by Meg Cabot
There was one red Jeep Wrangler, but that seemed like way too cool of a car for Tommy Sullivan. It had to belong to some Summer People who’d docked their yacht in the bight for repairs or barnacle-scraping or something.
But when I pedaled toward the pier, I didn’t see any yachts, just the usual cluster of working boats, belonging to actual local fisher- and lobster-men. My dad’s twin-engine speedboat, with its brown sunscreen—which Dad had been meaning to replace for years, and was now a bit on the tattered, faded side—was bobbing up and down at the far end of the pier.
And there was, I could see by the combined light from the half-full moon and the lamps along the dock, someone lying casually across the bow.
Someone who was most definitely not my dad.
I felt something when I saw him. I don’t even know what it was. It was like a fireball of emotions shooting through me, including, but not limited to, rage, remorse, guilt, and indignation.
Most of the rage was directed at myself. Because as I pedaled closer to the boat—bikes aren’t allowed on the pier, but whatever, there was no one around to stop me—and saw how comfortable Tommy had gone ahead and made himself, lying there on his back, looking up at the stars, I couldn’t help thinking how incredibly good he looked in that snug-fitting black tee, and those faded jeans that seemed to hug every contour of his lean body.
And those are not the kind of thoughts any girl with a boyfriend should have about another guy. Let alone a girl with two boyfriends.
Let alone thoughts she should be having about Tommy Sullivan.
Oh, yeah. I was in serious trouble.
Six
“Hey,” Tommy said when he finally noticed me on the pier, looking down at him. He leaned up on his elbows. “Come aboard.”
“No way,” I said.
He laughed. Not in a mean way, though. But like he found something genuinely funny.
“Right,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs down off the bow, so they were dangling in front of the door to the cabin below. “I forgot how much you hate boats. Even ones that are docked. Still get seasick?”
“Just tell me what you want,” I said, clutching the handlebars to my bike and trying to keep my voice steady. “So I can leave already.”
“Nuh-uh,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “Take one of those pills you always have with you and climb in.” Even in the moonlight, I could tell his smile was bitter. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”
I felt a burst of rage so pure and intense, it nearly knocked me off my bike and into the water below. Which I actually wouldn’t have minded. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that Tommy Sullivan was hot now.
Which I couldn’t believe I was thinking about. I mean, this guy was practically blackmailing me into associating with him, and I still thought he was hot?
There’s something wrong with me. Seriously.
At least I wasn’t the only one that there was something wrong with.
Because there has to be something wrong with someone who remembered such a mundane fact that I never go anywhere without Dramamine (non-drowsy formula) somewhere on my person.
And, true, it’s tough to live in a seaside town when you suffer from chronic seasickness. I can’t even set foot on the Run Aground—a boat so tightly lashed to the pier that it barely moves, and a seaside breakfast spot that’s incredibly popular with people like my mother, who love anything cute and nautical-themed—without thinking I might hurl.
But how had Tommy Sullivan managed to remember this, after all these years?
Scowling, I climbed down from my bike, lowered the kickstand, pulled off my bicycle helmet, and reached into my backpack—into which I’d crammed my still-wet swimsuit from The Point and my makeup and stuff—and pulled out one of the little yellow pills I’ve carried around habitually since the age of twelve. I tossed it back without even thinking about reaching for the water bottle I also had in my bag. When you’ve taken as many motion-sickness pills as I have, you don’t need liquid to swallow them anymore.
Then, still scowling, I swung myself onto my dad’s boat—years of long practice (everyone in Eastport has a dad who fishes) had made me an expert at climbing in and out of boats—and felt my stomach lurch, as it always did, when the floor rolled a little beneath my feet. It takes a while for the Dramamine to kick in.
“All right,” I said, dropping my bag and bike helmet to the boat’s floor, then lowering myself onto the padded bench across from where Tommy was sitting. I was trying to maintain a very businesslike demeanor. Because that’s all this was. A business meeting. Tommy Sullivan wanted something. And I was going to do my best to provide whatever it was, so that he didn’t rat me out to my boyfriend about my other boyfriend. “I’m here. Now what do you want?”
“I told you,” Tommy said, looking down at me from his perch on the bow. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk,” I echoed doubtfully.
“Talk,” he repeated. “You do remember, don’t you, that we used to talk quite a bit?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. I found that it wasn’t very easy to meet his gaze—even though that is an important part of maintaining a businesslike demeanor. I know because I occasionally browse through my parents’ favorite trade publication, Realtor Magazine, and it said so.
But Realtor Magazine had never had any articles on how the heck you’re supposed to maintain eye contact with a guy whose irises change colors in different lights, and who furthermore looks so good in a pair of jeans that all thoughts of your boyfriend(s) fled at the sight of him.
Seth Turner, I said firmly to myself. You are the girlfriend of Seth Turner, the most popular guy in all of Eastport, besides his big brother. Seth Turner, the guy you had such a crush on all through middle school, and who you were so happy to snag the summer before your freshman year, when he finally looked your way. And okay, maybe he DID turn out to be a sort of boring conversationalist, but you don’t want to break up with him, because what would people think? It is bad enough you are cheating on him with Eric Fluteley. Do not make things even worse.
