Our Last Summer at Santa Cruz
Bodies squeezed into crop tops and shorts, the four of us meet in the driveway with tight smiles, eyes darting over each other’s outfits, minds shooting secret judgments. Tension stretches like an elastic band wound around four pegs, and in the middle a jagged-edged stone – our barely resolved fight from last month. No one suggested canceling our annual summer excursion to Santa Cruz beach boardwalk, our last one before we head off to different colleges in the fall. So, we pile into the car and drive off – four girls riding across the finish line of high school.
Bracelets and earrings jangling, our crocheted crossbody bags swinging against our hips, we walk down the boardwalk as a group, but with gaps between our bodies. Music blaring from speakers fills the silence between us, and we let ourselves get swept up by the crowds heading to the rollercoasters where our screams do all the talking. Then ice pops in hand, we walk into the water only to run yelping out of the cold waves that grip our calves. Succumbing to the warmth of the shimmering late-afternoon haze that hugs the coastline, we lounge on the sand, silently swiping at our phones as the Pacific pounds the shore.
Someone says, “Look at the ocean. No matter where we go, I don’t think we’ll ever get this kind of searing blueness.”
And just like that, we find ourselves chatting, cautiously at first, until it feels almost like old times even though our talk is light, like the flight of birds skimming the surface of the water.
“Our bad feelings have been washed away,” we think, smacking salty lips between mouthfuls of tacos we buy and bring back to eat on the beach, listening to the rustle of wax paper and the pop of soda cans above the sound of the waves. The sun burns down to an orange disc, tiny bonfire flames lick our bundle of hastily collected sticks, and in the deepening shadows under a plump summer moon, we begin to huddle closer.
Then someone’s cell phone rings and she answers the call. It’s a relative of hers, speaking loud enough for the others to hear, calling to congratulate her on her college admission. The mention of college flips our mood like a cloud moving in to cover the moon. Her call finishes and in the growing silence, as we glance up at each other, the expressions of hurt and quiet anger collecting on our faces tell us that we’re thinking about our last fight, which stemmed from a rivalry over school grades and jealousy over college admissions.
“No one apologized to me,” we’re thinking to ourselves.
The seconds tick away – like specks of sand swept away by the wind – from this wordless part of our last evening together until a loud crash breaks our silence. The rising tide has come in, soaking us to the skin. Scrambling to our feet, we make a mad dash toward dry sand, and somewhere along the way, in the flurry of flailing hands reaching out to steady each other as we stumble along, something pulls itself loose.
We look at how the ocean has transformed us – soggy hair, clinging clothes, runny makeup turning our faces clownish – and collapse in a heap, giggling uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry,” we say to each other while the ocean laughs behind our backs.
Our glistening eyes turn into free-flowing tears, and we fold ourselves into a group embrace, tucking away our last day together like a lost but found gemstone enclosed within a fist.
Originally from India, Deepti Nalavade Mahule currently lives in California, where she develops software at her day job, feeds books to her two young children at home and writes short fiction. Her website, which has links to her selected published work, is: https://deeptiwriting.wordpress.com/