Free That Summer by Sarah Dessen Page A

said there was. “Working is the best learning you can do, sometimes.”
    “And that’s the truth,” Tony Trezzora added.
    “Well, I should get going,” Sumner said. “My next shift starts in about fifteen minutes.”
    “Here?” I asked.
    “Oh, no, at my other job,” he said. “One of my other ones.”
    “Now that’s a work ethic,” my father said. “Take care, Sumner.”
    “Good to see you again, Mr. McPhail.” He turned to me as my father sat back down to his now-cold food. Tony Trezzora made his excuses and disappeared to the bar, probably in search of another audience. Sumner said, “It’s really good to see you again, Haven. Tell Ashley ... well, if it comes up, tell her I asked about her. And congratulations. On the wedding.”
    “I’ll tell her,” I said. “I know she’d want to see you.” I didn’t know this, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
    He grinned. “Well, maybe not. But pass it on anyhow. Take care of yourself. Remember what I told you.” He raised his eyebrows at the six-toed waitress as she swept past again, long blond hair shimmering. “See ya.”
    “’Bye, Sumner.” I watched him walk towards the front of the restaurant and then out the door, onto the street. I thought about Virginia Beach and the ride in the back of the Volkswagen under the stars, so many summers ago. As I sat back down with my father I could have sworn I heard the soft putter of the VW, the theme music, curving above the noise and mingled voices of the restaurant, just as I’d last heard it outside my window on that night, long ago.
     
    In the car on the way home I looked over at my father, his new hair fluttering in the breeze, and said, “Wasn’t it great to see Sumner again?”
    “You know, I’m not sure I remember which one Sumner was. Was he the football player?”
    “Daddy.” I looked at him. “I can’t believe you don’t remember him. You really liked him.”
    “Oh, honey, I liked them all. I had to.” He laughed, taking the turn into our neighborhood just fast enough to squeal the tires a little bit. My mother said his personalized license plate should not read MAC, as it did, but MIDLIFE CRISIS. I tried to tell her that was too many letters, you could only have eight, but she said that wasn’t the point. He added, “They all run together in my head now. There were too damn many of them.”
    “Sumner was different,” I said. “He went to Virginia Beach with us, remember? When you did that golf tournament and we stayed in that nice hotel?”
    He squinted, as if it took great effort to reach so far back. Then he said, quickly, “Oh yeah. I remember that. He was a nice kid.”
    And that was all my father, with his selective grasp of the past, chose to remember. He was skittish whenever I brought up the past, our vacations, family events. He was eager to start over—brand-new wife, brand-new house, brand-new memories, the old carelessly tucked away.
    We pulled into the driveway, right beside Lewis’s Chevette, which was parked with the motor off and he and Ashley still in it. As we slid up beside them Ashley looked over, with a scowl that told me they were fighting and not to get involved. Unfortunately, my father is not skilled in reading my sister’s expressions: he was waving at her. She just looked at him; Lewis slumped beside her.
    “They’re fighting,” I explained. “Thanks for dinner.”
    My father sighed and put his car into reverse. “See you next week.” He kissed my cheek when I leaned over. I waited a beat for what I knew came next. “Need any money?”
    “No, I’m fine.” I never took it, even when I did need it. Ashley always said she just couldn’t take any even though it had been a hard month and her credit card was due ... well, okay, just this once. She had it down to an art. I would have felt strange taking my father’s pocket money, a twenty slipped here or there to make up for his day-to-day absence. Besides, I had my four twenty-five an