The Summer List. Amy Mason Doan

the photo. I’d just learned to skate backward, and I was beaming. That was all it took to make me happy.

      Our photographer yelled something but all I could hear was “I will survive. Now go! Walk out the door!”

      “What?” Casey shouted.

      “I said, say, ‘Aaargggh!’”

      I obediently mumbled, “Aar” behind my smile but Casey yelled, “Just take the damn picture, Mel. We’re not ten.”

      He handed back the camera, the photo flapping out like a white tongue. “I was going to ask if you had requests, but not with that attitude.”

      We waited in line at the snack bar, monitoring the image as it developed in Casey’s palm. It was overexposed, compromised by the flash bouncing off fake jewels in the treasure chest. Two women who might as well have been strangers, standing so carefully apart from each other, gingerly holding opposite corners of the treasure chest lid as if it contained uranium instead of ten-cent necklaces. My smile was tight and Casey was scowling.

      If we were in the mood to write a caption in the wide white band at the bottom it would say this: What the hell are we doing here?

      But I knew the white plastic would remain empty. That space was reserved for summing up happier shots.

      “It’s a good one of you,” Casey said, examining the photo.

      I prepared my automatic denials. I’m ten pounds heavier, I can’t wear my hair as long now, I have three lines on my forehead and a third of my left eyebrow simply vanished overnight... “Oh, please, I...”

      “Stop. Can we not do that, please? Can we just agree not to do that?”

      “Do what?”

      “That thing some women do, looking for reassurance. That whole repetitive, tiresome thing. You look fantastic, and I look fine, and we’re thirty-five. Done.”

      “Fine. So you think Alex is here? In a Farrah Fawcett wig?”

      “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

      We carried our burgers and Cokes to tables with little swinging chairs attached. Everyone ate while either pushing off from the table base and letting their chair return, over and over, or pivoting side to side. Even the adults did it; they just did it less vigorously. It was impossible not to. Casey was a side-to-sider and I was a pusher-offer. These chairs had probably absorbed a million man-hours of nervous energy over the decades.

      “Have you seen your mom yet?” I pushed off from the table and returned, glad to have something to do with my legs. I tried to pretend I was looking for Alex, a lock of her red hair peeking out from under a blond, feathered wig. But I was looking for someone else. Someone tall, with shiny black hair and brown eyes.

      Casey took pity on me. “He’s not here much. He owns a miniature golf course in Tahoe City and a couple other businesses.”

      I gulped too much Coke and an avalanche of ice dislodged and fell down my chin. “That’s good,” I said, wiping my face. “I mean, good for him. He wouldn’t recognize me anyway.”

      “You said that already.”

      “I did?”

      She waited a beat, fighting some impulse, and I wasn’t sure if she won or lost the fight but she said, so quietly I barely heard her over the music and games, the boom-clacks from the bowling alley, “He’d recognize you.”

      We ate our burgers and watched the skaters, and in the long silence I wondered if Casey was thinking the same thing. That Alex had been right to give us activities. A schedule.

      “They’re cute, right?” Casey said. “God, so young.”

      “That one looks a little like your...” Daughter? Foster daughter? “Like Elle.” I nodded at a laughing girl skating past with long honey-brown hair.

      “That’s her friend from school. Mia.” Casey waved, but the little girl didn’t notice. We watched her pack circle around. She was a bold and graceful skater, her hair flying behind her. She navigated the corners with a flick of her eyes and an imperceptible pivot of her skinny ankles.

      The music stopped and a voice on the speakers announced the Dice Game. People had to stand by numbers spaced around the rink while a teenage employee rolled a fuzzy die the size of a washing machine. Anyone not standing under the number it landed on had to leave the rink. Finally, three boys at number seven prevailed, and they high-fived each other as if they’d won the lottery. Modern kids, supposedly so spoiled and warped by their video games and iPhones. Here they were excited about their trip to the plastic treasure chest.

      “Why are you smiling?” Casey said.

      “Was I? I was thinking I’m glad this place is still here. Swinging chairs. Digby the Pirate Duck. I’m glad it hasn’t changed.”

      “Me, too,” she said.

      “Me, too.”

      The voice above me was older now, but unmistakable. I hooked my feet around the table leg to stop my chair from swinging.

      J.B.

      Also called The Boy Behind the Counter, and Skating Rink Boy.

      For me, he was only, ever, The Boy. The boy who was different from all the rest. And now he was standing behind me, inches from the back of my chair.

      “We’re a real time capsule,” the voice continued.

      I looked up. He was leaning down over me, his black hair falling forward around his face. The only thought I could register was that even upside down and half-covered by hair, his brown eyes were kinder than any I’d ever seen.

      And the only words I could manage were “It’s you.”