But after what Lawrence said, I force myself to watch Alex and Isabella at dinner that night—really watch them together. And I see how she puts her hand on his arm when she wants to make a point and how she pretends to be tired so she can lay her head on his shoulder and how he kind of lays his own head on top of hers. And how she snags french fries off his plate like she has a right to them.
So whatever’s going on between them, it’s progressed a lot more than whatever’s going on between him and me. We’re not eating each other’s food or snuggling up together. We started off talking and we’re still just . . . talking.
It’s a blow. I feel this connection to Alex, and I want it to turn into something. And it could, because we both live in Phoenix and could actually have a future together.
Isabella laughs at something he says and gently brushes her fingertips along his wrist. He nudges her shoulder with his and smiles down at her.
I look away.
Across the table, Julia is making googly-eyes at Harry Cartwright like she always does, but I don’t get the same starting-to-get-serious vibe from the two of them that I’m getting from Isabella and Alex. Which is probably a disappointment to Julia, but I think she’s better off not getting in too deep with Harry. The guy flirts with every girl in sight. And with some of the boys, too. He pretty much preens and glows at the slightest sign of admiration. He’s like a dog rubbing up against anyone who’ll pet him.
When we all walk outside after dinner that night, Isabella and Harry excuse themselves and stroll into the shadows together.
Alex instantly comes over to me.
“They’re going to come back smelling like cigarette smoke,” he says, with a sort of pained half smile.
“They always do.” But I think, You don’t like that she smokes—doesn’t that say something about her? Or about you? Or about your potential as a couple?
He says, “My mom smoked when she was in college. She stopped pretty soon after that. She said it wasn’t hard to quit.” There’s a pause. Then he says, “No one’s perfect.”
“There is that.”
He studies me with affectionate interest. “What’s your fatal flaw, Franny?”
“Oh, you know . . .” I shrug. “I’m too perfect for this world. It’s rough.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “The gods always punish hubris sooner or later. You’ll get yours in the end.”
“That’s supposed to be reassuring?”
“Well, yeah—to those of us who aren’t perfect.” Then he glances away again, toward the darkness at the side of the building, and says, “Smoking’s not a big deal, right? Tons of people do it for a few years and then stop.”
“If you don’t mind the smell . . .”
“I hate the smell,” he admits with a laugh.
“Me too.”
We’re silent for another moment and overhear a snippet of someone else’s conversation: “. . . most amazing fireworks . . .”
“Fourth of July next week,” Alex says. “You excited about seeing fireworks, Franny?”
“Who doesn’t like fireworks?”
“That’s not an answer. That’s an evasion.”
I step closer to him. “Okay, honestly? They scared me when I was little. I never wanted to tell anyone, so I’d go with my family and just keep my eyes closed tight the whole time. But I could still hear them.”
“Poor little Franny.” There’s sympathy in those kind Alex-blue eyes.
I say, “You’re the only person who knows this, by the way. I’ve always been kind of embarrassed about it.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” He leans toward me and adds in a whisper, “And I also won’t tell anyone that you’re still a little scared of them.”
“How did you know?” I whisper back.
“You’re easy to read.” He grins down at me.
Am I? The thought that I might be transparent makes me instantly duck my head so he can’t see my eyes anymore, and while he tells me how worried his mother gets about her dogs on the Fourth of July—they hate the sound of fireworks, even when it’s in the distance—I pretend to be fascinated by the gravel at my feet.
Yesterday I’d have been fine with letting him know how much I like him, but if Lawrence is right and Alex and Isabella are already a couple and it’s obvious to everyone there, I have to be more careful.
Less readable.
Julia comes over and immediately launches into a complaint about Marie, who’s driving her crazy now that they’re in the same cast.
