Summer Bodies

“Someone ain’t from around here,” he says casually over his shoulder to me. And I don’t like it. I shouldn’t be bothered, but I am. Everything bothers me. Everyone bothers me. “Actually, I live here.” My voice is snippy. I don’t know why I said it. I can already tell that this town is one of those really small ones where everyone probably knows each other, and all the outsiders are easily spotted, like how this leathered hillbilly easily spotted me. My attitude doesn’t throw him off. He merely chuckles and walks away. It’s hot. Already, sweat is beading up in places I didn’t think it could even bead up. The walk through town is almost miserable. The only reason I say “almost” is that I can’t stop staring at the rows of buildings, in between repeatedly checking the map I grabbed from the woman inside the small, rectangular building back at the bus stop. Sugar Palms, Arizona, is just so…bizarre. For one, there are way more trees than I expected to find in the desert, along with the copious cacti and dirt. Some of the trees are massive, old, and shady. Their leaves sway in a breeze that should be refreshing, but instead, is like someone is pointing a hairdryer directly at my face. Secondly, half of the buildings are boarded up. Others flaunt a variety of vivid and lively colors. And many are hardly still standing, and their once-sturdy structures are now just fragments. I don’t get why they’re even still standing instead of demolished entirely. I’m certain one of them will crumble to dust if the wind blows any harder. As I walk down Main Street, I am aware of the many eyes on me. But I keep my focus solely on the scenery and the map, paying the curious passersby no mind. I wipe sweat from my upper lip as I stare at it, trying to follow it to Javelina Road. What the heck is a “Javelina?” Eventually, a solid mile and a half from the bus station, Tripp Torres’s house waits for me at the edge of the neighborhood, the back of it open to nothing but nature. I wonder if he gets wild animals in his backyard. I stand in front of my new home—the place that belongs to my older brother, who’s thirteen years my senior, a fact I only recently came to know. And the front door is wide open. Okay, that’s incredibly creepy. But the house itself doesn’t have a very creepy appeal. It’s painted white. It has a red trim. There’s a less-worn-looking wooden deck that must’ve been added on long after the house was built. Why, why does the front door have to be open like this? Does Tripp just want to make sure I know it’s okay to come in? Doesn’t he have air conditioning that he shouldn’t be letting out? My stomach drops. Oh no, what if he doesn’t have air conditioning? I step up onto the porch. It creaks under my feet. I slowly approach the doorway. I peer inside the house, where sunlight shines in from the back windows, dust mites in the air. I knock on the frame. “Um, hello?” Nothing. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. Cool air leaks out of the house. He definitely has A/C. So why is the door just open like this? And why isn’t he answering me? I feel weird about going inside. But why? I live here now. This is the only place I can call home. After Dad died, Aunt Rhonda didn’t want me. The boarding school she sent me to didn’t work out. So off to my also-deceased mother’s secret son’s house I went. Inhaling slowly, I go inside. It’s clear right away that Tripp knows nothing about decorating. The living room has old carpet. One single old couch. There’s a TV sitting on a coffee table, a desk with an ancient computer on it next to that. Old curtains are pulled open on the sides of the windows. He’s a relatively clean guy, at least—unless he cleaned up just for me. I don’t spot any trash. The place doesn’t have a weird smell. The kitchen tells me a lot. One of the cupboards is missing its doors, showcasing where the plates and bowls are kept. The black appliances are ancient. Countertops gleam with an unusual copper hue, something I have never seen before. This part of the house serves as both kitchen and dining room. Tucked away in a corner, a small round table is surrounded by two different sets of matching chairs. On the table lies a half-eaten bowl of instant noodles, still steaming, and a cup of water. As I take it all in, I wonder if Tripp forgot about me. “If I had a freaking phone, I could just call him,” I mutter under my breath, annoyed. Before I got on the plane to come here, Aunt Rhonda filled Tripp in all about what happened with me at my former school and what my punishment was supposed to consist of once I arrived here. The desert will be good for you, she said. It’ll shape you up while I figure out what I’m gonna do. I sigh. “Tripp?” Still nothing. I pass a bathroom with the door open and see a blue-tiled countertop and one of those claw-foot bathtubs where the shower curtain goes all the way around. I keep moving and see a bedroom full of stuff. It must be Tripp’s room. I don’t look too closely because if he’s in there, I don’t want him to catch me creeping. He already thinks I’m some sort of troublemaker. I don’t need to make it more believable. The only other room left must be mine. I step inside. “Cute.” I don’t mean it. It’s not cute in the slightest. It has the same old carpeting as the living room. A bed with no headboard. A dresser that I’m wondering if he picked up on the side of the road and threw in here right after learning I was going to be staying with him. There are two windows adjacent to each other over the bed, which is nice. It’s even nicer that outside of them is the view desert, no houses in sight. There are curtains I can pull over the windows if I want to, but I can’t imagine I’ll ever even need to use them. I like the view. I like that I am living in a place my dad spent so much of his life. That I’m in the place where he and Mom met. Fell in love. I like that I’m