by Lila Castle
“Her name is Sarah,” I say casually.
We both look over at her, and she blows a kiss right at me. It’s so corny I almost cringe, and I feel my cheeks turn red. But Walker is impressed.
“Dude, she is into you,” he says, with admiration in his voice.
I can’t help but feel good. But honestly, it’s so over the top that I half-expect Ashton Kutcher to burst in and tell me I’ve been “punked.”
“Yes, she is,” a voice laced with hostility says.
I turn and see Vanessa glaring at me. She’s wearing a wool sweater, and with her horn-rimmed glasses, she honestly looks about thirty years old—like a vengeful aunt or schoolteacher. Vanessa has always been a girl who deliberately goes out of her way to dress down.
“Where’s Annabelle?” she asks loudly.
I shrug and focus on paying the bartender for the sodas. “Not sure,” I say.
Walker whistles. “Dude, how many girls are you stringing along this summer?”
“Yes, Dude, how many?” Vanessa asks, her voice acid.
Suddenly the pool hall, with its low ceiling and perpetual moisture and crowd, feels claustrophobic. The smell of the old pinewood floor, mixing with the smell of sweat and stale humidity, are making me nauseous. I take a long sip of my cola and then smile flatly at Vanessa.
“I would have to say that I am stringing exactly zero girls along this summer,” I respond. I can see Walker laughing behind her, like he’s in on the fact that I am suddenly Gingerbread Beach’s resident stallion, but now his admiration feels stupid and empty. “I’m just playing some pool,” I tell them both.
I grab the sodas and head over to Sarah.
She’s still staring at me, her fingers brushing mine as she takes the glass. “Thanks,” she says, and takes a sip.
I gulp down my drink and let the ice slide into my mouth, then crunch down on it. I’m feeling very lost at the moment, and I’m not sure why—as if I’m watching somebody else pretending to be me, living in some strange alternate universe that bears no resemblance to the summer beach town I know.
“What kind of soda is this?” she asks, her forehead wrinkled as she holds her glass out like it’s got an insect floating in it.
“Margo brews it herself in the Margo-tron,” I say automatically. That’s the lame inside joke the Gingerbread Beach regulars have been telling since I was twelve years old, as stale and unfunny as the air itself.
But Sarah bursts out laughing. “The way they cut corners really gives it a unique taste,” she says, setting the glass down on the floor under our pool table. “Kind of like upholstery cleaner.”
“Yeah, that should be Margo’s slogan: refresh yourself and clean your sofa, all with one bottle.”
She laughs again, a low throaty sound that reminds me of movie stars from the old black-and-white movies my parents like. Maybe she’s not so bad, this girl…
“How about another game?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say. Why not? She’s clearly a pool shark, and the game will take my mind off Vanessa and her judgments. Anyway, what’s it to Vanessa if I play pool with another girl? Or if I do anything else? It’s not like Annabelle needs a watchdog. And what would Vanessa be watching out for anyway? Annabelle and I have gone completely bust this summer. I’m not going to obsess over it.
Sarah racks up the balls and we play in silence, each of us focusing on our shots. This is how I like it. I don’t play that many games, but the ones I play I take very seriously. (Yes, even laser tag.) Scott and Ben were so busy checking out girls they wouldn’t notice if they hit the opponent’s ball instead of their own. But Sarah is like me. We duke it out to the eight ball, and then I pocket it.
“Nice game,” she says.
“Thanks.” I lean back against the table, feeling…I don’t even know what. Smug? Confident? Weird?
“But next time, I’ll kick your butt.”
I grin. Bring on the trash talk, I almost say…But then the grin fades.
“I owe you a drink,” she says, reaching for her bag.
I glance at the bar. Vanessa is still there. “No, I’m good,” I say.
“A rain check then,” she says. “For a real one.”
“Okay.” I’m not much into beer, but I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Sarah again. At least she’s not into New Age “science.” I hope.
“So I see you like my guys,” she says, gesturing to my Red Sox jersey.
“You’re a Sox fan?” I ask and she nods. Now I’m grinning again. Yet another reason to hang out.
“I catch as many games as I can, but it’s hard living in California and all.”
“Where in California?”
“San Francisco,” she says.
“I’ve heard it’s a great city,” I say, trying to sound worldly. I actually heard that from my mom who went there for a weekend when she was doing a teaching stint, but Sarah doesn’t have to know that.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s okay, I guess. It gets old after a while. I’m going to NYU this fall, and I can’t wait. It’s going to be a relief to be in a real city where people really live, you know?”
I swallow. A college girl. Or about to be. “I don’t know,” I say, not letting on that the NYU thing impresses me. “That’s Yankees territory.”
Sarah grins. “Well, I guess every place has a downside. Though it can’t be as bad as here. This rain is going to make me crazy. I feel like I never left the Bay Area. Does it ever stop?”
It’s funny. Before this summer, I’d have said Gingerbread has no downside: that it’s as close to perfect as a place could be. But now? Even the rain I used to love feels depressing.
“Not really,” I say.
Sarah shakes her head. “I can’t believe my parents are making us stay the entire summer at a beach where it rains every day. It’s insanity.”
