Cross Me Off Your List

by Nikki Godwin

  Most of the vendors bleed into the next – jewelry, T-shirts, sunglasses, fresh fruits, and snowcones. I debate going into the surf shop, Drenaline Surf, but it looks like one of those places where a friendly cashier will instantly approach me offering assistance. Whoever it is, I’m sparing them. No need to take out my frustrations with Erin on a Drenaline Surf employee.

  Once I’ve walked the length of The Strip, I turn back and take my precious time. Erin texts me once asking if I’ve found anything and again to ask why I’m not replying. I drop my phone back into my bag. I’ll pretend I never saw them. I know she means well, but right now, every bit of hope I had for this week has been sucked out of my body by the ocean breeze and carried out to sea.

  I dodge the incoming traffic of tourists and nearly collide into the Hispanic guy from earlier. He walks with a guy with blonde dreadlocks. A woman pulls her young son closer to her when the guys walk by. Way to stereotype, lady. Sure, they look pretty rough around the edges but damn.

  An epic eye roll later, I spin back around from my brewing disgust and see exactly what I was looking for – scarves. Layers and layers of silk scarves. Hello number fourteen! I smile a bit too excitedly at the vendor while I browse through the selection. I want something loud, something pink and orange and brighter than a beach’s sunset.

  Instead, my hand lands on a scarf that fades from white to light blue to deep turquoise to an ocean green. It’s everything I didn’t think I wanted and everything I think I must have. It reminds me of a mermaid. I trust my instincts, as I did with the anchor bracelet, and cross off number fourteen on the spring break bucket list all on my own.

  “Took you long enough,” Erin says with a groan. “I texted you and you never answered.”

  “Oh,” I say, reaching into my bag. “Sorry. I was looking at things and didn’t want to risk dropping my phone or leaving it somewhere.”

  She pushes herself up, wipes the sand off her butt, and balances herself with a hand on my shoulder.

  “I just want to go back to the hotel,” she says, heaving herself forward with a wince. “I’m not up for much walking around today.”

  Clearly. I bite down on my lip to keep from spewing out how irritated I am. I know, I know. It was an accident. But it’s one hell of a dent in our plans. We only get our senior year’s spring break once. This trip was my second chance to make something of it. I can’t spend a week sitting in a hotel watching reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians while Erin ices her ankle and rambles about how she wishes she was a Kardashian sister.

  We walk – slowly, of course – in silence back to the hotel. As soon as we’re back in the confines of room 322, Erin begins packing the clothes she just unpacked yesterday.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, unraveling my new scarf to take in all its wonder.

  “Packing,” she says. “Leaving. I have to get home and do something about this. I’m not going to be able to walk, and I can’t sit here a block from the beach knowing I can’t even step onto the sand. It’s unfair.”

  Yes, it’s very unfair. To both of us.

  “Erin, we came in your car,” I remind her.

  She sighs and looks at me with pity in her big brown eyes. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you want me to take you home? I don’t want to leave you stranded, but I seriously have to go.”

  That’s the line in the sand. I either have to stay here alone without a vehicle to complete a silly bucket list that is impossible to even cross off because of where I am or I can pack my things and lounge around an empty house back home while my parents have more fun than me on their cruise.

  “Go home,” I say. “Take care of your ankle. You probably need a doctor. That’s your first priority. I’ll get a rental car or something. I’ll figure it out.”

  And that’s it – I drop my anchor right here in Crescent Cove, California.

  Chapter Three

  In the name of being a good friend, I help Erin load everything into her car and wave her off while putting on my best bummed face. But once her car is out of sight, I dash back into the hotel and to the elevator. I have a decision to make – I can hit the number three, return to 322, and call about a car rental or I can hit the number four and dare to venture to the world of room 413.

  Ah, the hell with it. You only have senior year spring break once. I press the number four.

  I lean back against the elevator wall and hope a good opening line comes to me before I make it to his hotel room door. I really hope the invite was legit…and that he was sober. God, I’ll feel like the biggest fool in California if he was buzzed and doesn’t even remember the girl with the ice bucket.

