“Do you . . . want to talk?” Summer’s words came out halting and awkward, but Abby giggled.
“Pouring out my guts to a total stranger does seem like a fitting way to top off a morning like this.”
Summer smiled, letting Abby’s candor ease the tightness in her chest. “Considering I don’t know a single person at this school, it’s a safe bet that I’ll be on your side.”
“This is true.” Abby sniffed and blotted her eyes with some crumpled paper towels, pushing her heavy eye makeup back into place. “The worst part? I can’t even talk to either of my best friends because they’re both in stupid-happy relationships. Not to mention, one of them is dating my brother. I literally cannot escape their happiness.”
“That’s . . . uncomfortable.”
“Tell me about it. The ride to school this morning was unbearable. I mean, I gave them my blessing and all that, but she probably won’t even notice I’m hovering on the depths of despair.”
“How bad was it? Does the ex need a piranhaconda sent after him?”
Abby burst out laughing, a delightful, musical laugh that made Summer smile again. “Did you really watch that movie? Because if so, you might be my new best friend.”
“Dude, Creature Feature Originals are the best. My dad and I watch them every Saturday night.” She shook off the hovering ache that accompanied thoughts of her old life. “At least we did. Until my mom dragged me here.”
“Then it’s settled. You and I are now friends and you have to come over next Saturday to watch Snakephoon.”
“I am so in.”
The bell rang and Abby pushed up from the floor. “Thanks. For being cool about this. This place is too small.”
“It doesn’t feel small.” Summer accepted her outstretched hand and hopped to her feet. “Thanks for the distraction. Maybe school won’t totally suck?”
Abby shook her head. “No. Oceanside is basically torture unless you’re Malibu Barbie. But there are a few people who make it survivable. What does your schedule look like?”
Summer pulled out the crumpled piece of paper and they compared notes for a moment.
“So at least we have lunch together,” Abby said. “Although I have to warn you, Ben and Bria are annoyingly perfect together. Makes it hard to eat.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Summer held open the door to the hall and followed Abby out. “My friends up north are like that. I’ll bring a barf bag just in case.”
“See? You’re going to be just fine.”
Chapter 3
After the morning parade of classes, introducing herself to disinterested classmates led by disinterested teachers, and generally ravishing any remaining sense of calm and dignity she still had, Summer took what she hoped would be a shortcut across an open courtyard to find the art room.
It took all of thirty seconds for her to identify the kids she should be friends with. Leaning against the side of the school, cigarettes half hidden in cupped hands. Scraggly hair. Scuffed skate shoes. Holes in jeans that only happen from actual wear. Skateboards propped against the wall.
Ten to one, they knew where there’d be a party tonight. Every night. They knew the easiest way to get by is to forget.
“Hey.” A boy with dark hair and dull eyes nodded at her. The kind of nod recognizing your own kind.
The stoners. The skaters. The party kids.
She jerked her chin upward in acknowledgment.
With more willpower than she knew she possessed, she tightened her backpack straps and steered toward the art room, slipping into another unremarkable hallway.
The door to a small, dark closet off the main room stood open and she slipped inside instead of taking her seat with the other kids for Art I. She needed a few stolen moments to herself before dealing with the banal chatter that came with non-lecture classes.
The door closed behind her, sealing her in silence. The pungent, chemical smell and the glow of reddish lights shrouded her with a false sense of serenity and allowed her head to clear.
So many people. Everywhere. So many questions.
And worse, no one even cared to hear the answers.
She looked up at the photographs suspended over a set of plastic tubs. A lifeguard tower. The beach. Some shots of the skate park. She stopped at one of a skater on the vert ramp.
Of her on the vert ramp.
The photographer had captured an angle that made her look weightless, her pale hair scattered in the first rays of morning sunshine. The transcendent look on her face matched the effortless slope of her shoulders. She looked beautiful. She looked free.
She looked totally unlike herself.
Except she recognized the skulls on the underside of her board, the Spitfire logo on her wheels, her cutoff jeans, her beanie from Tobey.
In crisp black and white, it all looked so uncanny. Like she was soaring on invisible wings. Like she wasn’t bound by earth or gravity or a past she couldn’t shake.
The door swung open, casting a narrow swath of light across the floor. She threw up her hand to shield her eyes and bumped into the counter.
“Oh. Sorry. The door wasn’t locked.” His voice was familiar, somewhat mismatched to his narrow silhouette.
“No. I’m just . . .” Hiding. She was hiding. Like a child.
“It’s you,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t know you were into photography.”
Her eyes adjusted enough to see his face—the dark sweep of hair above thick-framed glasses. The boy from the skate park. “Oh. No. Is this a photography room?”
“Darkroom,” he corrected without further comment. “I’ve been developing pictures of you all morning. Which totally sounds creepy. I swear I’m not a stalker.”
He moved closer. In the tight space, that mint-and-boy scent momentarily disguised the sharp tang of the chemicals.
“I still have your hoodie. In my locker.”
He smirked. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I thought you were at least in college or something.”
He shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. “Abuelita always said I’m an old soul.”
