Ella is aggressively in love with her emo-pop-punk music. Wes, on the other hand, is a ‘90s alt-rock singer stuck in a geek’s body. He’s hardcore about garage bands and summer punk anthems—without the tattoos and flannel overload, of course.
As they merge onto the I-10, the traffic smooths. Ella decelerates to NASCAR-levels of road debauchery. She lowers the volume on the stereo and cracks the windows just enough for Wes to breathe in a lungful of sweet, sticky California air. There’s this flavor to it, as if the ocean is so close, as if the sunset tastes like heat and oranges. It’s still early July, but summer is alive and kicking this close to Santa Monica.
“Now that you’re done being all Euro-hot,” Ella says with a sly grin.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is.”
“It’s very much not a thing,” Wes argues. “Besides, I’ve always been way hot.”
“Like, anyone can edit the definition, Wikipedia hot?”
Wes’s body betrays him with a snort, then a chuckle. Ella isn’t that funny. He kicks his russet-orange Pumas up on the dash, nearly knocking over Evil Taylor Swift, then slouches in his seat. “Listen, El, I’m not some cynical, self-deprecating Netflix teen who complains about how boring he looks, when in actuality I’m super-attractive after you peel back my ‘nerdy layers.’ Geek is the new hot.”
“So, you’re like Michael Cera in Superbad?”
“Like Michael Cera in anything.”
“It’s the curls, right?” Ella teases.
Wes can’t disagree. His distinguishable hair genes—along with his severe jaw line—are from his mom’s side of the family. But he mostly favors Calvin Hudson—tall with a long nose, full lips, more-brown-than-green hazel eyes and a need to shave everything since he was fifteen. But Wes didn’t inherit his father’s rich brown skin; neither did Leo. Wes’s complexion is more like a pale tan.
“So, now that you’re sexy-as-fuck,” Ella says, still driving as if Wes doesn’t want to see his nineteenth birthday, “we can start finding you some prospects? Or are we waiting until classes start in September?”
Another great thing about Ella: She’s going to UCLA in the fall too. Wes won’t be alone as he experiences his first post-high-school existential crisis.
“I don’t need any prospects,” Wes replies with as much nonchalance as a lying politician.
“You don’t?”
“Nope. I’m good. Happy and single.”
“Single, yes,” Ella agrees, then raises her eyebrows. “Happy? Depends on how you classify it.”
“I classify it as Wes Hudson, a guy on the verge of getting his shit together.”
“So, the utter opposite of happy.”
“Ella, I’m not going to spend my summer chasing after boys to fill some emptiness you think exists.”
“Well, not boys,” she replies, “but hopefully you won’t be chasing the same boy.”
Wes’s hands curl into fists in his lap. He knows where this conversation is going. “You can stop implying.”
“I will when you stop avoiding.”
“I’m not avoiding anything,” Wes hisses, but he is. He most definitely is. “I just want to spend this summer kicking back. Go to a party or two. Read comics. Avoid Leo. Hang out as much as possible at Once Upon a Page. That’s it.”
Ella sighs heavily. “Oh, here we go…”
Yup, here we go.
Wes is certain they’ve had at least ten different versions of this discussion over the short span of their friendship.
“All you do is spend time at the bookstore,” says Ella. “As if all you want out of life is that damn place and Nico.”
There, she’s said it. Now it’s all Wes will be thinking about for the next fifteen minutes.
Not as if Wes hasn’t thought about this one thing since, well, tenth grade. But he’s a realist. He knows discussing his massive crush on his best friend with anyone has never solved the problem. If talking about all life’s problems solved anything, people might actually be a lot further along with their goals than just hashtags on social media.
“Listen,” Wes says, angling his body in Ella’s direction. “Life’s good. We’re done with high school. I smashed my college essay, and we’re headed to my dream school…”
“Your parents’ dream school,” Ella corrects.
Wes’s parents are UCLA alumni, not that that had a direct impact on why he chose to stay closer to home. Santa Monica is his life. So maybe he wanted to be somewhere all his memories with Nico exist, since Nico won’t be at UCLA with him. He doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.
