Page 6 of Summer’s Echo

The rapid knocking at my bedroom door broke me from my haze. I slipped into a pair of shorts before yelling, “Come in.”

“Rise and shine.” My daddy’s boisterous guffaw filled my tiny yellow bedroom. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t prevent the smile creeping up my cheeks. My daddy was my dude. I admired our matching reflections in the mirror.

“Good morning, Daddy,” I said.

“Give me some love,” he requested. I kissed his cheek and fell into the hug I looked forward to every morning.

“You’re getting paid the big bucks this summer, huh? You can pay some rent,” he teased.

I shook my head. “Daddy, you’re so silly. Every penny is going toward a car, so I will not be paying any rent, sir. Y’all still have to feed me until I’m at least twenty-one,” I said, nudging him playfully.

Although I thought my dad was the corniest guy ever, I secretly couldn’t wait for his cheesy jokes and that big, booming laugh.

It was like clockwork: He’d crack some goofy joke, and I’d dramatically sigh with all the irritation I could muster, but deep down, I loved every minute.

On those days when I felt like my light was dimming, I craved the sound of his voice.

Oliver Knight had a way of making me feel like I was the brightest star in the room, even when I didn’t believe it myself.

And today was one of those days. I always looked forward to summer camp, but this year was different.

This would be my last hoorah at Camp Quest, and the thought of it being over was bittersweet.

“One step at time, one day at a time, Summer. Enjoy it. Don’t worry about what might happen—focus on today.

Okay?” my dad whispered, somehow knowing exactly what was going on in my head.

I nodded, and he gently lifted my chin. This man—my daddy—he was everything to me.

His face held that familiar tenderness that gave me a sense of safety and certainty, like nothing could go wrong as long as he was around.

But it was the pride in his voice when he talked to me…

It was like taking a breath of fresh air, instantly bringing me back to life, just when I needed it most.

“Hey, my sassy girl! Are you ready?” Mama.

While daddy was my dude, my mama? She was my favorite girl, hands down.

She was truly one-of-a-kind; there was not another like her.

She was what some would call a redbone with her smooth milky skin, short coal-black hair, and high cheekbones dusted with freckles.

She had a curvy yet petite frame that I would’ve killed to inherit.

We were the same height, but her bold and feisty energy made her seem ten feet tall.

While safety resided in my daddy’s tone, my mama’s voice was something different.

It was a mix of humility, conviction, and straight-up confidence.

Every time she uttered Summer Sierra, it was like she was convincing me that I could take on the world, as long as I committed my heart and mind to it.

Teresa Knight was truly my muse. My parents were standing in my room gazing at me as if I was getting prepared to go off to war. They did this every year.

“Get a move on, Summer Sierra, so we won’t be late.

”Mama’s somber voice matched the same bittersweet emotion that lingered on her pretty face.

Being the mother of four—three girls and one boy—Mama was often emotional about everything—birthdays, graduations, first kisses, and anything else related to “her babies”, especially her girls, as she lovingly called the three of us.

I was the youngest, the last one still living at home.

My brother, Oliver Jr.—OJ—was the oldest—ten years my senior, practically a second father at times.

At least that’s what he’d say. Then there was my sister, Annette, six years ahead of me, the perfect blend of responsible and nurturing.

And finally, Raquel—Raqi to everyone who knew her—just four years older.

Where I was sassy, she was saucy. OJ and Annette were long gone, married and busy managing their own homes.

For a long time, it was just Raqi and me, but just a few weeks ago, she’d graduated from college and was now packing for her move to Chicago for her first big job.

One by one, my siblings all left, carving out lives of their own, leaving me behind in the quiet that used to feel full.

My mother swore she wasn’t planning on having any more children, but she always says she was pleasantly surprised when I arrived, bright and early, on the first day of summer—hence, my name.

But lately, Mama’s emotions seemed to stretch far beyond Raqi’s upcoming move to Chicago or me turning seventeen in a few weeks and heading off for my last summer camp experience.

It wasn’t just sadness or nostalgia; it was pride—a deep, quiet pride that settled over her whenever she looked at me, like she was holding on to every moment before everything changed.

My mother had become a mom at just seventeen, giving birth to my brother.

