by Lila Castle
“Just one last piece of advice,” Pete says. “Watch the ego. You don’t want to let your pride get in the way of what your heart wants.”
“Got it,” John concurs, nodding thoughtfully.
Again Pete is quoting the stupid book and making himself into an astrological superhero. While I, the supposed expert, sit useless and speechless by his side. How did this happen, again? Oh, right: me and my stupid dare. But wait…isn’t Pete just sabotaging himself by going along with me? Doesn’t he want this to fail?
“Not bad for a first day,” Pete says, grinning as John steps out.
Before I can answer or ask any more questions, we hear the clomping sound of footsteps muffled by rain. We both look toward the door, expecting to see a tour group headed for the Opera Café. But this stampede isn’t for food. It’s a group of four college students (first-timers to Gingerbread), followed by five high school girls (regulars whom I barely know), followed by others I can hear but can’t yet see. They are all stopping right here at the Star Shack.
This stampede is for us.
***
“In the end, it just means that you want to avoid the Capricorn guy, the alpha who needs to be in charge,” Pete concludes, smiling at the blond cheerleader type who is sitting across the table from him and lapping up his every word. She doesn’t even glance my way. But why should she?
It’s day three of the Star Shack, and the crazy crowds—first started by Daisy and quickly followed by dozens of others that we (well, Pete) have helped—have not abated. There’s been a line outside the door the past two mornings, even today when the rain was much more than the typical Gingerbread drizzle. Under other circumstances, I’d be thrilled by our success. But since it’s coinciding with my own personal failure, I’m…ambivalent.
The blond girl leaves, practically slobbering on Pete as she goes, and our next customer comes in: a girl our age named Carmen who sometimes takes shifts at the Opera Café. She’s always struck me as nice, friendly, and giggly but not the sharpest claw in the clam bucket.
“Hi,” she says as she sits down in the customer chair opposite our table. “I hear you guys are going to be the answer to all my guy problems.”
Pete smiles this new smile he has: a kind of knowing and mysterious grin that tells people he has incredible insight. It’s annoying on its own, but coupled with the fact that he actually does have insight, it’s beyond exasperating.
“It’s so cute you guys are in love so you started this booth to help other people find romance,” Carmen says, which quickly wipes the smile off Pete’s face and has me fumbling for the form.
That’s the other thing: everybody in this tiny town thinks we’ve started this business to share our own brand of special love—which doesn’t exist. The only exception to this rule is Tattoo Sarah, of course, who lurks outside the door whenever we’re about to close, glaring at me and muttering to herself, waiting to whisk Pete away the second he steps outside.
“Here,” I say. “Just give us your birth info, and we’ll give you your reading.”
Carmen jots down the date, time, and place, and then hands me the form and her crumpled ten-dollar bill.
“Okay, October 12…that makes you a Libra.” I raise my voice, trying to drown out the noise of the muttering line outside and to distract myself from the intensity of Carmen’s gaze—and most of all, to distract myself from Pete, who sits waiting, coiled and ready for me to make a mistake so he can take over.
I am at a total loss as to how or why it’s possible that I—who have used astrology for years—cannot give a single piece of advice past what you’d find in the daily paper’s horoscope, while Pete, who still calls astrology “freakish,” is coming up with the most perceptive advice available outside of Oprah.
Carmen nods. “Right. I’m all about balance.”
“Which is a great thing and can serve you well in relationships,” I concur. I want to put all thought into October 12 and what that means in terms of Venus, but it’s hard with Pete bearing down on me, leaning just close enough that I can smell his peppermint shampoo and the Tide his mom uses on their laundry. Suddenly I’m overcome with nostalgia. How can a girl focus on anything? Not to mention the fact that he’s just waiting for me to screw up…
I look at Carmen’s birth year and then flip open a book. “Your Venus is in Virgo, which makes you a perfectionist in love.”
“Totally,” she says, nodding.
