The Summer of Letting Go by Gae Polisner Page B

responsible, and there’s only the one six-pack, so I don’t really worry about it. What surprises me, though, is that he takes the first one out, pops the cap off, takes a swig, and then holds it out to Lisette.
    â€œYou know the deal, two sips and that’s all. Dad would kill me if he found out.”
    â€œAye, aye, Captain.” She salutes him and takes a long sip, then hands the bottle to me. I stare for a second, then close my fingers around it. It’s freezing cold in my hands. I have never had a sip of alcohol in my life and didn’t know Lisette had, either. I give her a look like she’s gone mad, but she nods to let me know I should go ahead and try. I take a sip and force it down. It tastes awful, like shoe leather with lime, and I wince as its cold trail winds its way down my throat. Lisette laughs and takes the bottle back.
    â€œLook at you, Beans! You’re a pro now.” She takes a second sip and another really long third. Alex gives her a stern look, and she says, “Okay, okay, last one, I swear,” making bug eyes at him as she takes one last swig. She hands the bottle back to me, almost empty, and Alex gives up and opens himself another.
    This time, I take a slow, careful sip, then finish what’s left.
    â€œNot bad, right?” Lisette asks, getting up. She walks back toward the bags, and I smile, giddy and rosy-cheeked, because already, after those few sips, a nice heady warmth has washed over me. “Oh my God, you rock, Alex!” she shouts, heading back toward us. For a second, I’m worried she has another beer, but then I see two narrow boxes in her hand. “Where on earth did you get these?”
    â€œI have my sources,” Alex says.
    She turns and waves them at me. Old-fashioned sparkler sticks. Lisette and I both love sparklers, although I haven’t touched one in years. I have so many memories of being in Lisette’s backyard, twirling with sparklers like they’re mini batons, and writing our names in script in the air, the sparks trailing their neon glow in the darkness.
    Lisette drops to her knees, lights two, and hands one to me. The tip flames and sputters and sends electric-white bits flying everywhere.
    â€œCareful, come on!” she says, breathless. “Our names in double-script, remember?” And of course I do, so we wave them like that, in tall, wild curlicues going in opposite directions from the middle out. She spells out Lisette Annabelle Sutter and I write Francesca Mia Schnell magically across the black sky. “God, I love these things,” she says, dropping to pull out two more. We run to the water’s edge with them, white light fairies dispersing in the air behind us. When they’re nearly out, we stand and watch the red-orange ends burn down.
    â€œWhat does it feel like, Zette, seriously,” I ask, letting the last little ember singe the tips of my fingers, “to kiss a guy that way?”
    She looks out over the water, her face illuminated by moonlight, and holds her burnt-out sparkler in front of her.
    â€œLike this, Beans. It feels just like this. All electric and sparkly. Like your entire heart is on fire. And when it’s over, you can’t wait to do it again.” And though I promised not to be, I’m filled with envy. “Soon enough, it will be you, too, I just know it,” she says. “Hey, I have an idea! Come on!”
    She pulls me up the beach to our stash. “This time, let’s write our wishes in the air. Anything you want. The name of who you love, or want to kiss, or it doesn’t even have to be about a boy. Anything you want to come true, okay?”
    I’m still light-headed and agreeable, whether from the beer or the day in the sun, I don’t know, but I happily go along. Maybe because there’s a part of me that’s actually starting to believe in things I didn’t before, at least in some minuscule, incalculable way.