by Nikki Godwin
A photo of Dr. Richardson and The Golden Star stretches under the photo. I skim the article, trying to take in as much as I can through the flakes of mascara left on my eyelashes. The clumps make it hard to see.
Fortunately for us, Dr. Richardson has a strict ‘no cell phone’ policy during his annual party, so no one was able to snap a picture of us. The descriptions of two females and two males, all brunette teenagers, is pretty crappy. Accurate, yes, but that’s really not much to go on. I guess the cheap sunglasses worked after all.
“We’re going to be fine,” I assure Aralie. “None of us are from here, so we won’t be around for an investigation, and I feel like they’ll look into locals first. How would we even know about it and why would we care?”
“That guy,” Aralie says, completely in a panic. “That guy is going to rat us out. That Reed dude. He’ll tell because he doesn’t want to get in trouble and doesn’t want his dad to lose business.”
I wonder what she’s so afraid of. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would panic. We got away, we weren’t caught on camera, and no one can link us to the boat.
“I need your help,” she says. “I have to return the dress from last night. If someone identifies the dress, it can be linked to me. I have to take it back.”
Did this girl take a dip in the ocean last night too and swallow too much sea water? She’s not making a bit of sense.
“Wait a sec. Why take the dress back and risk being seen? Why not ditch it or burn it or rip it to shreds?” I ask.
Aralie sighs and falls back onto the-bed-formerly-known-as-Erin’s. “You, of all people, should understand,” she says. “I’ve seen how you dress. You care about fashion. I can’t let a dress that beautiful just die. It deserves a second chance, another shot at being beautiful and having an amazing adventure with some other girl.”
So this is a fashion breakup. Suddenly, I empathize. I sit next to her in silence until she hands me an envelope. She tells me this is her ‘goodbye letter.’
“When I take the dress back, I’m leaving this letter with it. I need the next buyer to know how special this dress is,” she insists.
I pull the paper out of the envelope and read what she’s written.
Dear Awesome Girl Who Brought This Dress,
I assume you have to be awesome since you bought it, right? I loved this dress. I only wore it once. I actually bought it right here at this same store. But then I went out with my boyfriend and his friend and some random girl the friend picked up, and we crashed a yacht club party. My boyfriend’s sort of well-known, and luckily, we were able to avoid anyone catching our act on camera. So it’s with my deepest regrets that I had to return this dress. I didn’t want it to be the one thing that gave us away after getting by with such an awesome stunt. So here’s what I ask of you, awesome new dress owner – whatever you do in this dress, DO IT BIG. Because, you know, the dress sort of expects it. I’m counting on you!
Love, A
“Well, it’s a very incriminating letter,” I tell her. I fold it up and put it back in the envelope. “Luckily for you, my prints are all your confession too now. Please tell me you’re waiting until you leave town to return it.”
She smacks her palm against her forehead. “Oh God,” she groans. “I seriously needed more sleep. You’re right. I can’t take this back now. The girl may read the letter and turn me in. I’ll wait until we’re leaving. It’ll be my last stop.”
Once I convince Aralie to go back to her room and get more much-needed sleep, I find myself wide awake and refusing to dwell on what happened last night. No one will ever know.
An hour later, Noah arrives at the door of room 322, and I’m relieved that I didn’t fall back asleep because I’d die if he saw me in the state Aralie had. I’ve had hangovers that looked better than I did earlier today.
“So, we’re going somewhere,” Noah says, welcoming himself into my room and onto my bed. “I found this really awesome thing happening about an hour or so north of here, and I’m taking you.”
“You’re taking me?” I ask. “Just you?”
A smirk pops up on his face. “Yeah, that’s why we have to make a run for it,” he says. “As of right now, Big Tony doesn’t know I’m in the wind.”