“Do you know how she got them to switch her from the cast she was originally put in?” Julia asks us. “I just found out. She said one of the guys in the first cast had said something ‘inappropriate’ to her and she didn’t want to name names and get him in trouble but she didn’t feel safe being in that environment. Can you believe her? She made the whole thing up so she could be in the play she wanted, and because of it all the guys in that cast had to go to a special meeting where they were told that if there were any more complaints, there would be serious repercussions. And they didn’t do anything.”
“Why’d she want to switch so badly, anyway?” I ask, and Julia gives me a look. A duh look. And I say, “Oh, yeah, never mind.” Because we both know that Marie is all over Harry Cartwright, flirting with him every chance she gets.
And I also know that Julia is doing the exact same thing. I’m not sure why she thinks she has more of a right to flirt with him than Marie does, except I guess that she was in his cast first, and legitimately.
As far as I can tell, Harry doesn’t prefer either Marie or Julia or any of the other girls who fawn over him. He just flirts with whoever’s nearest at any given moment.
And then probably goes off to study himself in the mirror—spending time with the one person he truly loves.
“Thank God she’s not going to the beach on Sunday,” Julia says. The students get Sundays off, and the directors have arranged transportation and a picnic for anyone who wants to go to the beach on the Sunday that’s coming up.
“Did you sign up for the bus yet?” Alex asks her.
“Not yet, but I’m going to.”
“Why isn’t Marie going?” I ask.
“Her boyfriend’s taking her somewhere.” Julia smirks. “I made sure Harry knew that. Are you coming, Franny? It’ll be fun.”
I hesitate. Now that the directors have all settled on what they want for costumes, Amelia and I have a ton of work to do. She’s expecting me back in the Sweatshop right now to get in a couple of hours before heading home to her apartment and has made it clear to me that she expects us to work all through the weekend.
Alex says, “You’ve got to come with us, Franny. It won’t be as much fun without you.”
And I nod, thinking, Hell, yeah, I’m going—just try to stop me. And then, less happily: Why, oh why, didn’t I buy a new bathing suit before coming here?
Somehow I talk Amelia into letting me go. She complains and grumbles and says, “With everyone gone, we could get so much work done,” and I say, “But it’s Sunday and everyone else is going,” and we go on like that for a while, her making objections and my saying “It’s Sunday,” and finally she says, “Fine, go, but know you’re going to have to make up for the lost day of work—no more lingering at meals half the day.” Of course I say yes. I’d promise anything at this point to go to the beach with Alex.
scene six
Sunday morning I put on the only bathing suit I brought with me, throw a pair of shorts over it, and run over to the campus with a beach bag. Lawrence is climbing onto the bus just when I get there, so we grab a seat together. I try not to let it bother me that Alex is sitting with Isabella a few rows in front of us and that they were holding hands when I walked by them. I mean, I’m going to the beach with my friends. It’s all good, right?
Right. Except . . .
Guess who gets a piece of glass in her foot within minutes of arriving at the beach?
Not Isabella, who ha
s belted a long white linen tunic over a brown-and-blue bikini and looks like she stepped out of an editorial spread in Vogue.
Not Julia, who’s very leggy and lean in Daisy Dukes and a bikini top.
Not Vanessa, who has artfully paired boyish board shorts with a red bandeau.
Not any of the guys—all of whom, by virtue of their gender, didn’t have to think twice about what to wear to the beach or whether they’d look good in it, just slapped on longish swimming trunks and T-shirts and called themselves dressed.
No, the honor of stepping on a sharp piece of glass is reserved for the brown-eyed girl with the ponytail who’s wearing a pair of denim shorts over a practical one-piece Speedo (bought by her mother for actual swimming, not for posing on the beach) and who thought it would be a good idea to slip off her flip-flops and really sink her feet into the rough sand near the road as the group walked toward the water.
A few steps later, foot meets shard of glass.
Girl yelps in pain.
Soon everyone is clustered around me, staring down at the ball of my right foot, which I’m cradling in my hand as I lean on Julia so I can inspect it.