“At least you won’t get a sunburn,” I point out.
She smiles slowly, looking right into my eyes. “But I was so looking forward to wearing my new string bikini.”
My head glazes over a little because that really does sound pretty great, even though if Annabelle were here, she’d probably make the universal sign for barfing. I try to ignore Vanessa’s icy glare across the room. “Well, we do get a few days of sun.”
She nods, her smile getting bigger. “I’ll look forward to that, then—”
“Pete!” The sharp voice makes me jump.
Speak of the devil…There she is: Annabelle, her eyes flashing, her hands on her hips. I can’t help but smile, though, because with her cheeks all flushed and her hair a cloud around her face, she looks completely…herself. But then I focus and see how her mouth is a thin line and how she’s shooting an evil glance at Sarah. I’m thinking I can thank Vanessa for Annabelle’s sudden appearance, but I’ll be annoyed about that later. Right now, I have enough to handle.
“What’s up?” I say calmly, like I think everything’s fine.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” she hisses. “In private?”
Sarah moves closer to me.
“Sure,” I say. I turn to Sarah. “See you later.”
Sarah stares straight at Annabelle as she answers. “You can count on it. Remember, you still owe me a beer.”
Nice, I think, feeling slightly sick. Annabelle is going to have a field day with that one. I grab my jacket off the folding chair and follow Annabelle outside, where, of course, it’s raining again: heavy droplets that slip down my face as I walk. The tide must be going out because the waves are soft as they hit the beach in the cool night air.
Annabelle leads me down the boardwalk without speaking and stops at some benches that face the water. But instead of sitting, she leans back against one, brushes her wet hair back from her face, and stares me down.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“Playing pool.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” she says.
I’m starting to get annoyed. “I’m not sure I do.”
“Playing pool,” I say again. I can tell by the way she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment that she is as annoyed as I am. But what does she want from me? She asked what I was doing, and I told her. Can’t she see that she’s the problem?
“That girl is trouble,” Annabelle says. She pulls away from the bench and begins to pace a little, her flip-flops splashing on the wet surface.
I have to laugh. “How do you know? You’ve never even spoken to her.”
“I don’t have to speak to her to see the obvious,” she says.
“What, you’re judging her based on a couple of tattoos and a tight dress?”
Oops. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that the dress was tight.
“No, I’m not judging her,” Annabelle snaps. “But things like that tell you about a person. The way you present yourself speaks volumes about what’s inside. And she wants to buy you a beer!”
“Is that part of your astrology wisdom?” I ask, ignoring the beer part since it’s not a big deal. “Or something you got out of a fortune cookie?”
Annabelle throws up her arms. “I can’t say anything to you anymore without you making some kind of snotty remark! If anyone here has a problem being judgmental, it’s you.”
“What am I judgmental about?” I ask. “I’m the one who’s being open-minded and giving the girl a chance.”
Annabelle snorts. “Yes, aren’t you the altruistic one, giving girls in tight dresses the benefit of the doubt.”
I knew she wasn’t going to let the dress thing go. “Besides, why would I be open-minded about something stupid?” I ask.
“See?” she asks, pointing at me in triumph.
I shake my head in disgust. “That’s not judgment; that’s being logical in the face of stupidity.”
“Yeah, it’s not judgmental at all to call my interest stupid without even knowing anything about it.”
“What’s to know? A bunch of crap about how giant balls of white-hot gas can tell us the future? It’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
“If it’s so ridiculous, then how come I keep winning my fantasy league?”
“Luck,” I say firmly.
She shakes her head, her damp curls hanging in her face. “I don’t know when you turned into such a stuck-up snob. I really don’t…”
“And I don’t know when you became such a total idiot!” But I know I’ve gone too far when I see her face. Her mouth snaps shut and her cheeks are pale. I’m about to apologize when she starts talking again, her voice a deadly calm.
“Astrology is a science. I’m sorry if you’re too much of a thickheaded jock to see it,” she says.
I’m very glad I didn’t apologize. Once again, I’m having that very strange I’ve-been-beamed-into-an-alternate-universe feeling. Annabelle and I don’t fight. We joke, we talk trash, we hold hands, we…But now she’s talking to me like I’m a stranger. There’s nothing I hate more than being called a dumb jock, and no one knows that better than Annabelle.
“But let’s just stop talking about it,” she continues. “Since we’ll clearly never agree about it.”
“Fine,” I say stiffly. “Are we done here?”
“You’re that eager to get back to your new girlfriend?” she asks.
Something about that word sets me off. It’s…well, it’s as if she’s daring me to go after Sarah. But there’s also something about her tone that mocks me, as though she thinks a girl like Sarah would never actually go out with a guy like me. And now I’m really seeing red.
“Maybe I am,” I say, summoning all my self-control to sound calm. “Since I might as well find someone to enjoy the summer with.”
I wish I’d kept my mouth shut; it hurts to say the words. It hurts even more to see Annabelle’s face.
“So is that really it?” she asks, her lips trembling.
