Crush Stuff.

by Lisi Harrison

  “Do you want to know why Winfrey and Amelia said Catalina was epic?”

  Everyone cheered.

  “C stands for clean cabins. The mattresses smell like fabric softener. A stands for activities, because there are tons. Zip-lining, snorkeling, water trampolines . . . There’s even a sea-life safari, a mini golf course, and night hiking.”

  A few of the boys wooo-hooed. She had this.

  “T is for travel time, which is only an hour—by ferry! Goodbye, barfy bus rides, and hello, salty breezes. And the best part? There’s a snack bar on board.”

  “Yay, fairies!” Kat Evans began flapping her hands like wings, still choosing to believe that a flock of magical creatures would lift them up by their shirtsleeves and fly them to the island.

  “Dumb-dumb,” Sage mouthed from the crowd.

  Fonda tried her hardest not to smile.

  “About the travel time . . .” Owen said as he smoothed his slick side part with the palm of his hand. “It’s only fifteen minutes by helicopter.”

  “I know,” Fonda lied. “But we’d need a fleet, and that’s not in the budget this year.” Ruthie and Drew gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up—a sign that she handled him like a pro.

  After a deep, centering breath, Fonda continued. “A is for Avalon, the town where we will buy ice cream and candy. L is for—”

  “Look out!” a girl shouted.

  Seconds later, something smashed against the back of Fonda’s leg. “What the—” Red paint dripped down her calf, and the skin of a broken balloon lay by her sneaker.

  “My bad!” Keelie called. “I was aiming for Dune!” Then, smack! A balloon broke against her arm.Laughing, she hurried over to one of the many metal buckets that had been placed on the lawn and grabbed more ammo. “You’re so done, dude!” She drew back her arm and chucked a balloon at Dune’s back. It exploded all over his gray hoodie.

  Heart pounding, Fonda handed her note cards to Ruthie and marched straight onto the battlefield. “I’ll be right back.”

  All around her, boys were dashing, throwing, and darting like boot-camp soldiers running drills. It was chaotic, it was childish, and it was seriously messing up her presentation. Fonda was right to think Henry’s truce text was insincere. This was clearly some kind of Pendleton promotion—designed to pull a major Zeus and steal her thunder. “Keelie, what’s going on?”

  “We’re just having a little fun.”

  “By throwing fake grenades filled with blood?”

  “They’re not grenades, Fanta, they’re paintball-oons,” Keelie said with a proud grin. “And it’s not blood. It’s—”

  “Where’s Henry?” Fonda interrupted. Because, so what? All she cared about was removing Henry and his band of war-hungry misfits from her territory before they destroyed her GIM.

  “Knowing Hank, he’s in the bushes, preparing to strike.” Keelie scanned the perimeter. “All right, soldier. I’m going in.” She removed her stained flannel shirt, tied it around her waist, and made a mad dash for the closest silver bucket. “Kamikaze!!!” she shouted as she ran into the hailstorm of balloons.

  Chest tight and hands clenched, Fonda returned to the GIM to find Ruthie and Sage explaining how islands are formed to a much smaller crowd. Every boy had gone AWOL to join the paintball-oon battle, except Owen. His loafers were planted firmly on the lawn. Two lollipop sticks poked from his mouth like fangs.

  Fonda, unsure of what to do next, stood off to the side, dabbing her watering eyes.

  “Hey, at least the girls are still here,” Drew tried.

  “I guess.”

  “And that’s how a volcano becomes an island,” Ruthie concluded. After a dramatic curtsy, she handed the bullhorn back to Fonda while Owen generated a smattering of applause—applause that was barely audible over the battling balloon animals who had sabotaged her event.

  “What’s the point?” Fonda hissed. Dozens of plastic wrappers drifted across the grass—ghostly reminders of the boys who had crossed over to the other side.

  “We’re the point,” Ruthie insisted. “If you’re serious about saving us from the Slopover, you’ll get back up there and fight for this. You’ll fight for us.”

  Drew giggled. “Did you hear that last part in a movie trailer?”

  “Yeah, it’s rated M for Motivating. You should see it sometime,” Ruthie said.

