Free The Square Root of Summer by Harriet Reuter Hapgood

bedroom.
    Sof doesn’t speak for a minute, then turns pointedly to Meg and says, “Dramatical Grammatical.”
    Meg doesn’t look up. She’s texting rapidly, her rings flashing in the sunlight.
    â€œAll-female hip-hop collective,” Sof tries again, nudging her. “We’ll rap about romantic dramas and punctuation.”
    The way it used to go, I’d come up with lyrics, or a supporting act. But that’s obviously not what Sof wants. Playing our game with Meg and not me—she’s making a point.
    Meg frowns, somehow graceful as she slides her phone into her ridiculously tight short-shorts pocket. “What are you talking about?”
    Sof’s still not looking at me, but I can feel her bristling. The bus is practically vibrating. When I can’t bear the tension anymore, I address the seat in front of me.
    â€œCheating on me is impermissible. Gonna leave her dangling like a participle.”
    Silence. Then: “Never mind,” Sof rasps to Meg, who flicks her eyes back and forth between us, confused. Sof was my friend first , I want to yell, like I’m five years old. Only I’m allowed to know she has stage fright! She tells everyone else she has adenoids!
    Grey would say I’m a dog in the manger.
    I go back to staring out the window as the countryside blurs by, green and gold. A few minutes later, the colors reassemble into trees and fields as we pull up at the Brancaster stop.
    â€œThis is me,” says Meg, standing up. “Nice to see you again, Gottie. We’re going to the beach on Sunday. You’re welcome to come.”
    It’s an invitation—to something I’m already part of—but it makes me feel left out.
    Meg saunters off down the aisle. Sof stands up too, gesturing after her. “I … we … art project,” she mumbles, dropping something in my lap. “For you.”
    She darts off. Through the window, I see her catch up to Meg, polka dots flying. As the bus trundles on, I look at what she gave me: the paper fortune-teller. Under every single fold, she’s written: remember when we used to be friends?
    When I get home, Thomas and Ned are playing a very Grey version of Scrabble in the garden—minus the board, half the words are lost in the daisies. I think I can see D-E-S-T-I-N-Y, but it could equally be D-E-N-S-I-T-Y.
    Thomas smiles up at me.
    â€œG,” he says, “want to—”
    â€œNope.” I stomp past them, leg throbbing. I’m suddenly, irrationally, furious. I want to turn back the clock. I want a do-over on this whole year. Because I’m pretty sure I fucked it up.
    That’s twice now I’ve found Jason at the end of a wormhole—and with him, the girl I used to be.
    That’s the world trying to tell me something.
    I grab a pen and write on the wall above my bed, in big, black, marker-pen letters:

    The Minkowski spacetime equation. It’s an “I dare you” to the universe. I wait for a screenwipe, like in the kitchen yesterday, or a wormhole. Anything to take me away from this crappy reality.
    Nothing happens.

 
    Friday 9 July
    [Minus three hundred and eleven]
    On Friday night, we eat fish and chips in the garden, straight from the paper, drinking ein prost! to Thomas’s arrival with mugs of tea.
    I pick at scraps of batter, barely speaking except to say, “Please pass the ketchup,” until Papa drops the bookshop bomb on Thomas that he’ll be working Tuesdays and Thursdays. “Until your mother arrives. Oh, Ned,” he adds, “Gottie’s suggestion is you do Wednesdays and Fridays.”
    Ned glares at me, and I say innocently, “I volunteered for Saturdays.”
    I’m half hoping Ned will laugh and threaten some childish revenge, but our sibling simpatico is out of sync.
    â€œHmmm,” he says, before peppering Thomas with questions about the music scene in Toronto, naming nine thousand Canadian