Her plans for college, travel, and a career were put on pause.

When she and my dad married, those plans were postponed indefinitely, as Annette and Raqi came along soon after.

Granny never let her forget it. “You better get a handle on those girls before they become fast tails and have a house full of li’l babies,” she would fuss, her words sharp but laced with that old-school worry only Granny could deliver.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Mama brushing it off with a casual wave, her patience with Granny far exceeding anything I could ever muster.

Still, I imagined those words must have stung, no matter how often she heard them.

Mama had sacrificed so much—her dreams, her freedom, her youth.

And yet, even when Granny taunted her, she never wavered.

She always made it clear her family was worth every sacrifice.

Maybe Mama’s emotionsweren’t just about me, but abouther.

About the girl she used to be, the dreams she once carried at seventeen.

Maybe, when she looked at me, she wasn’t just seeing her teenage daughter, she was seeinga version of herself, one still brimming with the hopes she had to let go of.

I often wondered if she was anything like me at seventeen.

Did she walk with the sameoutward confidence, yetinward self-consciousness, convincing herself she had it all figured out?

Did she laugh a little too loud, speak a little too boldly, just tocover up the quiet doubts creeping beneath the surface?

Did she stare at her reflection, adjusting her posture, tilting her chin higher—not because she felt unshakable, but because sheneeded to believe she was?

Most people wouldn’t believe it, but under all that sass and swagger, I wasan unsure little girl, always second-guessing myself.

Of course, I could light up a room, cracking jokes and commanding attention with my wit and charm, but inside…

I was a storm of shy, awkward feelings. Classic Gemini shit—one side of me was sugary sweet and the other a sharp-tongued, no-nonsense chick who could cut someone down with just a few words.

Even though my insecurities were fading, I still often felt uneasy about the voluptuousness of my body, mainly because of the kind of attention it drew.

I was groped by the nasty little boys on the playground for having breasts and a booty and stared at inappropriately by grown men.

When I got to middle school, some girls my age craved that kind of attention; they chased after it.

But I wanted nothing to do with it. I’d hide under shirts two sizes too big and baggy jeans, even wrapping my breasts with Ace bandages to make them look smaller.

It got to the point where my parents wondered if I even liked boys.

Our house had walls as thin as paper, so one night, I heard my mother praying.

“Please, Jesus, let this girl like boys. Lord , I don’t know what I’d do.

” Her whispered prayers made me laugh because I could visualize her dramatic self, collapsing to her knees in that tiny bathroom that doubled as her prayer closet, one hand pressed on her black vinyl gold-foil–printed Holy Bible and the other raised toward the heavens.

On the other hand, it worried me because if my own mother had these doubts, what did others think?

That might have been the very time I realized how much I cared about other people’s opinions, maybe more than I cared about my own.

Sure, I thought I was cute in the face and was mostly confident and self-assured, but deep down, I was always questioning myself.

Does this dress fit? Are my legs too big?

Can people see my fat rolls? Admittedly, I was jealous of my sisters and honestly my mama, too, because they all had cute little perfect bodies.

Where did I come from? Why didn’t God give me the tiny waist and perky perfect little breasts ?

Probably because He knew my ass would be one of the fast-tail girls my granny spoke about.

After breakfast, I hopped in the shower and got dressed, knowing we had to hit the road soon. Daddy had already loaded his truck, and I was certain he was pacing outside, waiting for me with his usual patience.

“Summer Sierra, let’s go,” my mother shouted.

Blowing myself a kiss in the mirror for that extra boost of confidence, I was ready!

I strolled into the living room where my mom and sister were lounging on the couch.

To my surprise, Daddy was in the kitchen—not outside—but still quietly grumbling about us running late.

My mom, Raqi, and I all laughed knowing how serious Daddy was about time.

If we were even a minute off schedule, he’d have a mini fit.

“You ready, shuga?” he asked, taking a sip from his coffee cup.

I nodded. We finally hopped into the car and headed toward Camp Quest. The familiar narrow road stretched before us, winding its way off the highway and into the trees, the same path we’d taken every summer for years.

But this time, it felt different. The closer we got, the stronger the feeling grew—this was going to be the kind of summer where anything felt possible.