Picture Perfect

by Catherine Clark

  “What? I do not.”

  “You constantly do,” I argued.

  “Look. If this is about what happened, you know, in the Dells—”

  “It isn’t.”

  That was the second time he’d brought it up, but we hadn’t actually talked about it. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to now. A person can only take so much rejection in one night.

  We sat silently, watching people dance. I sipped my ice, then tipped the cup back and chewed some ice. All I wanted was to get out of there, but at the same time, I wanted to hang around and see how Heather was doing, make sure she was all right—make sure she had a better night than I did.

  Spencer was apparently watching her, too. “Hey, is that orange shirt or blue shirt with Heather?” he asked. “I thought you had dibs on blue shirt.”

  I laughed, despite the fact I sort of wanted to slug him. “Shut up. I don’t have dibs on anyone,” I said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Hey. If we need to kill time, I could always tell you the girl-next-door story,” Spencer offered.

  “For real?”

  “Sure.”

  “Should I get a tissue?” I asked.

  “For me, yeah. A box.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t get your hopes up—it’s not a very long or interesting—”

  “Just tell it,” I urged. I was dying for something else to think about.

  “Okay. Like I said, it’s not a very long story. There was this girl, next door. Well, three doors down. Her name was Morgan. Still is, actually. I wanted to ask her to prom,” Spencer began. “But we were kind of friends, you know, so it had to be really creative, had to blow her away. I kept plotting how to do it. I had a hundred brilliant ideas. Romantic ones. Thoughtful ones. Funny ones. In the end? Someone else asked her before I even tried one of my ideas.”

  I started laughing. Harder and harder.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “No. No! Yes! See, that kind of sort of happened to me, too.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could amuse you. Now, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” Spencer said.

  I surveyed the dance floor, checking on Heather.

  Did Blake have to dance right there? In plain sight? Why didn’t he go somewhere private—say, back to Georgia?

  And what was he thinking, anyway? That it was okay to have two girls interested in him at the same time? Maybe I should go over there right now and make out with him, the way she jumped on his lap when I was talking to him. It wasn’t too late. I could fight for him.

  Did I want to, though? Did it matter?

  “Hey. Spencer got me. Dragged me away, actually,” Heather said, glaring over at him.

  “He’s good at that.”

  “I told him to wait for us over there so we could talk.” She gave me a little hug. “He told me what happened. Don’t take this thing with Blake personally. He’s an idiot, that’s all. Anyway, you more than accomplished your goal. You had a summer fling!”

  “That counts? We only kissed twice. At a Publix.”

  “It counts.”

  “Right. Then why do I feel so bad that it’s over all of a sudden?”

  “Flings are like that. You can’t take them too seriously.”

  That was easy for her to say. It meant a lot to me when I kissed someone—or it was supposed to.

  “You know what? Maybe that wasn’t the perfect fling. Maybe you need to set your sights on someone else.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Yes,” Heather insisted. “Because Dean and I—we’re totally hitting it off. He’s very cool. And you know what? Maybe you could go out with his friend, Chase. I’ll set something up!” she said excitedly.

  I shook my head. “No, don’t bother—it’s okay.”

  “Emily, this vacation is far from over. Do you want to mope around or do you want to show Blake you can find someone else, too?”

  I didn’t really care about showing up Blake—I probably wouldn’t ever see him again. “Can’t I just sit here feeling crushed for a little while?”

  “Fine, but I think you’re overreacting,” Heather said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I was really into him! And he invited us here, and now he’s making out with another girl!”

  Heather gave one last look across the club. “Hmm. I see your point. You want to get out of here?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” I sighed.

  “Only…do you think you can wait a second while I go tell Dean good-bye?” she asked.

  “Of course! Take your time,” I told her. Only…not too much, because I really want to bolt and every second of this is killing me, I thought as I smiled at her, trying to put my best face on a bad situation.

  “Emily, get whatever you want,” Heather said when she slid into a booth at an all-night breakfast place fifteen minutes later. “We’re treating.”

  “We are?” Spencer asked.

  “Duh. It’s tradition,” Heather said. “The person who has the worst night gets treated to breakfast afterward.”

  “That’s not fair. You haven’t asked about my night,” Adam said, pouting.

  “Or mine, either,” Spencer added, taking a sip of ice water.

  “Fine.” Heather set down her menu and faced them. “Do tell.”

  “Yeah. And don’t leave anything out, we want all the details,” I said, leaning against the wall.

  Adam glanced at Spencer. “You want to go first?”

  “Sure. Well, I went to this club. The band was supposed to be great, but it was mostly bad cover songs. I ran into some friends. And there was this one girl who would not leave me alone.”

  “You don’t mean me,” I said.

  “If the shoe fits…” Spencer said.

  “Shut up! You should be so lucky. You’re the one who wouldn’t leave my side.”

  “As if,” Spencer replied. “I tried to leave about a hundred times. You just wanted to stay, for some unknown reason.” He turned to Adam. “What happened to you, anyway? I didn’t see you all night.”

  “First I ran into this guy from baseball camp. Then we went to hang out with some guys he knew. We went for pizza, then we hit an arcade, then we ran into more people—”

  “Was it fun?” Heather asked.