  The elevator door dings on the fourth floor, and I stare at my flip flops, willing them to move but not let me trip.

  “Well, look who decided to join the party,” a guy says.

  In a romantic comedy, I’d look up and lock eyes with Noah’s pretty greens, and my face would flush and I’d bat my eyelashes while he told me he’s happy to see me.

  Instead, I look directly over his shoulder at the wrestler of a dude with him. He’s scruffy and blonde with dark brown eyes. He doesn’t smile either.

  “You caught me,” I say to Noah. “I figured I’d see if 413 was as awesome as you made it out to be.”

  He motions me into the elevator with them. “We were actually about to head downtown to meet up with some friends. Want to tag along?”

  We stop on the third floor so I can grab my bag. Noah follows me down to 322, but his friend stays behind, looking around suspiciously at the end of the hallway.

  “Who’s the guy?” I ask, nodding back down the hall while I swipe my key.

  “Oh, just a friend of mine,” Noah says. “We call him Big Tony. He doesn’t say much.” He leans out the door and nods back at his friend. “He’s going downstairs to get the car. We can meet him outside.”

  I make sure my cell phone and wallet are in the bag before throwing it over my shoulder. I also grab the silk scarf I bought on The Strip and loop it through my belt loops over my actual belt – much more fashion forward.

  “So, um, are you here alone?” Noah asks, noticing Erin’s freshly-made bed.

  “A friend of mine was with me, but she had an emergency and had to leave, so I’m stranded here alone because I refused to spend spring break sitting at home,” I say. I grab the room key off my bed and tuck it into my wallet.

  “I knew you were going to be cool,” Noah says. “You ready?”

  “Almost,” I say. Then I ask the embarrassing question. “Can you, um, take a picture of me? Wearing this?”

  Noah stares at me like he didn’t quite understand the question. “You want me to take a picture of you wearing a scarf as a belt?” he asks.

  I force my phone into his hands. “My friend back home has a silk scarf obsession,” I lie. “She wants to see what I bought, and she’s texted me like four times already asking for a picture. I figured you could do a better job than an awkward mirror selfie.”

  He takes the photo. I upload it for Hilary’s viewing pleasure, and then we’re off.

  A black car with super-tinted windows sits outside of the hotel door. It’s a freaking nice car, at that. Noah opens the back door and holds his arm out.

  “After you,” he says.

  I hesitate for just a moment because I don’t understand how this guy can afford the penthouse level and a tricked out car. But it’s spring break. The hell with logic.

  “So what are you? Like a drug dealer or something?” I ask, peering out the dark window. It’s like he’s hiding from the world and rolling in the riches.

  Noah laughs beside me. “Not exactly, although some people have said they’re addicted to me. It’s a never-ending craving.”

  I elbow him and shake my head. He’s not hurting in the self-esteem apartment. Then again, with arms like that – and tattoos to decorate them – I can’t blame him. I bet his has a pretty little girlfriend back home waiting for him to return from his v
acation, oblivious to what he’s actually doing in sleepy little Crescent Cove.

  His friend Big Tony drives past The Strip and into a somewhat residential area before turning onto a side street. A fancy building sits on the corner. The purple sign reads Azalea Living Center. I guess nursing homes are better near the beach.

  Noah calls someone named Nat to see where he is while the downtown life of Crescent Cove comes into view. I knew there had to be more to this town than The Strip. A street sign announces the turn for a local community college before we drive into civilization.

  Noah instantly notices the zebra-striped tattoo shop. It looks a little grungy, a little rock and roll. I could see Noah getting inked there. Maybe he’ll go with me to check off the second item on the bucket list – get a tattoo. I figure Hilary and the girls will get fake tats, but I’m going all the way with it.

  A cupcake shop and a Mexican restaurant finish off this block. A lavish restaurant sits outside of my window. It's modern and sleek, almost like it's glowing. There's a line of people waiting outside.

  “Café Jezza,” I say, reading the sign. “Now that’s the kind of restaurant I expect to see during spring break.”