“What I’m trying to say is, the rest of this summer is going to be killer.”
Ella rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say, pal.”
The car pulls into the parking garage behind a pale pink building. Wes doesn’t care if Ella agrees with him. He’s home. He has two months left to execute his nonexistent plan. And he’s damn sure going to make the most of what he’s got.
Chapter Two
The Five Things I Love the Most:
Number Two—Once Upon a Page
I don’t know if I believe in magic. REAL magic. Not the stuff in Marvel movies. But I think everyone has that one place where they believe anything is possible.
For me, that’s Once Upon a Page.
When I walk inside, I feel like I’m safe. I’m invincible. The Adult World can’t touch me. I don’t have to worry about leaving my mark in life. College? What’s that? Career, who?
Maybe there really is a spell cast on the bookstore’s doors. Once you enter, you’re a kid again. You’re free. Nothing—not even goblins like Leo—can take this away from you.
I guess I do believe in magic.
I believe Once Upon a Page is my gateway to being myself.
Paseo Del Mar is a pastel pink building that sits proudly on the corner of Colorado and Ocean Avenues. It’s framed by gray sidewalks and palm trees. A series of twinkling fairy lights connects the property to the metal fence surrounding Tongva Park. A few paces down the sidewalk, a giant pedestrian intersection is mobbed with people, no matter the hour, all entering and exiting Santa Monica Pier.
But that’s not why Wes is standing in front of this building as the dying sunset melts the peach from the skyline.
He’s not here for the landmark of Paseo Del Mar, a mom-and-pop pizzeria named Little Tony’s Big Slice that hogs a corner of the turf. It’s still open; the glass door swings ajar to exhale the scent of basil and flour and greasy pepperoni slices.
He doesn’t want to slide into Brews and Views, the coffeehouse where Kyra works and where all the anti-corporate coffee people huddle instead of the three nearby Starbucks. Aerial, the surf shop, is already closed, though there’s a light in the back indicating JoJo, the owner, is probably sleeking new boards before she hangs them in the display window tomorrow morning.
Wes is here for the place sandwiched between Little Tony’s and Aerial: Once Upon a Page. He’s here for the independent bookstore that he knows better than his own bedroom. Like Aerial, the bookstore is already closed, but Wes doesn’t care. He just wants to look. He wants to absorb that last bit of charge—one he can never name or describe—from the parents who were dragged into the store today by their excited children or the quiet girl who camped in a corner, devouring every mystery book she could find. He wants to imagine himself behind that front counter, ringing up customers or introducing a new, wide-eyed teen to all his favorite comic series.
At the pier entrance, a young amateur rapper spits rapid-fire lyrics. From farther out come screams from Pacific Park, where patrons ride the solar-powered Ferris wheel or the rollercoaster. But all Wes can hear is the collection of ‘90s tunes he usually plays while he’s at work.
Once Upon a Page is Wes’s first job. It’s his only job, so far.
He sta
res into the store’s display window. Someone forgot to turn off the BOOKS sign. Its pink neon light illuminates the New Releases display, a tower of books whose covers show dragons and blood and flowers and breathtaking colors.
In the reflection, Wes swears he sees a small boy with out-of-control curly hair and large eyes bouncing in anticipation of getting his sticky fingers on the newest issue of Green Lantern with John Stewart on the cover. A boy who huddled in a corner of the bookstore for hours, reading. A boy who had to be escorted home more than a few times by Mrs. Rossi, the bookstore’s owner, because he missed dinner or had homework to finish.
Wes isn’t that boy anymore.
“Let’s talk priorities,” says Ella as she stands next to him. “Like hauling your luggage upstairs. Taking a shower because, while I love you, you’re foul from being on an airplane for half a day.”
“I don’t stink,” Wes replies with a curled lip.
He doesn’t. After disembarking the plane, he very discreetly took a whiff under both armpits and, as a precaution, applied a thin layer of deodorant in a tiny restroom stall. Gym class and an awkward puberty had taught Wes many valuable lessons about hygiene.
