Free The Last Days of Summer by Vanessa Ronan

honey-thick down her skin in dripping lines of perspiration.
    Long after the pickup has sped away, Lizzie still grips the dish towel, her knuckles white from the pressure. ‘Oh, Jasper,’ she finally gasps. Then mouths his name over and over softer and softer till the word itself crumbles into a dry rasp that cannot be heard. Dry lips rub together and chap to form his silent name.
    Somewhere a blue jay calls, then an oriole, till both fall mute mid-song.
    Katie’s hair glows golden where the lamplight hits it. She’s counting under her breath, ‘… forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four …’ with every brushstroke. She looks like a princess. Like a picture from a story book Joanne remembers seeing. She can’t remember what fairy tale it was – Rapunzel maybe, or maybe it was Goldilocks, or that princess from Rumpelstiltskin. But, no,
that princess was spinning golden thread, not hair. Joanne wishes she had hair like that. Like Katie’s. Soft and shiny like the models in the magazines. Like golden thread. But all her hair does is tangle. That’s why she ties it up. Wears it in the ponytail. And, anyway, she doesn’t have the patience to brush her hair like that. It takes too long to reach one hundred. Hurts when she hits the tangles.
    For supper they’d had leftover brisket and mash and peas straight from the garden. It was Joanne’s job to shell the peas. Slow, monotonous work, but she likes peeling open the husks and finding the tiny green balls cradled inside. She likes how every pod holds a different number of peas. Grandma used to do it with her. Back when Grandma was alive. She’d sit in her rocker on the front porch, Joanne in a little heap on the floor beside her, the pea pot placed between them, Grandma rocking back and forth, creaking the floorboards of the porch with every rock. Joanne liked that sound. Misses it. Grandma used to give the pea pods names. Said every one was a family they knew. Peeling one open, four peas inside, she’d say, ‘Look here, hon, you see this? This must be the Philips.’ And then she’d dump the peas and shuck the pod away and move on to the next, six peas, the Adams, or five, the Clarks. She knew it was silly, but Joanne still liked the game. It always made her giggle. She still plays it as she shucks the peas herself, even though there’s no one there to tell the names to. Says them softly to herself instead, whispers without sound.
Three peas, the Teagues
.
Five, Gordons. Four, Walters. Seven … a hard one … Grandma would have known.
    Dinner had been long and boring. Uncle Jasper didn’t
say much, his face a hard mask that scared Joanne a little. And Mom had that stressed look she’d had when Grandma died, and when Joanne had tried to ask if they might go swimming real soon, Mom had snapped at her, ‘You just be silent now ’n’ eat your supper.’ And Joanne hadn’t tried to say much after that. Katie didn’t even try to talk. And when she’d cleared her plate Joanne was grateful to be excused.
    It’s late now. Joanne doesn’t know the time, doesn’t care about the time, but it’s late enough the crickets have stopped calling, and she can see a sliver of the moon high in the sky through Katie’s parted curtains. Katie’s murmured counting is the only sound beside the creaks and groans of the house. The light woke Joanne, even though Katie only switched on the small lamp by her vanity and not the brighter overhead. Tangled in bed sheets, in silence Joanne watched her sister change from her diner uniform into shorts and a cami. As she watched, she wondered when her body might start to curve like that.
    ‘… forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.’ Katie sets down the brush and moves her long hair from one shoulder to the other. She picks up the brush again, eyes never leaving the mirror. ‘Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three …’ Brush gliding smoothly through the hair, not one single tangle. Voice steady and slow as a lullaby. As