“I once had a splinter of glass in my foot so small no one could see it,” Isabella says. “Not until my nanny got out a magnifying glass. But it hurt so much I thought I would pass out. Hold on, Franny—don’t poke at it like that. You don’t want it to break off under the skin.”
“Let me see it,” Alex says. “Maybe I can pull it out cleanly.”
“If I can just find a place to sit down, I can do it.” I look for a nearby bench or rock.
Alex ignores me. “Julia, support her. Isabella, grab her leg and help me get it a little higher.” Before I know it, my foot is being hauled way up high. I’m still protesting that I can take care of this myself, but no one’s listening to me.
“Anyone have a pair of tweezers?” Vanessa asks, moving in to get a closer look.
“Why would anyone bring a pair of tweezers to the beach?” Julia says.
“You never know.”
“My mom keeps a first-aid kit in her car,” Lawrence says, peering over Vanessa’s shoulder.
“That would be useful information if your mother’s car were here,” says Julia.
“You guys are blocking my light. Move back, will you?” Alex is cradling my shin firmly in the palm of his left hand, angling it around to try to get the best view of my foot. His hand is warm.
I’d be lying if I said I’ve never imagined feeling Alex’s hand on my leg.
Sadly, that daydream didn’t include a throng of people staring at us.
“Hold it steady,” Alex says to Isabella, like my leg has nothing to do with me, everything to do with her.
“Yes, doctor,” she says, and they share a quick smile.
He lightly touches his index finger to the skin near where the glass entered my foot, and I yelp again.
“Sorry,” Alex says. “Okay. One quick pull. You ready, Franny?” He bends over my foot, but then—
“What’s going on?” A new voice. We all look up.
It’s Marie. She’s got a big beach bag on one arm and her pudgy boyfriend, James, on the other.
“Franny stepped on a piece of glass,” Alex explains.
James makes a little clucking noise of sympathy.
Julia says, “What are you guys doing here?”
“I decided a day at the beach sounded like fun, so James drove us here to meet up with you guys.” Marie turns to Harry. “I don’t see you helping out with this operation.”
“I’m providing moral support,” he says airily. “It’s a very challenging job.”
“You trying to be moral? I’m sure it is,” she counters archly.
“Will you please just take it out?” Julia snaps at Alex. “Or am I supposed to stand here all day holding her up?”
“Okay. For real this time.” He bends over me, and I feel his fingers on my foot and there’s a stinging moment of pain, and then . . . less pain. “Got it!” he says, and holds up a small sliver of green glass for everyone to see.
He and Isabella release my leg, and I balance carefully on my toe. “And to think I’ve always loved sea glass,” I say. “I even have a collection. But it turned against me.”
Alex says, “You guys go find a spot on the beach and put your towels down. Harry and I can carry Franny.”
Lawrence and Vanessa head down toward the beach.
“You don’t need to carry me!” I say. God, it keeps getting more and more embarrassing. “Seriously, I can just hop. It’s a tiny little wound. I’m fine.”
They ignore me.
“How should we do this?” Harry asks Alex. “Shoulders and knees? Crossed arms under her?”
“Do you need another set of hands?” asks James.
Alex shakes his head. “For tiny little Franny? Nah.”
“I could probably just pick her up by myself,” Harry says.
“Oh, listen to the big strong man,” Julia says. “We’re all really impressed over here.”
“Fine. I’ll show you.” Before I can even say anything, he’s pushing her and Isabella out of the way and scooping me up in his arms. His biceps bulge. I know because I’m looking right at them. I wonder if he works out a lot.
What am I saying? This is Harry—of course he works out a lot.
“Put me down!” I say. “I can walk.”
“Stop wriggling,” Harry says. “Or we’ll both fall on our faces.”
Alex frowns. “Let me help. It’s hard to walk in the sand, and if you fall, you could hurt her.”
