JUVEN
Summer Evenings, Warm and Sweet
by Kayleigh Galllagher
Summer Evenings, Warm and Sweet
The sun is at its most romantic as it dips behind the rows of houses, streaking the sky with cotton candy pinks and deep, silvery violets and molten oranges that melt, both sweet and tangy, on my tongue. The pavement is the color of dreams, but it becomes flat and discolored beneath the odd, sharp shadows— it sticks, just like the humid summer air, to my skin.
All around me are the people I know. Their faces are blurry and indistinct against the vibrancy of the sunset, and they are overshadowed by their excitement. Even now, among the crowd, I feel a sense of otherness, of separation. I am not the initiator of this event, nor am I their friend. I am a specter, hovering intangibly somewhere above and behind the rest of the group, watching my own body and feeling no attachment to it. I know, on some level, that I am the same as them; we are in the same grade, we wear similar clothes, they have the same problems I have. And yet, and yet...
There has always been a bit of a divide between me and them. I can’t quite describe it— is it the way I look so determinedly at the ground, the way I touch my hands and neck, the way I keep trying to convince myself of my existence? My companions don’t need to remind themselves of their bodies. They are made of earth and laughter and daylight skies and banged-up knees and lemonade. My essence is something else entirely, something immaterial— dreams and storm clouds and the reflection of the moon on the sea and the dark glitter of pavement.
In my hand is a crumpled five-dollar bill. Its paper-crispness has long since been worn out, and now it is soft, almost like a fabric. Around me, my neighbors chatter excitedly amongst themselves about what flavor of ice cream they are going to get. I already know my answer. It is a popsicle that depicts a somewhat distorted Spongebob Squarepants with gumball eyes and a big smile, and it tastes like fruit, or maybe just sugar. I can already imagine the gooey yellow droplets racing down my wrist, can already sense the look on my mother’s face as she tells me to wash the stickiness away before continuing to play outside.
We cross the street to the stop sign on Crawfish Road, a curving loop that feeds from South Bradford into Thornton and provides us with a direct path to the sea. This is the first stop on the ice cream truck’s route; it’ll be here any minute— and, sure enough, as soon as the thought crosses my mind, the first saccharine notes of a familiar melody ring out into the humid summer air. I see the truck before it comes fully into view. It has meandered through the neighborhood enough times that I am familiar with the rust-red bolts holding it together and the stained black-and-white wheels carrying it along.
The panel listing our options is so clouded you can barely see the prices, but those are meaningless to us, anyhow. We don’t have a grasp on money yet; all we know is to ask for our usual and hand over our parents’ cash.
When I get mine, I run my fingers over the shiny packaging over and over as I jog back to my house. I will unwrap the popsicle in my backyard, discard the plasticky casing in the garbage barrel, and return to our meeting place to finish eating. My house is easy to spot, because of how small it is compared to its neighbors. A tiny gray cape squeezed between a white colonial and a beige craftsman, my house is notable for its pretty driveway and not much else. Regardless, it is one of the most popular yards for the neighborhood children to convene in because of my parents’ allergy-friendly snacks. By the time I get back to the curb under the stop sign, my popsicle is more than half-finished, partly because I have a bit of a nasty habit of biting directly into my frozen desserts, partly because large globs of it are oozing onto the sidewalk and into the grass.
The most intense part of the sunset is over, and now the sky is settling into a bruised purple-gray, tinged with pink. I watch the light edge its way behind the rows of massive houses and into oblivion, dessert half-forgotten in my hand.
And just like that, it’s over. The sticky remnants still cling to my skin. I keep the popsicle stick in my mouth because I don’t know what else to do with it, shove my hands in my pockets, and stand, ready for our next game. I know they’ll put me on defense for this round, because I’m better at chasing than being chased, but that’s okay. I position myself so I’m in front of the tree, somewhat out of view of the kids spread across the block, and I wait.
