by Lila Castle
“Need to wallow in bed for a while?” she asks.
Man, she knows me well.
“That’s allowed,” she continues, “especially the first day. But tomorrow if you’re still in bed in the same pajamas, I’m coming over and hauling you out and making you play volleyball with me at the Y.”
There’s nothing I hate more than playing organized sports with hardcore jocks like Vanessa’s volleyball crowd, a fact she well knows. “Okay, okay—believe me, I’ll get out of bed.”
She laughs. “Good. I’ll call you later to see how you’re holding up. Oh, and Annabelle?”
“Yeah?”
“Lots of ice cream is allowed on day one. Chocolate too.”
I almost manage a smile. “I’m so glad to hear it.”
But when I click off the phone and fluff the comforter over me, the last thing in the world I want is to eat. Or to do anything really. Just lying here feels utterly exhausting. My insides feel like they’ve been hollowed out.
The thing I don’t get is how the communication just…failed. Pete was the person I called when our dog Louie got hit by a car. When Gabe and I fought. When I blew my audition for The Wiz freshman year and was cast as “scenery” rather than the witch. (Which was actually funny in hindsight, but Pete was the one who made me see the humor in the situation.)
Pete listened to me cry and laugh; he said all the right things to make me feel better. Honestly, just knowing he was there, his voice soft and deep on the other end of the phone, made bad things bearable. Like saying good-bye to Gabe when he left for college. Or visiting Grandma Hillary in the hospital when she had a scare with her heart last year.
Pete is—was—my lifeline, my home base, and (yes, it’s cheesy) my knight in shining armor. Knowing we could talk at anytime was like a shimmery coal I carried with me, burning bright on dark winter nights and keeping me warm and protected from the cold. I’m lost without that.
The tears have started again, sliding wet and salty down my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away because more will come. The supply seems endless at this point.
***
I wake up in the late afternoon and see something unusual out the window: sun. Wow. My eyes feel puffy and inflamed, and my stomach is sour from not eating since dinner last night. And the knowledge of Pete’s disinterest weighs heavy on my chest, threatening to crush the air out of me all over again.
“Annabelle?” my mom calls, knocking on the door of my room. “Sweetie, are you okay? You’ve been in there all day.”
I wish Mom had Gabe and Grandma Hillary or even some kind of summer preschool emergency to distract her from me. I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound as normal as possible. “Yeah, just getting some work done,” I say. My mom is good about not coming into my room unless invited, so hopefully she’ll think I’ve been reading astrology books all day or getting an early start on college applications.
“We’re going to have a cookout for dinner since the weather is good, and I was thinking you and I could go pick up some clams and mussels from Uncle Joe’s,” she says. Uncle Joe’s has the best fresh seafood in Gingerbread, maybe even on the planet. “But I don’t want to interrupt if you’re…busy. Or in a groove.”
My cheek is resting against my pillow—still stained with wet spots from my tears. My pajamas are starting to sag from being worn too long, and my face is tight and raw. Really, there’s no groove in sight.
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass,” I manage.
“Okay,” she says. “Oh, and invite Pete to join us. If you want, I can call his parents and invite them all.”
“No!” I bolt upright in bed. “I mean…his mom has a tight deadline, so I think the phone would disturb them. And Pete is, um, sick so he can’t make it either.”
“What a shame he’s sick on such a beautiful day,” my mom says. “But I guess that explains why you’ve been locked in your room all day.”
Yes. It does. How convenient.
“I’ll get some corn too,” she adds, and I hear her start down the stairs.
“Great,” I call, sinking back down into the pillows. I glance outside. It is beautiful, but honestly I wish it were raining. The bright sun feels mocking.
I roll over on one side and notice my laptop and the stack of worn astrology books on my nightstand. I am feeling hostile toward them since astrology is the cause of my fight with Pete…but is it really? No, I remind myself: the root cause is Pete being a stubborn snob.