“Did you make these prints? I thought you had a digital camera. It looks like my dad’s.” Because that was less awkward than asking his name. Zero for two on making friends.
He nodded toward a big, black machine on the counter. “Digital enlarger.”
“I didn’t even know you could do that.”
“Oceanside has an exceptionally well-funded art program.”
“Seriously? Isn’t this a football town?”
He unclipped the photo, examining it. “Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.” Wow. That was bold.
He shifted his eyes, studying her for a moment before straightening and holding out his hand. “Sebastian Vega. But you can call me Bastian. Or Bas. Or Vega. Really, anything but Sebastian.”
She took his hand, surprisingly strong and rough compared to his less-than-macho exterior, and fought against the shiver of delight the contact triggered. “Summer O’Neill.”
“Like Cody O’Neill? The surfer?”
“Actually, yeah.” She ducked her head. “He’s my dad.”
Bastian nodded. “That explains your skills on a board.”
She suppressed an eye roll. “My skills are my own.”
“True.” He turned the print of her around. “Magic like this doesn’t happen by accident, no matter how good your genes are.”
Summer shifted and looked down at the scuffed toes of her DCs. “What were you doing at the skate park so early? It was barely light out.”
“Golden hour.”
She scrunched up her face. “Golden hour?”
“The first and last hours of daylight. The light is softer, more diffused. The shadows melt and everything turns to gold.”
“Golden hour.” The imagery made her smile.
“Mmhmm. Two hours out of twenty-four when the light is magic.” His eyes drifted aw
ay from her, lost in thought. “If I’m not there to capture it, it’s gone forever.”
“Aren’t all moments like that?”
The look on his face shifted, like he was really seeing her for the first time. She lifted her chin, refusing to let a boy she didn’t know make her blush.
“I guess they are,” he said.
“You don’t skate at all? Are you a surfer? Snowboarder? Kamikaze pilot?”
He moved to a paper cutter, meticulously straightening the print before pulling the arm down. “I have this bleeding problem. I generally avoid anything with a high likelihood of physical harm.”
“Like hemophilia?”
“That’s the one.”
For the first time she noticed his long sleeves and pants, when everyone else, including her, was in shorts and tanks, and couldn’t help but wonder if they hid bruises marring his porcelain skin. “Then I probably shouldn’t distract you while you’re using a sharp object.”
A laugh bubbled up from him and he turned to her with a grin. “Are you making fun of the sick kid? You’ve got nerve, Summer O’Neill.”
The bell rang before she could absorb his words. “Oh shit. I’m supposed to be in art right now.” First day of school and she’d already messed up. She could already see the hurt on Mom’s face. The familiar disappointment. The resigned sigh.
“No worries.” He picked up his print and nodded toward the door. “Follow me.”
She fell in behind him, arms crossed around her belly, holding herself together.
“Ms. Fury,” Bastian said, nudging Summer toward a towering woman with medusa hair and fabric draped about her in a ragged semblance of a dress. “This is Summer, the skater in my photo.”
The woman smiled, eyes wide and teeth flashing. “Oh, yes! I see it! Such energy! Your cheekbones are divine.”
“I was showing her the prints in the darkroom so I think she missed the bell.”
“Are you one of my students?” A line formed between her eyes.
“Summer O’Neill. I’m supposed to be in Art I.”
“Oh. Huh. A transfer? I have an attendance sheet somewhere . . .”
Summer nodded, by turns fascinated and terrified by the art teacher. “I’m sorry?”
“Isn’t moving wonderful?” Ms. Fury said.
“I guess.”
“How many opportunities do we get to write our own stories? This is your chance to be exactly who you want to be.”
“I didn’t want to be late,” Summer said.
“Well, no worries.” Ms. Fury smiled again. “I’m certain Sebastian is an excellent teacher. His darkroom skills are extraordinary.”
“So I’m not in trouble?”
“Goddess, no. Art is art. So long as you check in with me, I let my birdies fly.” And with that, she fluttered off toward the opposite side of the room.
“Right.” Summer nodded again.
Bastian winked at her. “You picked a good class to ditch. The Fury is a bit off, but she means well.”
“I really didn’t mean to.”
“Art I is over there.” He backed toward the darkroom “You’ll be fine.”
Chapter 4
“Hey!” Abby waved at Summer before racing across the hall to join her walking out of the school. “You survived!”
“Sure.” Summer fidgeted with her backpack. “Let’s call it that.”
“Ouch.” Abby’s bright smile faltered. “After I didn’t see you at lunch, I was starting to wonder.”
“Leaving in three!” a tall, clean-cut boy called to Abby as he marched into the parking lot.
Abby yelled something vaguely inappropriate after him. “Brothers are such a pain,” she mumbled.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Lucky you.” She huffed. “Especially when he’s basically the crown prince of this school. I am an utter failure just because I’m not him.”
Summer shook her head. “People look for failure.”
Abby turned those bright eyes on her. “It’s because they’re cowards. Most people spend their lives hoping someone else screws up so no one will notice they’re too scared to take risks. It’s justifies their insecurities.”
“Somehow that isn’t comforting.”
