Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

dragging me out of the chapel and into the brightly lit foyer. A lady in a black pantsuit gives us a sympathetic smile. She probably thinks things were getting too difficult to deal with in there. She’d be right, but it has nothing to do with my grandpa.

Mom and I bolt to the parking lot and both sigh with relief once we reach the car. “Thank god that’s over,” she says, voicing my exact thoughts.

We made it and we didn’t have to talk to a single person in there.

It’s early May but blazing hot inside Mom’s ’98 Cutlass Sierra. The heat always brings out the nasty smell in here, too. Like old bologna. Mom swears there must be a piece crammed into some crevice we’ve yet to find. She puts the key in the ignition and turns it, but the car only makes a pathetic whining sound.

“Damn it!” She pounds her palm on the top of the steering wheel and tries the engine again. It clicks this time. “Damn, damn, damn.” Her words match the beat of the annoying sound. “Why do you have to do this to me now?”

I don’t mention the fact that her car tends to crap out every other month or so. She needs a new battery but won’t fork out the money for one. “Do you have the jumper cables?” I ask instead.

She grumbles under her breath and fixes me with an annoyed look. “Who are we gonna ask to jump it, huh? Our family hates us, and it’s not like we know any of these other people.”

I stare toward the chapel, a bead of sweat now trickling down one side of my face. The rotten bologna smell has settled inside my nostrils, more irritating than puke-worthy now. You can get used to anything if you’re around it long enough. “How’d Grandpa know all these people anyway? He never went anywhere.”

Mom grasps the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead. “Who knows? I think some of them might be old coworkers or students from the university.” She shakes her head. “Maybe some other bug people, too.”

The heat is really getting to me now, so I reach for my handle and shove the door open before I suffocate. A few funeral-goers stand outside the double doors, their voices carrying on the light breeze. I swipe the sweat away from my cheek with the back of my hand. “What about Digger?” I nod toward the middle-aged bearded guy standing outside the chapel entrance, lighting up a cigarette.

Mom huffs and opens her own door. “Looks like he’s our only option.”

Ten minutes later, Digger’s white van is pulled up onto the grass beside us, and he’s hooking up the jumper cables.

“Surprised you two showed today,” he says in a husky voice.

Mom puts on a fake smile and gives an even faker laugh. “Oh, come on, Digger, it’s my dad. Why wouldn’t we come?”

Arms crossed, I keep my gaze focused on Digger. I’m afraid to look any other direction, lest someone make eye contact with me. His beer gut spills out from beneath the bottom of his gray T-shirt, but I try not to look at that part. Still leaning over the engine, he glances up at Mom. “You sure don’t seem too tore up about it.”

In a flash, her expression changes and she jabs a fist onto each hip. “Of course I’m upset.” But then her scowl softens as she seems to remember that he’s helping us in our time of crisis. “This is just… a little strange for us. I’m sure you understand. I’ve already done plenty of mourning in private.”

This is true. Mom bawled her eyes out on Wednesday, the day she found out Grandpa had died. The fact that she’d learned about his death on Facebook didn’t help matters. She’s been in a funk ever since.

Digger connects the cables. “All right, go give it a try.”

The starter clicks a few more times, then the engine rumbles to life. “Thanks, Digger,” I say.

He looks at me as if he’s just noticed I’ve been standing here the whole time. He coughs and spits into the grass. “So how old are you now?”

I push my hands into my pockets, self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “Uh, eighteen.” Since a few weeks ago, anyway.

He studies me for a moment and grunts. Maybe he’s just surprised I’ve managed to reach adulthood while being raised by my mom. I get it. It surprises me, too, sometimes.

I nod toward the cables. “I’ll take those back if you’re done.”

“Yep.” He unhooks them from the vehicles and hands them over.

“Thanks,” I repeat. What else is there to say? “See ya later.”

I hop in the car, tossing the cables onto the back seat. Semi-cool air blasts from the vents, and I adjust one to point right at my face. This car might be a piece of shit, but at least the air conditioner still works.

Mom waves at Digger as we back out of the parking spot. A line of cars moves up behind the hearse, preparing to take Grandpa to his final resting place, and a small stab of guilt pokes at my chest. I kind of hate that we’re going to miss the graveside service, but it’s not like going is really an option. No one wants us there.

As we drive toward the parking lot exit, I spot Aunt RaeLynn in her sleek black dress and three-inch heels. Standing beside a shiny red Jeep, she’s talking with my cousin, Becka, and another woman. She looks up as we pass, and her mouth pushes into a deep frown. My guilt transforms into bitterness, and I have to resist the urge to flip her off. Because that would be totally inappropriate, of course. Becka’s blond head whips around as she follows her mother’s disapproving gaze, and I can actually see her eye roll from here.

To hell with being appropriate. I roll down the window and give them the bird as we drive away. Beside me,