The seatbelt light flashed at the head of the cabin, as a stewardess stood below it demonstrating to all of the passengers how to buckle up, with a fake belt. There were only six occupants in first class that sunny June morning, when the wasp of avgas and extreme boredom loomed over flight 187. A business man reading the daily stock report, a middle aged couple and their three small children argued over who would get the window seat, and an elderly man along with his wife nodded off in the back row. All of them ignoring her demonstration. Especially Summer. First class passenger number six. Summer rolled her eyes and slammed herself against the back of her seat in annoyance. She’d been on the motionless plane for hours. “Excuse me.” Summer blurted, stopping a by passing stewardess.
“Are you guys always this slow, or is today a special day?” She asked, quickly flashing a sarcastic grin.
“We should be in the air very shortly ma-am.” The woman answered gritting her teeth. She always got stuck with the spoiled brats.
Summer fastened her seatbelt and jammed the headphones of her ipod into her ears, blaring an angry rock ballad. Hoping it would drown out the haunting thoughts of the most humiliating moment of her life. It was all she could think about. She threw on her seatbelt and folded her arms across her chest. Staring out the window, she watched the impeccably golden California sun shine over the plane filled lot. She was actually going to miss it for the next couple of weeks. But that was about the only thing she would miss.
Her mother, and her so called “friends” were completely nixed out of that category, especially after the horrendous monstrosity that was the party of the year, just the night before. She drummed her finger tips on her bare knee caps peeking through the smartly ripped holes in her $200 jeans, in anticipation for the plane to take off already. The faster she got out of the city she’d run since she was thirteen years old, the better. Far away from the people who would now remember her as the girl who got arrested at the party of the year.

Seconds later the plane began to move. Summer sighed, relieved, as the broken yellow lines tracing the run way began to blur. The faster they went, the more she relaxed. Just as the knot of anxiety in her stomach unraveled, the plane left the ground and was off. As they passed over the city, Summer stared down at what she was leaving behind. A world she never wanted to return to. Not after last night.
It had only been twelve hours, but the poison had already set in. Every friend she had or thought she had, knew about her little escapade with the LAPD and she was being shredded all over town. The texts she got from her friend or classmate, better yet, Melissa, other wise known as the only person at Hollywood High still speaking to her, said that everyone was talking about it. Twitters, Facebook’s even an article in the Los Angeles Sun, was exploding with “juicy” details about her arrest.
She lowered the shield over her window and closed her eyes, taking several deep breathes. Flying always made her a little nervous. She quickly peeked around her cabin to see if anyone was watching her. But the business man was still reading his newspaper, the middle aged couple cradled their three frightened children in their laps, they too afraid of the diagonal plane, and the couple in back were still on the verge of a six hour snooze.
Once she was sure the coast was clear, Summer raised her index finger to her forehead and began to tap it softly. Whenever she was nervous she would simply tap her, metaphorical, third eye twenty one times. It was a relaxation technique her mother learned on a birthday getaway to a spa in Ohai, a few years back. She knew she looked borderline nuts when she did it, but it worked, and she made sure no one ever saw her. Especially her mother.
Mrs. Wilcox was a sweet woman. Very possibly the nicest person anyone has ever known. She worked hard as an 11th grade history teacher and ran their household like a pro, all alone. She and Summers father divorced ten years ago when she was only seven years old. She came home from her piano lesson, one rainy afternoon, to find her father pulling out of the driveway with most of his things piled into the back of his truck. Her father, a plastic surgeon turned M.D., moved back to his hometown of Danville, North Carolina to open his own clinic, six years ago. Leaving Summer alone with her mother on the west coast.
He lived in a small apartment in Southern California for a few years, every other day of which he would pick Summer up from school and take her out for ice cream, to the park, or even just on a walk. He loved spending time with her, and her with him. All the while he was putting the clinic together. When she was eleven she said her goodbyes and he left for Danville. What neither of them realized was that they were saying goodbye to a lot more than just their time together in California. As far as Summer was concerned, she didn’t have a father any more.
So, she was trapped. All alone, in that huge house, with her single mother. She loved her but that didn’t stop her from disobeying her every instruction. She ditched her piano pals for the popular kids at school, and ditched her tutu’s and Mary Jane’s for fishnet stockings and nose bleed heels on Halloween, when she was thirteen. Once a week her father would call and make and attempt to discipline her regarding inappropriate behavior, when ever she got detention, did terribly on an exam, or just missed school all together to go shopping or hang out at the beach with her friends. But she shrugged a rebellious shoulder to his every advance.
Now, and every summer for the past three years, she spends two weeks with him in Danville. Normally, she scowls and pouts her way to the airport. Walking onto the plane as if she were heading to the electric chair. Pissed because not only will she have to see the man she endures, but she will be missing fourteen days of summer, other wise known as the height of the social season in her circle of the wealthy and well known teens of Los Angeles. But, this time was different. Usually she doesn’t take off until the middle of summer, but after last night, she hopped on a flight first thing in the morning. And she couldn’t have been happier. Barely making it, she ran all the way from her mothers car at the drop off zone, to the far end of the airport to check her bags, and board just in time.
Finally, the plane evened out and they were soaring. The music in her headphones nearly busted her ear drums, but at least she couldn’t hear herself think. Now if she could only do the same for her eyes. The dropped jaws, wide eyes, and snickering grins of a few hateful classmates haunted her eyelids. This visit to Danville was different. This time she was running. A chill ran through her body at the thought of returning to L.A. before the heat died down.
Suddenly Summer felt a hand on her shoulder, she jerked her arm and snapped her eyes open. A stewardess hovered above her in the aisle with a silver tray of rolled white hand towels in one palm, and a pair of silver tongs in the other. Summer snatched out one of her earphones.
“Hot towel?” the woman offered.
Summer rolled her eyes and quickly replaced the vibrating headphone to her ear. The stewardess clenched the tongs with great force, fed up with Summers ignorance, as she slowly walked away. It took everything she had not to throw the hot towel in her lap. Summer re-closed her eyes and kicked her feet up in the empty seat beside her. Using her sweater as a pillow she leaned back against the drawn shield over the window. Before long the noise of the plane, the visions of her horrendous evening, even the music in her ears fell away, and she was fast asleep.

