The Days of Summer. Jill Barnett

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       CHAPTER 8

      Laurel sank down next to her dreamboat as he lay unconscious on the pavement. One eye was already swelling. He had a cut on his cheek, and both his nose and mouth were bleeding. “Please wake up. Please.” The streets were empty, but she could hear the distant footsteps of the bullies, who ran away down a side street after she’d screamed for them to stop, then screamed over and over.

      “Help! Someone help! Please …” She lifted his head off the hard brick into her lap. “Please wake up. Can’t you hear me?” Where was everyone? The doors to the bar were closed. They probably didn’t even know there had been a fight. It was eerie, such silence in the aftermath of something so terribly violent.

      He groaned, then winced and slowly opened his eyes.

      “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Can you move? How badly are you hurt? What can I do?” Her words all came out in a rush.

      He grunted something she couldn’t understand, swore, then rolled out of her lap onto his hands and knees. Silent, his breathing labored, he shook his head and tried to get up.

      “Here. Let me help you.”

      “No!” He jerked his arm away from her and stumbled to his feet, weaving slightly. “No.”

      “Please. You’re hurt because you tried to help me.”

      His face was beaten and flushed and he looked like he might fall down. “I’m fine.” He spit blood, then swiped at his mouth and stared down at the blood on his hand with a disgusted look.

      “You need a doctor.”

      “What?” He looked up again, scowling at her from the one eye that wasn’t swelling.

      “I’ll call a doctor.”

      He turned away like someone embarrassed. There were leaves and dirt on his back, so she brushed off his shoulder. “Jesus,” he scowled at her. “Just go home. You shouldn’t be out walking around town this late. You’re asking for trouble.”

      “I was walking home.”

      He pressed his hand to the cut on his mouth and stepped away from her. “Then go home.”

      “This wasn’t my fault. You can’t blame me.”

      “Go—home.”

      She didn’t move.

      “Go home where you belong,” he yelled at her. “Go home, little girl, and leave me the hell alone!”

      His harsh expression turned blurry from her tears, and she ran—her face hot and flaming—around the corner and down the street into the small plaza by her mother’s studio and pottery shop. Laurel stood there, directionless. In front of her was the dark shop with its Closed sign hanging in the door. That sign seemed to say everything. One word that defined her life: closed. She sat down on the edge of a tiled fountain, where water spilled into a shallow pool.

      Again he’d made her feel young and foolish, like some thirteen-year-old with a silly crush making a pest of herself. He called her a little girl to put her down for being seventeen—as if she could change the year she was born. And no one wanted to be twenty-one more than she did, instead of stuck in some kind of hinterland between a teenager and an adult. She didn’t belong anywhere: on this island, with those girls, in Seattle; even her age was undefined. There was a time when she could have talked about what she felt with high school friends. Now, whenever she spoke with them, scattered as they all were in colleges all over the country, there were more long silences than meaningful words. None of them knew what to say to one another anymore.

      Things would have been easier, maybe, if her father were alive. Somehow she knew he could have given her the answers she needed during the moments when living became so hard and ugly. Without a dad, she felt as if she were hobbling through life on one leg, when most other people had two.

      Her grandmother Julia claimed her dad had been a star and made Laurel promise to never forget. It was important to her grandmother, the star thing. At first Laurel had been too young to understand the difference between a music star and a star in the sky. To children, stars were stars. Confused, she’d asked her aunt, Evie, what stars were, one night when they were standing together outside and the night sky was filled with them. Her aunt had told her that the stars were magical things, other worlds so far away that sometimes it was impossible to believe they really existed. Laurel had been probably seven at the time, an age when she had blind faith in magical things and grew up trying to believe in fathers who were never there.

      He was an image in a faded photograph, a name on a record that hung on the wall of her room. He was a star—something impossible for her to believe ever existed. And now, as she sat there feeling inconsequential, she looked up in the sky and searched those stars, wanting them to magically spell out the answers to all her most important questions, like why did people have to die? Why did life move so slowly? What was real love like? Why was she so lonely? She felt as if she were in a different dimension than everyone else and destined to watch life from outside.

      Sitting on the edge of the fountain, she could see copper and silver coins sparkling back at her, the water and lights making them seem bigger than they actually were. There must have been close to a thousand forgotten wishes in the bottom of the fountain. When you didn’t believe in magical things like wishes, you never set yourself up for disappointment. You understood that all too often things looked bigger than they really were.

      Laurel pulled a couple of pennies out of her pocket. Two cents. There was a joke in that somewhere. She turned her back to the fountain and closed her eyes, then tossed the pennies over her shoulder and made a wish for someone to love her.

      * * *

      Kathryn could hear the night frogs in the side garden through an open window in the living room, so she sat down in there with a book. It was almost eleven when Laurel came in the front door and hung up her coat. “Hi, СКАЧАТЬ