CRUEL SUMMER | Cruel Summer Series #1

Fever dream high in the quiet of the night

The cool breeze and the early morning light of late spring mix with the cooing of mourning doves and chirping of sparrows to wake me before my alarm clock. The moist, earthy smell makes a smile involuntarily spread across my face, and I sit up to stretch and rub the sleep from my eyes. 

This is my favorite time of year - that golden age when spring melts into summer like an ice cream cone in the sun; when the school year draws to a close, jackets are shed like snake skins for shorts and swimsuits; when even the villains in my story can't help but be in good cheer; when endless days of staying up late, sleeping in, and baseball are just twenty-four hours away.

I glance at my nightstand. My prayer candle must've went out from the night wind, because I'd lit it just before I fell asleep. 

That's when the dream I've just awakened from comes flooding back to me. I get up and put on the bathrobe hanging over the back of my vanity chair, easing the morning chill off my bare arms and legs. 

I fluff my long hair out from under the collar and quickly throw it into a braid.

He was in my dream again last night.

That's thirty-two and counting. 

I've been keeping track. I write them all down in the marble composition notebook on my bedside table first thing when I wake up. 

I reach for the journal and pencil atop it, settle back on my bed, and recount my midnight mind's fabrications. 

"In this one," I scrawl after jotting the date atop a clean, fresh lined page, "It was a beautiful summer night with a glaring full moon, so bright it was like daylight. I sat beside him in a car outside a drive-thru malt shop, cheeseburgers and milkshakes and French fries on trays in our laps. 'There's something I've been wanting to tell you,' he says to me. 'Yes?' I reply coyly, somehow knowing what the next words out of his mouth will be: 'I want to ask for your hand in marriage.' I smile and nod, knowing I feel the same way that he does, but my mouth seems glued shut. That's when I woke up." 

I put the notebook back on my nightstand and set the pencil beside it. I put the vigil candle on top of the book's cover so Mom gets the hint when cleaning my room not to snoop. I slide on my slippers, slightly tingly from the dream's implications, and pad down to the kitchen where I already know Dad will be sitting down eating scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, drinking a strong black cup of coffee, and reading the newspaper, a cigarette dangling from his left hand, dripping ashes into a small glass tray. 

Mom will be in the bathroom by now, unpinning her curlers and painting her face. 

As soon as I enter the room, our dumb chihuahua/Jack Russell/rat terrier goes berserk, barking like a stranger's in the house. 

"Bucky!" we always scold, but it does no good. He doesn't listen. Mom found him shivering in a crate in an alley in the city and felt so afraid he'd become a bigger dog's lunch, she took the scrawny thing home. His ribs were showing, his eyes bulged, and his head was too big for his body. He was too old when we rescued him to ever really be trained; he never was fixed, either, so now he rules the roost, spurred on by his cajones. 

"Little rat," I mutter as he chases me along my short route to the fridge, nipping at my ankles. I stick my tongue out at him as I open the refrigerator and pull out the milk bottle and some orange juice from concentrate in a pitcher. I pour the juice in a ribbed juice glass and the milk into a bowl. Then after returning the beverages to their rightful places, I pluck a box of corn flakes from the pantry and help myself to a nice big bowlful. 

"Big win last night," Dad says, flapping his newspaper out noisily to fold it along its proper creases. He takes a long sip of steaming coffee from his ceramic "Army vet" mug, cigarette smoke curling along his face. Once he's arranged the paper the way he wants it, he slaps it on the kitchen table in front of me, points to the "Box Scores" section, and says, "Take a look."