“Yes, Fonda! Yes, she did!” Sage pulled them both into a hug. “It proves Drew’s cut out for politics. And we know I am because I made up the story about the Avas sleeping over here so you’d come—”
“You made that up?”
“I did, and you’re welcome,” Sage said. “But the real question is: are you cut out for politics?”
“Since when is politics about lying to get what you want?”
“Since the earliest hominid of primitive bipedalism arose some six to seven million years ago,” Sage said. “That said, I prefer the term strategizing to lying. Now, can you handle it or not?” She offered her right hand for a shake.
Having decided that “strategizing” was better than losing, Fonda shook it. “I am the hand in handle it.”
chapter fourteen.
DREW CALLED DOUG from the sleepover to tell him the plan.
“A basket full of snacks?” He laughed. “Who came up with that? Little Red Riding Hood? What you need is an insulated backpack full of bean-and-cheese burritos.”
“How am I supposed to get all that by tomorrow morning?”
“Get up at four a.m., bike home from Sage’s, and bust out a bunch of bean ’n’ cheesers. I’ll provide the pack free of charge. Just make sure you’re in the truck by five thirty a.m. A south swell is coming, and the lineup is gonna be jammed with shubies. Dawn patrol is a must, and I will wait for no one.”
“Got it,” Drew said, even though most of what he said made zero sense.
* * *
The next morning, Drew was, however, very much on time. The damp chill inside Doug’s truck and the predawn darkness proved it. As did his annoyingly loud yawns.
Doug cracked a window. “It smells like farts in here.”
“It’s the bean ’n’ cheesers,” Drew told him, eyes dry and burning. Making stacks of burritos before sunrise was exhausting. How did Taco Bell do it?
“Yesss!” Doug reached for the backpack. “I’m starving!”
Drew slapped his wrist. “Watch the road.”
“Grab a couple for me, will ya?”
“They’re for the surfers.”
“I’m a surfer!”
“Well, you don’t qualify to sign my petition, so you don’t qualify for a burrito.”
“Good,” Doug said. “They smell like farts anyway.”
“You’re the one that wants one, fart eater.”
“You’re the one who made them, fart cooker.”
They rode the rest of the way in sleepy silence. As the charcoal-dark sky brightened into a more hopeful shade of blue, Drew was reminded of Will’s denim-colored eyes. Like actual denim, they could be soft and comfy or rigid and tight—something to slip into or a fit that had to be forced. When they parted ways at Van’s, divided once again, Drew had been sure Will’s brand of denim was the bad-fit kind. But that was two days ago. Now there was a swirling fall wind where her anger used to be. It felt like hunger without the appetite, a pit that food couldn’t fill.
Within minutes of arriving at Salt Cove, Doug was fist-bumping his buddies and saying, “Sup, bruh?” in that deep, monosyllabic bro voice that made Drew’s cringes cringe. This from a guy who sang Taylor Swift songs in the shower and plucked his unibrow. If they only knew . . .
“What smells like farts?” asked Doug’s buddy TJ.
“My sister.”
With that, Drew hurried toward the beach, where neoprene-clad surfers ambled toward the frothing ocean, leaving traces of coconut-scented sunscreen in their wakes. Tanned and fit as they were, Drew only had eyes for seventh graders and eventually found them waxing their boards by the shoreline. They looked like a pod of seals in their black wet suits—hungry seals, she hoped. “Who wants a burrito?”
Everyone raised their hands. This was going to be even easier than she thought.
“You all go to Poplar Middle, right?”
They nodded.
“Great, so, um, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Drew, and I’m working to change this year’s field trip from Ferdink Farms to Catalina Island, which you’re going to love because—”
“Where are the burritos?” asked a boy with stripes of orange zinc on his cheeks.
“Sign my petition to show you support the change, and I’ll give you one.” A wave crashed on the shore and sprayed Drew salty. She ignored it like a pro and kept right on talking. “Who wants to go first?”
“Me!” Orange Stripes called as a line quickly formed behind him.
