by Lin Oliver
by Lin Oliver
Grosset & Dunlap
An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Text copyright © 2012 by Lin Oliver. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012007584
ISBN 978-1-101-56713-5
For Sarah Baker . . . how lucky for us that you are the first girl in our family—LO
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Special Excerpt
Chapter 1
“Hey, Charlie,” my brother, Ryan, said as he barged into me and my sister’s room without knocking, something he’s become very expert at. “Mail for you.”
He held out a fancy-looking, navy-blue envelope with gold lettering on it. I don’t get much mail, and I’ve certainly never gotten anything with my name and address in sparkly gold letters on it, so I instantly sprang off the bed, where I had been studying for my history midterm, and grabbed the envelope. Ryan, annoying person that he is, raised his arm high above his head and dangled the envelope in the air where I couldn’t reach it.
“You’re an aspiring cheerleader, Charles,” he teased. “Let me see you jump for it.”
Then, for no apparent reason, he started strutting around my room like a chicken, flapping the envelope like it was a wing.
I don’t know if you happen to have a fourteen-year-old brother or not, but if you do, I hope he doesn’t act like a total jerk. Mine does most of the time. It’s a mystery to me why so many girls think he’s cool. As far as I’m concerned, my brother, Ryan, is seriously immature. I mean, why else would he parade around my bedroom waving an envelope and doing a chicken walk?
If Lauren Wadsworth could see him now, I thought, I bet her crush on him would disappear immediately, if not sooner.
“Ryan, could you grow up for a change and just give me the envelope?” I sighed.
“No way. Where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s mail, Ry. From the US Postal Service. It isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“See, that’s your problem right there, Charles. You take life too seriously. It’s not all about getting a good grade on your little history test.”
That did it. The one thing I didn’t need was academic advice from my “I think a C-minus is a perfectly fine grade” brother. With one swift leap, I lunged at him like a puma, snatching the envelope from his flapping hand.
“Nice move.” He nodded approvingly. Ryan is a champion volleyball player and all-around great athlete, so he can appreciate a puma-like leap when he sees one.
I held the envelope in my hands and took a moment to study it. The paper was a dark, rich blue and soft as velvet. My name and address were spelled out in beautiful gold calligraphy. MS. CHARLOTTE JOY DIAMOND, it said. Usually, I hate being called Charlotte, which is my full name. Everyone has called me Charlie from the moment I was born, just like we call my identical twin sister Sammie, even though her real name is Samantha Ellen Diamond. But when I saw my whole name written out in that elegant handwriting and sparkling like jewelry, I felt like it was the most beautiful name in the world.
Ryan was hanging over my shoulder, sticking his nose into what was clearly my business.
“Smell the envelope,” he said. “You won’t believe it.”
Okay, now he had officially lost his mind.
“Unlike you, I don’t sniff envelopes,” I told him.
“Well, then you’re totally missing out, Charles, because it smells like peanuts. No kidding.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I confess, I took a quick whiff. Amazingly, Ryan was right. There was a distinct smell of salty peanuts.
I stuck my finger under the flap and ripped it open, and an even stronger aroma of peanuts wafted out. I pulled out what looked like an invitation, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. This sure wasn’t the usual card with balloons or glitter or party hats that invites you for pizza and mini golf. This was the mother of all invitations. On the front cover it said, YOU ARE INVITED TO ATTEND THE BAR MITZVAH OF BENJAMIN AARON FELDMAN ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23, AT TEMPLE BETH HILLEL. That part seemed pretty normal. But when I opened it up, a life-sized paper baseball popped up and stared me in the face. I swear it must have been sprayed with peanut scent, because it smelled just like those red-and-white-striped bags of peanuts you get at the baseball stadium. And get ready for this: In big, gold printing spread out across the baseball, it said, THE CELEBRATION CONTINUES AT DODGER STADIUM WITH AN ALL-STAR PARTY IN THE CLUB HOUSE. DINNER, DANCING, A PRIVATE LOCKER ROOM TOUR, AND AMUSEMENTS GALORE!
“Dodger Stadium.” Ryan whistled. “That Feldman knows how to throw a party.”
“This isn’t happening,” I answered. “Who rents out an entire baseball stadium?”
“The Feldmans do, that’s who. Ben Feldman’s family is rolling in money. They build airplanes or boats or rockets or something. I hear their house has fourteen bedrooms.”
“That’s ridiculous, Ryan. Who told you that?”
“Lauren. And she should know. Her parents have been best friends with the Feldmans since, like, forever.”