Okay, this is good. I’m on the right track. “And you can be reserved, waiting for guys to take initiative rather than going for it yourself,” I say, still cribbing from the book. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I’m wrong.
This is the thing about astrology: You have different elements—sun signs and rising signs and houses and planets—and every one offers insight, but you have to take it all in a big-picture way…seeing how maybe some tendencies are less developed while others are dominant. That’s where the insight (which Pete is so good at and I apparently suck at) comes in. Because anyone with observation skills can tell that Carmen is not reserved at all; she’s got the social part of Libra kicked into high gear.
I don’t want to look up, but I know I have to. When I do, I see Carmen’s doubtful expression and Pete grinning.
“Actually, I think Carmen is a flirt in the best way possible,” he says, and she turns away from me to look at him. “I think you are all about charm.”
Carmen shakes her head, but anyone with eyes can see she’s pleased. And that Pete’s right.
I sigh and sink down in my metal chair. I look at the line of eager people standing at the door and trailing out and then close my eyes, wishing the day was over and I was in bed reading a book about anything—anything—except astrology.
***
My astrology slump is ten days and counting, while Pete’s winning streak is still going strong. But still, today, for some reason, I feel confident. Maybe it’s the rare sun. The change in the dismal weather means something good, that things are going to take a turn in my direction for once. They have to.
I mutter a “Hey” to the people already congregating outside the Star Shack and then head inside to where Pete is waiting.
“Ready?” he asks.
I sit down in the metal chair and try to pretend like it’s the first time I’m doing so. It’s a fresh start. This is my shack, in my name, after all (well, technically my parents’)—but still, Pete is just along for the ride. I take a deep breath and nod.
Pete opens the door and beckons in the first customer: a guy we’ve never seen before (weekend visitor, up to see some tourist?) with shaggy hair decked out in a faded T-shirt and frayed cargo shorts.
“So I want to find me some lo-o-ve,” he coos, leering at me as he sits down.
I pass him the form while Pete says, “I hear you, brother,” and they high five. Pete has this irritating way of putting on different personas with different customers. Like with certain girls, he’s all “sensitive.” But with caveman types, he’s slapping palms and laughing at burps and chuckling at stupid sexual innuendos that they seem to think I’m too thick to get.
I roll my eyes and wait for Mr. Lo-o-ve to finish scrawling sloppily on his form and to hand it over to me.
“Okay…Wilson.” I squint, barely able to read his handwriting. “You’re a Leo, which is a fire sign.”
“I could have told you that,” he says, winking.
“Yeah, so anyway, that means you do well with other fire signs.”
“True dat.” He laughs. “I like my women hot.”
“Actually the fire part is about spirit. Like being energetic and idealistic.”
Wilson frowns. “I don’t really like chicks who get all preachy or want to climb mountains,” he says. “I’m just looking for fun.”
What a shocker. I’m about to speak my mind when Pete holds up a hand.
“I think you want more than that,” Pete says. “I’m thinking you’re a Leo who can handle a Scorpio.” He make
s it sound like Wilson has what it takes to date a rock star. “Not a lot of guys can handle a Scorpio woman because they’re intense, but they match that with true passion.”
Wilson is nodding, his eyes bright. “Yeah, I’d be all over that,” he says.
As Pete drones on about passion, and the bright sunlight filters through the mobbed doorway, I realize I was very wrong: nothing is going to change. At least I managed to avoid the metal chair with the loose screw today. I think that is about all that’s going to go my way, though.
***
At the end of the day as we’re just about to leave, Pete suddenly draws in a sharp breath. I turn—and then I gasp too. Standing in the doorway is Jed, the man known for never leaving his shop, who won’t even own a dog because he says that relationship would take too much time away from his café.
But he isn’t alone.
Jed is holding hands with a woman.
Holding hands…and smiling and gazing at her like she’s more wonderful than a fresh cappuccino with the finest coffee beans ever harvested in the history of coffee harvesting. But even that is not the truly shocking part. The part that has both Pete and me staring speechless is the woman. Because we know her. More than that, we know her birth chart.