“Fine, you don’t.” Ella sighs dramatically. “Are you gonna go inside?”
He could. Unlike the rest of the teen staff, Wes has a set of store keys. “No.” He shakes his head. “Tomorrow.”
“I’m going upstairs.” Ella elbows his hip. “I have a date to get ready for. Don’t hump the glass while you’re down here.”
“Gross. I’d never do that,” Wes says, but Ella’s already turning the corner, headed for the side entrance. He stands there for another second, smiling at his reflection. Then he remembers what she said. “Wait! You have a date?”
“Are you eating, Wes? You look frail.”
Wes refrains from exhaling loudly through his nose when he looks at his mom on FaceTime. He flops backward onto his bed. “Mom, I just left you like twenty hours ago.”
“You look like you’re losing weight,” his mom comments.
Wes shrugs lazily. Maybe sixteen hours on a plane snacking on salt and vinegar chips and pretzels have left him starved and gaunt. Or maybe his mom is a natural worrier.
Probably the latter.
“Why are you up so early?” he asks, glancing at the time in the top corner of his phone. 9:01 p.m. “What time’s it there?”
“Just after six.”
In the screen’s background, Wes can spot the rising sun leaving the sky a bleeding pink. She must be outside the house his parents are renting for the summer. Savannah is wide-eyed, her graying brown hair is tied in a messy ponytail, her lips stretch into that smile he loves.
“I had to get an early start on this next book,” she says, as though he should already know. As if Wes hasn’t watched his mom wake up early, for as long as he remembers, to sip coffee and stare blankly at a laptop screen until words magically appear. “I couldn’t disappoint my five-a.m. writers’ club.”
“That’s just a social media hashtag, Mom. It’s not really a thing.”
“It is!” Her giggle crackles in his phone’s speaker. “I’m already at ten thousand words.”
Savannah doesn’t call anything she writes an official book until she’s pecked out at least ten thousand words on her ancient laptop.
“Hashtag ‘amwriting’ and killing it,” Savannah adds.
Wes can’t remember the last time he thought of her as Jordan Hudson, her real name. Since he was old enough to squeak out words, it’s either been Mom or Savannah. She says it’s for confidentiality, to protect their family from invasive social media predators or overzealous fans. But Wes thinks she simply loves to lead the life of someone else, like her book characters.
While his mom drones on and on about her next book’s plot, he scans his bedroom. Wes loved the house in Italy—he loved everything about Italy, especially the boys and the ocean and, well, mainly the boys—but this room is a comfort he couldn’t find in Siena.
His graduation cap and gown hang on the back of his computer chair. Hanging above his desk are a UCLA pennant and his dad’s old basketball jersey. A standing lamp shines a beam on his shelf of Funko Pop superhero figures. The walls are covered in posters: Wonder Woman with her magic lasso; Nightwing in a battle stance; a Kim Possible he should probably take down.
Then again, he sleeps on Green Lantern bedsheets and has a pair of adult Spider-Man PJ’s, so maybe that poster isn’t the most embarrassing thing about his room.
“Has Ella settled in well?” Savannah asks, drawing Wes’s attention back to his phone.
Judging by the mounds of clothes spread across his mom’s favorite, ugly, green sofa in the living area and the tower of unwashed dishes, Wes would say Ella’s settled in quite nicely.
“She’s all good.”
“Have you talked to her parents? Do I need to call them?”
“Nah. They’re fine.”
At least, Wes thinks they are.
Unlike Wes’s relationship with his parents, Ella’s communication with her own parents is best served minimal and lukewarm. Her dad’s an investor who spends more time “investing” in young, surgically enhanced twenty-somethings around their Corona del Mar city limits. Her mom dines on red wine and prefers consuming Netflix documentaries to being actively involved in Ella’s decisions. Their only interaction is her constant commentary on Ella’s body. Neither of them seem to care that Ella has spent the summer living in the Hudsons’ loft-studio apartment hybrid.
