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The Summer I Remembered Everything - Hardcover

Con Morse, Catherine

 
9780593711422: The Summer I Remembered Everything
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0593711424 ISBN 13: 9780593711422
Verlag: Crown Books for Young Readers, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

In search of a summer escape from her overbearing family, an Asian-Latine teenager becomes the mentee to a chic elderly woman. But as her mentor's memory starts to fade, the teenager is confronted with a choice that may jeopardize their friendship.

Emily Chen-Sanchez can’t do anything right. She’s been grounded for a bad grade; she can’t stop fighting with her perfect older sister; everyone’s tense because her mother’s just been diagnosed with thyroid cancer; and she hasn’t spoken to her best friend Matt in two weeks, four days, and about seven hours (not that she’s counting).

Her new summer job is the perfect escape: as companion to an eclectic, lively, Super Southern elderly lady, Mrs. Granucci.  All Emily has to do is help Mrs. G ‘remember” her likes, dislikes, anything Mrs. G has a habit of forgetting, even Emily’s name. Emily feels closer to Mrs. G than everyone else until Mrs. G falsely accuses Emily. The betrayal will have ramifications for them both, and Emily must make a decision that will change their lives forever.

The Summer I Remembered Everything is a story of longing for an escape, finding yourself, caring for someone with an illness, and learning that sometimes the right decision is always the hardest.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Catherine Con Morse was one of the inaugural Writers in Residence at Porter Square Books. A Kundiman fellow, she received her MFA from Boston University, where she taught undergraduate creative writing for several years. Her work appears in Joyland, Letters, HOOT, Bostonia, the Racist Sandwich podcast, and elsewhere. The Notes was shortlisted for the CRAFT first chapters contest and is her first novel.
    In high school, Catherine attended the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, a public arts boarding school, where she was as intrigued with her teacher as Claire is with Dr. Li. Catherine continues to play and teach piano today. Most recently, she taught English at Choate Rosemary Hall, and lives in the Connecticut River Valley with her husband and daughter.

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Chapter 1

It’s the first day of summer vacation and I’m on my hands and knees in the bath-room scrubbing mildew off the tub. If only my older sister, Tessa, didn’t use so many products. There would be no gobs of her hair in the drain, no peppermint body bar melting on the soap dish, no brown-sugar face scrub all over the rim. The worst part is the quiet. No Mitski, no true crime podcast, nothing to distract me from the smell of Clorox and the occasional stray toenail clipping on our pale green bath mat.

Actually, the worst part is I have to do the toilet next.



It all started when my report card arrived.

“Psychology?” Tessa said. “How do you get a C in psychology? It’s, like, the study of yourself.”

Nothing bad ever seems to happen to Tessa. A bad day for her is like a normal one for me. But that just means I’m going to have the more interesting personality. I already do.

“Well,” I said. “Maybe I’m still getting to know myself.”

“Do you want to be a walking cliche?” Tessa said.

Dad sighed. “That’s enough,” he said to her. To me, he said, “You’re grounded. Three weeks.” He stood at the bottom of the stairs while I hovered near the mid-dle, halfway to my room.

I couldn’t wait to slam the door like white kids do in the movies.

“What the crap?” I said. Not because I didn’t deserve it, but because my parents had never grounded anyone before. I was surprised Dad even knew how to ground me. In my experience, anyway, immigrant parents don’t ground; they’re so strict already. I pictured Andy Huang, who lived down the street, getting grounded and almost laughed.

“I’ll tell you what is crap,” Dad said, his accent becoming a little more prominent, like it did when he got frustrated. Is sounded like ees, and he rolled the r in crap--which would have been hilarious if he wasn’t yelling at me. He shook my report card in the air. “This is. Getting a C in this easy class!”

Under my breath, I mumbled, “It was a C plus. In Honors Psych.”

Dad started taking the stairs toward me. “Emily Chen-Sanchez, I’m not finished yet!” he said. “And don’t go into your room. Your room is too fun to be a punish-ment.”

Mom poked her head out of their room, where she’d been resting.

“. . . no respect,” I heard Tessa saying from downstairs.

I rolled my eyes. “Shut your face, Tessa!” I shouted.