  Then Sage added, “Go. They’re waiting for you.” She paused for dramatic effect. “We all are.”

  Ruthie and Sage were right—they were the point, and the point was: the threat of poop shovels, oily grandfather scalps, army barracks, and boring makeovers was very real; Fonda was their only hope. With that, she lifted the bullhorn to her mouth and with a renewed sense of purpose said, “As I was saying, L is for—”

  “Lulu Green, everyone!” the Avas announced from the back seat of a golf cart as it turned into the student parking lot. Its surface was decorated with lip prints from hundreds of lipstick-covered kisses, and its headlights were adorned with flirty “carlashes.”

  “Hello, Poplar Middle School!” Lulu called over the blasting theme song of her hit show, Makeover Magic. “Are you ready to be the u in beauty?” she asked the stunned onlookers.

  “That slogan is dumb,” Sage said as her attention shifted to Lulu’s driver—a tank-top-wearing Abercrombie ad with a well-oiled tan and roller-coaster arms. “He must be a bot, am I right? I mean, do humans actually look like that?”

  “Apparently,” Fonda said, having wondered the same thing about Lulu. The willowy limbs, the Barbie-blond hair, the brow-skimming bangs, the Granny-Smith-green eyes, and those teeth . . . Lulu’s beauty was like a solar eclipse—too much brightness for the human retina to process. It hurt to stare, yet it was impossible to look away.

  “Who wants an autograph?” Ava H. called as the Amber-bot drove onto the grass and turned off the engine. Girls hurried toward them like aliens returning to the mothership. Even the boys ran over. Within seconds, the golf cart was completely surrounded. Then Ava H. announced the catch. Lulu would gladly sign every arm, leg, sneaker, cell phone case, backpack, hat, hood, board, bat, and lunch box after Ava H. received an exclusive signature on her petition.

  “Remember,” Lulu said with a toss of her Barbie blondness, “all my products are edible and sustainab—”

  Then whack! A balloon smashed against Lulu’s arm. No one said a word. Not even Lulu. They just watched, shocked and silent, as red liquid spilled down her glitter-dusted skin and dripped onto her white cutoffs.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Ava H. shut off the music and stepped out of the cart. “Who threw that?”

  “My bad,” called a boy, his voice distant and small. It was Henry. He was on top of the school roof, palms splayed as if anticipating arrest. “Sorry,” he said with a not-sorry smirk. “My aim sucks.”

  The Avas glared at him as if plotting to push him off. But not Fonda. She wanted to parkour up the side of the building and hug Henry full of thank-yous for what would probably send Lulu and her Amber-bot putt-putting back to Hollywood, never to return again. Maybe his truce text was sincere. Maybe he was trying to defend Catalina by chasing off the competition.

  Lulu stepped out of the golf cart and raised her arm to the sky. “Is this solvent-based, latex, or oil?” she called.

  “Cherry Kool-Aid and water,” Henry answered.

  “What kind of water? Tap, alkaline, or spring?”

  “Brita.”

  Lulu exhaled sharply, then sauntered around the cart and stood in front of her driver. She offered him her arm, and without a word, he swiped a finger through the red liquid and lifted it to his tongue. After a moment, he nodded, confirming Henry’s claim.

  This time, Lulu’s exhale was pure relief. “I thought it was toxic,” she muttered, fanning her flushed cheeks. “I thought it was toxic!” she called to Henry.


  “I would never do that!” he called back.

  “I dare you to come down here and say that to my face!”

  “Uh, okay.”

  The crowd made those annoying oohhhh sounds as if Lulu might grab him in her willowy embrace and make out with him or something. Instead, she gathered an armful of balloons and unleashed them on Henry the moment he was in range. Before long, a massive paintball-oon fight broke out on the lawn, which Ava H. managed to capture and post on her Instagram story. Every shot contained the supermodel in various states of amusement, with a caption that said Lulu Green sees red. #MakeoverTakeover #PetitionCompetition #WeveGotThis.

  As Fonda stood on the sidelines, hate-glaring, she saw red too. Only her red was very much the toxic kind.

  chapter eleven.

