Page 19 of A Summer to Save Us

River left me something to eat and drink and put some fresh clothes on the bed.

Of course, the jeans are too big, but next to them are an army-green long-sleeved shirt and a black T-shirt.

A Demons ’N Saints fan T-shirt like Arizona owns, only in a men’s large.

On the front are the four musicians, made up beyond recognition.

Bassist, guitarist, drummer, and singer, each scarier than the last. KISS has nothing on them. So, River is also into punk rock.

Punk rock means freedom . The quote from philosophy class pops into my mind.

I inhale deeply and slip on the army-green long-sleeved shirt. It falls to my mid-thighs, and, for the first time, I’m glad I’m not as tall as Arizona. I sniff curiously at the material. Its scent is overwhelming—a mixture of River and fresh lime blossoms.

I pull the hem of my left sleeve over my palm, go back into the bathroom, and untangle my hair with the comb that’s been lying around. Then, despite the knot in my stomach, I eat a sandwich, drink the Coke, and sit at the table with a pad and pen.

I write Big Five in squiggly letters as a heading, then stare at the blank page for minutes.

Be honest about them. I can’t think of anything because I have no idea what to write on a things-to-do-before-dying list. After a few minutes, I google ‘bucket list’ and find things like surfing in Hawaii, hiking through a foreign country for months, saying “fuck you” to my chemistry teacher, cutting up the furniture in a hotel room like a rock star, and knowing every country and capital on earth by heart.

However, none of those have anything to do with me.

Besides, people always assume they have an infinite amount of time to live.

Maybe it’s completely stupid to write lists like this.

It would be better if these lists were more along the lines of, If I only had one more week, what would I do?

Or What would I do if I only had one more day?

I grip the pencil tighter and close my eyes for a moment. Okay, Kans. You have one summer. What do you want to do? What do you really, really want to do?

1. Be a fixed star for once.

The wish shoots straight from my heart onto the paper. It’s a shallow wish, but I want to know how it would feel. For once, I want to know what it’s like to be adored and loved by everyone.

I chew the end of my pencil thoughtfully, wondering what’s on River’s list. Maybe have a lot of money, or don’t hate myself anymore. Or even jump from a highline.

Without thinking too much, I write:

2. Tell someone I love them.

And then:

3. Hug someone.

However, that’s not entirely honest. Basically, it should say kiss a boy I like. Best under moonlight. But I don’t want River to read that.

I continue to think about it. I want to tell Dad that he can kiss my ass, but that’s not a good item for a Big Five list.

4. Ask Mom why she left.

I glance at the newspaper, which is still neatly folded on the bedside table.

5. Laugh and cry out loud.

I stand up suddenly and listen to Dad’s message again. Impulsively, I start typing:

I won’t be home until the end of summer.

I’m currently with a guy named Max. You don’t know him.

Chester doesn’t know him. Don’t bother trying to find him.

I’m so tired of you treating me like a leper.

I never lied, Dad. I never threw myself at Chester.

You are blind. All of you. So blind. And by the way, don’t be surprised, but my battery will be dead soon, and I don’t have a charging cable with me.

Send.

My heart pounds wildly. I’ve never spoken to Dad like that before.

I’ve written it, but he’s never seen any of it.

For the next hour, I pace back and forth in the motel room, waiting for his reply, but then my cell phone shuts down as the battery dies.

Somehow, this grace period is a relief, but it also makes me nervous because I don’t know if Chester is scheming something new.

At some point, I collapse onto the bed, exhausted.

My legs hurt from hiking and slacklining.

I’m dead tired but wide awake. Too excited to sleep.

I stare at the ceiling. Laughing out loud.

Crying . When I stopped talking to my family a year ago, I still talked to myself sometimes—very quietly in the locked bathroom in front of the mirror when the house was empty.

Just to find out if I could still do it and to hear my voice.

When did I stop doing that? Can I still do it?

I can speak; I know that. So, I can say no, too, can’t I?

The not-talking-anymore began when Arizona started giving me the silent treatment. I learned then that there are many ways you can leave people. To this day, I still hear the words she uttered with anger and disgust.

