Summer and July

By Paul Mosier

From the critically acclaimed author of Train I Ride and Echo’s Sister comes a moving story of friendship between two girls looking for some happiness in a world that can be a little cruel. Perfect for fans of Rebecca Stead, Ali Standish, and Erin Entrada Kelly.

Twelve-year-old Juillet is preparing for the worst summer ever. She and her mom are staying in the seaside neighborhood of Ocean Park, California, for a month, where her mom will be working at the local hospital and Juillet will be on her own, like always.

Her dad is off in Europe with his new girlfriend, and her best friend, Fern . . . well, Juiller isn’t allowed to talk to Fern anymore. Fern took the blame for Juillet’s goth-girl clothes and “not-real” fears, like sharks and rip currents and the number three.

Then Juillet meets Summer, a local surfer girl who knows the coolest people and places around town. With free-spirited and adventurous Summer, Juillet begins to come out of her shell and face the things weighing her down. But when Summer reveals her own painful secret, it’s Juillet’s turn to be the strong and supportive friend.

Named one of Bank Street College of Education's Best Children’s Books of the Year!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jun 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780062849380

Paul Mosier

Paul Mosier began writing novels in 2011 but has written in some fashion his entire life. He is married and the father to two daughters, one of whom has passed to the next dimension. He lives near his place of birth in downtown Phoenix, Arizona. He loves listening to baseball on the radio, eating vegetarian food, drinking coffee, and talking nonstop. He has written three critically acclaimed books for middle grade readers: Train I Ride, Echo’s Sister, and Summer and July. Visit him on his blog, novelistpaulmosier.wordpress.com.

Book preview

1

IT’S THE FIRST day of July in what will certainly be the most dreadful summer of my life. Day one of my month long confinement, to be spent in a neighborhood called Ocean Park, in a town called Santa Monica.

Mom says she visited tourist websites that claim this place is safe and walkable, filled with cute shops and cafés. But looking at the map, it’s surrounded by crime-ridden Los Angeles on three sides and the shark-infested Pacific Ocean on the other.

The airplane hasn’t even landed yet, and already this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on. To begin with, Mom and I had to wake up at the crack of dawn to catch the plane. Waking up early is bad enough during the school year, but it’s just plain cruel in summer.

Because Mom wants me to start living more dangerously, instead of sitting in first class we’re in coach, where the seats are narrow. I’m squeezed between Mom, who has the window seat, and an old man whose bony head is rolled up against my shoulder.

I nudge Mom with my elbow, and she looks up from the airline magazine she’s been absorbed in.

"I think he’s dead," I whisper urgently, gesturing with a nod to the old man on my shoulder.

Mom leans forward, looking past me to the cadaver I’m referring to, then smiles and goes back to her reading.

Mom! I whisper emphatically. He hasn’t even twitched for three states!

I glance again at the old man, who cheerfully introduced himself as Walter before passing away shortly after takeoff. Now the only movement from him is his wispy hair blowing in the breeze of the overhead air circulators.

I’m a little on edge, because I’m not a fan of flying. I’m not a fan of falling to my death from thirty-five thousand feet, which I’m fairly sure is going to happen in spite of the soothing tones of the pilot’s voice. He comes on the intercom every few minutes and tells us everything is fine, but he’s probably freaking out up there in the cockpit. He isn’t allowed to come on the speaker and scream that the plane is going down.

I suffer from a variety of crippling fears, but Mom refuses to acknowledge or respect them. She insists they aren’t real, that I’m making them up, just because she took me to five different psychologists and they all agreed with her. They all said I’m pretending to be afraid of things that according to them cannot actually harm me, because I don’t want to think about something that has harmed me already. Namely my dad leaving Mom and me to run away with a fashion model. And even though Dad’s leaving stinks and even though I hate him because of it, my fears are definitely real. I bet if I were paying the psychologists instead of my mom, they’d agree with me instead.

