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Authors: Ann Brashares
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thoughts about Paul that gave her an anxious pleasure and a calm sort of pain.
She knew the fear of being left behind. But she was also afraid of getting ahead.
u
Alice came to keep him company the next day while he worked on his paper. He was surprised at first, and unsure of what to expect. He was thrown by the way he had seen her the night before, so much of her shivering in the moonlight. He was thrown further by how his body had responded to the sight of her body. He was ashamed now, in that morning-after way, of all the pleasures that his sleeping mind had come up with.
He was suddenly concerned that she would recover from their post-haircut amnesia, and he stood on the verge of telling her to get lost, ready to rebuff her questions as to what he was writing or why. So prepared was he, in fact, that he was almost disappointed when the questions didn't come. Instead, she yawned like a cat and settled on the top of his unmade bed, facing away from him to look out the window at the ocean.
"No more Alice beach," she murmured.
"It never lasts long," he said.
She looked over her shoulder at him, stricken.
"But it comes back."
"I guess."
He returned to his notes, or made it seem so. He thought of her last night on the beach, arms crossed over her breasts. Now on his
� 59 � Ann Brashares
very bed where he'd had his dreams, she lay. There were her same arms, her same back, but less provocative now that they were cov ered by a faded brown cotton shirt.
Sunshine came in the window. She rolled over to watch him. She looked so beautiful, it was hard to look away.
"You should go, Alice. I need to work." He felt irritated at her, and it was obvious in his voice. I can't work with you here. I can't make any of my thoughts go the way I want.
She looked hurt as she left. Her eyes were shiny, and he felt guilty.
And even after she was gone, he didn't think about Kant. He thought about Alice. One thing that made her so beautiful was her colors: her reddish gold hair, her green-yellow eyes, her pinkish freckles, her black eyelashes. She comes in colors everywhere. She combs her hair. She's like a rainbow. When she was tiny and he car ried her around, he thought she was the best possible person to look at.
For some reason he thought of the cross she wore. He'd forgot ten about that until he saw her last night, otherwise bare. It reminded him, guiltily, of how fervent she'd been in her faith when she was small and the times he 'd tried to talk her out of it.
He remembered lying with her one night. She was probably about eight and he was eleven, and he was fleeing his house in the customary way and for the usual reasons. She couldn't fall asleep, and when he crawled under the covers he found a rosary in her hands. It made him mad for some reason, and he told her there was no such thing as God.
"Is there a devil?" she had asked.
� 60 � The Last Summer (of You and Me)
They were quiet for a long time, and he assumed she'd long since fallen asleep when he heard her stirring again. He remem bered her little face, full of shiny-eyed pondering. "Well, is there such thing as Jesus?" she 'd asked.
He'd laughed at her meanly. "Alice. You can't have the one without the other."
Looking back, it was the thing in his life that shamed him the most: the times he was purposefully, calculatingly mean to Alice. It was those moments, and there had been many of them, that indi cated to him that he was not a good person. He got mad at her for many things, but it was always really for the same thing: that she possessed his love and he couldn't seem to get it back.
She didn't deserve it, which was to say she deserved better.
u
In past summers when the beach was calm, Riley sometimes let him sit beside her up in the chair. The following day, Paul was inex pressibly gratified when she scooted over to make room for him.
"What's up with you?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
Paul tried
thoughts about Paul that gave her an anxious pleasure and a calm sort of pain.
She knew the fear of being left behind. But she was also afraid of getting ahead.
u
Alice came to keep him company the next day while he worked on his paper. He was surprised at first, and unsure of what to expect. He was thrown by the way he had seen her the night before, so much of her shivering in the moonlight. He was thrown further by how his body had responded to the sight of her body. He was ashamed now, in that morning-after way, of all the pleasures that his sleeping mind had come up with.
He was suddenly concerned that she would recover from their post-haircut amnesia, and he stood on the verge of telling her to get lost, ready to rebuff her questions as to what he was writing or why. So prepared was he, in fact, that he was almost disappointed when the questions didn't come. Instead, she yawned like a cat and settled on the top of his unmade bed, facing away from him to look out the window at the ocean.
"No more Alice beach," she murmured.
"It never lasts long," he said.
She looked over her shoulder at him, stricken.
"But it comes back."
"I guess."
He returned to his notes, or made it seem so. He thought of her last night on the beach, arms crossed over her breasts. Now on his
� 59 � Ann Brashares
very bed where he'd had his dreams, she lay. There were her same arms, her same back, but less provocative now that they were cov ered by a faded brown cotton shirt.
Sunshine came in the window. She rolled over to watch him. She looked so beautiful, it was hard to look away.
"You should go, Alice. I need to work." He felt irritated at her, and it was obvious in his voice. I can't work with you here. I can't make any of my thoughts go the way I want.
She looked hurt as she left. Her eyes were shiny, and he felt guilty.
And even after she was gone, he didn't think about Kant. He thought about Alice. One thing that made her so beautiful was her colors: her reddish gold hair, her green-yellow eyes, her pinkish freckles, her black eyelashes. She comes in colors everywhere. She combs her hair. She's like a rainbow. When she was tiny and he car ried her around, he thought she was the best possible person to look at.
For some reason he thought of the cross she wore. He'd forgot ten about that until he saw her last night, otherwise bare. It reminded him, guiltily, of how fervent she'd been in her faith when she was small and the times he 'd tried to talk her out of it.
He remembered lying with her one night. She was probably about eight and he was eleven, and he was fleeing his house in the customary way and for the usual reasons. She couldn't fall asleep, and when he crawled under the covers he found a rosary in her hands. It made him mad for some reason, and he told her there was no such thing as God.
"Is there a devil?" she had asked.
� 60 � The Last Summer (of You and Me)
They were quiet for a long time, and he assumed she'd long since fallen asleep when he heard her stirring again. He remem bered her little face, full of shiny-eyed pondering. "Well, is there such thing as Jesus?" she 'd asked.
He'd laughed at her meanly. "Alice. You can't have the one without the other."
Looking back, it was the thing in his life that shamed him the most: the times he was purposefully, calculatingly mean to Alice. It was those moments, and there had been many of them, that indi cated to him that he was not a good person. He got mad at her for many things, but it was always really for the same thing: that she possessed his love and he couldn't seem to get it back.
She didn't deserve it, which was to say she deserved better.
u
In past summers when the beach was calm, Riley sometimes let him sit beside her up in the chair. The following day, Paul was inex pressibly gratified when she scooted over to make room for him.
"What's up with you?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
Paul tried
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