Kayla’s Summer Mix <3

        I find the disc at the bottom of the glove box, under expired insurance cards and a pen that will never write again. The paper sleeve says KAYLA’S SUMMER MIX <3 in blue Sharpie. The ink has bled, the edges curled by heat. The car smells like sunscreen and coconut lotion that never leaves Florida upholstery. I slide the mixed CD into the stereo. The screen glows TRACK 01. The first guitar riff bursts through the speakers, and the years fold back.

         We were seventeen, working at the Flamingo Inn off the highway and swimming on our days off. Milo burned songs on his family’s desktop through LimeWire, watching the download bars crawl forward while pop-ups blinked in the corners. We believed a summer could live inside a plastic circle. He lifted the disc to the kitchen light and watched the dye flash green and purple. He said a good mix begins with a sprint.

Track 01: “Mr. Brightside” — The Killers (2004)

         He stands in my mother’s kitchen, pool water dripping from his hair. The window unit rattles. A bowl of mango sits by the sink. He tells me to stop pacing while the Sharpie ink dries. Outside, the palms scrape the roof. The mailbox could burn a hand at noon.

         He says the opener should feel like a door that flies open on its own. He presses Play on the silver boombox, and the house seems to widen. I taste sugar from the Capri Sun we share. He grins and holds the jewel case up like a prize.

Track 02: “Ocean Avenue” — Yellowcard (2003)

        We pile into my Civic. Molly and Dante sit in the back with a Publix sub and green grapes. The seats burn our legs. The pier hums with kids in shell necklaces and PacSun shirts.

         We drive along A1A with the windows down. The chorus hits. Milo rides shotgun, one hand out the window. A pelican dives beside us and rises with silver in its beak. He nudges the volume up. For one song, forever feels possible.

         On the sand, a girl flips open a Motorola Razr. Someone’s radio crackles with a TRL countdown. The air smells like coconut oil, salt, and fried dough.

Track 03: “Sugar, We’re Goin Down” — Fall Out Boy (2005)

         The Flamingo Inn lobby never feels dry. Ceiling fans whirl above damp air. The neon sign out front often loses letters. On bad nights it reads FLAM N O INN, but people still check in.

        Milo slides our mixed CD into the player. The guitars crash and the kids start to dance. A man hitting the vending machine finally laughs. I hand him quarters from the till. He says machines never remember. I tell him people do.

         When the chorus hits, Milo hums along, his grin reflected in the lobby window like light off wet tile.

Track 04: “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” — Green Day (2004)

         A storm warning hums from the radio. We drive to Sawgrass Mills for ponchos before the bands roll through. The mall smells of cinnamon pretzels and new sneakers. Milo disappears into the music store, closes his eyes under the heavy headphones as if he can already hear tomorrow.

         By the time we leave, the sky has gone green gray. We play this track and say nothing. The beat keeps time with the rain.

         At his house, his grandmother lights a candle and turns on the battery TV. Channel 7 shows a radar glowing over towns we know. We eat pasta from plastic bowls. The storm turns north. The lights hold.

Track 05: “Since U Been Gone” — Kelly Clarkson (2004)

         Adriana drives her cousin’s Corolla, the roof liner brushing our heads. She sings every word. We roll through neighborhoods still patched from the last hurricane, yards stacked with shutters and palm trunks.

         We park by the canal and watch mullet jump. The air smells like mangroves and gasoline. Adriana belts the chorus and laughs at her cracked voice. Milo says it sounds like freedom. I say it sounds like breaking loose.

Track 06: “Float On” — Modest Mouse (2004)

         The Flamingo Inn loses power for three days. The generator coughs and dies. We hand glow sticks to kids who run through the courtyard. The fountain by the ice machine keeps its quiet trickle.

          Milo tunes a battery radio until this song drifts in. We lean in the doorway waiting for a breeze. The smell of wet mulch rises from the flower beds.

