by Kieran Scott
She made a good point. “I don’t know. The class might be full. I mean, studying stuffy, dead English dudes for the summer? That’s, like, a major draw.”
Chloe laughed and put her sunglasses on. “I’ll pick you up at one thirty.”
Then she twiddled her fingers and walked away. I felt energized all of a sudden. It was good, making somebody feel happy for once. Having someone be glad to have me around. I went back inside to study and put the new mood to use before it went away.
Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Monday, July 12
Position: Cream of the Crop denim boutique, Orchard Avenue.
Cover: Shopping for jeans. (Personal Note: Do people actually spend $258 on one pair of jeans? I can buy everything in Old Navy for that price.)
Observations:
1:27 p.m.: Subject Faith Kirkpatrick walks in. Uniform: green off-the-shoulder minidress, sky-high wedge sandals, sleek ponytail. (Query: What’s she doing home from the shore?) I skirt the clearance rack so she doesn’t see me, get distracted by a cute pair of rolled, cropped jeans. Hmmm . . . these are actually—
The dressing room curtain snaps shut. Subject Faith’s already inside and I didn’t see what she picked out. Damn you, Lucky Brand sale jeans!
1:32 p.m.: Still considering jeans when Subject Chloe Appleby pulls up to stoplight outside in her white convertible. Uniform: puffed-sleeved, pink button-down. Subject Jake Graydon is in the passenger seat. Uniform: light blue T-shirt, Ray-Bans. Subject Jake says something. Subject Chloe laughs. The light turns green, and they zip off. (Assessment: Subject Chloe’s really sowing those wild oats now that Hammond’s out of the picture. Personal Query: Do I tell Ally?)
1:35 p.m.: I buy the jeans. On sale, it still takes half my paycheck.
1:42 p.m.: (Location: Scoops.) Experiencing extreme buyer’s remorse. Have enough cash left for ice cream, but can’t stomach it. This is a personal first.
1:45 p.m.: (Location: Cream of the Crop.) No returns on clearance merchandise! Damn you, Lucky Brand sale jeans! Damn you to Hades!
2:30 p.m.: (Location: My room, in front of the mirror.) Okay. They’re actually pretty cute.
I was scooping out strawberry ice cream for an adorable towheaded kid on Monday afternoon when Hammond walked in, ducked behind the counter, and sauntered up to me, all smiles. I already had a headache from being out too late with Cooper, Dex, and Jenny yet again, and had this awful sour taste in my mouth I just could not get rid of. I was definitely in no mood to deal with the likes of Hammond Ross.
“Hey, Crestie Girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I let the freezer door slam, handed the cone to the kid, and rang it up. His dad paid me three dollars and told me to keep the change.
“Thanks.” I tossed the money in the tip jar, on which the handwritten sign read send us to college! tnx! I wasn’t entirely sure people were going to want to send us to college if we couldn’t even spell out the words “Thank You,” but the tip jar was not my domain. I grabbed a sleeve of napkins and started to restock the dispensers on the counter.
“Why not?” Hammond said, leaning into my shoulder slightly. “You let that local loser call you that.”
“How do you even know that?” I said through my teeth.
“I heard him say it the other day when—”
“Well don’t,” I snapped. I dropped a dispenser on the counter with a clatter. “I hate it when he says it, so it’s even worse when you do.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry! God. You know, all I did was go to a party. What’s the big frickin’ deal?”
“A party you weren’t invited to,” I said, shoving the napkins so far into another holder the ones on the other side popped out. “And you brought Jake and Faith.”
“It’s a free country!” Hammond blurted.
He walked past me, his hip bumping mine, and shoved through to the back room. The door hadn’t even closed when he was back again.
“What’s up your ass this summer anyway?” he asked.
I dropped the napkin holder on the counter. “What’s up my ass is that you people can’t seem to get the hint,” I said. “I don’t want to be friends with you anymore. I’m not a Crestie. So stop following me around.”
“That is such bullshit!” Hammond said.