Wes can fully admit his family’s pad is dope as hell. Located above the bookstore, it has the ultimate view of the pier and Santa Monica Beach. It’s a floor of former office spaces, gutted and renovated into a one-floor living space. Though it wasn’t always the ideal space for a family of four, they made it work: three bedrooms and two bathrooms, a gnarly kitchen that’s fully equipped thanks to Calvin. Neither Wes nor Leo have any cooking talent. Unfortunately, the Hudson boys are known for three meals: cereal, Pop Tarts, and microwaveable burritos.
“You two stay out of trouble,” Savannah warns, but she’s never mastered that authoritative voice his dad has. It’s stern-ish at best.
“No problem, Mom,” Wes replies, saluting her.
“No parties.”
As if Wes is that high on the cool people chain.
Also, per his agreement with his parents to crib-sit for the summer, Wes has to deal with Leo making unannounced visits to check on him. That’s just what Wes needs—more time with Leo.
“No problem.”
“Maybe just a small, intimate movie night with your friends,” suggests Savannah.
His friends. Wes likes to limit that group: Ella and Nico; Zay, who’s very chill with a great sense of humor; and Kyra, who makes Zay seem uptight. Wes supposes Anna is in that elite squad now. She’s his “replacement” at the bookstore while he’s been gone. She’s also pretty much the anti-Ella, which Wes needs occasionally.
“Only movie nights, Mom. Promise.”
She smiles sweetly at him. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
Just as Wes hangs up and drops his phone on the bed, Ella twirls into his doorway. Backlit by the hallway lights, she’s a stunner in a bowler hat, jeans, and leather jacket. All black, of course. The only exception is a white, flowy blouse under the jacket.
Wes sits up for a better view. “Wow, really channeling ’80s Madonna, huh?”
“She only wishes she was me at our age,” Ella says.
“True that.”
“Though, even now, I’m positive she’d still try to hook up with this Long Beach State freshman volleyball player I’m going out with.”
“LB State? Nice flex.”
“I know,” she says, winking.
“So, this is happening?” Wes rubs his jaw. “You’re, like, going on a date-date?”
“Correct.”
“But…” He pauses to choose his words carefully.
Thing is, Ella doesn’t date. Well, occasionally, like on Leap Year Day. She doesn’t conform to any heteronormative directives. She rejects the idea that anyone should seek out romance as an agency to existence. Monogamy might as well be a foreign language to her. All this, Wes totally respects. But it makes incidents like this, when Ella is going on a date, kind of weird.
“Why?” Wes finally asks.
“Because I’m bored, and you haven’t been around for a month, and…”
“But I’m back.”
“Obvi. But I already made plans. And maybe I like this guy.”
“Okay.” Wes wants to call bullshit.
“It’s my prerogative, Wes. He’s cute, I’m a hottie, so why not?”
“Huh.” Wes nods approvingly. “That’s fair.”
“Great,” Ella says through her teeth. “Now do the gay bestie thing and comment on how amazing my hair looks.”
“Uh, that’s stereotyping.”
“You are a stereotype.”
Fact, but he’s not that stereotype.
“You look…” Again, Wes considers his words. “Like a material girl.”
Ella flips him off with a snort-giggle. Wow, he’s really missed that noise. “Whoever this dude is, he doesn’t stand a chance,” Wes adds, because it’s true.
Ella hovers in his doorway. She never hovers.
“What?” Wes asks.
“Wes,” Ella says, gently.
Wes’s spine goes rigid. This is it. This is how every scene before someone announces, “They’re dead!” starts. Wes can feel his heart crawl into his esophagus. He’s already trembling.
“Is it Mr. Rossi? Is he dead?” he stammers. Mr. Rossi’s at that age where “natural causes” is sure to be scribbled on his death certificate. “Wait… is it Zay?”
Wes still hasn’t shaken the guilt about teaching Zay how to play Beirut with Fireball whiskey over winter break this year. What was he thinking? Zay just turned seventeen. But that was kind of Ella’s fault, too, so if Wes is indicted for involuntary manslaughter, he’s taking her with him.
The Summer of Everything Page 2