Just for the Summer Chapter 5

Shelby

As little streaks of sunlight start to peek through my window, I'm already awake. I told myself I'd try to sleep in a little, give myself a little grace, but it's not working. But I don't feel like going downstairs considering nobody'll be down there.

Well, maybe Seth will.

I swear, the other morning something was different. I thought I hated him, for making me keep that secret, for running off and never saying goodbye. But I saw a different side of him. The side that I guess Gray sees. The side that Willa probably sees.

The thing is, he looked kind of scared when I offered up my scrambled eggs. Like he didn't want to be a burden. I wonder who made him feel like that, like he doesn't deserve having someone cook for him.

I hope I didn't stare at him too long, but it felt like forever. I just looked at his eyes. They're sort of hazel, I guess, but they weren't just hazel then. They were tree bark and moss.

I keep telling myself it was just scrambled eggs, it didn't mean anything when he looked at me like that. But my stupid heart keeps betraying me.

So this morning, before the sun even rose, I grabbed some sheets of origami paper and started folding.

It's become a habit ever since our neighbor, Ms. Aburaya, taught me when I was eight. She'd always seemed mysterious to me, like a raincloud followed her around. I'd see her in the grocery store, hunched over a packet of frozen sushi, mumbling about how it could never be as authentic as sushi from Japan.

One day, Gray had made muffins for a class party. Not looking at the measurements, he ended up making triple the amount. Stupid, I know.

Dad had told us to give some of the extras to Ms. Aburaya, but Gray was scared to death of her. To tell the truth, I kind of was too. But I told myself she was just another person who hopefully liked muffins.

I can still picture her face as I opened the door that day. At first, she looked past me, out to the driveway. But then she looked down, and her face immediately brightened. I would learn later that she’d had a daughter and husband, who died in a car accident. She thought of me as the child she had missed in her life for so long. From that day on, I hung out at her house when I was doing homework or practicing for an audition. It was a welcome quiet from the chaos of my own place. And that's when she taught me origami. My chubby fingers used to fumble the slick paper, but she guided them slowly.

So now, I fold an origami butterfly like the movements have been etched into my mind. And I guess they have been carved there—that’s what origami does. It engraves on you the art of everyone who came before.

The sun's gone a long way since this morning. I ate a mostly silent breakfast with Seth, then retreated back to my room to rehearse. He's hiding in the guest room. I really want to talk to him, but we're going out tonight with Willa. We'll have plenty of time then and I just don't want him to get tired of me.

This year, I was lucky enough to get the lead role—Scout. It took ten years of being at this theatre, but I finally did it. And I’m so proud of myself. It’ll be a lot of work, but it’s worth it.

Especially because I’ll get another message from my secret supporter.

When I did my first show in middle school, someone left a bouquet with a note in my dressing room. It said “From your secret supporter. Keep performing!” I asked my family, the cast, the crew, but nobody knew who gave it to me. Ever since then, they’ve been leaving flowers at every show, whether a school performance or community theatre. They started writing more detailed comments about my performances, too. I keep them in my room and look at them when I’m not feeling confident about my skills. I just love getting messages from them. At first, I would try to find out who it was so much, but now I’m just content knowing someone likes my performance no matter how small my part is. Although a part of me still wants to find out, another part of me knows that it’ll ruin the feeling, the magic.

Suddenly, a bang resounds from the kitchen, and I am brought back to real life.

“I’m okay! I promise!” Seth calls out. Something in me doesn’t quite believe him, so I run down the stairs.

There he is, sitting on the floor, clutching his knee. “I may have knocked into the kitchen island. I wasn’t looking.”

I shake my head sarcastically. “Oh, Seth. What are we ever going to do with you?”

He lets out a cheesy grin and stands up, coolly leaning up against the counter and nearly slipping.

“I was going to cook something for you, because you said y’all had pasta and stuff.” He says, rubbing his knee slightly. “My mom makes this one pasta dish, she gave me the recipe a couple months ago.”

I recall a Tupperware Gray brought home in April, holding an extremely delicious carbonara. He said Seth had made it…but I hadn’t believed him. Because there was no way that he could have made such a good dish. I guess I was mistaken.
“Go ahead,” I say with a shrug. “We probably have all the ingredients. You know Dad loves to cook.”

He lets out a small smile and goes to the pantry, where he collects ingredients that quickly amass into a large pile on the counter. I sit at the kitchen island and put on a Netflix show on my phone, then run to my room to grab my recent crochet project. And so we both do what we enjoy, I sit and work on my little crochet frog, and Seth hustles around in the kitchen, which slowly fills with the amazing smell of his mom’s spaghetti carbonara. We’re both mostly silent, save for Seth asking me questions about the location of various items and me obnoxiously giggling at my show. I notice him looking at me whenever I laugh, and try not to let him see me blush.

Soon enough, the food’s ready, and Seth is standing like a proud dad in front of the stove. Like this carbonara is his prized possession, or his tournament-winner son. It’s endearing.

It’s magical. Buttery, salty…absolutely delicious. So this guy is cute and he can cook? Oh god, I’ve fallen so hard.

“So? What do you think?” he asks, leaned up against the counter with his elbow resting against the tile. It’s a remarkably natural position for him, like he’s meant to be here. Is it weird that I already can’t imagine the house without him?

“Seth. Can you see the look on my face? This is heaven,” I say, continuously stuffing my mouth with more food. “Please keep cooking. It might keep me sane this summer.”

He laughs and spoons himself a serving. As he takes the first bite, he closes his eyes and smiles, looking almost like a cat being petted.

“Yup, that’s good,” he tells me, eyes still closed. “Mom’s recipe never fails.”

He pulls out his phone and takes a quick photo of the plate, then finally looks up at me. “She’s gonna love to hear I made it again. Can I get a photo of you smiling so she knows it doesn’t suck?”

I nod and pull out my cheesiest smile with a very obvious thumbs up. He smirks from behind the camera.

“By the way,” I say as he texts his mom, “Do you want to know where we’re going now or later?”

“Let it be a surprise,” he replies, still typing. “Unless it’s a river where you’re going to drown me. In which case I would like to know.”