One Summer

| by Sydney Gaw

It’s late July, and the lemongrass has overtaken the front porch. We wait on the steps, drawing symbols in the dirt and tracing lines along the wood railing that keeps us from tumbling onto the lawn. The sharp scent of lemongrass is intoxicating; burning and sweet and sultry all at once. I think of this time last year, sitting on the same porch, tying blades of the barbed grass into elegant little knots on a crown of flora. Hanging them on our small heads, sweaty and smiling.

We are much the same as we were then, and yet, different. I am older. Never the oldest, but still older. And so are the others. We loiter on the porch, reposed on the dry wood, daydreaming about sand dollars on the beach and toasted s’mores around the firepit, and still dreading the six hour drive.

The adults are drinking from sweaty glasses of iced tea, and sometime during their idle chatter, someone brings out paper cups of lemonade for the children. The youngest one, my cousin Kate, is being lured to the bathroom one last time. Then car trunks are shutting. The last of our camping gear is loaded into the back of my uncle’s truck. We pile into the cars last. A moment passes and finally, we’re pulling out of the dusty driveway and past the houses, the parking meters, the town center.

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We pass several beaches: La Jolla Cove, Moonlight, San Onofre, Point Sal, Santa

Barbara. But none of them are our destination. I asked once how far Pismo was from our house and my dad pointed to a dot on a map. At the time, six hours in my head had equated to somewhere north of the elbow bend, but the dot was not even midway. Six hours is less than two inches on a map, and so I figured it must take an eternity to cross the world if ever someone tried.

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The road contorts into a snake around the cliffside, and as we inch along the asphalt, I’m grateful for the traffic keeping us slow and steady up this steep slope. At times, I fear we may come crashing down the jagged walls, plunging deep into the quicksand pit below. We reach the campsite by nightfall, navigating the woods by the battery-powered lanterns and glowing campfires of those who have already staked their claim. A flash of headlights bursts through the trees, momentarily blinding.

“Here!” Someone shouts.

We unload, fumbling with ice boxes, batteries, rods, and bags of food. The roaring

engines die down. My uncle cranks up a portable lantern and sets it on a dried out tree stump as a sort of substitute for the unlit fire pit. The garish glow casts a ghoulish shadow against our faces. There’s Lyla, Natalia, Soya, Tiff, and cousin Kate. The six of us make pointed jabs at the ghostliness of our features.

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My parents boil water over the fire. They warn us not to come near, but the rising steam warms our soft skin in the frigid air. For dinner, they soak pasta in the boiled water and serve it on paper plates with cold marinara sauce. We eat hastily, because staying put for six hours in a car is an exhausting activity, and what we really want are s’mores.

We sit around the fire, twirling marshmallows on twigs until we’re ushered off to bed.

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The white lamp light stings as I blink away the brightness. I shield my eyes, perceiving, for a moment only my friends’ obnoxious laughter and the incense of burning eucalyptus. Through the thin canvas, I can hear the dregs of our parents’ muffled chatter amid the crackling campfire and distant forest rustling. When the initial brightness fades, I scan each distorted face and try to assign names. Kate is still knocked out on the air mattress, her figure a mere shadow against the backdrop of the tent. Tiff is playing with a set of dolls tucked beside her in the blanket. Lyla is the source of hysterical laughter, her delirious voice echoing into the night. On either side of me are Soya and Natalia, who are organizing their impressive origami collections. I fiddle with the small paper crane I was gifted. After a few minutes of dull activity, Nat procures the remnants of her candy stash and passes each of us a sweet—the red kind that are wrapped in edible rice paper and can be found for less than 99 cents at any dollar store. I set mine aside, intending to eat it when the previous sugar high has subsided.

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Sometime later, one of the parents hollers out for us to turn off the light. Smoke from the dying ashes start to permeate the small space—the smell of burnt brush mixed with gas from the portable burner and barbecued steak from the neighboring lot pervade the air. We seem to be running on the dregs of our energy, but it doesn’t stop us from starting up the next track of Taylor Swift’s 1989 album. In a horrific chorus that startles the neighboring family’s dog into a barking fit, we break into a rendition of Bad Blood that grinds my vocal chords to shreds. I imagine it’s almost completely dark outside—no more firelight, just the moon's luminosity and the intermittent glow of the fireflies lurking in the grass. The adults are speaking in low, hushed voices as they soak up the remaining heat from the dying embers. The occasional clinking of glass vibrates throughout the cool atmosphere. The neighbors’ soft chattering fades too, overtaken by the chirping of crickets and the shuffling of some nocturnal critter. And us? We’re

commencing with an encore that rocks the midnight campsite.