I reach for my computer and log in to my favorite site, www.yourlifeiswritteninthestars.net, the one that has my birth chart on file so it’s always extremely accurate about what’s going on in my life at the moment. My laptop battery is low, but hopefully there’s enough juice for me to get some insight into what is happening—and better yet, how I can fix it.
The screen dissolves into a horoscope: This week is a week for business! It’s time to ask for that promotion, put your nose to the grindstone with that big project, or start that small business you’ve been dreaming about.
Okay, so not helpful. Though I shouldn’t be surprised—yesterday’s reading gave no notice that my world was about to explode. But seriously, business notes when my heart has been crushed to a pulp?
My phone vibrates with a text message. It’s from Vanessa. I hear my dad stroll out to the front porch that overlooks the water to begin setting up the grill for the cookout. I turn over and close my eyes. I’m not up to dealing with any of it.
***
“I’m outside, I promise,” I tell Vanessa, finally mustering the courage to answer when she calls the next morning. “No need for volleyball. I’m out in the world. I’m on the beach—listen, you can hear the waves.” I hold up my cell phone toward the ocean to convince her. It’s still sunny, truly a miracle for Gingerbread.
“Good,” she says. “You have to be out for at least an hour.”
“Why?” I whine. All I want is to crawl back under my comforter.
“For your mental health,” she says firmly. “There was an article in the Times a few months ago about how exercise creates endorphins, which fight depression—”
“Vanessa, I’m sorry, but I really don’t feel like hearing about the Times right now. Besides, it’s going to take more than endolphins to keep me happy.”
“Endorphins,” she corrects, like I really care. “It’s day three, Annabelle. There are no excuses on day three.”
“Okay, a half hour,” I promise. I close my phone and tuck it into the pocket of my sweat pants. I almost didn’t bring these sweats since they are baggy and totally unflattering, but now I consider my last-minute decision to stuff them in my suitcase one of the best I’ve made in years. They are as close to pj’s as clothing can get. The best part is that I can wear them right to bed when I get back.
I walk along the beach, my sneakers sinking slightly into the wet sand. So much for the sun…it’s already clouding over. Within minutes, a few droplets turn to a steady drizzle. It feels cool on my cheeks. Maybe Vanessa is right. It does feel good to be out of bed. I trudge near the boardwalk and see the scarlet letters advertising Fred’s Fabulous Funnel Cakes, and I realize I am in desperate need of deep-fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar.
I’m taking my first bite when I see her. She’s wearing a pair of jean capris so snug that they must make it hard for her blood to circulate and a blue halter top that shows off the tattoo on her shoulder. A huge black umbrella protects her from the rain that is running down my face and making my hair a puffball.
Suddenly the dough is like a ball of wet newspaper in my mouth, and all I want is to be hiding back in my room. Maybe she won’t notice me and I can race home. I try to dash across the boardwalk to the steps that lead toward the beach, but it’s too late.
“Well, hello,” Sarah says as she steps carefully around a puddle. “Aren’t you Pete’s little friend?”
It’s true: my five feet and two inches are no match for her heels and natural giraffe-like build.
“Yes, I’m Pete’s good friend,” I say, trying to make it sound mysterious. But the words fall flat on my own ears. Is that even true anymore?
The right side of her mouth curls up. “Right. Then maybe we’ll see you at the party tonight. We’re going to dinner first, though.”
I can’t believe this girl. Really? I feel like asking her. She’s like a bad reality TV show come to life. And she’s so smug she might as well just say, “He’s mine now, so suck it.” If Pete sees something in her…then yes, boys really are jerks.
“Pete is so thoughtful,” she says. “Maybe it’s being from a small town, but I’ve never been with a guy who brought me flowers on the first date.”
Flowers? First date? The words echo in my ears, each bringing a new pang of anger and sadness. Sometime during my comatose solitude, Pete has managed to buy flowers and go on a date. With her. Why is she rubbing my face in this? He thinks she’s hot; I get it, so let’s move on. He has no feelings. He is a coldhearted—
“He’s already checked the bus schedule from Vermont to New York so we can see each other in the fall.”
