According to Zach, who had seen a lot of movies and television, it should have been raining. That’s what the movies told him anyway. It rained at emotional times, but the weather had been most uncooperative. It was promising to be a beautiful day, great for outdoor activities such a skateboarding, (If they ever fixed the potholes), sailing (If the fish processing plant hadn’t been fouling up the ocean), or maybe even hiking, which would be most enjoyable if you enjoyed the sight of endless fields of abandoned agricultural land. Still, any of these little appealing options would have had a modicum of appeal… If he had someone to enjoy it with, a friend.

A friend… Zach’s thoughts snapped back to reality.

Zach was sitting on the curb in front of his house, watching the neighbors across the road fuss over their green, wood-paneled station wagon.

The leader of this tremendous operation of pushing boxes into the backseat, trunk or on top of the hideously colored vehicle, was a man Zach only knew as ‘Mister Summers’, who was currently yelling at a woman he knew as ‘Mrs. Summers’.

Obviously he knew both of them had real names, but his own father, Mister Brooks, had made it clear you don’t address your elders or betters by anything else than the combination title, surname. Excepting doctors, who were to be addressed by their title only.

Mister Summers, who definitely wasn’t a doctor, was a short man, which he had attempted to compensate for with width. Adding to this was the man’s insistence of wearing brown pantaloons with shirts in the most garish colors his wife could find, which, Zach felt, might be the man’s attempt to honor his family name, by dressing like a rather oversized ice cream cone.

Mrs Summers however had more in common with the star of Summer, which was to say… Staring at her too long might make you go blind. Not that Zach could imagine anyone staring at Mrs Summers for a protracted period of time, except maybe a marine biologist to find out what sort of mutated barnacle she actually was.

All that said, he’d still miss the woman, who always had a kind word ready and brought her favorite neighbors the leftovers of the pies that they sold in the roadside diner her husband ran. The pies were especially great, and probably were partly to blame for her husband’s girth.

Zach caught himself using the present tense for the roadside diner, which was closed now. He hadn’t understood the particulars, but the entire Summers family was moving to the west coast. He couldn’t blame them, with the fishing hot spot gone there wasn’t a lot of call for roadside diners catering to tourists.

He sighed and waved dejectedly to Mrs Summers who gave him a pitying look and said something to her husband. Her husband shrugged and continued tying a suitcase haphazardly to the luggage rack on the roof.

Next to the Summers couple, there was their only child, Dawn. The worst part of the Summers’ departure, was seeing Dawn leave. She was his best and, after half the town had already moved, only real friend.

They had stood on either side of the road many times, passing tennis balls between them, or sometimes just sitting on the exact curb Zach currently sat on to discuss their future plans.

Dawn’s plan had been to become an illustrator, for which Zach had been a willing enough model… At first. Now he’d sooner use the term ‘long-suffering’ to describe it, as Dawn’s talent in the creative department was rather lacking. He had gently suggested her, several times, that maybe she should look into other avenues as well. He had suggested softball on more than one of these occasions, as Dawn had a killer pitch that Zach had experienced many times. Mostly by getting the tennis ball they were playing catch with to the eye, lip, chest, groin and pretty much anywhere else that he had been presenting to her.

...When he had suggested softball, she had stated very simply that she wasn’t interested in the sport and every time he brought it up after, it seemed her balls hit his with a little more frequency than before.

He hadn’t seen her yet this morning and, as such, sat on the curb, bouncing a tennis ball on the damaged asphalt.

Thock… Thock… Thock…

Almost imperceptibly the sound gained a slightly too fast echo.

Tho-tock… Tho-thock… Tho-thock…

Had Zach been paying attention to anything that wasn’t the yellowish rotating sphere in front of him, he might have heard the warning, but what Zach heard was.

Tho-thock… Tho-thock… Thock… Thock… Thock… And then he didn’t hear much of anything any more, because he was processing the results of taking a tennis ball to the face.

“I told you to think fast, Dork,” Dawn smiled, picking up the orange and blue ball that lazily rolled back to the sender.

Dawn looked a little like both of her parents and, to her relief, that meant she only got the parts of both. It didn’t make her a stunning beauty, but most boys in her class found her an acceptable fourth pick to take to prom. She probably would’ve been bumped up to third if she didn’t insist on copying Annie Lennox’s hair.

Hair that she had currently hidden under a Connecticut Brakettes cap. For her comfortable travel clothing, she opted for dungarees, with one strap fashionably dangling down towards the floor.

“Knew you’d be here.”

Zach rubbed his head to relieve the pain of the impact and stopped his own ball from rolling away by lightly tapping it with his foot.

“Couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye, could I?” he replied, trying to sound cool.

“You did that last night,” she retorted, tossing her ball from hand to hand.

Zach shrugged.

“Didn’t even get out of your pajamas,” she continued and sat down next to him, before finishing her sentence with a well chosen, “Dweeb.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Zach sighed, turning his ball around in his hands.

Dawn lightly punched him in the shoulder, “Don’t take it so hard, Zach. At least you know all the people here in town…”

“Dawn, I want to get moving! Now!”

“Coming, Dad! One minute!”

“Now, young lady! I want to be in Memphis before dinner time!”

“Look,” Dawn continued, ignoring her father, “I’m sure you’ll make new friends. Get up. Come on, get up.”

Zach slowly got to his feet and Dawn, putting her hand under his arm pulled him up.

“Come on, say goodbye properly.”

Awkwardly, Zach stuck out his hand.

Dawn offered him a crooked smile, shook her head, then tightly embraced her friend, pulling him close. She was softer than Zach had imagined.

“I’ll miss you,” she said in his ear, then pulled back. Zach saw her brown eyes glance down, then sparkling with amusement as her smile turned to a smirk.

