T is for...he's a TOTAL jerk (Grover Beach Team #3)

by Piper Shelly

  “Anthony, wait. Please.” I didn’t know what drove me to say that, but at the same time I squared my shoulders and inhaled a deep breath, which I hoped would give me an extra half-inch of height.

  To my surprise, he stopped and arched one eyebrow.

  Oh God, what to do now? I bit the inside of my cheek, then I mumbled, “Why are you so annoyed with me? Did I do something to offend you?” Yeah, very subtle, Sam. I wanted to slap myself—even if I did want to know.

  His other eyebrow came up, too.

  Dammit, I was running into a dead-end. But I had to say something, so I tried the next best thing that came to mind. “Listen, I know you think I enjoyed how Cloey made fun of you the other night. But I didn’t.” I shrugged. “I can’t help being her cousin, but I don’t see why that’s such a problem for you. Anyway, you got your revenge when you got in my face in AVE today.”

  When he still said nothing, I made a hopeful face. “So…I’d say we’re even?”

  A slow and cold smile crept to his lips. “Right.” He slammed the door in my face.

  Ah…yes. Make a crap day perfect.

  Done with staring at his shadow disappearing behind the frosty glass, I dragged my feet from his front yard, planted my butt in the car, and floored it home.

  “Goddamned idiot!” When I banged my fist on the steering wheel, I wasn’t even sure if I was cursing Tony or me. I had made such a fool of myself trying to be friendly. And he was such a moron. I gritted my teeth and pressed even harder on the gas pedal. “Don’t spill nail-polish on them, Summers. Don’t powder them up with makeup, Summers. Please don’t put them in the wash.” Right, because that was just what I usually did with borrowed notes. Asshole.

  I slammed on the brakes in front of a pedestrian crossing to let two preschoolers and their grandma pass and screamed my frustration at Tony to the roof of the car. “I hate you!”

  The kids stared at me, puzzled, through the windshield as the old lady ushered them more quickly across the street. I blew a ragged breath through my nose, then drove on.

  Back in my uncle’s garage, I grabbed the notes from the passenger seat and walked inside. Dropping them on the desk in my room, I slumped on my bed and tried to kill myself and my misery by pressing the pillow on my face. I gave up after ten seconds, threw the pillow in a corner, and gazed at the ceiling.

  Why, oh why, did I have to run into this horrible guy on my first night in town?

  I sat up and let my gaze sweep across the room until it landed on Tony’s portfolio. It was a dark red carton with random drawings on it. Mostly fancywork and evil-eyed faces. The pencil strokes were accurate, even in those sketches that he’d obviously made without much attention. Absent doodling while listening to the teacher—this was something that I did often to my folders.

  I got up and wheeled the swivel chair from the corner to my desk, sat down, and opened the carton folder. There were five sketches inside, one in charcoal and four in pencil. Several sheets were clipped to each picture, with notes written all over the place. Though the beauty of his art left me breathless, it was Tony’s handwriting that drew my attention right now. On closer look, I realized the order within the chaos of his jottings. Though boyish enough, the artist shone right through his classy caps and the zestful loops of his G’s and J’s. I traced them with my finger, then I dragged my hands over my face. I must have completely lost my mind. This was just handwriting, dammit.

  From my own portfolio, I took out a large piece of paper, read through Tony’s instructions, and then began to sketch the outline of a human body. The task was to dress the person up in 1960s-style clothes.

  I was halfway done with the flaring pants when the weak light in my room really started to get on my nerves. The large window was little help when the sun was already creeping toward the west and my room faced the opposite direction. The dining room, on the other side, had a bright light. I packed my stuff and carried everything downstairs, where Pam was just finalizing neat bowls of chocolate mousse, which we’d get for dessert, no doubt.

  “Hey, Sammy,” she said and placed the bowls in the fridge. “Did you get what you needed?”

  I lifted the two folders of artwork. “Right here. Do you mind if I spread my stuff on the dining table for a while? I can’t draw with bad light, and these projects are really important. I’ll be gone before dinner.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s still over an hour until your uncle comes home.”