Kill me now, please.
“That pastry you have looks good,” she says, clearly not getting the hint to shut up or walk away, or both. “I wish I could afford to splurge on fattening things, but I’d be a whale if I did.”
She runs a hand over her flat belly while eying my baggy sweats. They do have a rather whale-like quality. What is up with her? She got Pete; she wins the thinner-than-thou contest; but she’s still staring at me, trying to find some other way to rip me down. Does she have some deep-seated need to ruin the lives of every female she sets eyes on? Because it’s not like I did anything to her. Come to think of it, I’ve never even had a conversation with her before this.
“If you do ever want to lose a pound or two, I recommend the Martha’s Vineyard cleanse. It’s very holistic,” she says. “Gets rid of toxins. Pete says you’re into New Agey stuff, so I figured…” She doesn’t finish.
And suddenly I get it. She does have something against me, something big. There’s no way she’d treat me like this if I weren’t a threat. And there’s only one way I could threaten her: In addition to telling her that I’m into “New Agey stuff” (which I’m not; astrology doesn’t count), Pete must have done or said something to tip her off that I was more than just a casual summer friend. She is marking her territory, hoping I will back off.
Inside, I have to admit, I am squealing with delight. But I remain calm. I take another bite of my dough and chew it slowly, then swallow. “Thanks, but I’m happy with how I look.”
She arches an eyebrow, as if she couldn’t possibly believe it.
“Have a great time at dinner,” I say, turning and walking toward home.
For the first time since that horrible night, I feel hopeful that maybe, just maybe, Pete and I aren’t through. If Sarah is acting this ridiculous, he must still feel something for me. And if that’s the case, I’m not just going to roll over and give up. I’m going to fight. As I jog back home, my mind brimming with schemes and plans, I remember my astrology prediction…the one about business.
It’s spot on.
***
It takes me two days to develop my plan—two days of begging my parents for money (I promise to pay back the $400 with interest), getting mixed up in the Gingerbread Beach summer real estate rental market (my parents have to sign the lease), and another day to corner Pete at the Opera Café. (My parents, convinced I’ve lost my mind, are very relieved to have me out of the house.) My heart aches when I see Pete, his curls damp from the rain, as he chats with Jed at the counter.
“Hey,” I say.
His eyes light up for the briefest moment when he sees me. Then they go distant and blank, but I know what I saw.
“I have a proposition for you,” I continue, emboldened.
Jed shoots Pete an indecipherable stare and then walks over to the back fridge for supplies to give us a moment alone.
Pete nods, not quite looking at me. “What is it?”
“Well, you’re convinced that astrology is junk, and I’m convinced it’s the real deal. So let’s see who’s right.”
He almost smiles. “How are we going to do that?” he asks. I can hear just a flicker of interest in his voice.
“I rented out a storefront,” I tell him. “Right on the boardwalk. You and I are going to start an astrology booth. We’ll read people’s charts for romance and see what happens. If we make a bunch of happy couples and the place gets mobbed, we know I’m right. And if it’s a complete bust, you win and I’ll never say another word about astrology.”
Pete’s brows slowly rise and then twist into a knot. “You want…us start an astrology advice booth together? I don’t think so.”
At that very moment, Sarah hurries through the door of the café and lowers her umbrella, looking around for Pete. I don’t have much time. Pete is already going back to his coffee, totally unconvinced. So I pull out my surefire ace in the hole and look Pete straight in the eye.
“You and me and an astrology booth. I dare you.”