Except, well, the moonlight was kind of throwing the planes of Tommy’s face into high relief, making him look even handsomer and more mysterious than he had at the beach, when I hadn’t realized who he was.
And the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat was way romantic.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m worse than Ado Annie, that girl in the musical Oklahoma! who gets so carried away with whatever guy she’s with that she can’t say no.
No, wait. I’m not as bad as she is. I always say no….
Just not to kissing.
And Tommy Sullivan looked as if he’d be a lot of fun to kiss….
Oh, God!
“So Liam tells me you’re running for Quahog Princess,” Tommy said, casually breaking in on my thoughts about kissing him.
Quahog Princess! Yes! Concentrate on that. Anything but Tommy Sullivan’s lips.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
Then, because I remembered, all too clearly, having made fun of Quahog Princesses back when Tommy and I used to hang out together, I added quickly, “The money’s really good. Fifteen hundred bucks for first place. Which Sidney will win, of course, but I have a chance at second. The only other candidates are Morgan Castle, and you know she barely even talks. And then there’s Jenna Hicks…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t want to say anything bad about Jenna, who is probably a really nice person. She just never speaks to anyone, so it’s hard to tell.
I needn’t have worried. Tommy said it for me. He’d always had a way of saying what I was thinking but didn’t want to say, for fear of seeming mean, and becoming as unpopular as he always was.
“Jenna still only wear black?” Tommy wanted to know.
“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t believe he remembered. I mean, it was one thing to remember about me and the Dramamine, considering how much Tommy and I used to hang out together. But it was quite anot
her to remember Jenna Hicks, with whom I was fairly certain Tommy had never hung out. I mean, even Jenna, uncool as she’d always been, had considered Tommy even uncooler than she was. “Her mom is making her enter. I guess she thinks Jenna’ll make some new friends, or something. Ones who aren’t into, you know. Death.”
Not that it was working.
“Still,” I added. “Second place is a thousand dollars.”
Tommy whistled. “That’s some scratch.”
“That’s what I was thinking. I really want to get the new digital Leica—”
“Still doing the photography thing,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” I said, pushing away a sudden onslaught of memories of all the times he and I had done stories together for the Eastport Middle School Eagle, him writing them, me doing the photography—and spending the whole time praying fervently that Sidney didn’t find out how much I actually enjoyed being with someone as fatally uncool as Tommy. Probably it was better, under the circumstances, not to think about that.
Still, I couldn’t help asking, because I was curious, “How about you? Still writing?”
“You’re looking at the former editor in chief,” he said, “of Hoyt Hall Military Academy’s weekly paper, The Masthead.”
“No way!” I cried, forgetting how weird this whole thing was in my excitement for him. I mean, editor in chief…that’s big. “That’s so great, Tommy! Editor in chief?”
Then I thought of something, and my grin faded. “Wait…did you say former editor-in-chief?”
He nodded. “I resigned. Something better came along.”
“What could be better than editor in chief?” I asked wonderingly. Then, because it had just hit me, I cried, “Wait…military academy?”
He shrugged again. “No big.” Then—I guess because of my expression, which was still dismayed—he added, “I didn’t hate it, Katie. I mean, it wasn’t like in the movies. For one thing, it was co-ed. Thank God.”
I blinked. I’d forgotten, in those few moments, all about hating him. Instead, I just felt really, really bad.
Although, who I felt worse for—him or me—was debatable.
“Oh, Tommy,” I said. “That’s where you went after…here? Military school?”
“I wanted to,” he assured me with a laugh. “I thought I could use some self-defense tips. After what happened back here, and all, before I left.”
So that was what he’d meant when he’d said, back at the restaurant, They can try.
And why he was so cut.
“I’m surprised you came back at all,” I said, staring down at my shoes…my Pumas, because it’s tough being on your feet all night in flip-flops. “I mean…you have to hate it here.”
“Eastport?” Tommy sounded amused. “I don’t hate Eastport. I love Eastport.”
“How can you say that?” I asked, looking up in surprise. “After what those guys did to you?”
“You can love a place while still hating certain things about it,” Tommy said. “You should know all about that.”
I blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, look at you. You’re running for Quahog Princess, but you can’t stand quahogs.”
I gasped—though secretly I was relieved all he’d turned out to be referring to was my hatred of quahogs, the bivalve.
“I don’t hate quahogs anymore,” I lied, quickly climbing to my feet.
“Oh, right,” Tommy said with a sarcastic laugh. “You wouldn’t touch a quahog with a ten-foot pole! You always said they tasted like rubber.”
“They’re an acquired taste,” I lied some more, annoyed because he was right…quahogs do taste like rubber to me. I don’t understand how anybody can stand them, let alone host a town fair in appreciation for them. “And I finally acquired it,” I lied further. Really, it is amazing what a string of lies I can work up, when properly motivated.
“Sure, you did,” Tommy said sarcastically, uncrossing his arms—causing me to notice, as he did so, how large his hands had gotten since I’d last seen him. Our hands used to be exactly the same size.