We’re thirty minutes away from the hotel when Tank calls Noah’s cell phone. Noah shoots me a sneaky smile before answering. I’m amazed at how brutally honest he is with Tank about why he left. Apparently, the other bodyguards are more fun than Big Tony. Tank’s concern for Noah’s safety is legit – the shopping experience proved that – but at the same time, I think Big Tony would just put a damper on our day. Once Tank agrees not to come after us, Noah promises to call the police if things get out of hand.
“Do you normally get attacked by excited fans when you go somewhere without security?” I ask, watching the waves ripple outside my window.
“I wouldn’t know what happens,” Noah says. “Since this band blew up, I haven’t gone anywhere without security really. I mean, back home I’ll go get groceries or something, and people approach me, but they’re calm. Outside of Montréal, that’s when it gets crazy.”
I sort of want to call Tank back and ask him to send reinforcements. What on Earth, Saturn, or freaking Pluto would possess Noah to do this? My list isn’t that important, and I know he wants some freedom, but in a way, he signed up for this by being in the most famous boyband since One Direction. Being the girl with him is basically asking for my murder to happen.
“So, where exactly are we going?” I ask.
Noah plays with the radio, changing the stations until he eventually gives up, while I watch the ocean continue to stretch alongside the highway.
“Sunrise Valley,” Noah finally says. “Darby’s hometown, actually. She said there’s more city life happening there than in Crescent Cove. I figure it has to be awesome since she doesn’t bother to utilize it.”
I burst out laughing and look over at him. He fights a smile but eventually loses it and cracks up himself.
“What’s the deal with her? Why don’t you like her?” I dig a little deeper. I haven’t met the girl yet, and I’m not sure how much I really can gather from her YouTube channel. “Is it the whole fandom thing?”
Noah shakes his head. “She’s good with the fans, and we rely on her a lot to tone down online drama,” he explains. “But she’s just, I don’t know. She’s a little immature, a bit too wrapped up in her relationship with Tate. She’s good to him. She’s crazy about him. But sometimes, it’s overbearing, and it’s not even my relationship.”
Apparently, Darby’s parents aren’t nearly as cool with the Saturn thing as the Branson parents. I guess maybe lockdown made the difference, but Noah explains that Darby’s family is using her spring break week as a family vacation. Crescent Cove was chosen because her dad is a big shot with Ocean Blast Energy, which happens to be one of Miles’s sponsors.
“Crazy, right?” Noah says. “I never even put it together until Miles mentioned his sponsor. Then I remembered her dad’s company. I think I’d have rather vacationed in Sunrise Valley.”
I lean onto the arm rest between us. “And what exactly is in Sunrise Valley?”
Noah smiles but keeps his eyes on the road. “I hope you like mermaids.”
Chapter Eleven
Noah pulls his Oakley sunglasses over his eyes before we get out of the car. I don’t think it’ll do much to help hide his identity, but he insists, and I’m not about to argue. My life could be on the line as far as Saturnites are concerned, so if he puts on a mask, I’ll probably just smile and go along with it.
“Sunrise Valley’s Annual Mermaid Festival,” I say, reading the words off the turquoise and silver banner.
“I have a tattoo like that,” Noah says, pointing to the mermaid tail on the letter S in Sunrise.
“You have a mermaid tattoo?” I’m honestly surprised. I know he’s pretty well-inked, but I don’t recall a mermaid on his skin. “Where?”
; Noah slaps his own ass. “Right back there,” he says. “Her tail actually sticks out of the top of my boxers.”
“You tattooed a mermaid on your ass? Seriously?” I ask.
He nods. “If you’re lucky, I might let you see it sometime.”
He grabs my hand and leads me through the crowded street to see what this festival is all about. The last festival I went to was in junior high with Hilary. She pigged out on overpriced greasy food and then begged me to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl with her. I held her hair while she puked up corndogs in a trash can afterward. She was mortified, and we immediately left. It’s not exactly one of my favorite memories.
“So, what first? Food, rides, vendors?” Noah asks. He pulls me closer to him as we push through the people.
“You’re the one who had the bright idea of coming here,” I remind him. “I think you need to take the reins.”
He smirks. “But you seem like one of those take-control kind of girls.”
