Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,52

Coconut Dreams.

“Oh, Kai.” I gave him my standard reply with a giggle in my voice. “See you tonight.”

Instead of going to our usual beach that night, we went to the public stretch closest to town, where they’d be setting off the fireworks. My mom insisted we go early so we could stake out enough space for this elaborate picnic she and my dad had planned.

“Can’t I meet you there?” I said. “If we go early, it’ll still be all hot and muggy out. I don’t want to get all sweaty and gross for . . . for later.”

Which was kind of ridiculous. Most of the time Josh saw me, I was coming off six hours of hustling around Mel & Mel’s. Even though I took time to wash my face, redo my hair, and put on lip gloss before I saw him, I knew it could only help so much. I probably smelled like a combination of dishwasher steam and deviled eggs.

But on a date (okay, half a date) you were supposed to look different. You opened your door, and your guy did a double take because you’d done something different to your hair and put on jewelry. Your heels made you two inches taller. You were supposed to smell like shampoo and perfume, not like the fishy end-of-day wind that comes off Lake Michigan in the heat of the summer.

“Chelsea,” Mom said, putting her hands on her hips. I noticed a couple of Band-Aids on her fingers—she kept stabbing herself with pins as she pieced together the baby clothes quilt. “I’m asking for one thing—that we be together for the Deferred Fourth of July. Please? For me?”

“All right,” I grumbled.

It wasn’t until we set out for the beach late that afternoon that I realized why Mom wanted this family moment so badly. It wasn’t because of the (non) holiday.

It was because she’d decided that this would be Gatsby night.

Granly had always insisted that we do Gatsby night at least once every time we visited her. That was just her name for a fancy picnic where the adults drank champagne and the kids had sparkling grape juice in bowl-shaped goblets.

The food was always very fussy: crustless cucumber sandwiches, slivered carrots and celery with spinach dip, tiny pickles and expensive olives, hearts of palm salad, and baked oysters. It was something we’d always done—like the stack-of-sisters photo on the beach—that I hadn’t thought about too much. I’d assumed my mom had kind of taken it for granted too.

But obviously I’d been wrong.

As we all headed toward town that afternoon with a heavy picnic basket, blankets, and another basket full of clinking dishes and champagne glasses, I whispered to Hannah, “Why didn’t she just say it was Gatsby night?”

Hannah shrugged.

“It was always kind of spontaneous when Granly did it,” she whispered back. “Y’know, like one morning she’d just snap her fingers and announce it, and we’d all spend the day pitting olives and peeling shrimp. Remember?”

I did. I remembered my sisters and me getting giggly and excited about Gatsby nights. We’d put on satiny “dress-up” clothes and steal Granly’s pink lipstick and say things like “Ooh la la!”

My mom was really different from Granly. Granly had always had a bright manicure, and she wore big rings with chunks of turquoise or lapis lazuli in them. When she talked with her hands, they made a clickety-clack sound.

My mother’s nails were always short and unpainted. The only ring she ever wore was her narrow platinum wedding bad. Her wavy, chin-length hair was as different from Granly’s wild red curls as hair could be.

When Granly threw a Gatsby picnic, it was fun, a little dramatic, and most of all effortless.

My mom’s Gatsby night came less naturally to her. It took more work.

So when we made it to the beach and laid out our fancy spread—with the votive candles and the tiny silver forks and everything—I think I appreciated it more than I ever had when Granly was alive.

“Now, Chelsea,” my mom said, arranging food on my plate while I texted Josh with our location, “I know you usually don’t like goat cheese, but just try a little with this pepper jelly. I bet you’ll love it.”

“Looks yummy,” I said.

My mom looked up in surprise.

“Really?” she said, giving me a skeptical smile. “Well, how about some smoked oysters?”

“Eh, let’s not push it,” I said with a laugh.

I didn’t really like the goat cheese either, but I didn’t tell my mom that. It didn’t matter anyway. I