story time

Excerpt from a short story called 'Midsummer' by A. Smithie

Duncan stands by his Jeep Grand Cherokee, his retro sunglasses hanging from neon croakies.  My uncle wore ones like those at the end of the nineties when he was into running topless in purple spandex shorts.  Duncan wears a Patagonia fleece and Nantucket red shorts.  I look down at his feet as we pull into the parking lot and notice he has recently switched from Reefs to Crocks.  I make sure to alert Nathalie of his recently evolved wardrobe. 

              He waves, squinting into the sun, and I hope he puts his sunglasses on, so I can take in the full effect of whatever he’s trying to pull off.

We leave the car out of politeness, and he runs to Nathalie and gives her a generous hug and then politely turns to me, reluctantly pressing his body against mine.

“Thanks so much for picking me up, guys.  My mom made us some cookies too,” he coos.

“I’m dieting,” Nathalie grimaces, “I’m only taking in alcoholic calories. Thanks anyways,” she turns away, but not before warning him, “Duncan, I’m shotgun and I don’t care what pump-up Montreal playlist you made, I already have one on and it’s better.”

“Thanks, Duncan. It’s really no problem. We’re so excited to drive up with you,” I lie.

Truthfully, I had avoided his text messages about carpooling for about a month before I finally caved and responded.  I knew he didn’t like me very much and if he did like me at all, it was because he worshipped Nathalie and Nathalie had always made it clear how important I am to her.  Duncan somehow popped up wherever she was, whether it was inviting himself to brunch in Boston, sleeping on the floor next to one of our beds in a hotel room in New York, or hitching a ride to Canada, he always appeared.  Nathalie pretended to despise him, to resent his obsession with her, but I knew she would never take him for granted.  She appreciated all of her admirers. 

He fawned over her in a way that was not overtly sexual.  I wasn’t even sure if he was sexual.  When I thought of him, it always stopped at the waist.  I never wanted to venture past that, and not just because his hair is the same color as his Nantucket red shorts. 

Duncan was in the backseat, but I wished we could have packed him away in the trunk, my inner sociopath stirring; it just was not far enough.  He recited the names of each lake as we passed, recalled his most fond childhood memories, which seemed to all have happened at one of these lakes.  If his mom hadn’t baked those cookies, I would have tossed him out of the car and I wasn’t sure what was keeping Nathalie from doing just that. Perhaps she was planning to break her alcohol only diet and was keeping him around in preparation for the inevitable gorge. 

Duncan would leave for Brazil in a month, building a school or painting a house, or whatever it is they send you down there for, while making you pay your college’s tuition in full.  He expressed his anxieties, his hands clamped on the headrest of Nathalie’s passenger seat, his fingers dancing across the leather, dangerously close to her scalp.  I couldn’t help but think of the National Geographic gorillas grooming their mate.  It was only a matter of time before—

“Nathalie, your hair smells so good. What shampoo do you use?”

“I don’t wash my hair, Duncan. It naturally smells this way.”

“I believe that, actually, I just use body wash, and no conditioner, ever. I, like, don’t even need it.”

“I was kidding, Duncan,” her eyes rolling, I’m sure, beneath her large sunglasses.

“Anyways, I’ve connected with a couple kids that are going. They sent out a list of everyone in the program, and then this girl, from Amherst, I think, well, she made a group on Facebook and started inviting everyone.  I have lots of mutual friends with, like, so many of kids. A couple from Deerfield, and they all know Jamie Moffet.”

“Well she’s a gem.”

“I know, I like her too,” Duncan responds eagerly, Nathalie’s sarcasm sneaking past him.  

“Pass me a cookie,” Nathalie demands, “And I want to pee soon.”

Duncan peels away the tin foil and pulls out a handful of cookies, clamors towards Nathalie and offers them with pride.

“They’re so good. My mom made different kinds; I wasn’t sure what you’d want. There are some with peanut butter, but wait, this one has chocolate chip.”

He handles the cookies, examining each before attempting to place his selection onto Nathalie’s lap.

“Just one!” Nathalie slaps at his hand and reclines her seat onto him.

“You can move behind me, Duncan,” I offer.

Nathalie can be funny, but she can also be cruel, and Duncan makes it easy for her to be both.