“I’m fine,” Harry says. “If everybody would just get out of my way . . .” He takes an unsteady step toward the ocean. “It would help if you’d put your arms around my neck.” His voice sounds a little strained.
“Sorry.” I sling one arm around his neck and the other in front and clasp my fingers loosely together.
“Tighter,” he says.
So I tighten my arms around his shoulders. It feels uncomfortably like I’m hugging him. “I really could walk.. . .”
“I know. I’m proving a point here.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head back so he can look at me. We’re both wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see how green his eyes are, and I feel a funny twinge of regret at the lost opportunity to see them up close. Julia’s always talking about how beautiful his eyes are, but I’ve made it a point not to spend too much time staring at him. He’s vain enough as it is. “You know, there are girls who wouldn’t act like this was some kind of punishment,” he says.
“I’m sorry. It’s really nice of you. I’m just embarrassed.”
His arms tighten under my shoulders and knees. “Well, don’t be.” He staggers and lurches to the side with a swear, but steadies himself before we both go down. “Hole in the sand. Some stupid kid just left it like that. Sorry.”
“Nice save.”
“Thank you. Just think of me as your personal savior. And here we are.. . .”
Is it weird that I’m sort of sorry we got here so fast? That I was starting to enjoy my ride in Harry’s arms? Yeah, it’s weird. Forget it.
“Now I just have to figure out how to put you down. Hold on, I’ve got it.. . .” He drops to his knees so I’m pretty much sitting on his lap. I quickly scoot off him and onto the towels. “I’m fairly hopeful you’re going to survive this injury, Franny.”
“Unless gangrene sets in.”
“Gangrene always sets in,” he says darkly.
“What are you talking about?” asks Julia as they all gather around us again. “No one gets gangrene anymore.”
“They do in old books. If Franny were a Hemingway heroine or something, gangrene would set in and she’d lose her leg. Or her life.”
“But I’d be very attractive on my deathbed,” I add.
Alex touches my shoulder. “How’s the foot feeling?”
“Fine. Really.”
“Don’t try to walk on the sand. You don’t
want to grind something in there while it’s still an open wound.” He looks around. “Anyone want to go in the water?”
“Not me,” Julia says. “It’s freezing.”
“You never like to go in the ocean,” Alex says.
“Because it’s always freezing. Give me a heated pool any day.”
“You’re so spoiled.”
“You’re just as spoiled, so don’t pretend you’re not.”
“Hey, look, volleyball,” Vanessa says, pointing to a net that’s set up a little ways down the beach. A bunch of other Mansfield students are already there, stripping off shirts and kicking off their sandals. “I’m going to go play. Anyone else?”
“Me,” says Lawrence. He glances back. “You sure you’re okay, Franny?”
“I’m so beyond okay that I’m going to scream if anyone else asks me that.”
“Okay. Bye.” He trots after Vanessa, slipping his T-shirt up and over his head as his feet slide in the sand. His thin shoulders are so white they’re practically translucent in the sun.
“Harry?” Julia says.
He’s already made himself comfortable on the towel next to me, his legs stretched out, his face turned up to the sun. “Mmmm?” he murmurs absently.
“Want to go for a walk?”
“In a minute. I need to regain my strength. I just saved a girl’s life, you know. Takes a lot out of you.”
Julia drops her beach bag onto one of the towels. “In that case, I’m going to run to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m up for a walk,” Alex says, looking at Isabella, who hesitates and says, “But poor Franny’s stuck here.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I’ll hang out here with her,” Harry says.
“So will we,” says James. He’s been carefully arranging a very thick and plush beach blanket on the sand for the last few minutes, and now he settles down on it, pulling a few wrinkles smooth as he makes himself comfortable. He’s wearing baggy swim shorts and an unbuttoned oxford shirt, which reveals a thatch of sandy-colored chest hair and a couple of rolls of waist fat. “Man, that sun’s hot today.”
The Trouble With Flirting Page 6