“Thank you for flying with us this afternoon. We hope you enjoyed your flight, and have a wonderful time here in Danville.” A stewardess spoke over the intercom as the passengers filed out of the plane, six hours later. Summer was one of the first. There were seven stewardess’s lined up by the door. Waving and smiling as each person exited the cabin. The stewardess she had been so rude to simply scowled at her as she passed by. Unaffected Summer simply stepped passed her and walked the long corridor to the terminal.
Upon entering the airport, she walked straight into a crowd of tree like adults. Everywhere she turned they were barreling through the crowd on the brink of missing their flight. Rushing into lines to snag tickets while lugging several heavy bags of luggage behind them. Like everyone was fleeing Danville as if it there was a plague outbreak. Which only made her want to turn and haul ass for the flight back to LAX, even more. The light of the high afternoon sun beamed blindingly through the floor to ceiling windows surrounding the building. Engulfing the relatively small airport in burnt orange and yellow rays.

Summer squinted, as she stepped up into one of the dozens of chairs lined against the wall beside her gate. She rested a hand above her eyes, shielding them from the assaulting light, and scanned the crowd for her father. Frankly she didn’t care if she ever found him. Spending two weeks in a strange airport seemed much more appealing to her than fourteen days with a man she despised.
Suddenly a hand shot into the air, waving in her direction. A handsome man, with graying brown hair, and matching stubble spotting his cheeks. It was him. Breathing deeply, she watched as he pardoned his way through the crowd to her. He wore a white button up dress shirt, with dark blue jeans, and a pair of worn cowboy boots. Summer was a little taken back. In L.A. he wore designer suits, under his lab coat every day. He only wore jeans when he went to the grocery store, or lounged around the house on Sunday’s watching football. It was official. He had gone completely southern.
He was well over six feet, so when he finally reached her they almost stood eye to eye, with her in the chair. “What no hug?” Dr. Wilcox laughed. Summer didn’t budge. Her facial expression stone walled as usual. “I’m just kidding. But I’m really glad to see you. You look beautiful, as always.” He said sweetly. Summer folded her arms over her chest, already bored with the conversation. One sided as it may have been. Dr. Wilcox extended his hand to help her down from the chair, but Summer denied it and jumped down herself. “Okay.” He said shoving his hands in his pockets feeling foolish, as per usual around her. Together, they made their way back across the crowded terminal to the luggage claim.