  “I’ll get us reservations then,” Noah says. “Pick a night. We’ll go.”

  I smile and look away, a little embarrassed. He may be able to afford it, but there’s no way he can get in with such short notice. That place is booked solid for the next month, no doubt. It has that aura to it, like an upscale celebrity hangout that requires a list to get through the door.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “You know they won’t have an opening until August.”

  Noah smirks, and it sort of scares me. “Trust me,” he says. “I can get us in. I know people.”

  Big Tony makes a right turn as Noah explains that we’re meeting up with his younger brother Nat and two of their friends.

  “He’s a little over the top,” Noah warns me. “Dramatic, loud, flailing. He’s sort of like a drunken, injured bird trying to fly. All the time.”

  Big Tony laughs at Noah’s description. It’s the first time I’ve seen the dude crack a smile. Noah says that Nat’s only two years younger than he is and just graduated high school a semester early, so he’s living up his first few months of freedom. I guess college isn’t an issue when you have drug money rolling in or whatever it is they do. Drug money, daddy’s credit card – it’s all the same in a way.

  We pull into a parking lot outside of a giant outdoor shopping center. Signs hang from the rafters over the sidewalks, advertising expensive brand names. Palm trees and bright flowers decorate the landscape. A giant fountain sits in the distance. It may be not Los Angeles, but I can already feel the breeze through my hair and I haven’t even stepped out of the car.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Big Tony asks, glancing in the rearview mirror at Noah.

  Noah rolls his eyes but then smiles and nods. “I’m not sitting in the hotel all day,” he says. “I can handle crowded malls.”

  We park next to another black car with equally tinted windows. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve joined the mafia. The driver’s side window rolls down and a gorgeous Cuban guy smiles at us. His smile is worthy of a Crest whitening strip commercial. He sort of reminds me of the guy from CSI: Miami. I look away so no one will notice my eyes bulging.

  A blonde guy with surfer hair and bright blue eyes gets out of the passenger seat as Noah and I step onto the pavement. He looks a little less than thrilled to be here. He avoids eye contact for the most part, aside from the initial glance.

  Noah begins introductions. “That’s Benji,” he says, pointing to the blonde. “He’s not as high maintenance as you’d think, I promise. He wore that same shirt yesterday.”

  Benji flips him off but walks around the car and says it’s nice to meet me, even if I doubt he means it.

  “And I’m Tank,” the Cuban guy says. “Well, that’s what everyone calls me anyway.”

  Noah eases up closer to me, and I lean in so only he can hear me when I speak.

  “Am I crashing a guys-only vacation?” I ask, my voice hushed.

  He smiles and half-shrugs. “You’re not crashing anything,” he says. “Plus, I invited you. And you haven’t met the resident diva yet.” He nods across the other car to the guy getting out of the backseat.

  He’s thin and slightly taller than me, maybe five-foot-seven. He wears black skinny jeans and a bright hot pink fitted tee that says Just Freakin’ Dance! on the front. His dark brown hair is perfect, like he spends too much time in front of the mirror to keep it that way. His eyes are green like Noah’s.

  “This,” Noah says with a grand gesture, “is my brother Nat.”

  Nat bows – yeah, like a prince – and quickly straightens himself back up, like it’s totally normal to pretend you’re walking through a castle and not an outdoor shopping center.

  But then all of his imperialness disappears the moment he actually looks at me. He gasps and rushes toward me, immediately grabbing me by the hips.

  “Whoa,” I say, pulling back. “A little forward, aren’t you?”

  He cocks his head to one side and promptly puts his hand on his hip. “Oh, no, honey,” he says. “The only reason I’d ever want to get you out of your pants is so I could wear them.”

  He points to the scarf dangling over my hip. “I was admiring the scarf-turned-belt – FYI,” he says. “You’re not the first to try that either, by the way, but I will say you’re the first to wear it well.”

  “Oh,” I say, glancing down at the scarf. “Thank you, I think.”