  “Sure. I just felt bad because I ditched you guys,” Adam said.

  “We’ve been ditched much worse than that tonight,” I muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why? What happened?” Adam looked confused.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay. Do you guys want to hear about Dean?” Heather asked.

  “You know, I’m not sure if I should get the pancakes or the waffles. Can we have a table vote?” asked Spencer, trying to change the subject.

  When we got our food, I wasn’t all that hungry, so I started taking pictures instead. I got Spencer checking his reflection in the stainless-steel napkin dispenser, Heather trying to keep her long hair out of the maple syrup, and Adam’s hands shaking as he had his fourth cup of coffee.

  For a while I was having so much fun that I almost completely forgot that I’d been blown off in a major way by the first guy I’d really, actually ever kissed.

  Chapter 11

  “So, are you guys ready for today’s tour?” my mother asked, in an upbeat, chipper mood that couldn’t have been more opposite of mine.

  We were gathered out back of the house, by the minivan. I’d managed to haul myself out of bed and swallow a couple of sips of coffee before I’d been rounded up for the trip. Everyone was going, which meant I had to, even though I felt more like spending the day in bed, recovering. Not from partying, mind you—from lack of partying. From extreme heartbreak, or at least, disappointment.

  “Have a bagel, honey,” Heather’s mother said, holding a paper plate out to me. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Thanks.” I took a half and nibbled a corner of it. But I doubt it. I leaned against the van and closed my
eyes, wishing I were back in bed. I heard the sound of flip-flops snapping toward me and finally opened my eyes, expecting to see Adam or Heather.

  “Good morning, y’all!” Blake had sauntered over to greet us. “Where you off to?”

  Ugh. I nearly choked on the tiny bite of bagel I’d just swallowed.

  He was the last person I wanted to see. And what was with his attitude? Was he so clueless that he didn’t realize what had happened the night before—that he’d been a total jerk? His long, green preppy Bermuda shorts and polo shirt didn’t seem so cute anymore. Neither did his tattooed ankle, his spiky platinum hair, his cut body, and his habit of saying “y’all.”

  “We’re going on a drive. See some things,” I said. “Lots of things. Cape Hatteras, you know.”

  “That’ll be fun,” said Blake. “If only you could ditch the parents…” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, they’re not so bad,” I said.

  Heather came racing around the corner of the house as if someone had just summoned her. Spencer was right behind her, walking at a fast clip.

  “Morning, y’all,” Blake greeted them.

  “Oh, hi,” Spencer said casually. “Didn’t see you.”

  “Wow. Are people still wearing those?” Heather asked, pointing at the obnoxious Bermuda shorts.

  “I know my great-grandfather has some,” Spencer said. “Drags ’em out every summer for the family reunion.”

  It wasn’t much of a put-down, but I smiled just the same. Blake was glancing down at his outfit, confused. He brushed at some sand sticking on his ankle, by his tattoo.

  “Hey, Blake, I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s that tattoo of?”

  “It’s a chili pepper,” Blake said. “Got it in Mexico.”

  “Really? Is it one of those stick-on ones? Because it looks like it’s coming off,” said Adam as he approached us from the backyard.

  “So what’s that supposed to mean? You’re hot?” asked Heather.

  “Looks like a banana,” Spencer observed. “Maybe it’s supposed to mean he’s bananas?”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s a jalapeño,” Blake said, sounding a little stung that we weren’t impressed. “Anyway, I have to go.”

  “Us too. Have a great day. Y’all,” I tacked on bitterly as Heather nearly dragged me into the minivan.

  “Good riddance, y’all!” she added with a giggle.

  “In the van again…I just can’t wait to be in the van again.”

  I groaned at my father’s reworking of “On the Road Again.” He was almost ruining the beautiful scenery we were passing through on the long, narrow coastal road. There were sand dunes on both sides of us, and sand drifted across the road in places. “Dad, please,” I begged.

  He kept singing, though. His voice carried. And carried. And carried.

  “Dad!” I urged again.

  “What?”

  “You sang that yesterday,” I said. “And the day before. You are embarrassing the entire van.”

  “Someone’s in a good mood,” Adam commented.

  “Do vans get embarrassed?” Spencer asked. “I’m not sure, I’ve never seen a van blush—”

  “Shut up,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Emily!” my mother said. “That’s not very nice.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Like I said: Mood. Not good. Don’t provoke her,” Adam told Spencer.

  “Right. That intense inner ballerina comes out, and when she does, take cover,” Spencer teased. “She’ll go ballistic in a Swan Lake kind of way.”

  Despite the fact he’d sort of come to my rescue the night before, I wasn’t in the mood to be mocked by Spencer. Not that I ever was, but that day in particular, I felt very thin-skinned. But not in a ballet dancer way, whatever that was. They should check out a ballet dancer’s feet sometime and see just how thick the skin could get when you danced on it every day for hours. Mine had gotten a little softer over the past year, but not much.

  Anyway, I felt thin-skinned over the whole Blake episode. Everyone knew that I’d liked him; now they knew he was not into me. I was desperately hoping that we could put it behind us. Getting away from the house for the day was a great idea, even if it meant listening to my dad sing.

