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The brown tables were thick with grimy paint- the dullness magnified by Dina's bubblegum-pink nails. Last day of being a junior. First day of the holidays. One year closer to fucking off to university- Syd supposes she should be thinking about the future: about jobs and university and adult life. But she doesn't want to- she wants to sit in the grubby diner with Dina, sharing icecreams and laughing over nothing.
Leaning back on the booth seat, Syd's hands found a ripped gash of leather, instinctively pulling out the white stuffing- listening as Dina's voice mingled with the Marianne Faithfull song frothing from the radio above.
"and you know we've gotta go to the city sometime- go to that Vincent Van Gogh museum they've got up there. All the fields will be in bloom near enough." Dina sloshed around her straw in the greyish pink milkshake, eyes bright and sparkling as she vehemently planned out their impending Summer- Syd more than happy to agree.
"We could go to one of those late-night productions of the rocky horror picture show," Syd interjected. Dina's face brightened, a dark coil falling into her eyes which was promptly tucked back. Reaching over the table for Syd's pale, freckled hand- lacing their fingers together.
oh, Syd thought helplessly, the ginger hairs on her arm standing up as Dina's pink acrylics lightly dug into her skin.
"We'll make this a good one yeah?" Dina looked at her earnestly, her eyes pools of honey. "No boys or fights or anything else stupid. Just the two of us."
Syd smiled stupidly, squeezing her hand.
"Yeah, just the two of us."
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Her freshmen summer, when she was 15, was when Syd kissed a girl for the first time. And despite her best attempt to forget, her name was Frances. Vauge features come to mind- half illuminated face by moonlight, liquor stained mouth, the vibrating thrum of a party in the next room, glitter in her dark hair- brightness in her doe eyes.
She remembers the glint of her braces as Frances smiled; she remembers how she leaned over, cold breath on her lips.
The cutthroat pang of whiskey on her lips; the sweet, earthy smell of almonds. She was kissing her. Syd was kissing back. Spurred on by the sloppish buzz of alcohol.
A sudden sting on Syd's lip. Frances's tounge tasting the metallic red- pulling away wide eyed- her braces had sliced Syd's lip. The pain was dull, persistent, though they were to caught up in the throws of drunkeness and kissing.
Lips met lips. The same smell of almonds, the taste of secondhand whiskey seasoned with her own blood.
Frances left after that. Went somewhere in the west coast. Syd wonders if she only kissed her because if it went wrong- she'd never have to stomach the humiliation.
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When she was 5, her dad showed her how to make record bowls- a throughly worn out, scratched Fleetwood Mac "rumours" vinyl the proverbial victim.
"Me and your mother danced to this at prom yknow- careful Syd!" He reached out an arm to block Syd's sticky fingers from venturing into the open oven.
"look- you prop it on the bowl like that," he gestured loosely to the demonstration,
"and put it in the oven for a few minutes."
"Mind Syd," he turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, "don't be doing this with any record you get your hands on, your mother'll never forgive you if she catches you eating popcorn out of her Debbie Harry record."
She remembers, how her dad hauled her onto the kitchen counter, whilst the record wilted in the oven. She remembers the seasonal bird song, and the joyful screeches next door as a waterfight commenced.
"There!" Her dad presented the metled record with a flourish. "You've got yourself a trendy cereal bowl now!" He grinned toothily, deep dimples punctuating his bearded face.
Syd's pudgy fingers prodded the bowl.
"It's got a hole in it dad," she said earnestly, as though this were a major oversight on his behalf.
"Hm," he said, taking the bowl in his hands, "we can always tape it up."
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Last summer, was the eternally unspeakable summer. The summer in which it all went wrong.
It couldn't have gone wrong, because nothing was really right to begin with. But the world seemed to shatter, flying into thousands of daggered pieces. Stretching from a coarse rope wound round a soft throat.
It made her sick. The fact the her heart was still jittering with life. That her blood was still shooting through her veins, but her own father was soon-to-be worm food.
Shrill laughter, slap of sunscreen, dripping artificial red of ice lollies, scalding summer sun.
They didn't seem to reach her that summer.
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