“She did it on purpose, Dad! Because she’s jealous of me and always has been! That’s the only reason she came on to him. To hurt me!”

“Now, calm down.”

“Now she’s claiming Chester forced her to do it. Ha! She’s just too cowardly to admit it!”

All she said to me was, “I’ll never forgive you for that, Kansas. Do you hear? Never! As long as I live!”

I don’t know what she really saw that night, but her jealousy must have distorted it.

After she stopped speaking to me, my silence took on a life of its own, like starvation with an anorexic.

At some point, the gap between speaking and remaining silent became insurmountable.

Too scary. Then, at a certain point, I was happy about the distance because otherwise, my family might have noticed from my behavior that something was wrong at school.

Maybe that’s why I shut myself off from James.

Rising abruptly, I hurry into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. I have freckles from the sunny day that make my face look different. More delicate. Foreign.

Say something! Anything .

On impulse, I put both hands on my throat as if I might have to force the words out. But the girl in the mirror remains silent. My language is cut off from me, amputated like a leg.

For you. To let fly .

My throat constricts. I lower my hands. Why do I have to think about River’s words right now?

Why do they suddenly make me so sad when they previously made it easier to breathe?

With dry eyes, I blink and wrap my arms around myself, feeling the bruises on my upper body.

Everything’s okay, Kans. Everything’s okay .

But of course, it isn’t. All the days of silence press against me from within as if wanting to tear me apart.

A flood of fear and despair, loneliness and shame rushes through me.

It’s like every blow I received at Kensington hammers away inside me.

Every remark causes inner wounds and bleeding.

The water in the bucket that drowned me.

I take a deep breath. Only here, in safety, do I realize how much I suffered at Kensington.

It’s as if I had actually turned deaf over the last year, putting my emotions on the back burner as best I could.

Otherwise, I would have shattered. But now I feel everything—the enormity that is my story.

Being silent and speechless scares me, and I fear I’ll never be able to escape if I didn’t let it out of me.

Startled, I wake up, my heart pounding. I must have fallen asleep because it’s pitch black outside.

My back is drenched in sweat. I dreamed about water and panicked again, thinking I was drowning.

Trembling, I rub my eyes and stand. River still isn’t back, or maybe he was here and left again.

The air is hot and oppressive, so I open the window and breathe in the cool night air.

Blinking, I look outside and see River pacing back and forth in the parking lot with his phone to his ear.

So, he’s no longer with Mariah. Somehow, that calms me, although he looks rather agitated.

His hair is tangled, and he has a cigarette in his hand.

He listens to whoever’s speaking, then suddenly comes to a halt.

“Not in this life!” His voice is harsh and guttural.

I subconsciously hold my breath. “You don’t believe that…

” He circles the Porsche he parked in front of the motel room earlier.

“They’re making a zombie out of me!” he suddenly shouts, sounding desperate.

He grips the roof of the convertible and hangs his head.

His shoulders shake, and it almost looks like he’s crying.

I should move away from the window but don’t—I just exhale slowly. “I can’t do that. I cannot do this. It’s hell there, Zozoo.”

Zozoo. He said that name before, last night in the tent. Maybe a friend or a girlfriend?

“I can’t. Leave me alone, okay? Just this summer... you know I can’t... no, I’m fine. Fantastic. No... no... there’s no girl... yes, I promise, no girl.” He pauses. “Yes, I know how this ends...” He curses and apparently hangs up because he puts the phone in his pocket.

I’m paralyzed. That didn’t sound like the River I’ve come to know over the last twenty-four hours.

He said so many things that I didn’t understand, and it sounds like he’s hiding a lot more from me than I thought.

Above all, what did he mean by knowing how it ends?

What ends how? And am I the girl he says isn’t with him? Or was that Mariah?

I step carefully away from the window into the darkness of the room, but it’s too late.

“I know you’re standing there; you don’t have to hide.

” River’s voice sounds rough. I peer down at the parking lot at the Porsche.

River straightens, his gaze lost in the darkness as if looking toward some point in his past that I don’t know about—or at least, that’s how it seems. “It’s your energy, vibrating like a damn guitar string. ”

I’m sorry , I would say if I could. I quickly write it in capital letters on the pad and hold it out the window.