Now his looked as if they’d be capable of swallowing mine whole.
I dragged my gaze from his hands—wondering, as I did so, why I couldn’t stop thinking about how those big hands would feel on my waist, if Tommy Sullivan happened to reach out and grab me and drag me toward him and start kissing me….
Not that he’d given me any indication that kissing was on the agenda. It was just that with the moonlight and the sound of the water and the fact that he’d gotten so hot and the fact that I’m basically addicted to kissing, it was sort of hard not to think about it.
Tommy apparently wasn’t having any problem resisting these kinds of thoughts. At least if his next question was any indication.
“So. Seth Turner. I guess that finally worked out for you, too.”
I knew what he meant. I knew exactly what he meant. Because Tommy had been one of the few people I’d let in on the secret of my crush on Seth, way back in sixth grade. I’d figured telling Tommy had been safe enough, considering he had no friends but me. So who would he tell?
“Yes,” I said primly. Where was he going with this, anyway?
“He must be an acquired taste, too,” Tommy observed.
“You don’t know him,” I said, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. Because Sidney and I had read in Glamour that guys like girls who play with their hair.
Although what I was doing, trying to make Tommy Sullivan like me—you know, that way—I don’t think I could have explained in a million years.
“Well, well, well,” Tommy said. He didn’t seem to notice my hair-tucking thing.
Which—I know! I was totally flirting with Tommy Sullivan! Tommy Sullivan, the most hated person in all of Eastport.
But I couldn’t help it.
“Things have changed since I’ve been gone,” Tommy went on. “Especially you.”
“Oh,” I said, uncomfortably aware of just how wrong he was. “I’m not so different than I used to be.”
“Maybe not on the inside,” Tommy said. “But on the outside? You’ve done the whole clichéd caterpillar-to-butterfly thing.”
Which, you know, was kind of funny, seeing as how he was one to talk.
“I just got my braces off,” I said. “And got highlights, and learned how to scrunch my hair.”
“Don’t be modest,” Tommy said, almost like he was impatient with me. “It’s not just how you look, either. You seem to have miraculously avoided all stigma from having associated with me all those years ago. In fact, from what I’ve observed, you’re one of the best-liked, most popular girls in town.”
“Besides Sidney,” I pointed out, observing that his eyes, in the moonlight, looked neither green nor amber, but almost silver. Also that his lips were very manly and strong-looking.
Who would have thought skinny Tommy Sullivan would grow up to have such nice-looking lips? Not me. That’s for sure.
“Sidney’s always been popular,” Tommy agreed. “But not as universally liked as you seem to be. You’ve got the whole package—pretty, friendly, hard-working, kind to the elderly”—I wondered how he could possibly know that, then remembered my tour bus—“talented, top of the class…now that I’m not around anymore to give you some competition—daughter of two well-liked locals, sister to a future Quahog. In fact, except for your apparent inability to stick to just one guy at a time, you’ve turned out to be perfect Quahog Princess material.”
I’d gotten so carried away, hearing all the good things he was saying about me, that I’d sort of leaned toward him and made myself available to be snatched up and made out with…assuming that any second he was going to put his arms around me and start kissing me.
But when he got to the part about my inability to stick to just one guy at a time, I glared at him and cried, “Hey! That’s not fair! I can’t help it if guys are attracted to me.”
“You could probably help
making out with them behind emergency generators,” Tommy pointed out dryly.
I scowled.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Tommy,” I snapped. “But I’m not sticking around a second longer if you’re just going to insult me.”
And I whirled around to go.
And just as I’d hoped he would, he reached out and grabbed one of my arms, right above the elbow, and dragged me back toward him.
“Not so fast,” he said with a laugh. “I’m not through talking to you.”
“Oh, you’re through, all right,” I assured him, peeking up at him from beneath my eyelashes (another Glamour tip). “You’ve done nothing since you got back to town but spy on me, and then insult me to my face. You’d better not have come back here to write some horrible exposé about Eastport, or something, Tommy, or I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?” he asked, still sounding amused. “Drop me like a hot potato and pretend you never knew me, let alone come over to my house after school to do our Scholastic Reading Counts quizzes together and eat my mom’s homemade peanut butter cookies? Oh, wait. You already did that.”
I didn’t care what he was saying, though. Because he still had hold of my arm. His hand was so big, his fingers and thumb almost met around it.
And, now that I was standing so close to him, I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave.
It’s hard to stay mad at any guy who smells good.
“Well,” I said in a slightly warmer voice, “if you’re not writing some horrible exposé about Eastport, what do you want with me, then?”
“I just wanted to tell you something,” Tommy said, looking down into my eyes.
But instead of kissing me, as I was beginning to think he might, he said, “I’ve enrolled at Eastport High. I’ll be going there this fall.”
Seven
“WHAT?”
I yanked my arm from his grasp.
“Wait a minute…when you said former editor in chief did you mean…Tommy, are you back in Eastport permanently?”
“Yes,” he said calmly.
“That’s what Jill meant,” I said, starting to pace the length of my dad’s boat (thirty feet, bow to stern), “when she said you told her you went to Eastport High. Because you do go to Eastport!”