  VAN’S PIZZA PARLOR smelled like dough, oregano, and angst. Drew knew it was the last place Fonda wanted to be after the slim GIM turnout—the first being a private place to sob herself snotty—but it was too late to back out. Will had managed to pull Henry away from paintballooning with the supermodel-slash-billionaire-slash-TV-star-slash-makeup-mogul and had texted to say they were on their way. Getting Fonda to a table should have been easy by comparison. Spoiler alert: it was not.

  “What’s the point?” she asked, refusing to step through the open door of the surf-themed restaurant, where tables were made of surfboards, autographed pictures of big wave riders covered the walls, contest videos played on a constant loop, and reggae filled the space with musical sunshine. “Pizza is for happy, successful people who didn’t fail in front of their entire school.”

  Ruthie put her arm around Fonda and squeezed. “Not true. Unhappy failures eat pizza too. In the movies, sad people are always surrounded by pizza boxes. Empty pizza boxes. Which means they ate the pizza.”

  Drew laughed. Fonda might have too if she hadn’t been shaking like a wet Chihuahua.

  “I don’t get it. Why can’t Doug buy his own pizza?” she asked Drew for the third time. Thankfully, she was too distraught to remember Henry’s “invitation”—the real reason they were there.

  “His boss asked him to work a double shift, and he’s starving,” Drew said. Again. “I’ll just run it over to the surf shop, then we’ll go home. Unless you’re hungry and want to stay for a bit. You know, since we’re already here.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Okay,” Drew said. “Well, let’s grab that booth in the back so I can order.”

  “Can’t you get it from the counter?”

  “Ankle,” Drew said. “I must have twisted it skateboarding.” She limped to the table and slid across the sticky red vinyl before anyone could object. “Ahhh, that’s better.”

  Lying to her best friend—whose bottom lip was quivering—felt like a claw had reached inside Drew’s belly and twisted her guts counterclockwise. Another gut twister was having to dip into her skate helmet savings fund and spend $5.99 on a slice of pizza Doug never asked for. But it was for a noble cause. One that went beyond Drew’s crush on Will. This was about a social merger that would upgrade Fonda’s status from “girl with friends” to “girl with a friend group that includes boys.” And wasn’t a status upgrade what Fonda always wanted?

  “I’m glad we’re sitting.” Ruthie smiled. “I’m ravenous.”

  “Yay!” Drew’s twisted insides unfurled. “What are you going to order?” Expecting outrage, she cut a look to Fonda, but her deadened brown eyes were fixed on the surf videos. She was that far gone.

  “Tap water and free breadsticks,” Ruthie said.

  “That’s it?”

  “My phone isn’t going to pay for itself.”

  “Please. You’re gonna make bank tutoring Owen.”

  “I’ll believe it when I spend it. Right now, the whole thing sounds too good to be true.”

  “I know what you mean,” Drew said, wondering when Will was going to get there. If Keelie would be tagging along. If Fonda and Henry would realize they’d been set up and how angry they’d be once they did.

  Just then, the bells above the door clanged and in they came. Cheeks flushed, clothes stained red, hair askew and sweaty, like extras from a war movie. To Drew, Will had never looked more adorable. Mostly because Keelie wasn’t there to darken her view.

  “How weird,” Drew said, trying to project a convincing mix of shock and dread. “Look who just walked in.”

  Fonda stood. “I’m out.”

  “We haven’t even ordered yet.”

  “You want an order? Here’s one. Let’s go!” She hooked her backpack over her shoulder and gave Ruthie a nudge, urging her to stand.

  “Hey,” Henry said to Fonda, his strides full of bounce and victory. “Lulu sent her driver to get more balloons, so the whole thing went on longer than I thought. Anyway, that’s why I’m late. Sorry.”

  Afraid that Henry’s apology might tip off Fonda, Will and Drew locked eyes, the intimacy of which sent a flutter of harp music to the spaces behind Drew’s belly button. It was similar to the flutter Drew got from dropping into a bowl on her skateboard, only this one kept on going as Will sat down beside her. He smelled like cherry Kool-Aid, sunscreen, and Keelie who?

