. “Me? Hi, Mrs. Sinclair.” She shrugged when her mother asked how her exam had gone. “It was okay. Jamie says she flunked. We’re going for coffee later.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Not coffee, really. Just out.”

“On an exam night?”

“For an hour. It’s important, we’re planning some fund-raising. For hurricane relief.”

“That’s very nice, I’m glad to hear it. You can do it after exams.”

“Half an hour, that’s all. The break’ll do us good. What did I get over, Mom? Besides Jason.” She reached for the sangria pitcher and her mother lightly slapped her hand. “And that arrogant dweeb, Luke McKinley.”

“Oh, you’re over him now?”

“Completely.” She took a juice glass out of the cupboard. “That much? It’s healthy, Mom. Look at all the fruit.” When her mother ignored her, she brought out an egg cup. “That much?”

“All right. No refills.”

Gwyn watched Molly fill the egg cup to the brim and sip appreciatively. “How did you ever fall for an arrogant dweeb in the first place?”

“Have you seen Luke McKinley? He’s the cutest, hottest guy ever.”

“He isn’t,” Iris interrupted. “He’s just cocky.”

Molly nodded emphatically, eyebrows up for extra emphasis. “Hot, cute and cocky. You feel like he’s looking in the mirror the whole time he’s talking to you. Imagine kissing him—”

“Hey! I told you, no imagining kissing until you’re sixteen.” Iris winked at Gwyn.

“Right, Mom.”

“We’re getting pizza for dinner,” Iris went on, “and you and Chris are joining us, Gwyn. Molly can play with him for a while, won’t you, Molly? Chris’s teacher thinks he doesn’t have any fun.”

Molly didn’t hide her irritation. “Sure. There’s no time for fund-raising for a hurricane, but I can play with Chris.”

Gwyn said, “That’s all right. I’ve got dinner planned.”

“No, no, stay, Mrs. Sinclair. I didn’t mean it like that. I want to play with him. We can rescue each other from glaciers again. Personally, at that age I liked Beanie Babies, but hey.”

“That’s not a helpful tone,” Iris told her daughter. “And the pizza will be here in five minutes, Gwyn, so you really should stay. Chris said he was hungry.”

Gwyn went to the window to check on him again. Bitten from head to toe, scared and hungry. Maybe she really wasn’t taking good care of him. He was still reading, his knees up and his back resting against the tree. He looked relaxed. For him, trying to figure things out was fun. At least she’d always thought so. Are you sure? Bretton had asked, about something or other. She was never sure, not about anything.

“I went to the museum after I saw Ms. Gibson to talk to the man who frightened Chris last Saturday. Guess what?”

“What?”

“He’s got a Ph.D. In climatology.”

“Oh, oh. An honest to goodness expert.”

“He’s really annoying.” That wasn’t exactly true. It was more that he was too sure of his facts and too willing to share them. Actually, he seemed—she wouldn’t go so far as to say caring—but almost, he almost seemed caring.

“What’s that sparkle I see?”

“Sparkle?”

“You got sort of a sparkle when you mentioned this guy.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.