“This is a happy place, people!” Mitch called out from the back.
Hammond rolled his eyes and let the door close. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some customers approaching—vacationers of all shapes and sizes, wearing colorful T-shirts and with deeply red skin.
“What’s such bullshit?” I demanded.
“Just because you moved away doesn’t mean anyone stopped caring about you!” he spat.
He was breathing really hard. I could see the outline of his chest muscles heaving up and down. I looked up into his eyes and he didn’t flinch. He stared back into mine. I felt a shiver go through me. He inched closer. And then, the door opened.
“There’s my Crestie girl!”
My face turned beet red. It was Cooper, of course. Hammond cocked his head in a sarcastic way and took a step back. Cold air rushed in all over my hot skin. As I glanced at Hammond’s pink cheeks, I felt guilty all of a sudden. And confused. And very, very warm. He hadn’t really been about to kiss me, right? That was just inconceivable.
“You’re such a working stiff,” Cooper said. He leaned both forearms into the counter and smiled. “How late are you here?”
I held my breath as Hammond slid past me to help the sunburned family, who had come in behind Cooper. The shrieks of the kids bounced off the linoleum and echoed against the plate-glass windows. They pressed their noses against the glass, leaving smears I was going to have to clean up later.
“Ally?”
Suddenly I couldn’t remember what day it was, let alone what time it was or when my shift ended. Luckily the Day-Glo, ice-cream-cone-shaped clock above his head told me we were well into the afternoon.
“Um . . . till six,” I said, vaguely recalling the numbers scrawled on the schedule.
“Cool. We’re hitting the Fishery after.” He fiddled with the tip jar, holding his hand over the top as a seal and turning it upside down and back, upside down and back. “Dex said they got in a whole boatload of fresh clams this morning. I’ll pick you up.”
I hesitated. I knew that going to the Fishery with Cooper and his friends didn’t just mean fried clams for dinner. It meant another late night of partying on the beach, drinking the beer I still didn’t understand how they procured, making out in the cold sand with Cooper, and getting windburn around a roaring fire. Only some of which was pleasurable (the making out part). All I really wanted to do right then was take a long shower, cuddle up in some sweats, and watch TV. But my mother had only barely thawed toward me, and Gray and Quinn were avoiding me like I was covered in slime. Plus, every time I was inside the house, I was walking on eggshells waiting for Shannen to pull something or Gray to try for another heart-to-heart or my mom to suddenly decide to berate me about my dad. She hadn’t even asked me where I’d been the past couple of nights. It was like she hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone.
But still . . .
“I don’t know. I think I should maybe try to have dinner with my mom,” I said.
“You mean the bitch who keeps choosing her smarmy boyfriend over you?” Cooper said, pulling a face. “That makes sense.”
Hammond shoved an ice-cream scoop into the coffee chip with serious violence.
“She’s not a bitch. And I—”
“Dude. You hang out with your mother all year,” Cooper said. “It’s summer, for fuck’s sake.” He threw his arms out, palms up, like he’d just made the argument to end all arguments. He didn’t even notice the death glares he was getting from the mom at the far end of the counter. “Besides, I’m way hotter than your mom, right?”
I laughed and felt myself relax. He had me there. And besides, what was one more night of avoidance? I actu
ally felt relieved, all of a sudden, letting myself be persuaded. “All right, all right. I’ll come with you. But I can’t stay late.”
“Yes. I win.” Cooper casually pumped a fist. Which made me feel momentarily annoyed. Why was he making it a contest?
He leaned in for a kiss, and I let him have one because I wasn’t sure whether I was overreacting. Then he grabbed one of the wooden taster spoons and stuffed it inside his cheek like a lollipop. His flip-flops snapped as he walked out, and he nudged the mom of the singed brood with his elbow.
“You don’t wanna go through him. He sneezes on the ice cream.” He tilted his head in my direction. “Tip her. She’s the goods.”
Hammond’s fingers clenched around the sugar cone and scoop he held in his hands. Cooper grinned happily and walked out into the LBI sun.