  I fanned out my drawing utensils on the wide glass-top table and got to work. The hippie person without a defined face on my picture got dark platforms and a T-shirt with a floral design. I enjoyed this drawing, nailing the shadows of the clothing perfectly by rubbing my finger over certain parts, blurring the lines. Just for fun, I portrayed the woman with long braids hanging from either side of her face and a slim band around her head.

  “The sleeves have to be a bit wider toward the wrists. They looked like the flaring pants, really,” my aunt said as she leaned over me and studied my picture.

  “Aren’t you too young to have been part of that freaky era?” I teased her, but I made the changes she suggested.

  “I had an aunt who came right out of that time. When I spent the night over at her place, she often showed me funny photo albums of her and her husband.” Wrinkles of a smile built around her eyes. “I laughed so hard at their crazy looks that sometimes she feared I’d choke.”

  Sheesh, I knew how that sounded. When my aunt got into one of her laughing fits, she was like a vacuum cleaner, and it was impossible not to laugh with her, just because of the sound of it. Aunt Pamela had always been my favorite relative, even though she was only related by marriage. Uncle Jack and my father looked a lot alike, but otherwise the brothers had little in common. While my father was warm and caring, it seemed like Jack was first and foremost interested in prestige and only secondly in family. The ever-busy attorney. He was a nice guy, all right, but after seventeen years of knowing him, he wasn’t even half as close to me as Pam had been since she’d given me a stuffed Roger Rabbit for Christmas when I was four years old.

  Pam drew the chair next to me out and sat down, leaning her elbows on the table. She pointed at the hem of the right pant leg on my drawing. “You know, if you added a small pleat here and a larger one here, the pants would look a lot wider and more authentic.”

  I tried to do what she said, and heck she was right. But then that was no surprise. Pam was an artist herself, doing beautiful canvases in aquarelle and oil. The hallway and parlor were wallpapered with her awesome abstract paintings of people, landscapes, and buildings. While my parents did everything to support my talent, Aunt Pamela really understood what drawing meant to me.

  “Mind if I bring my easel and paint with you for a bit? The chicken can roast without my help.” She smiled when I nodded.

  It was nice to have her around for the next forty minutes. Pam was a funny person, warm, and always up to giving amazing feedback. She also skimmed through Tony’s pictures and was impressed by such a great talent. Her gaze fell on the one arty letter that stood out at the bottom right of each drawing. She frowned. “And T is for…”

  “Total jerk,” I muttered before I knew what I was saying.

  Pam burst out laughing, and I bit my bottom lip. Then I added, “Well, his name is Anthony Mitchell, so I guess T is for Tony.”

  “I see.” She stopped laughing. “Just where have I heard that name before?” Her forehead creased with a frown, and she tilted her head, trying to make a connection. “Is he tall and blond with blue, blue eyes?”

  And a killer mouth, designed to get on my nerves. “Yep, that’s him.”

  “I think Cloey dated him a few times last summer. He’s a very nice boy.”

  I turned around to her fully. “Nice? Ha! That’s not the side I’ve got to know of him.”

  Pam scratched her brow. “Really? Cloey didn’t speak of anyone else but this guy for weeks. She was so happy when he finally asked her out. Unfortu
nately it didn’t last very long with them. Cloey cried for days when it was over.”

  “Is that so?” How strange. Somehow this clashed with the story Susan and the girls had told me about Tony and Cloey. If she dumped him, why would she cry? And what made her dump him in the first place? Had he been an asshole when he’d slept with her? To me it seemed he was an asshole 24/7, so that could easily be it.

  I pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t my concern anyway.

  A few minutes later, Cloey walked into the kitchen with her father and they both stopped to stare at us for a moment. Pam and I had fooled around a bit and were laughing so hard about a misplaced brushstroke of hers that now made the guy in her picture, who apparently should resemble Uncle Jack, look like a horny guy ready for action.

  “Hi, darling,” Pam said as Jack came to kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry, we didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I noticed that.” He slung his arms around her hips and studied the painting. “Is that me? And is that intentional?”