That figured. The Wadsworths and the Feldmans were two of the forty families who own the Sporty Forty beach club. It’s their private club sitting right smack on the best beach in all of Santa Monica, with two tennis courts and cushioned lounge chairs and red umbrellas and a giant redwood deck for sunset barbecues. I happen to know the club well, because we live there. Not that we’re rich or anything, although, I wouldn’t mind it if we were. We’re de
finitely not one of the Sporty Forty families. My dad was hired by Chip Wadsworth as the tennis coach for the club, and Ryan, Sammie, my dad, and I are living in the caretaker’s apartment for a year while my mom is away at cooking school. Hopefully, when she comes back, we’ll be able to move out and she’ll start a restaurant.
The kids of the Sporty Forty families have all grown up together and are really tight. They call themselves the SF2s. Ben Feldman is one of them. And Lauren Wadsworth is basically their unofficial leader.
Oh, and did I tell you, she’s my new best friend? At least, I hope she is.
Since Sammie and I had just transferred to Beachside Middle School, I was truly surprised and thrilled to get the invitation to Ben Feldman’s bar mitzvah and party. We just started at this school this year, and I didn’t think we’d made the SF2 invite list yet. Obviously, Ryan was surprised, too.
“Well, somebody’s moving up in the world,” he said. “Looks like my little sister Charlie has friends in high places.”
“Didn’t you get invited?” I asked him.
“Of course I’m invited. Check me out—who wouldn’t invite this hunk? Not sure I’m going, though. I’m in eighth grade, little one. We think twice about going to parties with seventh-graders.”
“If seventh-graders are so terrible, then how come you’re going out with Lauren Wadsworth, who, last time I checked, is in seventh grade?”
“First of all, we are not going out. She happens to like me, which is understandable given my fabulous bod and awesome personality.”
He stopped talking and kissed his bicep. Not kidding. He really did that.
“And second of all, I am a friendly type of guy who happens to appreciate beauty in all its forms. And in case you haven’t noticed, Lauren Wadsworth is a knockout.”
Of course I had noticed. Everyone knew Lauren had it all. From the very first time I met her when she was throwing her thirteenth birthday party at the club, I knew it. She was beautiful. She looked great in clothes (which she has plenty of). She was completely comfortable being the center of attention. And she was really nice to me.
I thought I felt something else in the envelope. I reached in and pulled out an RSVP card, which came with its own mini envelope. It was navy blue, too, but the best thing was that the stamp didn’t have George Washington or Thomas Jefferson or some other dead president on it. It had a picture of Ben Feldman. Yes, I said that. On the stamp! Wow, those Feldmans had thought of everything.
“I am mailing off my RSVP first thing tomorrow,” I said, tucking the card safely back in the envelope.
“So, I assume you’re going?” Ryan said.
“Are you kidding? I am so going.”
“Hope you don’t have a tennis match that weekend. You know Dad has a fit if you go out on tournament weekends.”
True, our dad is a bear about our training. Sammie and I are California-ranked tennis players in the Under-14 Girls Doubles category, and he’s our coach. But even a hardhead like him would understand that there was no way we could miss the party of the year.
“What did Sammie think of the invitation?” I asked Ryan.
“Don’t know. I only saw yours and mine on the kitchen table.”
“She’s taking GoGo for a walk. I’ll bet she took it with her. That rat, I can’t believe she left without telling me about it.”
“Can’t blame her,” Ryan said. “A certain Miss Serious Student said no one should disturb her while she’s studying for her Big Old Scary History Test.”
By the way, GoGo is our grandma, our mom’s mom. She doesn’t usually live with us, but last month she was in a car accident and broke her leg, so she’s staying with us while she’s recovering. Sammie and I take turns every afternoon taking her for a walk along the boardwalk in her wheelchair so she can watch the sunset over the ocean. We don’t mind doing it since she’s the best and most fun grandma ever.
Besides, she tells us funny stories about when she pushed us up and down that same boardwalk when we were cute little tots in our stroller. Like once, a producer asked her if we could be in a TV commercial for bubble gum because they were looking for twins who were completely identical. GoGo said no, because she doesn’t think sugary gum is good for kids’ teeth. Another time, she stopped to buy a bag of french fries from Jody’s Burger Stand, and while she was paying, she gave us each a fry to suck on. Sammie liked it so much, she gummed down almost the whole bag before GoGo had even gotten her change. Sammie hates it when we tell that story because she’s sensitive about her weight. I’m not, but then I don’t weigh as much as she does. I feel bad for her because our dad watches her weight like a hawk and comments on everything she eats. That can’t be fun.