The popsicle stick is still in my mouth. The wood is damp and disgusting in my mouth, the texture is horrendous, yet I cannot bring myself to spit it out. It grounds me, brings me closer to them. The harder I bite down, the closer I become to flesh and blood, and maybe, I think— maybe, if I sink my teeth in any further, the splinters will cut my mouth, and I will spit vitality all over the pavement. I will know I am real then.
The first person spots me a mile away. He turns and runs back up Oyster, and I am too on edge to give chase. The second one is not so aware of her surroundings, and I make my move, dashing across the street and after her before I can even see who she is. Once the realization hits, I know I have lost. My neighbor— she is older than us, and meaner, with sharp knees and a broken-glass smile. You’ll cut yourself on her edges if you get too close, and when you do, she will be waiting, lemon in hand. I tag her out, but it doesn’t matter. Victory is impossible with her.
She shoves me on her way to home base. I should be able to catch myself, but I am incorporeal, no match for her iron spikes and glass shards. My knees lodge solidly into the pavement. I don’t skid on the street, which is good— the pulling motion is how you get your skin to tear. It still hurts. The pebbles sticking into my skin are painful to remove, but they skitter to the ground after a bit of work. I can feel the condensation gathering behind my eyes, can feel the storm that threatens to spill down my face, but I’ve learned by now not to let her see me cry. I take a deep breath and return to my hiding place.
We lose this round. Not by much. I don’t mind losing— it means I get to run and hide, which I’m good at, and I get to pretend to be somewhere else, which I enjoy.
It’s dark now, and the popsicle is churning around in my stomach, and it doesn’t feel good, exactly, but I am not focused on that. I am focused on the pounding of my feet into the pavement, on the weak shimmer from the street lamps, on the wind tossing my hair up and around. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that I am running somewhere far, far away, somewhere full of eternal sunsets and endless laughter, somewhere I can feel the soil beneath my feet, bathed in the afterglow of a long day of light and warmth, with cotton-candy dreams pressing at my eyelids and the promise of sleep covering me like a blanket. This is what the future tastes like to me now, dewy and thick and sugar-sweet.
The sun is at its most romantic as it dips behind the rows of houses, streaking the sky with cotton candy pinks and deep, silvery violets and molten oranges that melt, both sweet and tangy, on my tongue. The pavement is the color of dreams, but it becomes flat and discolored beneath the odd, sharp shadows— it sticks, just like the humid summer air, to my skin.
All around me are the people I know. Their faces are blurry and indistinct against the vibrancy of the sunset, and they are overshadowed by their excitement. Even now, among the crowd, I feel a sense of otherness, of separation. I am not the initiator of this event, nor am I their friend. I am a specter, hovering intangibly somewhere above and behind the rest of the group, watching my own body and feeling no attachment to it. I know, on some level, that I am the same as them; we are in the same grade, we wear similar clothes, they have the same problems I have. And yet, and yet...
There has always been a bit of a divide between me and them. I can’t quite describe it— is it the way I look so determinedly at the ground, the way I touch my hands and neck, the way I keep trying to convince myself of my existence? My companions don’t need to remind themselves of their bodies. They are made of earth and laughter and daylight skies and banged-up knees and lemonade. My essence is something else entirely, something immaterial— dreams and storm clouds and the reflection of the moon on the sea and the dark glitter of pavement.
In my hand is a crumpled five-dollar bill. Its paper-crispness has long since been worn out, and now it is soft, almost like a fabric. Around me, my neighbors chatter excitedly amongst themselves about what flavor of ice cream they are going to get. I already know my answer. It is a popsicle that depicts a somewhat distorted Spongebob Squarepants with gumball eyes and a big smile, and it tastes like fruit, or maybe just sugar. I can already imagine the gooey yellow droplets racing down my wrist, can already sense the look on my mother’s face as she tells me to wash the stickiness away before continuing to play outside.
We cross the street to the stop sign on Crawfish Road, a curving loop that feeds from South Bradford into Thornton and provides us with a direct path to the sea. This is the first stop on the ice cream truck’s route; it’ll be here any minute— and, sure enough, as soon as the thought crosses my mind, the first saccharine notes of a familiar melody ring out into the humid summer air. I see the truck before it comes fully into view. It has meandered through the neighborhood enough times that I am familiar with the rust-red bolts holding it together and the stained black-and-white wheels carrying it along.