Drew handed him the clipboard and then a burrito. “You won’t regret it. Catalina is an island, so we’ll be surrounded by waves. Remember to bring your boards because the surf will be epic.”
“Fake news!” shouted a familiar voice. It was slightly nasal and wildly unwelcome because it was walking toward them with Will.
“What are you doing here?” Drew asked Keelie.
She stuck her yellow surfboard in the sand with the flourish of an astronaut on a moon landing. “What do you think I’m doing here?” She pulled a clipboard and a pen out of her backpack, to be extra clear.
Another wave crashed, splattering them with spray. Unlike Keelie, who was dressed in a formfitting Hawaiian-print rash guard, Drew was rocking pajama bottoms and crusted zit cream. Still, she stood tall and took the ocean’s sloppy licks like a splash-zone champ. Weakness was not an option.
“Hey, D.” Will waved as if everything between them was perfectly normal. Which it absolutely wasn’t. Not only did he call her D (again!), but he’d never apologized for comparing Catalina to Rikers. Since their encounter at Van’s, removing the sausage from his lip was the only thing Will had done right.
“Did you come to steal my signatures?”
“Steal? Please! We had no idea you’d be here.” Keelie shielded her eyes from the morning glare. “Your skin is so pale it’s, like, invisible. I thought you hated the beach.”
“I love the beach!” Drew said, mad at herself for taking the bait. “Anyway, I’m kind of in the middle of something, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“The only thing you’re in the middle of is lying,” Keelie said. “According to Willy, the decent breaks on Catalina Island are impossible to reach without a boat.”
Willy?
“Dude.” The boy who was about to sign the petition lifted his pen off the page. “Is that true?”
Will gazed out at the shore pound and nodded.
“They’re just messing with you,” Drew said, hoping Will would take it back.
He didn’t.
“The good news is,” Keelie chirped, “San Onofre, also known as the Waikiki of Cali, is super close to Camp Pendleton, so if you’d rather surf there, sign our petition.”
“Rad!” The boy handed back Drew’s clipboard. Only three people had signed.
“Can we still grab one of those burritos?”
“Is that what I smell?” Keelie asked. “I thought Drew pooped her pj’s.”
Drew hooked the backpack over her shoulder while everyone laughed, everyone except Will. He stood on the edge of their cluster, nibbling his thumbnail and watching the waves. His eyebrows knit with concern, maybe even guilt. Though not enough to defend her.
Fighting tears, Drew hurried for the parking lot, wondering how she’d face the girls after this colossal failure.
“What’s wrong?” Doug called as she ran past him and his friends.
“Everything.” Drew released the backpack to the sand. “You can have them.”
His buddies descended on them like seagulls.
“Did you get your signatures?”
Drew shook her head. “It’s over. There are no good surf spots on Catalina. I mean, there are, but you need a boat.”
“There’s Shark Harbor.”
“Is it infested with sharks?”
“Nah. They
call it Shark Harbor because there’s a rock by the break that looks like a shark head. It’s a medium-sized wave, but it’s powerful.”
“Lower your voice, bruh,” TJ said. “That break is sacred. I don’t want a bunch of seventh-grade groms out there.”
“Whatever,” Drew sighed. “It’s too late anyway. Keelie and Will probably have everyone’s signatures by now. Catalina’s over.”
A girl screamed. It was Keelie. Clipboard in hand, she was attempting to outrun a gigantic wave but only made it a few steps before a claw of thundering whitewash smacked her flat. Most people covered their mouths in horror, but a few captured the glorious wipeout on their phones.
Shocked and wobbling, she emerged like some sort of water zombie, arms stiff and dripping in seaweed. “Find the clipboard!” Keelie shouted at Will just as another wave smacked her back down.
When Keelie popped up again, she and Will began searching the ocean for their lost signatures. Drew, however, began searching her inner strategist for a way to capitalize on the “unfortunate” situation.
“Has anyone heard of the secret surf spot called Shark Harbor?” she asked the boys. Ten minutes later, she had seventeen more signatures. And ten minutes after that, she was laughing herself breathless at the video someone posted on @Kookslams of Keelie getting pummeled.
chapter fifteen.