“Boys,” she teased and whipped around when her father called again, more impatient now.

“Coming dad!” she shouted half angry, then sprinted across the street.

Zach awkwardly covered himself with one hand and put his free right in the air.

Dawn stopped at the car, opened the rear door, then turned around again.

“Hey, dweeb!” she called.

Zach tried to smile.

“Parting gift.”

The orange and blue ball sailed through the sky, perfectly hitting Zach’s raised hand. Instinctively, his fingers clutched around the ball.

“Where's mine?” she shouted.

Zach dropped the ball he had caught and picked up the one he had been playing with, still making sure his hand was hiding his groin.

Normally, he had a decent pitching arm, but distracted by both the earlier hit to the head, the fact that his friend was leaving, and the embarrassment of his uninvited excitement, the ball went wide, landing in the Summers family former house’s gutter.

Dawn turned to watch, rubbed one arm over her eyes, before turning back around one last time.

“Dork!” she called, then got in the car, hastily closing it behind her, pointedly looking out the far window.

Mrs Summers waved out the window and a moment later the vomit green station wagon sped out of the cul-de-sac.

When the car turned out of Zach’s sight, a final parting gift fell from one of the suitcases. Mrs Summers’ good pumps or to be more specific, the left one.

Zach sighed and headed over to collect the shoe. He had their new address so he’d send it after.

When he had the red pump, he dragged his feet back towards the house.

Zach slipped back in through the garage, then through the small hallway between it and the kitchen that his mother had lovingly turned to her own private laundromat. A part of the house that reeked so heavily of washing powder and other laundry aides that Zach felt he could skip his next shower, being permeated with its scents.

After that, he stepped into the kitchen annex dining room, which was a marvel of modern appliances, surrounded by enough shades of brown to qualify as a box of chocolates. Everything in it was modern and fashionable except…

Zach glanced at the clock that was lit by the first sunlight of the day spilling through the half open blinds. It was an ugly clock, a remainder of the previous decade that was the color of slightly undercooked carrots and had numbers in a font that might once have been described as ‘groovy’, but now looked just as painfully dated as reruns of Charlie’s Angels.

Still, it told the time. Sometimes five minutes fast, sometimes five minutes slow, but it gave you a decent ballpark estimate. It currently was somewhere between five to and five past half seven, which meant there was at least five hours left to go to bed and wallow in misery.

Which was Zach’s plan, until his father spotted him from the kitchen table.

His father was a calm man that spent every morning reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. By which he meant, trawling the personals to see if anyone was selling their car.

As such, the Brooks family had a subscription to every local paper in the area. All six of which were currently spread out in front of mister Brooks, who habitually chewed on a red marker as he read them.

The man was balding and, after having finally admitted that sad fact to himself, had purchased a toupee. A toupee that was currently on the table and being stroked as if it were a beloved family pet.

“Morning, son,” he said with his mouth full.

“Morning dad,” Zach muttered and made to head for the inner door.

“Up already?” Mister Brooks continued, circling an ad.

“Had to say goodbye to Dawn,” was the mumbled answer.

“Well, nice to see you’re not wasting your entire summer in bed like I thought you might. What’s the plans for today.

Zach looked at his dad as he tried to think of something to placate him. The marker went back in mister Brooks' mouth as if were a cigar and he chewed on it a few times as he waited for answer.

Zach opened his mouth a few times as he tried to process a lie quickly enough, distracted by a small drop of ink that was leaking down the marker and into his dad’s chest hair that proudly poked out of the salmon shirt that had just one too many buttons open.

“Uh, dad…” he said, pointing to the marker.

“Huh?”

Mister Brooks’ eyes crossed, noticed the dripping and his mouth released the marker, which fell through the thick bush of chest hair, sliding down until it fell out of the still untucked shirt and clattered on the brown stone kitchen tiles. A small puddle of ink slowly started to form.

“Could you grab me a…”

Zach was moving before the question had been voiced, getting the paper towels to clean the spill. Meanwhile, mister Brooks continued his morning coffee.

“So, about your day plans…”

Zach put the roll of paper towels in front of his dad, then shook his head, “Sorry dad, no idea.”

“Could get a job…”

“Doing what? Everything’s gone.”

“Could mow lawns.”

“McGregor kids got a monopoly on that.”

“Well you’re not sitting at home watching music videos or whatever…”

“Okay…”

“Maybe you can help your brother out with something or other.”

“Maybe, dad…”

“Or you could help Kevin in the junkyard.”

“Maybe dad,” Zach said, scouring the cabinets for his favorite cereal. As the day was going, he had expected they’d be out and he was right, having to settling on his little sister’s, which promised to have a “Radical princess toy” included.

He put some of the sugary cereal in a bowl, couldn’t be bothered to add milk and sat down across from his father.

“Or you can go have fun with your friends…” Mister Brooks continued his suggestions, trailing off as soon as he saw his son drop his face into the bowl of dry cereal.

“...As long as you don’t sit in front of the TV all summer,” he concluded, before adding, “...You okay, son?”

In response, Zach emitted a long groan.

Mister Brooks was about to continue, when the sound of metal grating against metal distracted them both.

They looked up, shared a look and shrugged. It simply meant Mrs Brooks was home from work and had, as often, neglected to open the garage door far enough to let her car in. Mister Brooks shook his head, took another sip of coffee and listened for the common sounds.

The car’s front door opening and not closing, then the sound of the trunk opening.

“Oh good,” he said, “She brought something to eat.”

The garage door closed, violently dropping the heavy metal back to the stone below it and drowning the sound of the two inner doors opening.

“Good morning, dear,” Mrs Brooks said brightly, “I brought breakfast!”