To my mother, I said sorry. I was saying sorry to my mother a lot that summer, and it was still the end of May, which isn’t even technically summer yet.

“Where should she go, then?” Mom said to Dad. I couldn’t tell if she was being se-rious or making fun of the whole situation. My parents do that sometimes. They share a sense of humor that Tessa and I don’t get.

“El bano,” Dad said.

Mom laughed, like this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

My parents speak three languages between the two of them, and their first lan-guages--Spanish for Dad and Mandarin for Mom--always make an appearance when they’re agitated. No wonder the Spanish phrases I know are ones like saca la basura.

“Seriously?” I said.

Dad gestured toward the door, waiting for me to walk right into the bathroom that I share with Tessa.

He said I had to stay there for at least an hour, until I was ready to talk--calmly--about what had happened and the plan I would take to rectify the situation. Dad works in marketing. I’m not exactly sure what he does all day, but I know he man-ages a bunch of people who all use words like rectify.

“And give me your phone,” he said.

So into the bathroom I went. But by the time Dad came to check on me, I was painting my toenails a fire-engine red and had a sooth-ing/moisturizing/replenishing mask on my face. That was what did it. Dad handed me the yellow cleaning gloves and a sponge and said, “Scrub.”



That night, I want to take dinner into my room, but my parents won’t hear of it. That’s another thing I don’t get about them: how we can be all mad at each other, but they still want to have dinner at the table together. It’s like a subtle form of torture.

Naturally, Tessa is talking about yet another internship that she applied for. Some-thing about working in the emergency room, which is what Tessa’s been wanting to do since she was like seven.

I try not to listen. There’s only so much achievement talk you can take from some-one whose room is right next to yours. Someone whose high school CV is as long as a term paper--not to mention someone who actually has a CV in high school. Someone who delivered a TED Talk at age fifteen about the importance of good mental health among adolescents and, at age seventeen, wears her hair in a neat bob like our mom’s, partly because it’s more professional and partly because it’s efficient. Tessa is all about efficiency.

Instead of listening, I help myself to more potatoes and load them up with butter.

“Don’t eat so many potatoes,” Mom says, interrupting Tessa. “You need some green vegetables.”

“Have more pork,” Dad says. “You need protein for swimming.”

“Do you really need butter?” Tessa says. Yes, she interrupts even herself in order to nag me. She makes a point of stabbing her butterless potato and putting it into her mouth while eyeing my buttered one.

Even when all you’re doing is eating, you can count on my family to comment on your every move.

It’s when I’m feeling things super intensely that I start to have ideas for my next drawing. And it’s happening now. I’m so pissed at all three of them that I get this great sketch going in my mind: Mom, Dad, and Tessa as a family of cockatiels, sit-ting at a tiny dinner table in a birdcage, while I, larger than life as some other bird, stand outside looking in. I could title it something like When Will It Be My Turn? or Never Fitting in That Cage or simply Outside the Family. Maybe it’s too on the nose, or too Ugly Duckling, but you get the gist.

When I have an idea for a drawing, it’s like a fly buzzing around in a jar, just des-perate to get out. I feel so much better once I’ve written it down in my Notes app, or better yet--if I’m able to--I start sketching it out in pencil right away, even if it’s just on the top corner of the page I’m using to take notes in class.

Since I can’t start anything during dinner, I repeat birds, birds, birds in my head so it sticks.

Even on regular, non-grounded weekends when I don’t leave the house much, I can at least escape into my art. I put on my headphones and my art shirt (an old T-shirt) and suddenly it’s like I’m not at home at all--I’m in a real studio with exposed brick, good lighting, and other artists working around me, in somewhere like Brooklyn, where people create cool things all day.

But recently my parents have been making a stink about how much time I spend drawing. Mom doesn’t love how the chalk pastels stain my hands and nails--she wants me to use gloves, but it wouldn’t be the same--and Dad thinks that my want-ing to apply to art school is just a phase. So sometimes I take my supplies to a cof-fee shop. That’s the nice thing about pastels. You don’t need a whole lot to get set up; it’s not like watercolor, where you’ve got a bunch of brushes and paints and water...

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Verlag
Crown Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593711424
ISBN 13 
9780593711422
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
290
Kontakt zum Hersteller
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