I grabbed my pink sweatshirt off the back of my chair and threw it on. I couldn’t wait to see Sammie’s reaction to Ben’s invitation. She’s been hanging around with a group of kids at school, kind of a weird bunch as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve been trying to get her to spend more time with me and the SF2s. I was sure that this amazing invitation would support my case that the SF2s were the group we wanted to be in.
“Tell Dad I’m going to find Sammie and GoGo,” I hollered to Ryan as I left my room. He didn’t look up, though. He had found a bag full of pretzel sticks that I brought in for a snack the night before and was shoving them in his mouth five at a time.
The screen door slammed behind me as I ran out of the house and headed for the beach. I had put the invitation carefully under my T-shirt. I didn’t stuff it in the pocket of my sweatshirt like I usually would have. It was too beautiful, and I didn’t want it to get as much as a wrinkle. It was going into my scrapbook so I could look at it forever.
I ran past the tennis courts where Dad was giving a lesson to Mrs. Addison, the mom of one of my other new friends, Brooke. Mrs. Addison and Brooke have two things in common—thick, blond hair and a tan the color of a latte. All of us are dying to have a tan like Brooke’s, even though Sammie thinks it’s a spray on. Brooke says it absolutely isn’t, and I believe her.
“Hi, Dad!” I called out. “Nice backhand, Mrs. Addison.” Okay, truthfully, her backhand was hopeless, but I like to be encouraging, especially to the mom of a new friend. Well, a new almost-friend.
Once I hit the boardwalk, which is nothing more than a little wooden-planked path that leads down the beach to the Santa Monica pier, I broke into a run. I could see Sammie and GoGo stopped a little ways up, looking out between two palm trees to the ocean beyond.
“Hey, you two,” I called out as I reached them. “I can’t wait to show you the coolest thing.”
“Shhh, Charlie,” GoGo said, putting her finger up to her lips. She was wearing one of the silver rings she makes, this one with a gray moonstone that glowed pink in the sun’s reflection. “Whatever you have can wait, darling child. We’re observing the golden moment.”
She turned back to the ocean, and I followed her gaze. The sky was doing that amazing thing the Southern California sky does at sunset. The ocean had turned steel gray, and the sky above it was a swirl of pink and orange and lavender, like different pots of paint had spilled and all the most brilliant colors had run into one another. In the distance, I could see the dark-purple outline of Catalina Island, where GoGo had taken us last year to see a herd of wild bison that roam there.
I couldn’t get Sammie’s attention as she stood there silently, so together we all waited and watched the sun flatten out and slide into the ocean. As soon as it disappeared, the temperature seemed to drop, and I shivered as I zipped up my sweatshirt and put the hood up. I could feel the blue envelope next to my body.
“Now can I show you guys what I have?” I asked impatiently.
“This better be good, after all the buildup,” Sammie said. “I hope it’s not one of your boring cheerleading routines.”
Sammie has been on my case ever since Lauren and
I decided to try out for the cheer squad. I was getting pretty tired of her comments.
“Cheerleading is not boring,” I said. “However, I’m going to overlook your negative attitude because I am in such a great mood. No, make that supergreat. No, fantastically stupendously supergreat.”
“My, my,” said GoGo. “Let us in on the secret that has put you into this blissful state of mind.”
I flashed Sammie a knowing smile. “I think Sammie knows what I’m so excited about, don’t you?”
Sammie just shrugged her shoulders. “No clue,” she answered.
Okay, I could play this game, too.
“It’s blue and gold and pops out at you.” I giggled.
“Um . . . a Halloween ghost in a Dodger jacket,” Sammie said.
“No, but close. Guess again.”
“Charlie, honey, it’s getting cold out here,” GoGo said. “Can you just tell us what it is?”
I reached under my sweatshirt, pulled out the invitation, and handed it to GoGo. Sammie looked at it over her shoulder. I couldn’t believe that she seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . unexcited.
“Weren’t you totally blown away when you saw it?” I asked her.
“I’m just seeing it now for the first time. I haven’t even finished reading it yet.”
“But you must have read yours. Don’t tell me you didn’t even open it yet?”
“I didn’t get one, Charlie.”
“Of course you did. It’s probably in the kitchen somewhere. Ben wouldn’t have invited me without inviting you.”
I noticed a weird expression come over GoGo’s face, like she was worried or something. She took Sammie’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Well, there certainly is no reason Sammie wouldn’t be invited,” she said in a firm voice. “She is such wonderful company, I’m sure every student at Beachside would want her at their party.”
I nodded. Sammie was kind of squirming, like she was in a hurry to change the subject. I felt bad for her, and I wanted to fix the situation right away.