          The chorus says we will all float on. I picture the parking lot under rain like glass, with the motel sign wavering in shallow mirrors. On the third night when the lights return, a cheer rises from every door. The soda machine wakes with a sigh that sounds like relief. I stand in front of the vent and feel the first cool breath on my neck.

Track 07: “Hands Down” — Dashboard Confessional (2003)

         He parks by the seawall on his last shift before college. The sky holds the color that sits between orange and red, a ribbon across the water you can feel under your ribs. The song builds. He leans across the console and kisses me. I taste Mountain Dew Code Red. He pulls back and laughs with a little shock in his face. I laugh too.

        He tells me he leaves at dawn for Orlando. I tell him I stay, work another year, take night classes. We agree not to promise too much. We sit until mosquitoes find us and then stand on the seawall while a cruise ship glides north. The wake reaches us minutes later and slaps the rocks in a row.

Track 08: “Crazy” — Gnarls Barkley (2006)

          By the time this song hits the radio, my days have changed. I file records in a city office that smells like paper and lemon cleaner. I carry a Nokia with the blue backlight and T9 that guesses my words like a patient friend.

          I hear this track in the Civic while a summer downpour turns the world into a silver curtain. The opening laugh and looping bass line slow the clock. I think about the lobby’s damp tile and the seawall kiss. I press my thumb against the visor where a photo strip sits hidden and I do not pull it out.

Track 09: “Chasing Cars” — Snow Patrol (2006)

          The day he leaves I stand in his driveway beside the pickup. His father’s handwriting marks every box. His mother tucks a rosary into the glove box and presses his cheek. The hibiscus hedge hums with bees.

          He hands me the photo strip from the mall. Three frames: surprise, laughter, and the faces of two people who want to look older. He tells me to keep it safe. The truck starts, and this song hums through the open window. If I just lay here. He hugs me twice, climbs in, and drives away until the road turns to heat shimmer.

           I touch the street sign at the corner so I can feel something cool on my palm.

Track 10: “The Middle” — Jimmy Eat World (2001)

           Now I drive the same road with my daughter in the back seat, a paperback open on her knees and a ring pop turning her lips red. The Flamingo Inn still stands. New paint. New owners. Same bones. The sign glows bright pink again. The office has a real plant where the fake ficus used to sit. The soda machine takes cards and gives exact change without complaint.

           She asks what a mixed CD is. I tell her we used to take songs from the computer and write them to a disc, draw hearts and stars on the sleeves, and trade them like secrets. She says it sounds like too much work. I tell her that’s why it mattered.

           The last track begins. That bright guitar walks the room forward. The chorus tells her it just takes some time. She hums along even though she has never heard it. I turn the volume up. The palms outside knock together. The sky smells like wet pavement and cut grass.

           We buy an orange soda from the machine. The can drops with a hollow thud I feel under my ribs. She cracks it open and hands it to me first. I take a sip and pass it back. She asks if I ever stayed here. I tell her I worked here. I tell her I learned to listen with my hands still. I learned that most trouble walks in without a sound.

           We return to the car. I touch the visor to make sure the photo strip sits where he left it. I do not pull it free. The chorus lifts and the world outside the windshield looks new and known at once. A white heron steps through the retention pond behind the strip of nail salons and cheap pizza.

           We drive east until the road ends. The ocean waits under a sky stacked with clouds. The breeze smells like salt and charcoal from a park grill. Children run through the splash fountain, shrieking when the jets surprise them. A teenager with a surfboard pauses to check the waves, leash coiled in his hand.

           The music fades. I let the silence sit. I do not eject the disc. I will let it start again tomorrow when the light hits the dashboard the way it did that summer. I want the songs to guide me past the mall, the seawall, the storms that bent the trees and left the roof whole. I want them to show my daughter the streets as they are and as they were.

           Rain starts with three heavy drops. Then the sky opens and the world turns silver. I turn the key and drive home through it. The mixed CD spins in its small world and carries me, steady as breath, steady as memory.

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