  The three of us laughed again, but not Cloey. She stood still in the entrance to the dining area and scowled at me like I had eaten the last piece of her beloved white chocolate.

  “Hi, Cloey.” I tried for a friendly voice, one with a conciliatory tone.

  She just snorted, then ran her long fingers through her pigtails. “Mom, where’s Rosa? I’m starving.”

  “I gave her the day off, honey. It’s her son’s birthday and she wanted to spend it with him,” Pam answered.

  “Great. So am I supposed to have a soda for dinner?” Cloey muttered.

  Pamela wiggled out of her husband’s arms with a proud beam. “Dinner is almost ready. I cooked tonight.”

  “You?” both my uncle and Cloey blurted out.

  I didn’t know what was so special about that, but then I hadn’t lived in this house long enough to know all the house rules.

  “Yes. Me,” Pam said over her shoulder as she walked to the stove. I picked up her irritation. “I cooked before Rosa came to us, and none of you ever complained.”

  Jack had laid his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. He looked at my aunt and said, “There was no need for you to get your hands dirty, Pam. We can go out for dinner.”

  Pamela pulled a delicious-smelling parmesan chicken out of the oven and placed it on the marble counter. “It’s no big deal. In fact, I’ve always enjoyed cooking. I was really looking forward to doing it today.” Her shoulders slumped a little. “Please, don’t spoil it for me now. Let’s just eat.” Her warm smile reappeared as she looked at me. “Can I get you to clear the table, Sammy?”

  I jumped up from my seat. “Of course.” With that stupid drama going on, my butt had frozen to the chair, the pencil still clenched between my fingers. We didn’t have a Rosa back in Cairo, or wherever we had lived in the past. My mom always cooked for us. I had found it totally normal to find Pam in the kitchen today. Obviously, in this house it was not.

  I packed my and Tony’s sketches and rushed upstairs, then washed my hands and came back down to a nicely decorated dining table. I slid into the seat opposite my cousin and held out my plate when Pam dished out the meal.

  Everyone was silent. I wondered if Pam’s cooking was a bigger issue than I had thought. At least they seemed to like her food, because Jack and Cloey both tucked in like there was no tomorrow.

  “That,” I said around a bite, pointing my fork to the second helping of chicken on my plate, “tastes fabulous, Pam.”

  She looked at me from the corner of her eye, and her lips curved in a happy smile. “Thank you, honey.”

  Cloey’s head snapped up so fast that I almost dropped my fork. She scowled at me, then at her mom, and finally at me again. Sometimes that girl totally weirded me out. All the more reason to make up with her, and make up fast.

  “Hey, Cloey,” I said and took a sip from my lemonade. “I thought we could hang out a bit tonight, maybe grab some ice cream and watch a DVD or something.”

  “Actually, I’m meeting up with Brin and Ker in an hour. We’re going to watch a movie in town.” Cold, emotionless. I hated the aversion she shoved in my direction.

  “You should take Sam with you,” Pamela suggested, and Jack agreed.

  I wondered if her father’s approving look was the reason why Cloey finally blew a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and said, “Fine. Be ready at eight.”

  Okay, not the warm kind of invitation I had hoped for, but it was better than nothing. Maybe we could start over again.

  After dinner, I changed my clothes, ran a comb through my unruly hair, and brushed my teeth. I was outside waiting by Cloey’s car at three minutes to eight, and she gave an irritated roll of her eyes when she saw me standing there.

  We both climbed in, then she started the engine and cruised down the road. This was the perfect moment to talk things out with her.

  “Listen, Clo, I wanted to tell you sorry for what happened down in the café. I was a little stressed out and—”

  The tires screeched to a halt. I was pressed into the seatbelt so hard that all the air whizzed out of my lungs. “What the heck—” I gasped.

  Cloey turned a cold look at me. “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get out of my car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll just come around and drag you out by your hair.”