My most urgent fear up here at thirty-five thousand feet is the fear of gravity. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton it’s one of my worst fears, because pretty much everything wants to be closer to the center of the earth than it already is. Especially this airplane. It’s just how gravity works.

Of course the flight attendants explained what we’re supposed to do when this plane crashes. They went over it in great detail before we even took off. It’s insane to talk about what to do when we fall from the sky, and then leave the ground anyway, and I’m the only person on the whole plane who paid attention to what the flight attendants were saying.

I’m also the only person who carefully studied the safety guide showing how to operate the oxygen masks, and where the emergency exits are. The cartoon people in the safety illustrations look like they’re having a great time sliding off the wing on the inflatable yellow slide. Like they’ll wanna climb back onto the wing for another turn. But none of the people on this plane look like the cartoon people in the safety guide, and none of the people sitting around me took the time to learn how to open the door or inflate the slide. If anyone gets off this plane alive, it’ll be thanks to me, a twelve-year-old girl.

Finally the seat-belt light overhead lights up, and the ding thing goes ding, indicating it’s time to die. But all the other passengers are oblivious. They still want to finish enjoying their continental breakfasts and coffees and cocktails before the flight attendants take their cups and napkins. I guess they might as well enjoy their last meal.

Below us is a blindingly bright mass of clouds reflecting the light of the sun. It’s all happy up here above, and the clouds look cushiony soft below, but it’s an illusion. We’ll drop like a stone through the water vapor.

Now we sink into the clouds and we can’t see a thing. Nor can the pilot. We could hit a building or a wind turbine or another plane, or overshoot the runway and land in the ocean and be eaten by sharks. I clench my hands on the armrests and look at Mom, who gazes contentedly at an advertisement for a wax museum in the touristy airline magazine. The wax figures gaze contentedly back at her.

Suddenly we’re below the clouds and the ground is close, a golf course and a freeway and then apartments and hotels, and parked airplanes, and a runway, which rudely greets the tires of our airplane with a horrendous scuffing noise.

Well. If one must obey the laws of gravity, I suppose the runway is the best place to do it.

I practically jump out of my seat when Walter, the dead guy, suddenly raises his head and turns to me. Are we here already?

I nod, reaching for the shoulder he used as a pillow for half a continent. I try to rub some feeling back into it.

The only downside to landing—instead of crashing or plunging into the sea—is the silent, smug satisfaction of my mom, who isn’t afraid of any of these things. It’s a victory for her that we didn’t crash. She smiles pleasantly as she returns the in-flight magazine into the seat-back pocket. In spite of being an emergency-room doctor and having to witness all the things that can go wrong every day at her job—which she tells me about in horrifying detail on the few occasions I see her—she’s blind to the dangers that surround us. It’s like her brain was completely used up in medical school, so there’s nothing left to tell her what she should be afraid of.

We plod down the weird little hallway that takes us from our plane to the airport. We wait at the carousel for our luggage. Then we head to the curb. The outside air is cool and breezy, and you can feel the ocean on it. But we are at an airport, not a beach, so cars and buses and taxis stream past. Finally an airport bus pulls up in front of us.

This is us, Mom says.

Aren’t we taking a Lyft?

She hauls her suitcases onto the little bus, and motions for me to follow.

I’ve got it all planned out. We’re taking this bus to the LAX City Bus Terminal, then the Santa Monica city bus to the neighborhood we’re staying in.

Why? I practically trip on my bags as I drag them aboard.

Because this is how people travel.

I don’t want to travel like people. The bus starts moving and I almost fall down. I like traveling like we used to.

Mom smiles at a bearded guy whose face is inches from hers. He looks bored.

Well, this trip is going to give you some new experiences. She grips the overhead bar. I grew up riding buses.

The airport bus takes forever, stopping at all the airport terminals and then a parking lot, and finally dumps us at the LAX City Bus Terminal. Next we jump on a big blue bus that’s actually called the Big Blue Bus, where I sit next to smelly pickpockets, lepers, and lunatics while crushed beneath my suitcases. After several nauseating miles we finally get off on a sketchy corner, and lug our luggage on a sidewalk up a steep hill for a few grueling blocks. At last, Mom turns around from the top of the hill, a big smile on her face.