The panel listing our options is so clouded you can barely see the prices, but those are meaningless to us, anyhow. We don’t have a grasp on money yet; all we know is to ask for our usual and hand over our parents’ cash.
When I get mine, I run my fingers over the shiny packaging over and over as I jog back to my house. I will unwrap the popsicle in my backyard, discard the plasticky casing in the garbage barrel, and return to our meeting place to finish eating. My house is easy to spot, because of how small it is compared to its neighbors. A tiny gray cape squeezed between a white colonial and a beige craftsman, my house is notable for its pretty driveway and not much else. Regardless, it is one of the most popular yards for the neighborhood children to convene in because of my parents’ allergy-friendly snacks. By the time I get back to the curb under the stop sign, my popsicle is more than half-finished, partly because I have a bit of a nasty habit of biting directly into my frozen desserts, partly because large globs of it are oozing onto the sidewalk and into the grass.
The most intense part of the sunset is over, and now the sky is settling into a bruised purple-gray, tinged with pink. I watch the light edge its way behind the rows of massive houses and into oblivion, dessert half-forgotten in my hand.
And just like that, it’s over. The sticky remnants still cling to my skin. I keep the popsicle stick in my mouth because I don’t know what else to do with it, shove my hands in my pockets, and stand, ready for our next game. I know they’ll put me on defense for this round, because I’m better at chasing than being chased, but that’s okay. I position myself so I’m in front of the tree, somewhat out of view of the kids spread across the block, and I wait.
The popsicle stick is still in my mouth. The wood is damp and disgusting in my mouth, the texture is horrendous, yet I cannot bring myself to spit it out. It grounds me, brings me closer to them. The harder I bite down, the closer I become to flesh and blood, and maybe, I think— maybe, if I sink my teeth in any further, the splinters will cut my mouth, and I will spit vitality all over the pavement. I will know I am real then.
The first person spots me a mile away. He turns and runs back up Oyster, and I am too on edge to give chase. The second one is not so aware of her surroundings, and I make my move, dashing across the street and after her before I can even see who she is. Once the realization hits, I know I have lost. My neighbor— she is older than us, and meaner, with sharp knees and a broken-glass smile. You’ll cut yourself on her edges if you get too close, and when you do, she will be waiting, lemon in hand. I tag her out, but it doesn’t matter. Victory is impossible with her.
She shoves me on her way to home base. I should be able to catch myself, but I am incorporeal, no match for her iron spikes and glass shards. My knees lodge solidly into the pavement. I don’t skid on the street, which is good— the pulling motion is how you get your skin to tear. It still hurts. The pebbles sticking into my skin are painful to remove, but they skitter to the ground after a bit of work. I can feel the condensation gathering behind my eyes, can feel the storm that threatens to spill down my face, but I’ve learned by now not to let her see me cry. I take a deep breath and return to my hiding place.
We lose this round. Not by much. I don’t mind losing— it means I get to run and hide, which I’m good at, and I get to pretend to be somewhere else, which I enjoy.
It’s dark now, and the popsicle is churning around in my stomach, and it doesn’t feel good, exactly, but I am not focused on that. I am focused on the pounding of my feet into the pavement, on the weak shimmer from the street lamps, on the wind tossing my hair up and around. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that I am running somewhere far, far away, somewhere full of eternal sunsets and endless laughter, somewhere I can feel the soil beneath my feet, bathed in the afterglow of a long day of light and warmth, with cotton-candy dreams pressing at my eyelids and the promise of sleep covering me like a blanket. This is what the future tastes like to me now, dewy and thick and sugar-sweet.
Kayleigh Gallagher is a fiction writer, artist, and stressed-out high schooler who wrote her first story at the age of eight before publishing at thirteen and once more at fifteen. Her stories seek to spread magic and take readers on an adventure.