Two Summers by Aimee Friedman

Author:Aimee Friedman [Friedman, Aimee]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2016-04-25T23:00:00+00:00

Friday, July 14, 9:13 a.m.

“All aboard! This is the nine-fifteen express to New York City!”

The overhead announcement makes me smile as I slide into my window seat and settle my bookbag in my lap. I wonder if boarding the flight to France might have felt something like this—the strong blast of air-conditioning, the smell of coffee, the murmured conversations all around, the beat of anticipation in my chest.

Of course, I am not on a plane but a train—the steaming silver Metro-North that’s about to depart the Hudsonville station—and the destination isn’t quite so foreign or thrilling. Still, I haven’t been down to New York since my trip with Ruby in December, and I’m excited and nervous to go back, especially under these different circumstances.

“Okay, class!” Aunt Lydia calls from where she stands in the middle of the aisle. “Everyone ready for our big field trip? I’m going to hand out your tickets soon.”

Her brown eyes dart from seat to seat, and I can tell she’s taking a mental tally of who’s here. I did the same when I boarded the train, flushed and relieved to be on time, and I noticed that neither Hugh nor Wren had arrived yet. Now I glance out the window, bracing myself for the sight of them running together, maybe hand in hand, down the steps onto the gray platform.

The past three days in Aunt Lydia’s class have been full of amazing discoveries: I now know that a daguerreotype is a black-and-white, very early kind of photograph, invented by a French artist in the nineteenth century. I’ve learned how to load slippery film into an old-school camera, and how to use the more advanced settings on my new Nikon. I’ve learned that, way back in ancient times, a box with a hole in it, called a camera obscura (which means “dark chamber” in Latin) was the start of photography. And apparently the word photography itself means “drawing with light” in Greek. When Aunt Lydia told us that, I got a small shiver down my back. Drawing with light.

But I have yet to discover what, if anything, is going on between Hugh and Wren. And I certainly haven’t learned how to speak to Hugh at all.

I’ve even moved to sit in the front row of the class, teacher’s pet–like, to distance myself from the two of them—and, you know, to better focus on Aunt Lydia’s awesome lectures. Still, my ears prick up every time I hear Hugh murmur something to Wren, or vice versa, in the back row.

Yesterday, when Aunt Lydia brought us to the college darkroom, showing us the print tongs and developing trays, I’d kept my eyes trained on Hugh and Wren, trying to discern if they were standing too close to each other in the dim, small space. At one point, Hugh had glanced my way and I’d turned around so fast that I’d knocked over a (thankfully, capped) bottle of toner.

Smooth.

Now I feel a bolt of surprise as I see Wren—alone—fly onto the platform, a scarlet-haired blur in a long dark dress.

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