cell phone.
That’s when Abbie emerged from the lake, shaking the water out of her hair like a wet puppy.
“Uh-oh,” she said, eyeing Mom. “Well, I guess it was too good to last. So what’s on the agenda today? Making our own soap? Tracing Johnny Appleseed’s steps through Michigan?”
“Here,” Mom said as she reached into the cooler. “Have a Coke. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Abbie said, gaping at our mother.
“She’s crossed over to the dark side,” Hannah said happily. Then she flopped onto her back next to my mom and closed her eyes for a nap.
At some point we got hungry. So we threw on our flip-flops and shuffled up to town.
Perhaps because it was the first café we hit on Main Street, we wandered into Dis and Dat. A little hole in the wall with mustard-yellow walls, Dis and Dat sold two things and two things only: hot dogs and french fries. Both the food and the thick-necked guys behind the counter had south-side-of-“Chicawgo” accents. They clapped their serving tongs like castanets and pointed them at you as they interrogated you about your hot dog toppings.
“You want some of dese pickles?” they’d demand. “How about some of dose peppers?”
They’d shake celery salt on your dog and announce, “A little of dis.”
Then they’d squirt on some mustard and say, “And a little of dat.”
I couldn’t help but feel a little insider pride when Hannah marched up to the counter and barked, “Five of ’em with everything.”
She knew not to say “please” and she definitely knew not to ask for ketchup. Chicagoans have this weird thing about ketchup on a hot dog. Ask for it, and they’ll act like you said something disgusting about their mother.
“That’s what I like to heah!” the guy behind the counter said to Hannah. He started tossing butterflied buns onto an orange plastic tray. Hannah couldn’t have been more pleased if she’d gotten an A-plus on an exam. My dad laughed and gave her a squeeze.
“Think she’ll do all right at U of C?” he asked the counterman.
“Don’t you worry ’bout her,” the counter guy said, pointing his tongs at my dad now. “A U of C girl. She’s a sharpie.”
“She’s a genius!” my dad agreed.
“Daaaaaad,” Hannah said. Her grin faded fast.
But at least the hot dogs were amazing. We sat down at one of the cramped sidewalk tables to devour them. In addition to the celery salt, peppers, pickles, and mustard, each dog was piled with chopped onions, tomatoes, and pickle relish dyed an unnatural emerald green. I sat with my back to the plate-glass window so the Dis and Dat guys wouldn’t see me picking off the onions.
“Yummmm,” Abbie said as she wolfed down her dog. “I’m so getting something from the Pop Guy for dessert.”
As she peered down the street to see if the rainbow umbrella was there (it was, of course), she suddenly clutched at Hannah’s arm.
“Hey,” Hannah said, dropping her french fry. “That hurts.”
“It’s him!” Abbie hissed. She released Hannah’s arm to gesture wildly at the other side of Main Street.
“Oh my God,” Hannah said, covering her face with both hands. “You’re such a spaz. He’ll see you!”
“It’s not yours,” Abbie almost shouted. “It’s mine. You know—James. Or John . . . Wait a minute—Jim? Jim! I think it’s almost definitely Jim.”
She crammed her last bit of hot dog into her mouth as she stood up.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asked.
“Catching up to him,” Abbie declared. “Hello. We have it all planned, or did you forget?”
“Didn’t the plan involve you looking hot in your swimsuit?” I said as I crammed a fry into my mouth.
“What?” Abbie said. She glanced down at the wrinkled shorts and baggy T-shirt she’d thrown over her bikini. She shrugged and whipped off her shirt, revealing her tan, muscly abs and her skimpy swimsuit top.
“No,” both my parents said at the exact same time.
“You guys are so hung up,” Abbie sighed as she shimmied back into her T-shirt. “It’s just a body. What’s the big deal?”
“Don’t answer that,” my mom said to my dad with a wry smile. “It’s a trap.”
Hannah and I rolled our eyes at each other. My parents loved it when they got to join forces and tease us. Which, if you asked me, was kind of mean. It’s not like we could help being teenagers any more than they could choose not to be old and wrinkly.
Abbie knotted her T-shirt at the waist and wove her disheveled hair into two sleek braids,