Jed is holding hands with Daisy Lin, Gingerbread Beach’s realtor.
Aisha Wright
Born May 1: Taurus
Rising Sign: Gemini
You are down to earth and set in your ways, and your dependability makes you a valued friend. You are slow to open your heart, but once you do, you love with everything you’ve got. This summer, watch out for your tendency to make things harder on yourself than they need to be.
chapter 9
Seriously, I was so wasted I could barely walk,” Sarah says, laughing like she’s said something funny and kicking her legs (just a little too violently) to make our Ferris wheel car swing. “I don’t even remember how I got home.”
For the ninetieth time, I am hearing the story of how Sarah got drunk at her senior prom. Is it a good story? No. Is there any reason she should be telling it to me every single time we hang out? No. But can I do anything to stop it? Apparently not. I actually fell so low as to try and talk about the weather (the weather!) to avoid it. But like the rain of Gingerbread, the prom story is frequent and unavoidable. At least it’s better than the tattoo conversation…
“What a wild night,” she muses, suddenly snuggling against me, which has the odd effect of making the car of the Ferris wheel swing even more. I realize right then that we are high up. The boardwalk stretches far below, damp with earlier rain, the sun setting over the hills to the west, the gray ocean spreading out to the east…There’s a creak, and I flinch. I think this Ferris wheel was made before even Annabelle’s Grandma Hillary was born.
“Hah, you scared?” she asks.
“Um…” I ease my arm around her, even though I’m not really feeling like it. I turn my head so my face isn’t close to her hair—she uses this patchouli shampoo that makes my eyes water. But snuggling is preferable to talking.
“It’s so nice up here,” she breathes.
“You mean…in the Ferris wheel?”
“No, silly!” But she doesn’t bother to elaborate. She rubs my palm in a way that should turn me on (I think?) but instead feels mildly irritating, like having an ant on my hand. I’ve been waiting for chills—real chills, Annabelle-caliber chills, falling-in-love chills—with Sarah. But I figure that kind of thing takes time. Then again, the only experience I’ve ever had is with Annabelle…and she never bugged me in the way Sarah does. At least, not at first.
“So what did you do today?” she asks, now bored.
The Ferris wheel is rotating back to the ground, and after a few more long seconds, we’re able to make our escape. The wet boardwalk feels very solid under my feet.
“Um…after the Star Shack, I watched the game,” I finally answer. I keep hoping if I talk about baseball enough, she’ll start to get into it.
She scowls. “You need to give that astrology thing a rest. You won the dare, Pete. You should quit while you’re ahead.”
“It’s no big deal. But speaking of winning, the Sox won in the ninth, so that was great.”
Sarah looks down and inspects her nails. “I bought hair dye today. How do you think I’ll look as a redhead?”
“Great,” I say. One thing I’ve learned at the Star Shack: certain questions don’t require thought; they just need to be answered right. Though you’d think if I can fake interest in her hair color, she could fake interest in the Red Sox…
“What do you want to do next?” I ask her as she reaches for my hand.
“How about you win me a teddy bear?” she says.
It’s all I can do to suppress a groan. Annabelle has a thing about girls who want guys to win them prizes (and so do I, come to think of it), so we had a tradition where every year she’d win me something. Annabelle has a wicked pitching arm from her Little League days, so she’d get to the highest level. I’d be stuck carrying a huge giraffe or pink rabbit around the rest of the night. I have a stash of them in my bedroom at home.
“You’re so strong,” Sarah says, squeezing my arm. “I know you can do it.” She tilts her face up for a kiss.
Why do I want to run away? Aside from the fact that every word out of her mouth is like bad dialogue from some terrible teen movie? But why am I thinking about Annabelle? I’m here with this sexy college girl who’s crazy about me. True, the chemistry isn’t smoking. But maybe in time it will be.
