Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,51

a really nice dinner on the beach.”

“It’s not even the real Fourth of July,” I complained. “It’s just the Deferred Fourth of July. Anyway, when did this holiday—whatever it is—suddenly become as important as Thanksgiving? I don’t remember you ever caring that much about us being together for it before.”

“Well, that was before,” Mom said. Her lips went thin, and she dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “I’m not going to order you to have dinner with us. I’m going to ask you to do the right thing. You could always ask your friend to join us for dessert and the fireworks.”

“How about I have dinner with you, and then Josh can come meet you when we’re done?” I negotiated. “And then he and I can watch the fireworks by ourselves?”

Once again I watched my parents’ eyeballs do their silent summit.

“All right,” my mom said after a long moment. “Home by ten thirty.”

“You let me stay out until midnight when I go out with Hannah and Abbie,” I complained.

“Because you are with Hannah and Abbie,” my dad said pleasantly. “Don’t push it, Chels.”

I brooded through the rest of my pancakes, wondering how I was going to tell Josh that my parents were being ridiculously clingy.

I was just putting my syrupy plate in the sink when my phone rang.

“Hi!” I said to Josh, rushing out onto the screened porch and shutting the front door behind me.

“Hi,” he said. “Listen, I have something really awkward to tell you.”

“O-kay,” I said, feeling nervous heat prickle along my hairline.

“My parents have somehow decided that the DFJ might as well be Christmas,” Josh said. “And you know, my dad’s been in Chicago a lot for work, teaching that seminar at Loyola, but he has four days off in Bluepointe—”

“And they’re not letting you ditch dinner?” I interjected gleefully.

Josh cleared his throat.

“Okay, that’s not the reaction I was expecting,” he said.

“No, it’s just that mine got all weird about the DFJ too,” I said. “We’re in the same boat. I’m free for fireworks, though.”

“Fireworks,” Josh said. “I’ll make it happen.”

“Oh, but first you have to meet my parents,” I said. “I can text you to let you know where to find us on the beach.”

“Okay,” Josh said, sounding less assured this time. “I can make that happen too.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’re not too scary. And remember I have two older sisters. By the time they get around to doing all the parental requirements on me—you know, making me eat my broccoli, scheduling extra teacher conferences, meeting boyfriends—they’ve kind of lost their steam.”

“Ha,” Josh said. “Wonder what my parents’ excuse is, then.”

I bit my lip.

Josh and I hadn’t talked much about his parents. All I knew was that his dad was a philosophy professor, which pretty much meant he thought of life as a series of hypotheticals.

“It’s when it gets real,” Josh had told me one day during a slow walk home after we’d both gotten off work, “as in a clogged toilet or remembering to go to the Bluepointe Business Association meetings, that he kind of loses interest. I don’t think any of his ancient philosophers ever had do stuff like stock bookshelves and break down the boxes.”

“Well, what about your mom?” I’d asked him. “I mean, Dog Ear is more her thing, right?”

“Yeah, but you know my mom,” Josh said. “She thinks if she makes things charming enough, people will forgive anything, even lack of electricity.”

“Maybe she’s right,” I said. “Dog Ear is the most amazing bookstore I’ve ever been in. You should feel good that you’re helping her make it happen.”

“You’re right, I should,” Josh said. “I wish I were super-passionate about Dog Ear. But like you said, it’s my mom’s thing. It’s not mine, really. Except now it has to be because it’s the family business.”

“And you are really good at doing all that organizing,” I told him.

Josh rolled his eyes.

“Glad I could impress you with my file labels,” he said. “I know they’re really sexy.”

I laughed before I pressed on.

“What about your posters?” I asked. “Josh, they’re really good. I can’t wait to see what you do with the Allison Katzinger.”

Josh had smiled in thanks but changed the subject.

Now he did it again.

“So, should I wear a tie or something to meet your folks tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, definitely,” I joked. “Bow tie, shined shoes, the works. And bring my mother flowers. Her favorite is the hothouse hyacinth.”

“Oh, Nicole,” Josh said, the way he always did when we quoted