RUTHIE PRESSED THE Lowell-Klines’ doorbell with the kind of determination that turns fingertips white. Friday’s tutoring session had been a mild disaster, and she refused to let Owen’s toddler-sized attention span, spontaneous snack cravings, and restless leg syndrome get the better of her again. Not only had she missed the sleepover strategy meeting with Sage, but she and Owen were only able to cover one-tenth of the material. And now it was Sunday. His biology test was less than twenty-four hours away. If Owen didn’t focus, he was going to fail. And if the student failed, the teacher failed too.
As “Für Elise” sounded throughout the house, Ruthie rolled back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and deadened her eyes. She wanted to project an air of seriousness. Today, Owen would treat her like a professional whether he liked it or—
The front door swung open, and Owen thrust two helmets at Ruthie. “Hold these for a second.” He wiggled a backpack onto his shoulders, shouted goodbye to his mother, then said, “To the garage, m’lady!”
“The garage? Why? What’s happening?”
“It’s seventy-six degrees and sunny. That’s what’s happening.” The coarse fabric on his beige shorts made a scraping sound as he led the way.
“What does the weather have to do with cells?” Ruthie asked, steering his attention back to biology.
“Staying inside feels like being in a cell. That’s what.”
Ruthie smiled a little. It was a clever response, she had to give him that. But her laissez-faire attitude stopped the moment Owen wheeled an electric bike toward her and pat-patted the seat. “Helmet up and hop on. We’re riding this steed to Dana Point Harbor.”
“No, we’re not!” Ruthie pulled a stack of flash cards from the back pocket of her overall shorts. “We’re studying.”
“At the harbor.” Owen slid on a pair of blue mirrored sunglasses. “My mom is hosting a lunch for her book club.” He checked his Apple Watch. “In ten minutes, our entire neighborhood is going to reek of Le Labo perfume and Teslas. Trust me. We should get going.”
Owen steadied the bike so Ruthie could get on. Was she thrilled about the location change or the idea of wrapping her arms around Owen? Not one bit. But the boat-filled harbor was the whale-watching capital of the west.
“Hold on tight,” Owen called. “Here we go!” He thumbed the throttle, and they lurched forward.
“Ahhhh!” Ruthie grabbed Owen’s hips and turned her face to the side—anything to avoid inhaling his skin smells, which she assumed were yeasty and sweaty and a lot like kombucha.
When they reached a steady cruising speed, Ruthie unclasped her hands and hooked her fingers through his belt loops instead. In the movies, when boys and girls doubled on bikes, they usually ended up falling in love. And Ruthie didn’t want to leave any room for misunderstandings. Not that Owen was testing positive for the crush virus. He wasn’t. But just in case . . . Ruthie shook her head. Even thinking about it was awkward.
“Told you we should get outside,” Owen called into the salty breeze.
He was right. The postcard perfection of the day was undeniable. Sunshine colored the neighborhood streets in yellow joy, and everyone smile-waved when they cruised by. And the best part? Owen’s skin didn’t smell of kombucha, more like expensive shampoo.
They turned into the harbor, where seagulls flew in V-shaped configurations and boats with Dorito-shaped sails drifted along the emerald-green water. Where kids licked triple scoops of ice cream and kites danced through the sky. And where no one wanted to think about the biology of basic cells, ever. Ruthie included. But if Owen failed his test, she would be fired. And if she was fired, she’d never have enough money for a phone. Ruthie would remain socially obsolete and technologically challenged for the rest of her days. Like the old Pilgrim ship, she’d keel over in the middle of the night, never to be seen again.
“This looks like a good study spot,” she said as they cruised past a park. If they sat at one of the picnic tables, Owen’s spine would be straight, and his feet could be flat. It was an ideal posture for focus.
“The park?” Owen scoffed. “How are we going to kayak on the grass?”
“Kayak?”
