Five Summers Read Online Free Page A

out the invisible straw.
    “Mark’s an idiot,” I said, rubbing the worn cuff sleeve of the hoodie between my thumb and forefinger. “I think it’s nice.”
    “What is?”
    “That you’re . . . you know. A virgin.” I instantly regretted saying it. “I mean, it’s nice when
guys
are virgins,” I hedged. “Because . . . I don’t know, it’s just sweet.” Now I was really digging myself into a hole. “Or, what I mean is, girls want a guy who thinks they’re special and who’s . . . waited for them. You know?” He relaxed a little bit, looked at me, and smiled softly.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. I guess I can’t speak for other girls, but I want to feel special.”
    “You are special, Emma,” he said, looking so earnest it was all I could do to keep from kissing him right then and there. My heart pounded in my ears. I could barely see straight.
    “So what was all that with Skylar back there?” he asked as we rounded the bend that led out to the big rocks where counselors sometimes led low-tide explorations during the day.
    “Oh. Um . . .” It felt like breaking her trust to tell him, but I figured he’d find out soon anyway. Adam and Zeke were sort of friends. “She and Zeke broke up.”
    Adam shook his head. “She could have any guy she wants,” he said. “I never understood why she picked that douche.”
    “My feelings exactly.” I brushed his hand with mine, accidentally on purpose. “But I think all the adoration can go to her head sometimes.
You
know what that’s like.” Adam wasn’t classically handsome, like Superman or Brad Pitt—his nose was a little big, not that I’m one to talk—but he had a nice face, twinkling eyes, and an amazing smile. Plus he was funny, with that almost imperceptible edge of sadness that’s like catnip to anyone with a double-X chromosome. Throughout our years of friendship, Adam always had some not-quite-thing going on with some not-quite-right girl. He had a knack for making everyone feel close to him, when no one really was.
    That summer, I had been trying to get him to open up to me about his life back home, with middling results. He’d told me that in sixth grade he’d been diagnosed with mild ADHD and that his dad wanted to treat him but his mom didn’t, because she read a book called
The Overmedicated Child
that Adam had found—complete with damning annotations—in the pantry underneath her carb-free diet bars. I knew he had some trouble in school and that his prized possession was his grandfather’s Red Sox cap, which was signed on the back by Carl Yastrzemski, and which he had never worn outside the house because he was so superstitious about losing it. But that was basically it. For someone so talkative, Adam didn’t say much.
    “Oh, come on,” he protested, grabbing my hand for balance as we navigated the newly wobbly terrain of slick boulders with our arms outstretched. “I’m not that bad.”
    “You just got voted Biggest Flirt—by the
counselors
,” I reminded him, and he laughed.
    “Touché.”
    The rocks looking out at the western coast of Wexley Island—a supervised overnight campground about half a mile off shore that everyone called “Sexy Island” for the rumored counselor hook-ups that frequently went down there—could be jagged and uncomfortable, but they were also isolated, and they had pretty great views, especially on a clear night like that one, when the stars were so big and unbelievably bright they looked almost fake. Adam climbed nimbly onto a big, flat rock that was conveniently about the size of a loveseat. He cocked one eyebrow and reached a hand down for me.
    “Can I can convince you to join me on this luxury boulder?” he asked. I grasped his hand, braced my foot, and swung my other leg up. It wasn’t graceful, but at least I didn’t fall. I slid next to Adam, and our thighs touched. From our perch we could see the counselors’ boat out on the lake in the moonlight. They were singing, and