The airport, in size, had nothing on LAX. It was the size of a high school gymnasium, and space was vacuum sealed. Summer was relieved to step out into the warm breeze of the town nearly an hour later. In the draft she could smell the ocean. The salt embedded in its tides, strong and inevitable. She knew it wasn’t far. The parking lot, no bigger than a department store lot, was packed and she stopped several times to wait for cars to back out and pull in to spots. Her blonde locks waved in the wind as she hurried to find his truck, her father just behind her with a latter cart, piled eight suitcases high.
She hopped into the passenger side, once they finally reached his unlocked pick up. It was the south, no one ever locked anything. Houses, cars, even a few safes were accessible with the snap of a latch. She jumped in and watched through the rearview mirror as her father loaded her bags into the bed of the truck and returned the cart. His face was covered in sweat by the time he stepped into the drivers seat. Summer cranked the window open alleviating the sting of his sweaty pits, as he panted like a dog in heat.
Once they emerged from the parking lot, they began down a long dirt road, as most of the roads in Danville were. Summer took in where she was going to be spending the next two weeks of her life, with an expression of complete disdain. She saw herds of cows and horses on a farm, a woman feeding a slew of chickens on another, and fields of wheat and corn that stretched on for miles.
The air, when they weren’t passing a farm or any other animal ridden residence, smelled of the beach. The warm sand, salt water, and surfing popped into her mind. She loved it. It was the one thing here that would connect her to back home. Her father took the more scenic route through town, although she didn’t understand how much more of this town there could even be. He showed her what he called the “happening” place to be come Saturday night, which consisted of a bowling alley, two bars, a pizza shop, a diner, and a large, semi creepy old barn, where the owners held dances for the high school kids once a month.

The crunch of the dirt beneath the heavy tires grew louder as the battery in her bedazzled ipod fizzled out. Annoyed, she snatched the phones from her ears and shoved them both into her pocket. As the truck flew down the road, dirt flooded the air, surrounding them in a soft dingy brown smoke. As Summer leaned her head out of the window to snag yet another look at her reflection, she caught a large gust of it in her mouth. She darted her head back inside the cab and began coughing dramatically. Wiping the dirt off of her tongue with her fingers. Flicking and spitting it out the window before she rolled it closed.
Her father watched her hissy fit, as he steered. Struggling to keep his eyes on the road as a soft giggle erupted from his lips, at her expense. He’d almost forgotten how sadiddy she was, and he missed her. Summer, in turn, glared at him, annoyed. “What? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not funny at all.” Her father said still fighting his smile. He reached for her shoulder but Summer quickly shrugged it away. Crossing her legs and curling up by the door, as they drove the rest of the way in silence.


A few minutes later, Dr. Wilcox turned onto Almac rd. and then into the drive way of the corner property. He stopped just before the garage and shut off the engine. “Welcome home, kiddo.” He said to Summer, climbing out of the drivers side and rounding the truck to the back. He’d built it almost three years ago with a local construction company. It was a beautiful large white farm house, with a porch that hugged all the way around. Over fifty feet tall, from the base of the porch to the head of the red bricked chimney perched on the roof. It was the largest house on the block.
Summer opened her door and jumped to the gravel. Leaning against the passenger side door, she froze. Squinting in the sunlight, she stared oddly, at the house. She’d stayed there the last three summers and everything seemed to be exactly the same. From the rustic brown wooden shutters, to the egg shell white paint coat, her father retouched every spring, faithfully. The neatly trimmed bushes of roses and peonies around the house were like a masterpiece. Even the grass was the same height as it was when she left a year ago. But, as she started up the path way of carpet stones, and onto the porch she couldn’t have felt like more of a stranger.
Her feet hid the e and m of the golden welcome mat, laid before the front door, as she hesitated to turn the knob. As if a string was tied to her wrist, and controlled by a force she could never identify. Her father quickly came up behind her and opened the door himself. Summer stumbled to the side as he rushed past her in an effort to faster relieve himself of her luggage. He’d carried all eight suitcases at once and was ready to tip over. And he did, in the center of the foyer. All eight suitcases landing on top of his healthy in shape body. Summer kicked a few of her suitcases aside, and her father quickly came to his feet. “Thanks.” He said out of breathe. “What’d you put in there, dead bodies.” He joked, as he re-tucked in is shirt. .
Stepping over her suitcases, she ignored yet another of his lame attempts at a moment of humor. Her sandals clicked against the hardwood floor as she began to wander. She ran her fingers along the round medium sized mahogany table in the center of the foyer, beside her strewn luggage. On the table sat a large crystal vase that held a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. Their red and lavender petals bathing in the sun, like a work of art. They were her favorite and she smiled candidly as she passed them. Her father carried her bags up the long staircase in front of them, to her room, as she made her way into the great room.
Basically a luxurious living room, the great room was where her father entertained neighbors, and hosted his wine tastings. He’d collected wine since she was a kid, and owned some of the most expensive and illegal wines in the country. She hadn’t seen it yet, but she knew there was a cellar around there somewhere.
When she stepped through the doorway, the first thing she noticed was the painting on the back wall. It was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. A large white canvas covered in random slaps of various colors. It looked like a child had done it by accident, and he hung it up on his wall. On the tip of her tongue, she quickly searched her mind, but came up with nothing. Looking on, Summer noticed a small crystal treasure box on the wooden coffee table just in front of her. She peeled it open to find an assortment of her favorite candy, peanut butter cups, and skittles.
She smiled as she scooped a fistful of them into her mouth. The chocolate melted on her tongue, and she chewed the sticky candy as she drifted over to the piano. Her favorite part of the room. She hadn’t played a note in years, but just the sight of one brought back the tingling sensation that was the cool black and white keys beneath her fingers tips. Summer started taking lessons inspired by her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Crabtree, when she was five. Mrs. Crabtree used to play a song for her class every afternoon during naptime. She loved it. Everyday it was something different. Always classical, never the ABC’s or Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, like any other normal kindergarten teacher.
Soon everyone’s nap time, became her piano lesson. By the time she was six she knew how to play the early works of Bach and Chopin. She performed at all of the school assembly’s and even had a slot in the county fair when she was seven. But she never got to perform. She stopped playing after her parents divorced, and her father moved out. With him went her passion for it. Her passion for anything, really.
Summer ran the tips of her fingers along the keys, still chewing the handful of skittles, beginning to stick in her teeth. A few of the keys made a light beep as she merely tickled them. She smiled at the sound. Like riding a bike, she knew she could play Bach’s Minuet in G without batting an eyelash. It felt good. Really good. Then, she felt a shift in the room. Her father. She could feel his presence, strong and soul sucking, on the back of her neck.
When she turned around, there he was in the doorway leaned against the wall, his arms folded and a dorky smile slapped across his face.
“I didn’t know you started playing again.” He said. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”
Irritated, Summer rolled her eyes and made a bee line for the kitchen. “I’m sorry.” He blurted as she whizzed by. He found himself apologizing to Summer 99% of the time they spoke or spent any time together. Summer quickened her pace down the center aisle of the kitchen to the fridge. The sun, beaming through the floor to ceiling window beside the breakfast nook at the opposite end of the room, swallowed the kitchen. Summer marched through it, feeling the warmth on her toes in her sandals. She opened the fridge and snagged a bottle of spring water from the door, before she slammed it shut.
“So, I have to make my afternoon rounds at the clinic soon. We should probably leave in about twenty minutes.” her father said as she flew by yet again. Ignoring his every word, she took the stairs two at a time. Slamming her bedroom door, just at the top, as she crossed the threshold.