Minutes later, Ruthie stepped into a wobbly kayak that was then shoved out to sea by the foot of a Harbor Water Rentals employee. It didn’t matter how many times she told Owen their flash cards would get wet or that paddling would be too much of a distraction. He insisted. And as long as the customer was paying, he was always right.
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, m’lady,” Owen said in a cringy British accent. “I tend to get a little seasick, so it’s best if I handle the oars.”
Seated in the front with her fingers trailing in the cool water, Ruthie was instantly mesmerized by the sway of the boat, the slosh of Owen’s paddle, and the diamonds of light that winked along the ocean’s surface. Enjoying the ride was easy. That was what made this so hard!
“Most cells are made from a type of protoplasm,” Ruthie shouted into the breeze. “What’s it called?”
“Cookie?”
Cookie? Did Owen seriously think Swiss embryologist Rudolf Albert von Kölliker would name a type of protoplasm cookie? Did they even have cookies in 1863?
“Owen, we went over this on Friday. Is that really your best guess?” Ruthie turned around to find a Tupperware dish on the seat between them. It was filled with cookies that had been frosted with pink icing to read Lana’s First Love.
“It’s the name of the novel my mom’s reading for her book club,” Owen explained. “The woman’s an obsessive monogrammer. She had tons of them made, so I swiped a few. Don’t judge me.”
Ruthie giggled and took one. The sugar went straight to her cells and made them hum. “Yum. What type?”
“Cytoplasm,” Owen said.
Ruthie turned around again. “They’re made with cytoplasm?” It was an alarming concept, but not one she would put past a mom who writes Lana’s First Love on cookies.
“No, the type of protoplasm is called cytoplasm,” Owen said. “I was answering your question.”
“You knew that?” Ruthie asked, wishing she hadn’t sounded so shocked.
“Yeah. We went over it on Friday. Remember?”
“Uh, yeah.” Ruthie rolled her eyes at the ocean. Of course she remembered. “Okay, so what’s the center of a cell called?”
“A nucleus.”
“Yes!” Ruthie slapped the side of the kayak. “You’re going to ace this! You might not even need my help in bio anymore.”
“You t
hink? I don’t know. Ask me another one.”
“The nucleus is the control center that directs all the cell’s activities. It is surrounded by—”
“Hair.”
“Hair? No. The answer is a nuclear membrane.” Ruthie reached for a second cookie. Whatever Owen was paying her, it wasn’t enough. “That’s okay, you’ll get this one. Inside the nucleus, there’s a type of protoplasm called . . .”
“Sea lion!” he shouted. “Oh, no, wait, I think it’s a trash bag. My old nanny looked like a sea lion.” He stopped paddling. “Ugh, what was her name again?”
“Owen, what’s the protoplasm called?”
“Rachel! That was her name. She looked like a sea lion. Or maybe it was a seal. I forget the difference.”
“Sea lions are brown and have visible ear flaps. Seals have small flippers and lack visible ear flaps,” Ruthie managed.
“Oh, then it was definitely a sea lion. Rachel had sizable ears.”
“Owen, I think we should return the kayak and study on land. It will be easier for you to focus and—”
A motorboat’s engine buzzed. Ruthie paused to let it pass. When it did, a corduroy pattern of waves rolled toward the kayak, lifted it up, and smashed it back down. The impact was minimal and not at all scary. The splash, however, was enough to soak Ruthie’s overalls and drench Owen’s stiff side part.
Laughing, Owen shook it off like a wet dog. When he was done, vines of dark hair clung to his jaw and hung over his eyes. With the paddle across his lap and the sun warming his skin, he no longer resembled a pudgy Lego figurine. More like a rugged man of the land. Only on the water. And with a Tupperware full of Lana’s First Love cookies instead of a slaughtered buffalo or a speared fish. Still, his hair was on point.
“What?” he asked as he ran a hand through his tousled vines. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Your hair . . . it’s . . .”
“I know.” Owen began smoothing it back into captivity. “It’s unruly.”
“No, stop!” Ruthie insisted. “You should keep it like that.”
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