Look!

I drag my suitcase beside her and raise my eyes. Ahead of us, the land slopes downward for a few blocks of houses, past a street with businesses, then a narrow green park, beyond which are a strip of sand and the endless blue sea.

Isn’t it beautiful? Mom beams.

I’m too tired for beauty.

I didn’t mean to sound so snarky and unenthusiastic. And really, it does look beautiful, like a hologram postcard. It’s just that I’m exhausted, and I’m also mad at Mom that this month away from home ruined my plans of hanging out at the mall with Fern, looking at boys and eating soft pretzels with brown mustard.

We haul our suitcases half a block down a street called Fourth to a tall hedge, behind which is an old cottage that really could use a fresh coat of paint, and a front door with a rotting welcome mat. Under the mat is a key, which opens the door to a living room that causes Mom to gasp with desperate happiness. There’s a big wooden table in what must be the dining room. Beyond that is the kitchen. I stand at the front door while Mom moves through the rooms. I watch as she opens up the cupboards and drawers.

Look! It has everything we need. Plates and silverware and glasses. Spices. Condiments in the refrigerator. Even brown mustard!

We have all of that at home.

Mom turns to me. This is gonna be fun. And it’ll be good for you to get out of your comfort zone.

I frown. Comfort is comfortable.

How about we unpack and then go check out Main Street? Let’s wear our swimsuits so we can test the water before the sun goes down!

I shrug. Today is probably the last time I’ll see her all month, as she’ll be busy teaching interns in the ER at a nearby hospital, and attending a conference. That’s pretty much the definition of our relationship. But she’s acting like things are going to be different for the month we are in California. The hospital here is part of the same system as the one she works at back home, and she thinks it’ll count as a vacation just because she’ll ignore me while working in a seaside town. But if she can fake it for one day, maybe I can too.

Trying to salvage our relationship by avoiding me in a new setting is just one of the reasons Mom has dragged me here. She’s also trying to destroy my friendship with Fern, who is pretty much the only person who supports me and my fears. Fern and I spend our time indoors at the mall, where things are predictable. Mom thinks I need to spend less time with Fern and more time doing things that could possibly kill me.

I drag my suitcases into the smaller bedroom with the single bed. The room has wood floors, as does the entire cottage, and windows on two sides with white curtains. I’m moving my folded clothes into the dresser drawers when I make a horrifying discovery—an aqua-colored one-piece swimsuit with a mermaid on the front.

Mom! My shout fills the cottage. What is this mermaid abomination? And where is my skull-and-crossbones swimsuit?

Mom appears in the doorway of my temporary bedroom. I thought this one looked more beachy. It’s cute, huh?

One day. I can fake it for one day.

It’s a good thing I brought all my makeup in my carry-on, or Mom would have tried to make me leave it back home, too. I like to wear black makeup and black clothes so I don’t have to explain to Mom and everyone else that I’m not happy, and Mom is always trying to put me in sunny colors and make me look like I am.

After unpacking and resting, we walk down Main Street in the late afternoon. I keep my arms folded in front of me to hide as much of the mermaid swimsuit as possible. At least I’m wearing my black Converse high-tops with the skulls and crossbones I painted on the ankles with white nail polish.

Mom is acting all enchanted by the boutiques and restaurants. She’s doing the slow-stroll thing that people do when they don’t really have anywhere particular to go.

Main Street has a place to buy espresso every hundred feet. It also smells like pizza and dried pee and Mexican food and, above all, the sea. There’s a toy shop that makes me wish I were eight instead of almost thirteen.

This place looks cute, she says, stopping in front of an ice cream shop.

I scowl. Pinkie Promise? That’s the name of the place. I’m not in the mood for anything cute.

Mom smiles. Let’s try it! We’ll be here a whole month. We need to know where the good treats are, right?