“And when the time is right, I will definitely take control,” I say, keeping my voice low so no one around us hears me. In case he is recognized, I don’t want to end up in the Saturn Sleaze next to Chloe and her Isaac scandal.
Noah points to a teal sign that reads Mermaids This Way with a white arrow. A white starfish serves as décor on the sign.
“Want to see some mermaids?” he asks.
While we stroll the vendor booths and admire the bottles of mermaid tears (aka sea glass), the silicone mermaid tails, and bedazzled bra tops that are all the rage in mermaid fashion, I step aside to ask a few locals about the time for the mermaid parade.
“We have three hours,” I tell Noah. “So I’m thinking food, rides, more food, and then I’m spending all of my dad’s money on clothes and jewelry.”
“Daddy’s money is no good here,” Noah says. He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Today is on me. No arguing.”
We walk over to the closest food vendor when I remember the list. A mermaid festival has to be the best place to cross off some items. Noah steps in line while I dig through my purse for my bucket list.
“One order of coral please,” Noah says to the girl in the small booth.
“Oh my God,” the girl says. “You’re Noah Winters. Oh my God.”
Noah puts his finger over his mouth to silence her. Then he nods. Her co-worker, who may be her mom, fills a bucket full of “mermaid’s coral” which is actually blue popcorn. Noah signs an autograph for the girl – Meaghan, with an extra A and ‘make sure you don’t forget the H’ – and then she steps outside for a brief selfie with him. Luckily no one else seems to be in line for blue popcorn, so we go unnoticed.
“That was covert,” I say, popping some coral in my mouth. “I thought for sure you were screwed after she said ‘oh my God’ the second time.”
Noah chews a few pieces of popcorn and then shrugs. “What can I say? I’m good with the ladies.”
For the next thirty minutes, I window shop while Noah reminds me that I’m not actually a mermaid. After seeing the dresses, bikinis, and oh my God the jewelry, I’m pretty sure I’m ready to grow a tail and splash with the dolphins. I make a mental note to come back to this jewelry stand for a ring of encased mermaid tears. I don’t even care if it’s really aqua glitter – those are freaking mermaid tears now. Who’d thought I’d ever want something with glitter? It’s so messy, so fake. If anyone in this world is anti-glitter, it’s me. But the mermaids may convert me.
We finish off the mermaid’s coral before Noah asks if I’m too scared to ride the ferris wheel.
“Are you kidding?” I’m shocked he’d even ask. “I’m not scared of anything…except maybe Great Whites after seeing those photos in the surf shop.”
He hands over the tickets, and we settle in – closely – on the two-seater metal cup.
“Alright, now that I’ve got you trapped, it’s my turn to ask all the questions,” he says. “I want the real story. What happened to your spring break plans?”
Seriously? I’ve already told him. I had a fight with my friend. Most of my friends sided with her. I didn’t go on the Los Angeles trip. I went to Crescent Cove with Erin, who promptly injured herself and went home. I repeat this story, but Noah shakes his head.
“You had a fight with your friend,” he repeats. “Why? What was it about? It had to be huge to divide a clique and send you to the cove. Spill.”
I wish I could wiggle out of this little metal seat and wash away with the mermaid tears. I haven’t talked about the Hilary drama aside from the week it happened. I’d just rather not think about it. When I do, I realize how stupid it was to throw away a friendship over something that won’t matter in the future, but then again, she tried to sabotage my future. Who knows what could’ve happened if Hilary had just left well enough alone?
“It’s stupid,” I say, looking into the crowd of people to avoid eye contact. “I’d entered a competition that she had no interest in – or skill in, might I add – and then she entered and copied exactly what I did.”
He asks about the competition, which only makes it worse. He wants me to spill? Okay, I’ll spill. I tell him about the fashion show and its desire to find upcoming designers who think outside of the box. If anyone thinks outside of the box, it’s me.
“We had to do a three-piece collection, and I chose to do mine out of candy wrappers,” I explain. “The Skittles dress was my favorite.”
