Summer. Warm breezes on shoeless toes. Eatin' popsicles with the sticky juice running down your arm. Stretching out on the cool, sunlight-fed grass while the wind kisses your tan. You dream of has-beens. And could-bes. As you fall deeper into sleep, your mind creates an elaborate story that will be washed away with the first raindrops of summer when you wake up.

I sit on the muddy shore of our pond, my feet soaking in the warm, murky water. My brother is unsuccessfully fishing beside me. I watch him cast – plop! – reel in and repeat. Once in a while something will bite, but he can never seem to bring one in.

“Maybe you should try different bait?” I say.

“Nah, Pa always uses this one.” Stubborn. Just like Dad.

I look to the sky and start to hum. I love beautiful summer days. They remind me of childhood, when nothing was more important than seeing who could pick the most dandelions or how many pieces of bubble gum you could fit into your mouth before getting caught. Then it became nail polish and chasing boys around the school yard. Then the boys started to chase back. Those were the days.

Now I worry about school. My job. Money. My future. I don't know where I am going. Should I have a plan by now? I mean, I am a junior in high school. I should have some kind of plan, right?

A sense of excitement in the air awakens me from my thoughts. He's got one! He is backing up and reeling as fast as he can. He wants this one so bad. If he could just get it to shore, Pa would be so proud of him. Before either of us know it, the tip of the pole whips back and the fish is swimming away, hook and all. He tries to conceal it, but I can see the disappointment on my brother's face.

He goes to fix up another hook and weight. Carefully, he baits the hook and casts again. “Maybe next time,” I say.

I get up and walk to the house. I have to get ready for work.