I groaned and leaned my tired body into the counter, wondering how he could be so awake and chipper when he drank way more and stayed out way later than I did. Whatever happened, I was not staying out past midnight tonight. I had to put my foot down. No matter what.
“In theess classss weee weeeeel deeetermeeen who are . . . theee consummate authors of theee . . . twenteeee-ith ceentureee.”
I pressed my lips together. I couldn’t laugh. I would not laugh. Because if I started laughing, it would be all over. Then Chloe, who was barely holding it together, would laugh, and we would not stop. Ever.
But this dude was making it so effing hard! Not only did he have the weirdest accent I’d ever heard, but he looked, no joke, like a frog-human hybrid. His lips were flat and protruding, and he licked them about once every five seconds. His face was wide, sitting on his neck like a watermelon. And he was balding. With only a little hair above his ears and then one, black curl right in the center of his forehead. His eyes bulged so much it was like when he turned sideways, you could see the outline of the whole ball under his eyelids. Plus, he was wearing green.
“Does aneewonnn have anee . . . authors they think should beeee added to theees lissst?”
A few hands shot up. He turned toward the board and lifted his arm. There was a huge circle of sweat staining his shirt. I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Chloe looked at me wide-eyed, and slapped her hand over her mouth. I shook my head and shifted in my seat.
The thing was, this was so not Chloe. Usually, especially in class, she was a total prude. She followed the rules. She listened to every word our teachers said. She wrote most of those words down. And she shot dirty looks at anyone who stepped out of line.
Kind of like that dude in the front row with the striped shirt was doing to us now. I turned my attention to the board. The professor was writing down names as people called them out. Names like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Forster. Names I’d heard, but had no interest in knowing more about.
“Goot. Goot.”
Chloe and I looked at each other. “What the hell does goot mean?” she whispered, ducking her head and turning it sideways. When she did this, her hair covered her face, which I thought was lucky. Guys don’t have a built-in defense like that.
“I think he’s trying to say ‘good,’” I replied.
Chloe pulled a face. “What kind of accent is that? Franish? Polczech? What?”
Another snort escaped my nose. Now three people turned around to stare. Chloe blushed and slumped down in her seat slightly. Something else I’d never seen her do.
“Now weee weeel deestreebuooot thee seeleebusss . . .”
A fly zoomed in through the open window and banged itself against the fluorescent light over his head. The teacher stopped abruptly. His eyes darted around the room, following every single movement of the fly. I thought my cheeks would explode, trying to hold in the laugh. But when he licked his lips, I couldn’t do it anymore. I doubled over and so did Chloe.
Everyone in the room now looked at us, but we couldn’t stop. Chloe was completely red and her eyes were filled with tears. I’d never seen her laugh like that ever.
“Eees theeere a probleeem?” the teacher asked, walking our way.
Chloe faced forward, breathing hard, but couldn’t seem to look at him. I covered my mouth with my hand for a second and got myself together. When I looked up at him, I convulsed silently once, but that was it.
“No,” I said. “We’re goot.”
After that, Chloe had to excuse herself to the bathroom.
Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Wednesday, July 14
Position: Aisle two at the Apothecary.
Cover: Looking through after-sun creams. (I somehow got a sunburn on my right arm. It’s roughly the shape of Argentina. How did I miss that spot?)
Observations:
3:05 p.m.: Subject Mrs. Appleby and Subject Mrs. Graydon walk in together. They are each talking on their cell phone.
Mrs. Graydon: No you may not drive down to Seaside Heights. (Pause.) I don’t care who else is going! I—
Mrs. Appleby: . . . because it’s a cesspool. (Pause to roll eyes at Mrs. Appleby.) Chloe, I’ve told you a hundred times. If you’d like to go down to the Island, I will have Marissa go over and open up the house. (Pause.) Well that’s not my problem, now, is it?
Mrs. Graydon: How many times do I have to tell you you’re grounded?
Mrs. Appleby: . . . may not hang out on that boardwalk without adult supervision!