I shrug. Mom takes my hand and leads me inside.

I shake my hand loose from hers when I see the cute guy behind the counter, who looks like a surfer prince, with black skin and long blond hair that looks like it’s never been brushed. I’ve never seen someone with black skin and blond hair before, but I’ve never been to California before, either. He’s like what the football brutes and hockey jocks look like back home, but maybe a little more interesting. He’s possibly old enough to be out of high school, so it’s not like I’m trying to look all sophisticated and grown-up by shaking my hand loose from Mom’s. It’s just that I don’t want to look like I can’t walk by myself.

Hello, ladies, he says, grinning. How’s the surf?

We don’t surf, Mom says. It’s our first day here and we just put on our bathing suits to test the water.

Ugh. Mom doesn’t understand that you’re supposed to act like a local. Don’t carry tourist guides, don’t let anyone know you’re lost. Anyway, she’s not going to get me to even put my feet in the ocean. And this is absolutely the last time I’m wearing this mermaid bathing suit.

"Well, welcome to Ocean Park, amigas! exclaims the surfer dude. What sounds tasty today?"

Hmm . . . Mom leans over the case and looks inside. Can I have a sample of the cherries jubilee?

I roll my eyes. Mom also doesn’t realize you aren’t supposed to annoy the cute guy at the counter by asking for samples. The surfer dude dips a tiny pink spoon into the cherries jubilee and presents it to her. She tastes it, and gets this dreamy expression on her face, like she’s remembering climbing cherry trees in her childhood or something.

That’s quite lovely. I’ll have a cup of that.

Excellent choice. Surfer dude scoops, delivers. And how about you, young Betty?

I frown a little. "My name isn’t Betty."

Someone laughs behind us. I turn for a quick glance and see a girl my age who looks like a movie star, with the sort of golden hair you only see on kindergarteners, or on the big screen. As gold as a gold crayon.

I turn back to the surfer dude, who’s still waiting for my order. Just a cup of pistachio, please.

Comin’ right up!

As he reaches into the fluorescent-lit refrigerated case, I do another quick glance behind. The girl smiles, and I wonder why.

Here you are, Betty. The surfer guy at the counter hands me my cup and spoon. Otis, at your service. He does a little bow, with his hands held together like he’s praying. I’m here almost every day after my morning waves. I hope to see the two of you many times during your stay.

Mom takes her wallet out of her canvas beach bag. How much do we owe you, Otis?

He slaps his hand to his forehead. Dude! I almost forgot.

Mom smiles and hands her debit card to Otis, who furrows his brow and looks at the register terminal.

Stop flirting, Otis. It’s the girl behind us. I do another quick turn. The girl smiles again.

I watch to make sure Mom remembers to tip. She gets her card back and we leave the register. Mom and I head toward the door, and the girl stares at me, like I must be the strangest thing she’s ever seen.

Hang loose! Otis calls out as we leave.

Pinkie Promise is tiny, with no tables, so we eat on the sticky bench outside. The girl who laughed at me comes out with her cup of ice cream, mashing her face against the whipped cream on top like she’s in a commercial for this place. She smiles again, and gives a little wave, then makes her way down the sidewalk, all beach-movie-like in her bathing suit and bare feet.

I look at my reflection in the store window, at my Goth makeup. Maybe it’s a look the girl hasn’t seen much of.

We go to the shore as the sun lowers toward the sea. Mom sets her bag on the sand and kicks her feet in the water. It’s sad to watch. She thinks she’s having fun, she calls me to join her. But I stay standing in my black high-tops, watching the waves. I could go into the water, maybe manage to enjoy myself. But then the waves would get bigger, and the tide would roll away suddenly, only to come roaring back in a giant wall of water that washes all this happiness away.

2

ON THE SECOND of July I wake up late. Mom left the windows of the little house open, and the white curtains blow into my temporary bedroom. It’s like she doesn’t even care if raccoons come in and maul me. Or if someone crawls in and takes me away. I can