“Maybe not.” Abby bumped against her shoulder and winked. “That’s why I’ve turned failure into spectacle. With enough flair, any failure can look purposeful.”
“I should try that.”
“It does makes life less mortifying.”
Summer’s heart rose a little. “It’s nice to have someone on my side.”
Abby caught her hand and squeezed. “It is.”
“Summer!” At the end of the parking lot, her mother perched on her bike. A couple of wolf whistles followed her and Summer covered her face with her hand.
“Popular, aren’t we?” Abby teased. “Sister?”
“Mom. Actually.” Summer fought the urge to run back inside.
Her mother reached the sidewalk. “You ready?”
“Crud!” Abby darted after an old jeep. “I swear I’m not this rude, but my brother is leaving without me. Bye, Summer’s mom! Ben! You wanker! I’m telling Mom!”
“She seems interesting,” Mom said, smiling from under the brim of an oversize hat.
Summer glanced around the parking lot. Mom had traded her cardigan and pearls for a casual pair of crisp white shorts and a loose blouse that draped off one shoulder, drawing far too much attention. “What are you doing here?”
“I feel bad about how we left things this morning.”
Summer fumbled to unlock her bike. “I meant everything I said.”
“Anyway.” Another smile. “I thought we could ride home together. I haven’t gotten to pick you up since elementary school!”
Summer clambered onto her bike, far less graceful and sophisticated than her mother. “You’re not checking up on me? Or drilling me about my day?”
“Nope. This is just a relaxing mother-daughter bike ride.”
Summer shot her a look. Their bikes were identical, right down to the sunny yellow baskets on the fronts. “Since when do we do the matchy-matchy mommy-daughter thing?”
Mom laughed. “Okay, that is kind of weird. Pete means well.”
“Maybe I’ll cover mine with stickers.”
“I do want us to be friends, Keiki. Like we used to be.”
The old nickname made Summer cringe. “Can’t you be my mom instead?” She pushed off the curb and started for Grandma’s.
“I’m trying to be that too.” Mom kept up effortlessly. “Starting with dinner tonight. I want you and me and your grandma to all sit down for a nice, quiet dinner. Like a family.”
Summer bit back an angry retort. Family meant Dad too. “Fine.”
“Isn’t this place beautiful?” Mom spread out her arms, showing off the meticulously landscaped neighborhood in front of them. “Oceanside has been the perfect place for me to get my fresh start.” She turned to Summer. “I hope it can be that for you too.”
Summer put down her feet to stop her bike. “I don’t want to change who I am. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but this is me. This is who I am.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Summer shook her head. “You’re still not listening. I don’t want to be you. I don’t even know how to act around you anymore. I want to be allowed to be me.”
“I never said I wanted to change you. But I want to help you find better ways to express yourself. Healthier ways.”
“How is that any different?”
“You’re a good kid, Summer.”
“No, Mom.” She pushed off again. “I’m really not.” She kept her eyes on the bike path and away from the hurt she knew was on her mother’s face.
The ticktock of the grandfather clock in the corner and the clatter of silverware against china intensified the awkward silence filling Grandma’s dining room. Summer sat in the center of one long side while Mom and Grandma took opposite ends of the oversize ta
ble, facing off like feuding lords.
“You look nice,” Mom said, scanning Summer’s outfit.
Mom wanted a nice family dinner and Summer felt guilty enough to comply by pulling her hair up and throwing on a sundress she’d never even worn.
“Thanks,” Summer said. She’d keep up her quiet rebellion in less obvious ways.
“How was your first day?” Mom pushed her asparagus around on her plate.
“Fine.” Summer took a sip of water.
“Do you like your classes?”
“Sure.” Summer looked down at her overcooked chicken breast. For all her attempts at a perfect suburban life, Mom certainly wasn’t any better at cooking than Dad was.
“What are you taking?” Grandma asked. Dressed in a flowing batik jacket, with her steel-grey hair pulled into a harsh bun, she looked brilliant and creative and intimidating all at once.
“Mostly required classes. And art.”
A smile creased Grandma’s face. “Good for you.”
Mom folded her hands on the table. “Did you make any friends?”
“Leave her be, Rachael,” Grandma said. “Not everyone cares as much about people as you do.”
Summer hid a smile behind another sip of water. Mom always said her parents were too steeped in academia to notice about the outside world. It drove Mom crazy, but was the one thing Summer actually understood about her grandma.
“I did, actually.”
Mom snapped her head away from glaring at her mother so fast she must have gotten whiplash. “Oh?”
“Abby.”
“The girl with pink hair and a penchant for British vulgarities?”
Grandma cackled. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”
“She’s kind of saved my skin this morning.”
Mom stopped glaring at her mother again and smiled politely at Summer. “I just hope she’s a good influence. You could use some good friends this time.”
Summer set down her fork with a little too much force. “Is there anything else about me you’d like to critique today?”
“Summer.” Mom’s tone was less sharp and more hurt.
“Can you possibly be happy for a moment before jumping straight to the worst possible scenario? You wanted me to make friends. I did.”
The Trick to Landing Page 2