Thirty Sunsets by Christine Hurley Deriso Page B

begin my homework.
    Only the lamp’s not there. That’s weird. The lamp has been to the right of the recliner my whole life.
    I glance around the room anxiously. Hey! I’ve suddenly noticed that lots of things are out of place. The coffee table is pushed up against a wall, and—what the hell—the couch is turned backward, away from the TV. Is this some kind of a joke?
    Then Mom, Dad, and Brian walk into the room and settle onto the backward couch. Dad starts a crossword puzzle, and Mom and Brian are whispering to each other. I try to catch their eyes, but none of them notice me. Or maybe they do notice me and just won’t acknowledge me.
    “What’s going on?” I practically shout.
    Mom shushes me.
    “Tell me!” I demand. “Everything is out of place! What’s going on?”
    “Nothing is ‘going on,’” Mom says prissily.
    “But the couch! It’s turned backward! You’re facing the wall! Why would you turn the couch backward?”
    Mom, Dad, and Brian exchanges glances.
    “What is going on?” I repeat frantically.
    “Everything is fine,” Dad says.
    “No, it’s not! Everything is weird!”
    Then my dream gets even weirder: Scott walks in. At first, I’m excited; my heart actually skips a beat. But then I’m thinking, “You don’t fit here; you don’t fit.”
    But then, nothing fits anymore … right?
    Scott walks over and squeezes into the chair beside me. Okay, this is a little too close for comfort; he’s taking up so much room that I’m sinking into the chair cushion. I keep slipping farther and farther. I want to tell him “Hey, I’m disappearing into the chair,” but I don’t want to seem uncool, and everybody’s acting like I’m the crazy one, and hey, maybe I am, so I keep my mouth shut as the cushion swallows me inch by inch until I’m suddenly gasping for air. Too late to speak up now.

nineteen
    I pull my hair into a ponytail and lower my sunglasses.
    It’s noon. I’ve been on the beach all morning, and no Scott sightings. I think briefly about my dream the night before but literally shake it from my thoughts. It was just a stupid dream. So weird that Scott was in it …
    Anyhow, it’s not like I’ve been lying around all morning on the beach waiting for him. In fact, I’ve been in the middle of a good book, and I was relieved nobody bothered me while I finished it.
    But I’m finished now.
    Brian and Olivia are snoozing in the beach chairs next to mine, their fingers loosely interlocked. I put my book on my chair and head toward the surf.
    It’s so ridiculous that my heart is pounding. All I’m doing is taking a walk on the beach!
    “Just taking a walk on the beach,” I actually say to myself out loud. No pep talks necessary, no explanations or justifications, no need for analysis … just taking a walk on the beach.
    I kick beads of water as a wave skitters under my feet, then head east. I tug at my bikini bottom, force myself to stop (this is how it’s supposed to fit, moron) , and swing my arms as I step into a loping stride. Swimmers and surfers thrash around in the ocean while kids dig in the sand and old people walk hand in hand.
    I envy the old people, their flabby arms and doughy, dimpled thighs notwithstanding. Their hearts aren’t pounding out of their chests. Their eyes aren’t darting around wondering who may be looking at them and what those people may be thinking. They’re simply ambling down the beach, enjoying the sea breeze, smiling at toddlers, pointing occasionally at sights of interest. Sometimes they’re talking to each other, often not. If they have something to say, they say it, but silence is just fine too. Their relationships are as comfortable as a tattered terrycloth bathrobe. You like their floral one-pieces or the black socks their husbands wear with tennis shoes? Great. You don’t? They couldn’t care less.
    This is Mom and Dad twenty years from now. Actually, it’s Mom and Dad today , just without the dimpled thighs or black socks.