The Idea of Summer

I lift my face from my childhood bedsheets and check my phone. A 10% battery warning flashes on the screen. Unbelievable. I bought this model because it was supposed to have the best battery life. Or maybe I just spent too much time on it today.

Not that I had anything better to do. What else are you supposed to do at a funeral?

Summer Nguyen had plenty of people to deliver long-winded, emotional eulogies and wail over her open casket.

I sit up and unlock my phone, ignoring the low battery warning. It’ll warn me again at 5%. Instinctively, I open Instagram, only to immediately regret it as my feed floods with memorial posts.

“Summer was a wonderful friend to me. She was a shoulder to cry on, a great listener, and always ready to lend a hand whenever I needed. I’ll miss you.”

“I’m absolutely devastated by the passing of my friend. She was sweet and kind, a go-getter, and always a positive light in my life. Rest in Peace, Summer.”

Disgusting. Who are they even talking about?

I, for one, hate Summer. Or is it hated?

She ditched me when we moved to Los Angeles for college, trading me in for prettier, professional model friends. Me, who stuck with her for thirteen years, from sharing snacks during recess to being her first hug when she stepped off stage from her Valedictorian speech at our high school graduation.

Never did I think she’d be found dead in a tub of her own blood on a Saturday night.

But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to post something similar and at least pretend to care. Just a quick story, so it won’t ruin my feed.

I scroll through my camera roll, find the same yearbook screenshot everyone else is using, and slap on a black-and-white filter. I should tag her, too. Dead or not, it’s etiquette.

I type her name in the search bar, and promptly freeze.

“Oh…” A gasp escapes me before I can catch it.

@xoxo_diso

D.I.S.O.

Dorothea. Isabelle. Summer. Olivia.

It's one of those joint Instagram accounts you make with your friends when you were convinced you’d be friends forever.

I save my tribute post as a draft and then back out, looking up that cringe-worthy name. It doesn’t take much searching for it to pop up. I only follow so many accounts with ‘xoxo’ in their handle.

The profile picture is blurry, but I remember it well. My mom took it when we went to the local carnival the summer before middle school. I tap into the profile, grimacing at the emoji-covered, highly saturated photos we took turns posting. I spot one advertising the launch of our YouTube channel. That’s right—we had one of those. It never took off, but we poured our middle school hearts into it. Vlogs, song covers, dumb challenge videos—we copied almost anything those 2010s lifestyle YouTubers did.

I switch to the YouTube app and type in the channel name. It’s still there. Frozen in time. Our grainy faces stare back from the thumbnails—bad lighting, cheap effects, the kind of content that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. I scroll past baking challenges and a disastrous attempt at a dance cover, before landing on what I’m looking for:

“Best Friend Tag | DISO Official!!!”

I hit play.

The video starts with a shaky camera. Four pre-teen girls are crammed onto a twin-sized bed buried beneath a mound of turquoise and teal throw blankets. We’re all a mess from whatever we were doing before. Except Summer, who as always, is front and center.

She’s just as pretty as I remember, with her long, dark hair neatly braided over one shoulder. She wears a simple lavender tank top, making her seem older—especially against the rest of us, drowning in Justice glitter bomb T-shirts and mismatched pajama pants. Her skin is smooth, and her features are sharp. As kids, I always told her she should model, so it wasn’t a surprise when I later saw her sign with an agency, announced through an Instagram feature.

“Hi guys!” Our voices shriek through the speakers, forcing me to lower the volume. “It’s DISO, and today we are doing the best friend tag!”

“We are so gonna fail at this,” someone giggles.

I barely listen to the questions. Instead, I scroll through the comments. This video was one of the few that garnered attention beyond our immediate families.

Some are from other best friend channels, dropping generic compliments and follow-for-follow requests. Others swoon over the girl with the perfectly braided hair. And, of course, there are the complaints about how insufferable the girl with the glitter scrunchie is.

I was the one with the scrunchie.

“It’s Felicity, right? I remember this one.” I manage to catch Summer’s steady voice clearly for the first time, and something inside my stomach flips. I scroll back to the video.

A notification pops up on my screen. I dismiss it without a thought and turn the volume up.

“No, that’s my middle name. Hers is Elizabeth.”

“Oh, really?” Summer blinks. “Oops.”

