The Summer Sun

A cool breeze radiated from the ocean. It always made the hair on my arms stand on end, but only at first. The sand was hot under foot, but it was too early for it to burn me through my sandals. I laid out my towel, falling onto the fabric.

I set my bag aside and looked out at the ocean for a moment. It was so early in the morning, I hadn't even checked the time when I left the house. I had left my bedroom windows open like I did every night, and the sound of waves had roused me, pulling me to them before I was even fully awake. There were a few runners out, jogging by the edge of the water, and farther down the beach were people, but they were no bother to me.

The sun was still a soft orangish pink from sunrise, the ocean a contrasting, brilliant blue. Unconsciously, I buried my toes in the sand, let it sift through my fingers. I pulled my eyes away, digging my hands into my light green beach bag, and found the bottle of lotion I was looking for.

I hadn't always been religious about applying sunblock, but I had spent enough summers at this same beach, turning red as cooked lobsters themselves. I would spend hours on the beach with my friends, our mothers high on the beach watching us, and when mine would call to me and say "You're getting a little pink, Georgia, come here," I would run in the direction of the ocean, let the waves crash into my legs and pull me down and act as if I had never heard her.

At night, before we would set dinner outside on the deck to eat and watch the ocean, my mom would pull me aside and rub me down with aloe vera. Dad would pull one of his soft, white, cotton shirts from his dresser for me to wear. The comfortable fabric was smooth on my back and shoulders, though it was too big to fit me right.

Now I rubbed the lotion over my arms, legs, shoulders, stomach, back, neck and face. I had grown to like the smell of sunblock more than aloe vera, which was always my new excuse for my mother when she asked why I suddenly became so thorough with this habit. I wouldn't let her know that it was really my hate for peeling skin and bad burns that led to this.

I didn't wait for the sunblock to dry completely. I rubbed it in best as I could, stumbling toward the water. The breeze was nothing compared to the water. It was cold, biting at the skin on my legs as I waded. I had forgotten that it had rained for a few minutes last night, around nine. I ignored the temperature, wading out farther into the water, before completely submerging into the ocean.

It was almost noon, and I had returned to my towel three times after swimming. The beach was becoming more crowded every hour, the water warmer, the sun higher in the sky. I bypassed a few sandcastles, sunbathers, and deserted beach towels. I was used to the loud din that the tourists brought with them. I didn't live permanently at the beach house, but I returned here every summer and on warm weekends throughout the year. The beach was my second home.

I shook the sand from my towel, rolled it and stuffed into my bag. I pulled the purple racerback tank and shorts I'd thrown on early this morning back on, sliding my feet back into my flip flops and gathering my bag. Sally's Diner was only a fifteen minute walk from the fence where the beach began and my stomach was growling from zero breakfast and a morning of basking in the sun and swimming.

I ordered a basket of Sally's homemade chips and a vanilla milkshake from Ben when he came around to take my order. I knew most of the kids who worked here, either locals or kids who just worked part time over the summer. I look around myself, recognizing a few summer regulars and a lot of faces I don't remember. Tourists, by the looks of it, their skin newly burned/tanned, the strong smell of heavily applied suntan lotion wafting from their shiny skin.

Ben isn't the one to bring my order to my table. It's another face I've never seen before. Light hair, tanned skin, green eyes. His name tag reads Mike. His eyes say that he's interested, and so does his mouth.

"Here ya go," he smiles, carefully sliding my basket and shake onto the middle of the table. He doesn't leave, doesn't excuse himself, doesn't even make a move away from my table.

I raise an eyebrow, picking a chip out of the basket and bite it in half. I cross my legs under the table, waiting.

"I get off in about five minutes," Mike said, hands behind his back. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind me joining you." I drop the rest of my chip into my mouth, looking up at him. He's taller than me, dressed in khaki shorts and an orange shirt with Sally's written in white letters across the front. I wave my hand toward the bench across from me; it was all his. He smiled, nodding, before turning back around and walking around the counter.

When Mike comes back, he introduces himself, taking a chip when I push the basket toward him. I introduce myself and he smiles, showing white teeth. Georgia, I listen to him say my name, I like that.

He's a local boy, like I had thought. He lived here with his mom and baby brother. He listened to a lot of older stuff; Journey, Queen, The Eagles, et cetera. He had a car. He was working at Sally's until he went away for college in September. He had a car. He liked the seashell necklace that hung from my neck. He had a car. I bit my lip after hearing him say this for the third or fourth time.

I couldn't exactly get fed up with him and leave, just because he was emphasizing such a thing. It was a pretty big thing, having a car, out here where it seemed like you had no need to go anywhere. Of course, he was always here, sometimes he needed to get out. Maybe he thought I was going to be impressed. Maybe he just wanted to get out of old Sally's line of view, away from work.

We walked back to his house; there was no need to drive anywhere in town. It was stupid to waste gas when you were only a ten minute walk away (when cutting between yards and through private property.)

His house didn't look like my beach house. It was surrounded by other houses, though they were all still beautiful in their own ways. It was like a pleasant neighborhood in the middle of a relaxing, tourism fueled town. There were lots of windows, just like in my beach house, but his view was green while mine was sandy and cool.

He pulled a green tinted garage door up, pulling me inside before pulling it down again, leaving only a few feet between the door and the ground. Grabbing my hand, he led me toward the car, opening the door for me. I settled inside the car, looking around inside. It was clean; no real trash littered the floor or the dashboard. Mike settled into his seat, smiling at me.

"Okay, let's go somewhere," I smiled back, reaching for my seat belt.

When I said let's go somewhere, I didn't mean second base. Maybe Mike misunderstood me, I thought, as his hands roamed my body. Where had I thought we would go? He shut the door; did I think he was going to just back out, taking the metal with him? I almost laughed at my stupidity. Oh well. I was here now, I wasn't going anywhere. Mike released me, grinning, like he was the baddest thing in town because he'd gotten somewhere with a summer girl in his car? Oh, yes! He's one in a million!

I open my door after he does, noticing the gray cinder blocks the car is sitting on. He really is something special. I laugh now, the noise bubbling up in my throat. Mike pulls the garage door up again and it creaks horribly. I continue to laugh; Mike joins in, his fingers reaching up to lightly squeeze the back of my neck, before his arm wraps around my shoulders. He pulls me down on the ground where we sit, leaning against one another.

I won't leave yet. I'll sit here a little longer, let him squeeze my shoulder and stroke my hair. Let him think. I'm suddenly reminded again of the days when the sun would burn my skin and my mother would work so hard to sooth the pain. After applying the aloe she would pull my hair back, twisting it into a braid that she would then pile onto my head. It kept my hair from slipping under my shirt and irritating my skin, the braid from digging into my back as I slept.

I was thankful that my parents had always cared so much; like they were meant to, like they should. Mom had always done what she could so I could painlessly have fun the next day, though I would just go and let my skin burn once again. She helped me feel like I could do anything, on the beach for a summer vacation. These people didn't know me, not like the people at home. They didn't see me year round, didn't know my middle name, my interests and goals and dreams.

Mike's hand held mine as I stood, his fingers slipping through mine as I got up and walked away. He called after me, happily inviting me to come see him again at Sally's, whenever.

I smiled, laughing again. He thought I wanted to see him again. To make out in his stationary car. Ha.

It was summer. This wasn't home. I could do anything.