Summer leaned against the closed door, clawing her fingers into its thick wooden make up. Shut up. She screamed in her mind. Taking a deep breathe to calm herself, she looked over her room. It was exactly as she left it a year ago. Her queen sized bed with the large red comforter she’d thrown over it to make it look as though she’d made it. Her four white pillows thrown on top. The dresser beside the door with its bare drawers wide open, the closet on the far end of the room bare as well. Even the small hole above her headboard, from when she threw one of her pumps at the wall, after her father had pissed her off one time to many, was still there.
The sun glowed through the window pegged double doors on the opposite side of the room, leading to her own private balcony. Last summer she used it to sneak out late one night, and hit up a bar in town. The one her father referred to as a “happening” place to be on Saturday night. It was boring Friday night, but she went anyway. The bartender nor anyone else inside had any idea who she was, and in four inch heels she looked old enough to do everything, so no questions were asked.
. She threw her bottle of water onto her bed and pushed the doors open. Stepping out into the warm breeze, she closed her eyes and let the sunlight wash over her face. Summer looked down at the fifteen foot drop to the ground, and wondered how she ever made it sober. That whole night was a blur. She still is a little fuzzy on how she got into bed without her father catching on. The next day she didn’t see him until after she’d showered and gotten rid of her nasty hangover, so he was completely clueless, as usual. That night went into her bag of secrets. Locked, zipped, and shut away. Never to be spoken of again.
Summer had her first beer when she was fourteen years old. Enough unsupervised parties with her friends back in L.A. and she’d gotten tired of being the odd girl out. So she tried it. And when she realized the amnesiac effect it had on her, she was hooked. She only drank at parties, but she drank excessively when things got rough. Being stuck in no mans land i.e. Danville with her father, she considered tortuous.
From the balcony she could see out over the entire yard, as well as over into the neighbors. The leaves of the gigantic oak trees lining the rim of her fathers property, danced in the wind as she watched a group of kids next door, burst into the yard , squirting one another with water guns the size of bazookas. They ducked and hurdled through the grass, like military soldiers in battle. Summer almost smirked at how clueless they were as to how similar everyday life actually was their little game. She scoffed at their innocence. She couldn’t even remember hers, if she ever had any, that is.
Summer moped back inside and flopped down on the corner of her bed.
“Thirteen to go.” She grumbled.