Tilla has spent her entire life trying to make her father love her. But every six months, he leaves their family and returns to his true home: the island of Jamaica. When Tilla’s mother tells her she’ll be spending the summer on the island, Tilla dreads the idea of seeing him again, but longs to discover what life in Jamaica has always held for him. In an unexpected turn of events, Tilla is forced to face the storm that unravels in her own life as she learns about the dark secrets that lie beyond the veil of paradise—all in the midst of an impending hurricane. Hurricane Summer is a powerful coming of age story that deals with colorism, classism, young love, the father-daughter dynamic—and what it means to discover your own voice in the center of complete destruction.
Read an excerpt :
Mom says you get two birthdays.
The first one is the day you are born.
The second is the day you leave home and give birth to yourself.
I never understood what she meant by that, but standing in the middle of this bustling airport, I can’t help but wonder if this is the day she was talking about. If it is, the tears in my eyes don’t feel like anything to celebrate. Birthdays are not supposed to make you cry. Birthdays are not supposed to grow heavy lumps in the back of your throat that threaten to choke you on your words if you dare open your mouth.
Birthdays are not supposed to break your heart.
Be brave. Be brave.
I repeat it over and over again in my head as I squeeze my mom’s hand a little tighter. My stomach drops, dreading the moment she’ll inevitably let go. In the air, I can taste the sweet melancholy of joyous hellos and painful goodbyes that only the airport can bring. There is a buzzing to this place that feels like the center of heartbreak and joy. Its contradiction sends an unsettling shiver through my body. I feel like a child, embarrassed my emotions are giving me away.
Suck it up, I scold myself. It’s only two months.
“We’re here,” Mom says into the phone. “They just checked in.”
She’s quiet as she listens, her ear pressed to the phone. “I packed some shirts for you. And there’s a few bags of coffee in Mia’s suitcase, so you’ll be stocked up for work. Make sure you take them out. Mhm, everything’s in there—uh-huh. Oh shoot.” She lets go of my hand, turning her back to us. “I forgot to pack that deodorant you like. I’ll send down a few packs this week—yeah, okay. And don’t forget Mia’s allergy medicine. It’s in the side pock—I’m not saying you’re going to forget, Tyson.” Her voice goes hushed. “I’m just telling you where it is.” She’s quiet for a moment, listening. “Look, Tyson. Let’s not do this now—call me when they land.”
I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering as she turns back around. My mother’s eyes are so kind. They are a deep sea of brown that perfectly match her rich dark skin, and they stare back at me with a compassion only her heart could know. She smiles at me with longing in her eyes.
She knows this is not what I want.
“Did you remember to pack the gum?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom. You asked me that already.”
“I’m just making sure. I don’t want your ears to pop on the plane.”
I feel guilty for the irritation in my tone. I know she’s being helpful, but for some reason, it annoys me. Maybe it’s because it’s the first time my sister and I are flying alone. Maybe it’s because I would rather be anywhere else than in the middle of a cold, busy airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to spend the summer with my father.
Yet after months of protest, here I am.
“Are you sure you can’t come with us?” my little sister, Mia, pleads desperately.
A sadness runs through our mother’s eyes as she adjusts her dark brown locks. “You know I have to work, baby. But your father is so excited to see you.”
Mia sulks at the mention of our father.
I don’t blame her.
Mom turns to me, cupping my face in her hands. “I love you more than words, Tilla.” She kisses me so gently on my cheek that I barely feel it. “You’re going to grow so much this summer.” She can’t hold back the tears that stream down her face.
And damn it, neither can I.
“I love you, too, Mom. So much,” I reply, choking on that lump.
“It’s only two months.” She smiles, tucking a strand of my coily Afro behind my ears. “It’s going to fly by.”
“Two months without cell service.” I muster a smile.
“I’m sure your thumbs could use the break.” She laughs. “Come here.” She pulls me in close, wrapping us both in a hug. “Take care of your sister, okay?” she whispers to me. “You’re in charge.”
“Of herself…” Mia rolls her eyes. Mom gives her a look. “She’s barely eighteen. What does she know?” Mia mutters.
I ignore her. I’m too sad to argue with Mia right now. “I will, Mom,” I reply.
Mom squeezes in one last hug before the inevitable. She lets us go, the warmth of her hug lingering on my brown skin. Suddenly, a crass voice comes over the speakers, pulling me out of our goodbye.
“Last call for all passengers boarding flight 416. Please make your way to Gate 8A.”
I throw my backpack over my shoulder, and with one last look to our mother, we wave goodbye. “I love you!” she calls after us. In her eyes, I can see her heart breaking.
But there is no turning back.
The airport is big and daunting, and as we navigate through it, I can’t help but feel small. We head through security and approach our gate, where an attendant checks our boarding passes. When she flashes me a dry smile of approval, Mia and I head through the final doors and onto the plane.
It’s completely packed when we get on board. I immediately feel claustrophobic as I look down at the plane tickets in my hand.
“Seat 15B,” I tell Mia.
I can feel the eyes of the seated passengers burning into me, and I start to remember just how awkward walking to your seat on a plane can be. Mia and I continue down the cramped aisle as I search the luggage panels for our seat number.
Mia beats me to it.
“Right here!”
She plops down and slides to the window seat. I slide in next to her, relieved that we finally made it. Mia pulls out her Nintendo.
“Are you sure you want the window seat?” I ask.
“Duh,” she replies distractedly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Just making sure. I didn’t know if you wanted to see everything … you know, when we’re so high up.”
“That’s not gonna work, Tilla. I know what you’re trying to do.”
“I’m just checking. Swear.” I buckle my seat belt, nudging her to do the same. Just then, a flight attendant walks over.
She leans over our seats, a tight grin on her face.
Copyright © 2021 by Asha Bromfield
Taken from : https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250622235
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