The Melancholy of Summer by Louisa Onomé

Author:Louisa Onomé
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OLU GETS TO WORK CONTACTING producers and sound engineers after breakfast. She keeps saying she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she lists off all these job titles of people who help put together a song that I’ve never heard of. Clearly, she’s lying. Olu’s a pro, after all. She really should give herself more credit. What’s the point of downplaying your strengths like that? I don’t get it.

I grab my skateboard and head to Auntie Dara’s shop. She left me two text messages about times to come in: Be here by 1 and no, by 11. I barely make it on time.

She stands in the doorway, looking smug with her arms crossed. I hop off my board and shuffle my way closer to her as she outstretches an arm, guiding me into the restaurant. “Summer, how are you?” she asks, her voice sickeningly sweet. Ew.

“Fine,” I mumble back and beeline straight for the kitchen counter.

Auntie Dara has been acting strange, full stop. Ever since I asked about my parents and showed her the letter, ever since I asked about those numbers—ever since I noticed them change slightly. More boxy, more practiced. I’m caught between wanting to keep my distance and being drawn closer. I just can’t seem to let it go. And besides, for someone in my position, whatever money she’s giving me for deliveries is the difference between a half hour bus ride and an hour on my skateboard. I can’t complain, even though I really want to. Hate being stuck like this.

She circles, smiling at me while she packs each order in their separate bags, and makes small talk about the humidity today. “It’s nothing like Nigeria,” she goes on, scrunching her lips in annoyance. “There, the heat is dry, so it’s only when the sun is beating you, you will sweat. Here, the air is what’s hot.”

I nod along like I care.

She hands me payment, crumpled twenties for each order, and then she stares right in my eyes like a murderer.

She asks again, “Summer, how are you?”

I repeat, “Fine.”

She asks, “How is Oluchi?” with the depth of someone who is secretly plotting to kill her.

I almost forgot that they met each other when Olu dropped me off. “She’s good,” I mumble, averting my eyes. Quickly, I reach forward for each packaged order.

Auntie Dara grabs hold of the second order before I can. Her grip is firm; her gaze is still fixed on me. She furrows her brow, her voice dropping to an eerie volume, as she says, “Why did you ask me about your parents?”

I stop. My hand, outstretched on the counter toward the bag, begins to feel awkward and numb—as if she could grab it, too, rooting me in place.

She tilts her head toward me, lowering her eyes, and says again, “Have you been seeing them around somewhere?”

I cringe, shaking my head right away. “No.”

“On the news? People are saying they’ve seen them in Scarborough or Markham, driving—”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why did you ask me that?”

It’s a weird thing for her to say, definitely.

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