  He smiles but then turns his attention back to Tank and Benji. Noah apologizes for his brother’s behavior as we follow the others toward the first store. Big Tony stays a few steps behind us, but Noah says that’s normal.

  “Is your brother…um…” I don’t want to say the word.

  “A skinny-jean-wearing, loud-mouthed pretty boy queer? Yeah, completely,” Noah says, with a huge smile. “He embraces every ounce of who he is and shoves it in everyone’s faces. The more uncomfortable they are, the louder he is. If you’re cool with him, he’ll mellow out.”

  I glance up ahead. Nat walks between Tank and Benji, steadily talking and looking back and forth for acknowledgment from one of them. Tank smiles a few times, but Benji looks annoyed. Maybe he hasn’t embraced Nat’s personality yet.

  “So, what happened with your friend to make her leave? Did she actually break her ankle?” Noah asks, angling his head where only I can see his face.

  I shake my head. “I think it’s just sprained. Her parents are overprotective, and she’s never really had any freedom, so she was excited and jumped on the bed in the hotel room. Then she landed, and it wasn’t pretty,” I tell him. “She could barely even walk this morning, so she left.”

  “Ahhh,” he says. “When I first saw the ice bucket, I figured you were popping champagne or something.”

  “I wish,” I say, strolling along the sidewalk. “But at least it gave off a better vibe than strawberry milk.”

  We follow Nat into a clothing store with shirts that are way too tight for anyone other than a scene kid to wear.

  “I already told you,” Noah says. “Don’t hate on the milk. I have to have it every single morning before I speak a word or else the entire day is off, and you definitely don’t want to be around me then.”

  I follow him toward a shelf of expensive sunglasses, equipped with theft-guard clips, while Nat raids the tight T-shirts. He grabs an aqua blue one that reads “yes, your gaydar is accurate.”

  Benji laughs and catches my gaze across the store. He motions toward Noah.

  “I think your brother needs clothing advice,” I say.

  Noah looks at me like I just asked him if he eats aliens for breakfast. “That’s what Benji’s for,” he says. “You let divas shop with divas.”

  I shrug at Benji and he turns back to the clothing, grabbing another shirt for Nat. Noah studies himself in a pair of sunglasses i
n the mirror.

  “Earlier you said Benji wears his dirty laundry, but now he’s a diva?” I call him out.

  He laughs and pulls his Oakleys from his eyes. “Benji’s a complex guy. He’s not the diva he appears to be, but he gives off the appearance of one, if that makes sense. You just have to know him. Either way, he’s the only one of my friends who can tolerate Nat on a shopping trip.”

  Noah debates a different pair of Oakleys while I sneak a peek at the yellow shirt Nat is eyeing across the store. I’m not sure what the words say, but Benji shakes his head, and Nat immediately puts it back. I sort of feel like I’m on the wrong side of the store shopping with the wrong brother. Fashion is definitely my department.

  I open my mouth to tell Noah I’m going across the store, but my words are swept away by a high-pitched bird-squawking kind of scream. I spin around to see who’s being mugged, but a crowd of teenage girls push themselves into the store, each and every one of them squealing in true pre-teen style.

  “Go!” Noah says, pushing me toward the back of the store.

  This is ridiculous. A bunch of screaming girls enter the store and we’re rushing toward a back exit? This may be the most excitement Crescent Cove has to offer. There may be an A-list celebrity in the store because Los Angeles was overcrowded with spring break partiers. I have to go back – now.

  “Whoa,” Noah says when I turn around. “What are you doing? We can’t go back.”

  “Keep moving,” Big Tony directs us, pointing to the back door. He shields us from whatever craziness is happening behind him.

  We step outside into an alleyway where trucks deliver inventory to the stores. Another black car awaits us, slightly longer than the ones we rode over here in. It’s almost like a baby limo.

  “Get in,” Big Tony orders us.

  Noah jerks the door open and motions for me to get in first. He crawls in immediately after, followed by Benji. I lean forward to look back outside. Nat is posed with his hands on his hips, all prissy and defiant.