  In the grand scheme of things, Blake didn’t mean all that much to me. I’d remember his shoulders. The way he could wear board shorts and his rock-hard abs. I’d show his picture to my friends at home and tell them how he’d invited me to a party, how he’d loaned me his sweatshirt, how I’d kissed him a few times. That was all true.

  It would sound good, in retrospect. Running into him over the rest of our stay would be awkward and embarrassing, but I could handle it.

  We pulled into the parking lot of Bodie Island Lighthouse, and Spencer sighed. “Here we go again. Seen one lighthouse, you’ve seen ’em all,” he complained.

  “Not really,” I said, scooting over to the door to get out of the van. “This one’s got stripes.”

  “As opposed to what?” He climbed out of the backseat. “Polka dots?”

  “Just be a good tourist for once in your life, okay?” I sort of snapped at him.

  “Maybe you could stop by the gift shop for some chocolate,” he suggested before walking away with Adam. “Like, a pound.”

  While Heather veered off from the group to use her cell phone, my mother slipped into place beside me. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Your shoulders always slump when something’s wrong. Your posture goes south. So tell me, what is it?”

  I tried to raise my shoulders back to their regular height, because I didn’t want to talk about it with her, at least not right now.

  “Did something happen last night?” Mom asked.

  “It just wasn’t that much fun,” I said. “Loud music, rude people. You know how it is.”

  “Oh. Well, better luck next time, hon,” she said, then she hurried to catch up with Heather’s mom.

  What, did she have something better to do?

  I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or elated as I meandered along around the lighthouse park grounds. I mean, it was great that Mom had friends and that the spotlight wasn’t on me, for a change. But I could have at least used a hug.

  By the time I reached the lighthouse, everyone was turning back.

  “We can’t tour this one,” Mrs. Flanagan told me.

  “What a shame,” Spencer muttered.

  “Look at it this way, kid.” His dad slapped him on the back. “That’s two hundred and fourteen steps you don’t have to climb.”

  Spencer looked over at him. “Who said I was going to climb?”

  “Aren’t you working on being a good tourist today? That’s what Emily said,” his father replied. “Good tourist means participating—”

  Spencer lifted his father’s hand off his shoulder. “Dad, I’m not eight, okay?”

  “Emily. We’re waiting for you!” my mother called.

  “I’m here. Present and accounted for.” I looked at her, not getting it. “What?”

  “Before we go, don’t you want to get our picture? That’s your job,” she said.

  “Oh. Right. I forgot.” I took out my camera while everyone arranged themselves in front of the visitor center sign. Other tourists were streaming in and out of the frame, but I decided it didn’t matter—maybe I’d catch something unusual.

  “Ready? Everyone say squeeze!” Heather yelled.

  “What? Why?” commented Mrs. Flanagan. “Who am I supposed to squeeze, anyway?”

  “It’s an expression, Mom,” Spencer said. “Roll with it.”

  He looked at me and rolled his eyes, like we’d both had more than enough of our parents for the morning already. I managed a small smile. “Everybody. One-two-three, squeeze!” I called, snapping a picture just as a tall man walked right in front of me.

  “Oh, no. Sorry, miss. Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay,�
� I told him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Let’s just go down to Cape Hatteras and have our picnic lunch,” my mother declared, and we headed back to the van.

  “How much farther is it?” I asked.

  “Oh, only about an hour and a half.” She opened her backpack and pulled out a box of salt water taffy, which she handed to me. “Pass these around. It’ll make the drive go faster.”

  “I’ll sit next to you,” Adam volunteered. “Just in case you need help opening the box.”

  “No way are you hogging the salt water taffy,” Spencer said, jostling for position beside me as we climbed into the van. “Remember what happened on that trip in Maine? You ate the whole box, then got sick on the Ferris wheel.”

  “I was eight,” said Adam.

  “Those who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat it,” Spencer said, settling onto the bench seat beside me.

  I handed him the box. “Help yourself. Go wild.”

  “Why are we the only ones doing this?” Spencer asked halfway up the steps to the top of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.

  “Adam’s up there. Somewhere,” I said. “So, we’re not the only ones. We’re the slow ones.”

  Heather had stayed behind and had been sipping an iced tea when we decided to take the tour. I was so jealous of her right then that I could spit. Or sweat, anyway. The back of my shirt was getting damp.

  “I was only trying to be a good tourist. It’s your fault. You’re the one who coined the phrase and now my dad is addicted to it,” Spencer said. “I didn’t read the sign. How many steps is this?”

  “Two hundred and sixty-eight,” I said, out of breath. “The sign said that it’s equivalent to climbing a twelve-story building. I thought, how hard could that be?”

  Spencer coughed. “Obviously you’ve never lived in a twelve-story building. It’s really hot in here.”

  “Not to mention humid,” I added.

  “Hey, slow down. You’re going faster than I am. Maybe I shouldn’t have had those twenty-five pieces of salt water taffy in the van.”

  “Or that country farmer’s breakfast last night,” I added. “Was that eight pieces of bacon or ten?”