  Oh my God! What had gotten into the girl? “Cloey, if this is because of Saturday night, let me—”

  “Samantha, I’ve no intention of bringing you with me to meet my friends. Never had. I said yes so my mom and dad would get off my back, but now I want you to get out and find something else to do.”

  Wow. I swallowed hard. Her face was edged in granite, so I figured further arguing was useless. I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door, but before I could get out, I heard her cold voice behind me.

  “And stay away from Pamela Summers. She’s not your mother, she’s mine. Yours is miles away and obviously not very interested in you, or she wouldn’t have sent you to my place where you can squeeze in where you don’t belong.”

  My chest tightened at her words. Not because I believed the shit she said, but because I couldn’t understand so much hatred coming from a girl I’d loved to hang out with only a couple of years ago. I was too wrung up to reply, so I climbed out and slammed the door shut behind me, heading down the sidewalk and not turning around to her when the tires screeched away from the curb.

  CHAPTER 5

  All right, what to do with an evening that went wrong before it had even started? I dropped my suddenly exhausted self onto a bench close to the road and fished in my pocket for my cell phone. I had called my parents several times since coming to my aunt’s place and I always made sure to sound happy and not convey how much I missed them. But when I called my mom tonight, I just sobbed into the phone.

  I told her about Cloey’s unexpected bitchiness and that she was turning my stay into hell. I also told her about Anthony Mitchell’s verbal slaps in my face. My mom listened to my rants for minutes without disrupting me, then she took a deep breath before she turned into the angel I knew. She asked me about the good moments I’d already had in Grover Beach. I remembered Susan, Liza, and Simone, who seemed to instantly like me, and I also told her that Nick Frederickson had done the fish dissecting for me when I couldn’t.

  Mom’s soft voice soothed me, and by the time I said goodnight and promised that I would call her after school tomorrow, I’d dabbed at my tears and was able to breathe again without my chest and throat feeling like they were being acupunctured.

  I sat for a little while, regarding the darkening sky, wondering whether I should just go home and go to bed. Yeah, great idea, coming home with bloodshot eyes from crying. My aunt and uncle would freak out. And Cloey would have my head for it. I planted my boots on the bench and hugged my knees to my chest, skimming through the new names in my cell phone. Maybe one of the girls was up for going out for a bit and havin
g a cappuccino with me in that café close to Tony’s home.

  My thumb hovered over the call button with Liza’s name on the display, then I stopped. She was probably with her boyfriend, and I didn’t want to be the odd one out. I called Susan instead.

  “Hi, Sam, what’s up?” she greeted me with a happy chuckle. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Um…hi,” I said. “Who is we, and why were you?”

  “I’m with Liza, Simone, and then some. What are you doing? Wanna come hang out with us?”

  I hesitated, deliberating who some would be. But then she could mean anybody, and I desperately needed a little distraction right now. “Sure. Where are you guys?”

  “At Hunter’s beach house. Where are you? I can come and get you.”

  I quickly looked around. I had no idea what to tell her. Cloey hadn’t gone far before she’d kicked me out, so I figured it was best to walk back home and have Susan pick me up from there. “Do you know where Cloey lives?”

  A snort traveled down the line. “Yes.”

  I laughed at her obvious disgust. “Know what? I’ll wait for you at the corner down the street. How’s that?”

  “Much better than picking you up right from her driveway. I’ll be there in ten.”

  I rang off and walked to the point where we were supposed to meet. Susan and I arrived there at the same time. She was fast.

  The window rolled down at the passenger’s side. A beaming Susan leaned over. “Get your pretty ass in.”

  I did, and she drove off in silence. After a couple of minutes, she asked, “What’s with your eyes?”

  “Long story.” And nothing I really wanted to talk about.

  But obviously Susan did. “Troubles in the house of Summers?”

  Gazing out the side window, I sighed. “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Did Cloey give you shit again?”

  Now I turned to her. “Again?” What did this girl know?

  “Right before you called me, Liza told us what happened Saturday night down at Charlie’s.”

  I made a grunting sound. “Let’s just say, it’s harder to live with her than I’d expected.”