Daisy Lin
Born June 6: Gemini
Rising Sign: Leo
Your wit and warmth attract people to you, making your life rich with friendship and love. The lightning-fast way you change your mind can surprise others, but once you open your heart to the right person, you are trustworthy and genuine. This summer’s motto must be “Seize the day.” Tensions that seem hostile can hide romantic possibility: don’t be blind to that because then opportunity will slip through your fingers.
chapter 7
Even as I’m walking to the boardwalk for the first day at our astrology booth, the whole thing still feels like a huge practical joke. I actually poked my head into Daisy’s Realty the day after Annabelle dared me to go into “business” to ask if Annabelle had indeed rented the same broken-down shack where Larry used to run his laser-tag scam. Not only had she rented it; Daisy informed me that had already named it: “The Star Shack.”
That’s it, I thought. She’s lost it completely.
On the other hand, she was still sane enough to dare me (which she knew I would never be able to turn down)…so here I am, up before nine on a stormy morning, making my way to the shack of stars. Good times ahead, I’m sure. Though really we’ll weave a few fortunes; people will get pissed that we don’t know what we’re talking about; and in a week, I’ll be back to my life.
As I walk down the boardwalk, I can’t help smiling: for a second, I remember that first moment of seeing Annabelle brandishing a laser-tag gun and waving it at Larry. But the warm glaze of memory lifts fast when I see the words on the wooden sign she has hung up. It spells out “Star Shack” in big letters with all these little symbols painted around it that must be astrology mumbo jumbo. Annabelle is not the most gifted artist, so it’s a little sloppy—but you get the gist.
And as I get closer, I see a sign on the door that says, “Get your love horoscope for ten dollars, and find your perfect match written in the stars.”
Puke.
I push open the door. I half expect to see Annabelle wearing a turban or a long gauzy skirt, but she just looks her usual gorgeous self in a pink T-shirt and faded cutoffs. Not that I notice the gorgeous part. Or how her hair is pulled back in some kind of fancy braid so her blue eyes look even bigger.
“What do you think?” Annabelle asks, smiling, and for a second I fall into it and smile back.
But then I get a hold of myself and glance around the booth. She’s hung tapestries on the walls and put up posters of constellations. There is also a big picture of Cupid shooting an arrow that I know she got as a joke, but I’m not going to get suckered into laughing about it because, really, this whole place is a joke.
“It’s fine,” I say in a monotone.
She looks disappointed, but she had to know the last thing I’d do is get all excited about the décor. Even if it were a baseball booth, getting psyched about décor
is not my thing.
“Well, anyway, this is where we’ll sit,” she says, gesturing to a table she’s set up in the middle of the tiny room. There are two folding chairs behind it and one in front, for a customer I guess, if we even get any.
“I made up a form for people to fill out with their birth information.” She points to a clipboard neatly filled with half-page forms next to a pink mug filled with pens. “We can’t do a whole birth chart since that would take forever, but I have what we need for reading the seventh house and rising signs and stuff.”
I shrug since she may as well be speaking Russian. I start thinking about Sarah. We kissed for the first time at Jed’s party, and while it wasn’t some major religious experience, it was still awesome.
The one drawback was that Sarah kept harping on how I shouldn’t fall into Annabelle’s “trap” of accepting the dare. But whatever. Like I said: we’ll be over and done with it as soon as people see what a huge crock it is. Then Sarah and I will move on to real conversation. I’ve only known her a little over a week, I remind myself. Things are moving plenty fast.
“And I brought a few books for reference,” Annabelle adds, laying them out on the table.
“Wait…you need books? I thought you were an expert.”
Her cheeks flush. She glares at me. “It’s not something you just pick up from the back of a cereal box. It takes years to learn, and even hardcore astrologers use reference books. Doctors use reference books too, you know.”
I grin a little at her defensiveness. “Right. Doctors.”
“So do chemists and physicists,” she says. “Even baseball coaches.”
“Sure, they do,” I grumble, but unfortunately I know she’s right. Not that I mention what I know about baseball managers’ reading habits.
The rain is pelting down hard, and it thuds on the tin roof of the booth. It’s a soothing sound, though I notice a small leak toward the back of the booth that has water pooling in a corner. Oh, well. If there’s a flood, we get to close early.