The Summer List. Amy Mason Doan

      “You’re not going to like it.”

      “The hundred’s a bribe? It’s not even a decent one.”

      “It’s not a bribe, listen,” I said. “‘Girls. I know you must be a little angry, and...’”

      “Ha. Just a little.”

      “...‘and I don’t blame you. Okay, maybe you’re more than a little angry.’

      “‘But remember you’re angry at me, not at each other. It was always that way, wasn’t it? I was to blame then, too. I was the adult.’”

      Casey snorted.

      “‘Correction. I was supposed to be the adult.’ Supposed to be is underlined...” I tried to meet Casey’s eyes but she wouldn’t look at me. She was staring at her bottle.

      “‘So please see this for what it is: my attempt to make things right.’

      “‘Or see it as one last scavenger hunt. They were fun, weren’t they? At least at first? I want this to be fun for you, too.’”

      I waited for Casey’s comment.

      “Fun. God, I’m going to kill her... Sorry, sorry.” Casey held up her free hand in apology. “Keep going.”

      “‘I’ve made up a list.’” I fished out another piece of white paper, this one printed from a computer and folded in half. I held it up for Casey, who had inched closer. I didn’t open it. I set it between us, facedown, so it bridged our couch cushions.

      “‘There are ten things. Five photos to take and five things to find, just like when you were in high school. I put a lot of thought into choosing the items. I couldn’t find the right film for the old Polaroids so I got you a new instant camera at the Sharper Image...’”

      “Unreal.” Casey closed her eyes. “Doesn’t she realize we can take pictures with our phones now? Not that we’re going to be taking pictures anyway...”

      “Wait, listen... ‘I realize you can take pictures with your phones now...’” I pointed at Casey and gave her a chance to get her sarcasm in. We had a nice rhythm going.

      “Because that makes this totally reasonable,” she said.

      “...‘but I thought it’d be more fun this way. More like old times, you know? The camera is in the top left drawer of my dresser. A couple of these clues will take you out of town (hint, hint) so the money is for gas and incidentals.’”

      “My mom did not write incidentals. What is she, a corporate accountant all of a sudden?”

      “She did write incidentals.” I tilted the letter so she could see.

      “‘I’ll be monitoring your progress so no cheating. This will only work if you do it right.’

      “‘When you’ve finished all ten things on the list I’ll trade you for something you’ve both wanted for a long time. Something I probably should have given you years ago.’

      “‘Please trust me one last time. I know that’s a lot to ask. But you have to complete this game before I give you your prize. You’ll understand Sunday, I promise.’”

      “That’s it?” Casey said.

      “No. She signed it. ‘Love, Alex.’”

      I unfolded the paper and skimmed the first few clues. They were written in rhymes, but didn’t seem too hard. Not by Alex’s old standards. “Want to know what’s on the list?”

      “Let me guess. A syrup jug from the Creekside. The mayor’s watering can. A picture by the drinking fountain at school.”

      “You’ve got the basic idea. A guided trip down memory lane. It’s all summer stuff.”

      “Adorable.”

      “So what do you think the prize is? Something we’ve both wanted for a long time.”

      “Right now I want to throw a Sharper Image novelty Polaroid camera at her face. No, I want to punch her in the face.” Casey clenched and unclenched her fist again, as if imagining the satisfaction she’d get from delivering the blow.

      She grabbed the list, crumpled it up without reading it, and tossed it, aiming for the wall opposite us. It barely cleared the coffee table. Jett bounded over and returned it to her, wagging her tail. “She even got your dog into the act.”

      I patted my knees. “Give it, Jetty.”

      I unfolded the damp paper on my lap. “She wrote the clues in rhymes. Five-line rhymes.”

      “Those are called quintains. You missed the morbid poetry phase she got into after 9/11.”

      “The clues seem pretty easy,” I said. “Listen to this one:

      “‘Here you used to glide and spin

      Young and swift and free

      On hoofs of brown and orange you’d...’”

      Casey interrupted. “The skating rink. Tough clue, Mom.”

      “I don’t think she wants the clues to be hard. I don’t think that’s the point this time.”

      Casey pressed her bright cheek against the side of her wine cooler. “She was good, I’ll give her that. Acting as surprised as me when your letter showed up. Talking me into how great it’d be if you came and I should at least give it a chance, how hard it must have been for you to reach out after all this time...” She broke off. “Sorry.”

      “It’s okay.” I picked up the sheet of blue stationery from the coffee table. Until half an hour ago Casey had thought I’d sent it. And I noticed something that I hadn’t the first time. “My” letter had a tracery of lines in it. Casey had crumpled it up, too. Maybe Alex even had to fish the balled-up letter from the garbage. I couldn’t blame Casey; I’d resisted, too. But it hurt.

      “She outsmarted us,” I said.

      “Those handwriting samples we did junior year...” Casey said.

      “Sophomore year.”

      “Was it? Anyway, I can’t even deal with that part right now, the idea of her holing up in her studio, plotting this twisted fiesta when I thought she was painting. She was up there copying our handwriting while I was down here reading Lemony Snicket with Elle, totally oblivious.”

      “She thought we needed an activity,” I said. “Like toddlers.”

      “This says it all.” Casey picked up the manila envelope and punched the word Girls, denting the paper.

      I nodded, though I knew Casey was getting worked up for reasons that had nothing to do with being treated like a child.

      The scavenger hunts Alex masterminded when we were in high school weren’t just party games to keep us entertained. Maybe they’d started off that way. But they’d become something else, and the final prize, for both of us, had been the end of our friendship. Alex couldn’t make that right with an apology and ten bad poems.

      We sipped our drinks. Casey petted Jett with her foot and I read Alex’s list.

      Most of the items were in town. Walking distance, even. The only item that would take some effort was the last one.

      Not that we were doing it.

      The grandfather clock struck eight and after the final, resounding bong it felt even quieter than before.

      “So I get that she wants us to make up,” I said. “But why now?”

      Casey shook her head, focusing on a spot in the air above my head. She whispered something.

      I tapped her knee, then, startled by the familiarity of the gesture, pulled my hand back. “Did you say no?”

      Casey