She doesn’t look embarrassed. No awkwardness, no guilt. Just a graceful recovery and a smooth redirect.

“Okay, next question…” Summer reads through the list on her phone. “What’s my favorite food?”

“Ice cream! You like mint chocolate.”

“No, she likes spaghetti carbonara!”

“I thought it was pho?”

Summer just shakes her head.

“What? Then what is it?”

She laughs. “It’s a secret.”

I frown. Of course. This was the type of person Summer was.

She knew everything about us, but we only ever knew what she’d let us. Even in a stupid best friend tag, she found a way to keep herself a perfect mystery.

On screen, I am visibly frustrated. I grab her arm, shaking it insistently. “That’s not fair! Come on, we all answered!”

Summer just shrugs, smiling as she always did. But I keep pressing. At this point, even I’m starting to find myself grating. Why did I care so much anyway?

The me in the video eventually gives up and goes back to scrolling through the list. But her face instantly brightens upon reading something, and I’m struck with the memory of what this video ended up being about.

“Hey, how about this one?” I show Summer my phone. “How would you describe your dream partner?”

“Aren’t you supposed to answer that for me?”

“But you can’t keep not giving us the real answer when we get something wrong. That’s cheating.”

“Come on, Summer! Tell us!” The others join my plea.

“What kind of guy do you like?”

For the first time in the video, Summer hesitates. Her usual effortless composure falters. She considers the question, then glances at the camera—at me—and smiles faintly.

“I guess... someone who likes me for me.”

And there, between the crinkling of her warm brown eyes, is the tiniest, most fleeting glimpse of vulnerability.

The other girls groan, calling her answer dull, and the me in the video just rolls her eyes.

But here, in my childhood bedroom, I finally remember why I had always been so desperate to pry her answers out of her.

The me back then would’ve taken a scalpel to my own face if it meant carving myself into something that even mildly resembled her. Because the simple, undeniable fact that Summer was the definition of perfection has been drilled into me from the ripe age of four. As other children, jealous of my friendship with her, told me on the kindergarten playground that a tomboy like me would never get along with a pretty little lady like her. As my crush in middle school messaged me online, meekly asking for advice on how to approach her and win her affections. As I was pulled aside by my high school teacher, who told me to stop negatively influencing Summer because she was destined for greater things. She was going to get into a prestigious college, graduate valedictorian again, and go on to cure cancer or some shit.

Summer Nguyen. Summer Nguyen. Summer Nguyen. If I liked what she liked, if I spoke how she spoke, if I breathed how she breathed—maybe then, just maybe, I could have everything she did. If I covered my mouth when I laughed, shopped at the same stores she did, if I read the same books, liked the same shows, and listened to the same music, I’d hear the same hymns about me, ringing in the air.

But even now, I don’t understand her answer to that question. Someone who liked her for her? What an absurd notion. Everyone adored Summer. She was a perfect student, the valedictorian for the graduating class of 2019, a working model, and the paragon of success.

And maybe that’s why she left me the day we touched down in Los Angeles. No, that’s definitely why. Because she didn’t need a worthless, lesser-than friend like me. I didn’t fit into her picture-perfect life, and it only took arriving in Beverly Hills for her to finally realize it.

So, how did she end up dead—at her own hands, no less?

I angrily swipe out of YouTube and reopen Instagram, finding my previous draft to continue the memorial post.

No. My hands tremble as I type out my tribute. That’s not what happened.

I don’t care what the investigation yielded. I don’t care if it’s an open-and-shut case. The police were wrong. And this video, that slightest hint of vulnerability, is nothing but a figment of my imagination. Summer didn’t commit suicide. Summer never showed vulnerability. Summer, my Summer, would never.

And that’s what makes this all the better.

Because that would mean Summer Nguyen simply failed to live up to the pretty words people showered her with. All those kids taunted me beneath the monkey bar, the boy who asked me where the best place to take her on a date was, and even the guidance counsellor who tried to talk me out of going to the same college as her.

They were all wrong. Because I’m the one still standing here.

I hate her.

I hate her.

I press Post.

But before the screen refreshes, my phone flickers and turns black.

And all that’s left in the darkened reflection is a thirteen-year-old girl who to this day, worships the very idea of Summer.