For a second, I pause. How can I possibly be through with Annabelle? She’s been my fantasy and my best friend all in one since I was twelve years old. The moment I kissed her last summer was one of those rare, mystical events where real life exceeds dreams. It doesn’t happen to most people, but it happened to me. I’ve thought about it every day since; I’ve waited all this time to be with her.
Then she speaks. “I thought we were meant to be. It’s in the stars.”
And just like that…the memory fades. Now I know what my answer is.
“I don’t think it is in the stars. After all, I’m a Scorpio and you’re a Leo, and everyone knows they don’t mix.” I’m just guessing since obviously I have no idea if they’re a good match, but I can tell by Annabelle’s face that my guess was spot on.
“That’s just amateur astrology,” she says irritably. “It doesn’t take into account rising signs or birth charts or anything.”
I almost laugh. Then I do. I can’t help it. But it’s a cold, miserable laugh, like the rain.
“Pete, are you coming back?”
Annabelle and I both turn and see Sarah coming toward us, a big, black umbrella protecting her from the pounding drizzle. Seeing it makes me realize I am soaked. And seeing her makes me realize that it is time to move on, past the new Annabelle and her endless talk about stars.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m coming right now.”
Jed Rogers
Born February 3: Aquarius
Rising Sign: Cancer
You are an eccentric who seeks out the unusual and unique. With the right match, you will remain true, despite your need for independence. But that drive for freedom can cause you to isolate yourself. This summer will see your business boom. Don’t hide your true feelings behind that success, because come autumn you may have money but no special someone to spend it on.
chapter 6
He just left you standing there in the rain?”
Vanessa’s voice is incredulous and makes my eyes well with tears. Again. Since my eyes are already swollen and sore from endless sleepless hours of crying, it’s particularly painful. Though not as painful as telling Vanessa about what happened on the boardwalk last night—retelling it in real time is like reliving it.
Of course, she called first thing in the morning, worried because she had seen Pete and Sarah come back to the pool hall together. She tried me last night, but I wasn’t able to talk then. And I’m starting to wonder if I’m really able to do it now. It’s eight fifteen, but because I’ve barely slept, it feels more like three.
“What did I tell you?” she fumes, not waiting for an answer. “I can’t believe he’d treat you like this. Actually, I can. Boys are jerks. End of story.”
For once a bitter-shrew rant is actually making me feel slightly better about things. Pete is a jerk. I still can’t believe he said the things he said, or how he would actually be remotely attracted to Sarah and her stupid tattoos. I mean, okay, maybe I said a couple of things I shouldn’t have. I cringe every time I remember calling him a dumb jock—that was a hit below the belt. But the things he said to me were much worse. Much, much worse.
“Yeah,” I mutter when Vanessa pauses.
“You know, in the end it’s for the best,” Vanessa says.
“How could Pete calling me a freak be for the best?” I ask, almost laughing in spite of my misery.
“Because he showed his true colors,” she says. “Before this, there were hints at his jerkiness, but you were still tied to him. You needed solid proof. And last night you got it. He’s not worth your time. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t know. I just…can’t believe it.”
“Look at it this way,” Vanessa says, and in the background I hear her turning pages of a newspaper. “This morning in the New York Times there was a story on the rise of teen pregnancy in Uganda. That could’ve been you if you’d kept on falling for Pete’s act.”
Now I do laugh. “Except that I don’t live in Uganda. And I’m still a virgin, in case you forgot.”
“That’s irrelevant,” she says impatie
ntly. “The point is that all over the world girls are getting sweet-talked by jerky guys, and the guys sail off into the sunset while the girls are left with a shattered heart and possibly a child.”
“Does the article say that all the guys are leaving the girls?” I ask. “Maybe in Uganda guys are gentlemen and support their children and marry their girlfriends and don’t leave them in the rain to go off with tattooed skanks.”
Vanessa giggles but quickly clears her throat. “I didn’t read the whole article, but you’re totally missing what I’m saying. You’re lucky to have found out about Pete now, before he ruined the summer and possibly the rest of your life.”
“Maybe,” I say. It doesn’t feel lucky. It feels like a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.
“I know it hurts right now,” Vanessa says softly. “But believe me, you’ll move on and have a great summer without him.”
Why is it so completely impossible to imagine that? I can’t picture anything in my life without Pete, especially not a summer in Gingerbread.
“It’s a fresh start, a new and improved independent you,” she says, sounding uncannily like Ms. Hearst, the mousy guidance counselor at my school.
“Is it bad that I hate being the new independent me?” I ask.
Luckily (or not), she doesn’t hear me because she’s off talking about how great it is for a girl to be standing on her own two feet with no guy to prop her up.
I guess I like props.
“We can be bitter shrews together,” she concludes. “Maybe we can start an advice column in the Gingerbread Post.”
“Not the New York Times?” I manage weakly, rolling over on my side and burrowing a little under my comforter.
“It’ll be so popular it’ll be picked up by papers all over,” she says, using that mildly scary tone she uses when I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “Though obviously not the Times. They only do serious stuff.”
Becoming a bitter shrew seems serious to me. And honestly, I’m not even sure I’m feeling it. Depressed bunny or some other defenseless animal…that feels more like it. But maybe the bitter will come. “I should probably go,” I say.