Noah laughs. “Nat said you had an eye for fashion, but I had no idea it was this serious.”
“Oh, it’s serious. Last year, I made a formal dress out of coffee filters. I wanted to wear it to prom, but my mom threw an absolute fit about it, so it’s still hanging in my closet,” I say.
The ferris wheel jolts up a few feet while the festival worker accepts tickets and lets two more people on the seat below us.
“Was Hilary not into fashion?” Noah asks.
I’m not quite sure how to answer that. She had an ongoing subscription to every beauty and fashion magazine she could possibly get her hands on. She could window shop like no other, and her ability to match makeup to an outfit was exquisite. But designing? No. Sewing? Definitely not.
“She was sort of like your brother in a way. She had great fashion sense and knowledge of the industry, but she wasn’t into design, and she can’t even work a sewing machine,” I explain. “She likes the glitz and glam but not the work it takes to create glitz and glam.”
When Hilary entered the contest, she swore she just wanted to give it a try, to see what she could come up with. I even offered to help – to bounce ideas, talk about fabrics, whatever she needed. I mean, yeah, it was weird that she suddenly wanted to create clothing, but who was I to say she couldn’t?
“Her mom works at this high-end fashion boutique back home, and her dad is a city councilman, so they have some pull,” I say. The ferris wheel jerks up again. “Her mom put together an entire team who could design, draw, cut, sew – whatever Hilary needed. You can put a price on anything, and trust me, her family can afford it.”
“I’m scared to find out where this is heading,” Noah says.
“I don’t even want to elaborate on her collection because it wasn’t her collection – it was mine.” The words burn my tongue when they leave my mouth, like the piercing of the knife she rammed through my back.
“She stole your collection?” Noah asks.
I nod, absolutely hating reliving the memory. I’ve convinced myself for weeks that if I don’t think about it, eventually I’ll forget. That would be the dream anyway.
“She replicated everything I made,” I admit. “My sundress made of Skittles wrappers, the formal ball gown made of Peanut M&M wrappers, everything. Her designs were slightly different, but if we’d both sent those designs down that runway, we’d have made jokes of ourselves.”
Noah shakes his head. “Are you seriously telling me you pulled out of the competition because of her? You let her steal your designs and walk them down a runway?”
; I shrug because I don’t want to say yes. But that’s exactly what I let her do. I let her sabotage my dream. I didn’t stand up for myself. I cowered in the corner like a scared kitten while she roared like a lion down the catwalk with my collection. I’ll never forget what she said to me when she unveiled “her” designs. “I hope you don’t mind. I was just a bit inspired.”
“Marisol, what the hell?” Noah asks, more sympathetic than angry.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask. “Honestly? We were lined up by our last names, and her collection would’ve hit the runway first in that order. I couldn’t face all those critics and fashion industry icons with a replicated collection, regardless of the truth. They didn’t know the truth. They knew only what they saw, and they would see me as an unoriginal copycat.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and hugs me to him. “It’s hard to speak up for yourself when someone steals your thunder, especially when you know they’re faking it.”
Something tells me we’re not discussing Hilary and candy clothes anymore. I glance at Noah’s face but can’t see his true expression through his Oakleys.
“Who would dare steal Noah Winters’s thunder?” I ask.
He laughs but his smile quickly fades. “Julian Rossi, the ‘resident bad boy’ of Spaceships Around Saturn,” he says, mocking Jules’s title. “He doesn’t act, look, or live the lifestyle of a bad boy. He dyes his hair because he’s naturally a dirty blonde. He smokes as a nervous habit. He’s not a badass in any way, shape, or form. Aralie’s the dominant one in that relationship because he’s a…”
He doesn’t say the word, but I can think of a number of choices to fill in that blank. I guess Jules has the cliché signs of a bad boy – dark hair, piercings, a few tattoos, and a cigarette in his mouth. From my few days of Saturn stalking online, he doesn’t seem to say much in interviews. He’s kind of standoffish.