Free One Fat Summer by Robert Lipsyte Page B

not. Michelle was down at Marino’s Beach, of course, and my mother was studying, although she seemed to be walking around the house a lot, taking breaks for tea and stepping out on the porch to stare at the lake.
    Usually, we spread the Sunday newspapers around the living room, and tried to read while my father made comments about the news; but today I had all the papers to myself, and after reading Terry and The Pirates and Dick Tracy, I lost interest. I had nothing to do. By noon, I was bored.
    Usually, by noon, we’d all be out of the house doing something, taking a ride through farm country or going to an auction or walking over to the community field to watch the Sunday softball game between the bachelors and the married men. The bachelors around Rumson Lake weremostly older teenagers and a few guys in their twenties who were engaged. My father sometimes played for the married men. He wasn’t that great a hitter, but he was pretty good at third base; he had a really strong arm, and he never shut up the whole game—“Make ’im a hitter, chuck easy, baby, chuck easy, no hitter there, no hitter there”—and they always seemed glad to see him show up for a game. “Big Mart” they called him up at the field, even though he wasn’t so big. On the way back from softball he’d go for a swim. He really liked to fill up a whole day with things to do, and he liked to have the family with him. I sort of missed him.
    Around three, my mother sent me down to the beach to get Michelle. I hated that long hot walk up and down our hill. There were always battles about that walk; my father thought it was a waste of gas to drive down to the lake, and the rest of us complained that after a nice cool swim we’d get all hot again walking home. I couldn’t understand why my mother didn’t drive down and get Michelle herself, but the way she asked me, as if it was a great favor, and the way she looked, hermouth twitching nervously and her eyes kind of red rimmed, I didn’t put up too much of a fuss.
    Michelle was spread out on the sand, turning herself into a raisin, her head propped up on a beach towel so she could watch Pete show off his dives. The way he looked over at her as he walked out on the highboard, it seemed as if he was giving her a private exhibition. He was great. When he sprang off the highboard, he seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if he was just about to take off and fly, then slowly jackknife, straighten out, and on the way down turn like a corkscrew until he went into the water as smoothly as a knife. Sometimes I felt jealous of guys who dove off the highboard, but there was no way to feel jealous of Pete, he wasn’t really human, the way he looked, the things he could do; it was like watching one of those Greek gods we read about, Mercury, maybe, or Apollo.
    â€œMom wants you to come home now,” I told Michelle.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œI don’t know, but she’s pretty upset about something.”
    She got right up and stuffed her things into a beach bag. “Did she say anything last night? About Pete and me?”
    â€œWe didn’t talk at all.”
    â€œAbout anything?”
    â€œShe was studying.”
    â€œNo bedside chat?” Michelle shook her head.
    â€œIs something wrong?”
    â€œNothing for you to worry about,” said Michelle. She waved good-bye to Pete. He waved back.
    I sang, “They tried to tell us we’re too young…”
    â€œDry up,” said Michelle.
    I sang, “They tried to sell us egg foo young…”
    She laughed. “That’s better. Now if you could only carry a tune.”
    By the time we got back to the house, Mom was dressed and made up, sitting at the dining room table drumming the top with a pencil.
    â€œI’m going to need your cooperation,” she said. “I’m going into the city. Right now.”
    â€œWhen are you coming