Read Online Postcards From Last Summer by Roz Bailey - Free Book Online Page A

had.
    â€œYou should write some of those things down,” I told Bear. “Such vivid images.” I had always found his surfing adventures fascinating.
    â€œYeah, maybe he could make it into a limerick or something.” Steve grinned maliciously, then bit into a hunk of sandwich.
    Skeeter snorted, that pig snort he’d perfected at the age of ten. “There once was a loser from Brooklyn, who surfed Maui and . . . wait. What rhymes with Brooklyn?”
    â€œNothing, dirtbag,” Steve said.
    Charlie held the relish tray while Tara took some pickles. “Finding a rhyme for Brooklyn, I believe, would be a challenge for an experienced lyricist.”
    â€œOh, you’re just jealous that you don’t have the gift, Stephen,” Ma chastised. “Now Lindsay here, there’s a talent. Though we haven’t seen your writing lately, have we? Weren’t you working on some short stories for one of your classes?”
    â€œIt’s just a hobby, Ma,” I said, quickly changing the subject back to surfing, something everyone would pick up on. “Did you hear, Ma? Charlie rode his first wave today.”
    And my mother gasped and made a fuss over Charlie’s feat as Steve mentioned a surfing competition down the coast, and the conversation took off once again.
    Biting into a juicy slice of peach, I felt a twinge of longing for the way things used to be, back when Elle and Darcy nearly lived in this house. Funny, the things you remember. Elle used to jump on my brother’s back and hold on until he rolled onto the ground. Darcy once played a whole game of Life with her swimsuit stuffed with a roll of wadded toilet paper, not caring when Steve and his friends walked through the room gaping. With my girlfriends around, I never had to worry about being outnumbered by Steve and his friends. Most of all, I didn’t have time to worry about anything.
    I missed them both.

8
    Elle
    S tuck in Connecticut, Elle DuBois sat at the edge of the turquoise pool, kicking her legs to break the monotonous surface of the water. She loved swimming and had already done thirty laps, which was not the easiest feat in a pool shaped like a warped Frisbee.
    â€œDo you guys ever swim?” she asked her cousins.
    â€œSure we do. I do all the time.” Liam looked up from the filter, which he’d been reaching into, showing off in that eight-year-old boy show-offy way by pulling out insects and leaves and gunk with his bare hands. He slammed the filter cover on, stood at the edge of the pool, and called, “See?” as he cannonballed into the water.
    â€œAch!” his sister Gabby scoffed from the lounge chair behind Elle. “You little freak! Jump from the other side.”
    â€œI don’t get it,” Elle said. “Everyone on this street has their own pool. And right now, it’s almost eighty degrees, and no one but Liam is using it.” She squeezed water out of her hair, pondering the mysteries of suburban Connecticut. “What’s that about?”
    â€œPeople have other things to do,” Gabriella said with an air of importance that made Elle want to flick her on the shoulder. Then again, most things Gabby said made Elle want to inflict some form of torture. Like the first night Elle arrived and Gabby asked if she had to share her room with Elle. And if she could still go to her friend’s house for a sleepover. And if she needed to include Elle at the birthday party she’d been planning for so long “with only my best friends.” A pool party, this Saturday. A stupid idea, as far as Elle was concerned, since neither Gabby nor her “very best friends” were going to go near the water.
    This suburbia thing was worse than she’d expected.
    Her cousins were complete strangers, little power brokers embedded in television shows and electronic games Elle had never even heard of. Aunt Deanna couldn’t have cared less that Elle was