They both snap their phones closed, huff identical sighs, then laugh.
Mrs. Appleby: Kids. We had them why?
Mrs. Graydon: I know! What were we thinking?
Subject Mrs. Appleby and Subject Mrs. Graydon dissolve into giggles. (Personal Note: I’m going to go home and hug my mom now.)
“Hold it like this,” I instructed, showing Quinn the basic, and I thought obvious, positioning for her hands on the basketball. “You shoot with your right, but guide it with your left.”
Quinn tucked her blond hair behind her ears, squinted from behind her designer sunglasses, and shot the ball. It arced perfectly, swiped against the underside of the basket, and slammed into the pole.
“Ugh!” She slumped her whole body dramatically. “Why are we doing this? It’s, like, ten thousand degrees out here!”
“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted to hang out,” I said as I retrieved the ball.
She trudged, arms hanging like a simian, to the metal bench at the edge of the bayside court. A few yards away was a sand-bottomed playground where a troop of toddlers shrieked and chased each other down slides, their parents reapplying sunscreen every so often and checking their BlackBerrys.
“Yeah, but I thought we would go shopping or something,” Quinn said, checking her arms for sunburn. “Isn’t it, like, dangerous to exercise in weather like this?”
I gave a sarcastic laugh and joined her on the bench, letting the ball slam against it with a clang. I took a long swig from my water bottle and dragged my arm across my lips. “If you wanna go home, go home. No one’s stopping you.”
Quinn gave me an incredulous look, then shook her head. She pulled a bottle of water out of her Kate Spade bag and popped the top. “What happened to you?” she asked suddenly.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “What do you mean what happened to me?”
“You used to be semi-cool, but ever since we got down here, you’ve been acting like a complete bitch.” She sipped her water then closed the top. “No offense.”
My already warm face burned. “None taken,” I said facetiously. I got up, dribbled toward the basket, and slammed the ball against the backboard. It didn’t go through the net.
“You’ve really hurt my dad’s feelings, you know,” she said, undeterred. “Not to mention your mom’s.”
“What do you know about my mom?” I demanded, whirling on her.
Quinn blinked. For a second I thought she was going to back off, but instead she stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know that she doesn’t get why you can be so mad at her, and not even the littlest bit pissed at your dad when he’s the one who left you guys,�
� she shouted. “Which I don’t get either, by the way. If my dad did that to me, I’d hate him.”
I do hate him, I thought. Or I did. Do I still?
“He’s my dad, okay? Wouldn’t you want your parents to get back together if you could?” I blurted.
Quinn pressed her lips together. If I could have seen her eyes behind those ridiculously huge sunglasses, I was sure I would have seen tears. “That’s different.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because my mom is dead, you idiot! She didn’t leave me by choice!”
Now tears streamed down her face and I did feel like a total idiot. She was right, of course. The two situations weren’t comparable at all. I took a step toward her.
“Quinn, I’m—”
“You know what? Forget it.” She shakily shouldered her bag and turned away. “I don’t know why I even bothered.” Then she looked up at the parking lot. “Looks like you’ve got company anyway.”
She jogged across the court to her bike and took off. I wanted to yell after her—to say something that would make her come back so I could apologize, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Then a car door popped and I glanced over at the lot. Shannen Moore was just unfolding her long legs from her mom’s car.
Great. Just what I needed. More confrontation. Wasn’t this exactly the thing I wanted to avoid this summer?
Shannen was dressed to play ball. Nike shorts, battered kicks, white T-shirt. Her long bangs were held back with a slim headband and the rest of her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. I was surprised to see her out of her usual uniform of a tank top and worn pajama pants. Since arriving at Gray’s house, Shannen had rarely been seen off the couch. Unless she was out secretly meeting with Charlie, she was watching reality TV. Everything from 16 and Pregnant to The Next Food Network Star to Dangerous Jobs. Her slovenly habit of leaving crinkled-up junk-food bags stuffed between couch cushions had sent Gray into an apoplectic fit last night. It was kind of funny to watch, actually.