Mom and the neighbor, Mrs. Blake, are squared off in our shared driveway while the black top radiates heat like someone set the oven on high and left the door open. My science teacher would be proud of my use of the word “radiate.”

My rubber soled sneakers stick to the over-heated tar. You can hear them squelch as I walk toward my mom. I don’t run outside anymore.

Mom says no more swimming at the public pool. I’m disappointed, but a sign was posted last week about cases of E. coli, and yesterday the suntan oil slick caught fire, so I guess she has a point.

I see the object of Mom’s and Mrs. Blake’s argument before I can hear them. They both have a death grip on the garden hose and are waving it like a drooping sword, while a few drops of water dribble out. There’s hardly any water pressure, and we’re on a rationing schedule. Today is not Mom’s day.

“I need to water my tomatoes before they die in this heat,” Mrs. Blake insists, pointing at the gray-dry stalks with the hard green marbles hanging from their stems.

Too late, I think.

“Forget your stupid tomatoes,” Mom shouts. “We won’t have anything to eat today if I don’t keep these peas alive.”

“It’s my day to water,” Mrs. Blake shouts back, yanking the hose harder and stumbling backwards when her hands slip off the hose.

“Ha!” Mom yells, forgetting her resolution to be more neighborly this year.

I catch Mrs. Blake by the elbow to steady her. “Mrs. Blake. Mom. It’s too hot to argue out here.” I realize it really is hot. Like, I’m heading for some shade.

“Honey,” Mom says. “Come here.”

She reaches out and pats me on the head, surprising me – she’s not one to show affection – when I realize the scorching sun’s rays have set my hair on fire.