  Oblivious to the fact that Fonda was standing, Henry slid into the booth and propped open a menu. “Thick crust with Hang-Ten toppings. Bam!”

  “What did you mean, ‘That’s why I’m late’?” Fonda asked, still standing. “Late for what?”

  Henry closed the menu. “This.”

  “This?”

  “So . . . what was the deal with Lulu’s driver?” Drew asked. “Was that guy even human?”

  “Definitely not human,” Will said. “He ran out of electricity halfway through the battle. Lulu had to plug the golf cart charger into his butt to revive him.”

  Everyone laughed, though Drew was the loudest.

  “That sounds like some makeover magic right there,” Fonda said.

  “More like a make under,” Henry added.

  Drew offered her knuckles. “Good one, Goode!”

  Henry fist-bumped her.

  “Lulu’s gonna need magic if she wants to get that Kool-Aid out of her hair,” Ruthie said. “My friend Sage kooled her hair last month, and it’s still pink.”

  “Kooled?” Drew asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone in TAG calls it.”

  Henry smirked. “Kool.”

  This time it was Fonda who fist-bumped Henry, and Will and Drew exchanged another harp-flutter of a glance. Their instincts had been right; the “trap” was the only way Fonda and Henry would have realized their friendship potential. Sneaky as it was, it had to be done. In a few days, Drew would come clean and they’d all have a good laugh about it. Fonda would call Drew a social visionary, and Henry would insist they hang out together, like, all the time. Then they’d celebrate at Fresh & Fruity, where they’d toss around names for their new group like the Fresh & Fruity Five, the New Nesties, and DrRuFoHeWi, which would crack them up since it was so bad.

  The waiter came, and Henry ordered an extra-large Hang-Ten for everyone to share. “My treat,” he said when Ruthie balked at the price. “I heard the food sucks at Pendleton and you can’t sneak stuff in because they check your bags. So when you’re all hungry and mad at me, remember the pizza.”

  Fonda raised an eyebrow. “Pendleton? Why would we be at Pendleton?”

  “The field trip?” he said, as if asking a question—a question he assumed she should have been able to answer.

  Drew and Will exchanged another glance, only instead of a fluttering harp, it felt like that claw that twisted clockwise.

  “We’re going to Catalina for the field trip,” Fonda said.

  Henry scoffed. “Why would we do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Because Catalina is boring.”

  “Boring?” Fonda cut a look
to Drew for backup. Drew lowered her eyes. “You literally said Catalina would be cool.”

  “I did not!”

  “Did too!”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday!” Fonda unzipped her backpack. “Look . . .”

  She was going to prove her point by showing him the text—the one Will sent pretending to be Henry, the one Drew erased.

  The waiter returned with their pizza and an annoying amount of good cheer. “Any Parmesan for y’all?”

  “No, thanks,” Ruthie said after no one else bothered to answer.

  “Pepper flakes?”

  “No, thank you,” Ruthie told him.

  “Ranch?” he asked. “It’s not just for salad anymore. You can dip—”

  “All good!” Will snapped.

  “Great, then,” the waiter said with a clap of his hands. “Bon appétit, now you may eat!”

  As he was leaving, Fonda muttered, “That’s weird. The text is gone.”

  “Yeah, because it never existed!”

  Will took a big bite of pizza and pretended not to notice Henry’s frustration. A crumb of sausage clung to his upper lip. Drew pretended not to notice that.

  “Can someone pass me a plate?” Ruthie asked.

  No one did.

  “I told you he was messing with me,” Fonda told Drew. Then she dropped her phone in her backpack and zipped it with flourish.

  “Me messing with you?” Henry tilted back his head and lowered a slice into his mouth. “How?”

  “By calling a truce, then sabotaging my presentation with a third-grade balloon fight.”

  Henry drew back his head. “Third grade isn’t water balloons—it’s those toddler lollipops you gave out.”

  Will laughed, the sound of which made that claw in Drew’s belly twist tighter. Whose side was he on?

  “What’s third grade about lollipops?” Drew asked.

  “Yeah,” Ruthie added. “Lollipops are timeless.”