I lean down and kiss her back. And as I do, I’m aware of people walking by and the taste of fennel toothpaste—I don’t get why anyone would clean their mouth out with the flavor of licorice—and I realize that I’m only thinking of all the stuff that’s supposed to melt into the background. With Sarah, the kissing is the background. And that can’t be good.
She pulls back, smiles at me, and then starts walking toward the row of game booths. I follow reluctantly.
“Yo, Pete!” a familiar voice calls down the boardwalk.
I turn to see Bill and Dave, part of the High-Five-“Dude!” set that Scott and Ben and most of the other summer regulars belong to. They’re familiar faces at every keg party Saturday night and every hungover Sunday at the Opera Café.
“What’s up?” I say, stopping to chat. Maybe if we talk long enough, Sarah will forget about the games.
“Just hanging,” Bill says.
“So I hear you and Annabelle started the busiest booth of the summer,” Dave says. “Pretty smart selling love advice when you guys are the couple of the century.”
Why does everyone still think we’re together? I may work in an astrology booth, but I don’t date astrology freaks. And I go everywhere with Sarah—who is standing right here, obviously with me. How is it possible to miss this? Before I can set them straight, a group of girls walk by and the guys are instantly distracted.
“Well…catch you later,” Bill says.
I pull Sarah close and kiss her, hoping they will see and realize once and for all that Annabelle and I are history. But when I look up, the guys have turned the corner and just strangers are walking past.
“So are you going to win me my tiger?” Sarah asks. She growls a little. Actually growls. I can feel my face turning red.
“I guess,” I mutter.
As we walk toward the games, the misty rain kicks in again, switching quickly to actual drops.
“Oh, we better go,” Sarah says.
“It’s okay. Most stuff stays open in the rain,” I say.
“No!” she barks, her eyes flashing with anger. “Look at these boots, idiot! You think I want to get them wet?”
I blink several times, at a loss. “Uh…”
She shakes her head and starts toward the parking lot where I left my car. Last summer, Annabelle and I were going on rides when it started to pour. It was practically a hurricane, and pretty much everyone else was leaving. But we got tickets to the bouncy ba
ll place for kids and spent the afternoon pelting each other with big plastic balls and sliding around on the bouncy floor as we got totally soaked. But whatever. That was last year, and if Sarah wants to get her precious boots out of the rain, it’s fine. In fact, it’s good because I don’t have to win her the stupid tiger.
And I really need to stop thinking about Annabelle.
Sarah is already in the car when I catch up. I slam the door behind me and sit behind the wheel for a moment, wiping the rain from my face. I’m expecting her to be angry, but she’s smiling as if nothing happened.
“What’s this I see?” she asks, holding something up in one hand.
It takes me a minute to identify it. “Oh, a ski-lift ticket,” I say. I’m about to explain that it’s my mom’s and that she left it in my car when Sarah reaches over and squeezes my arm.
“Of course you’re a skier—I should have known! I love to ski,” she says. “We’ll have to go in the fall.”
This is why I keep thinking about Annabelle. Because she was totally right about Sarah. And I hate her for it.
***
“So I just can’t thank you guys enough,” the woman with blond hair says, grinning at Annabelle. “He’s perfect, a Sagittarius, just like you recommended,” she adds, nodding at me. “We’re totally in love. Seriously, we’re almost as perfect for each other as you guys are.”
She leaves before either of us can correct her—which is both completely annoying and all too common. It’s been almost a week since my carnival trip with Sarah, but this, right here, is the reason I decided not to break up with her after realizing we have zero chemistry and zero in common. People are going to think Annabelle and I are a couple forever unless I can show the world I’ve moved on. And I need to show Annabelle too.
Plus, if I’m honest, I have to admit breaking up with Sarah would be a nightmare I’m not sure I could handle right now. She’s already given me train and bus schedules so we can visit each other in the fall, and she texts me literally every hour. What r u doing? xoxo (Answer: Hoping you won’t text.) And after the off-kilter boots incident, I’m not sure I want to see extended anger…the kind of anger that happens when a person gets dumped.