Star Shack

by Lila Castle

  I turn away quickly, pretend to straighten my bag, and then notice a different guy in the corner looking at me. He’s stocky and bookish but tall with decent cheekbones. And he saw me first, which means he’s single and interested. Now things are happening. I smile at him, and he waves a little and then starts making his way across the dance floor toward me. I get a tingly feeling of anticipation that makes my face flush and my heart beat just a little faster. Finally!

  But as he steps out from the crush of bodies swaying to “I Can’t Fight This Feeling,” a shiver of revulsion runs down my spine. This is no guy; this is a man. An old man. He’s got to be at least forty. How creepy is it that he’s here at a teen dance?

  “Want to dance?” he asks.

  “No thanks,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and turning away.

  “Come on,” he presses. “I saw you checking me out.”

  Eww. “I didn’t realize you were old enough to be my dad,” I tell him frostily and am satisfied to see him turn red. “I think I need glasses.”

  He stalks off, and a couple on the dance floor catches my eye. It’s Pete and Sarah. Her claws are wrapped around his shoulders, and I feel my lips turn down in disgust. He’s dressed up tonight…he’s wearing a button-down Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He never used to dress up for me. Why is he with her? It just makes no sense. He catches sight of me and almost seems to pull Sarah closer. I turn away to avoid making the universal sign for barf.

  “Excuse me, would you like to dance?”

  I nearly jump. The guy in front of me has appeared out of nowhere. He’s like a magical gift: totally hot, with honey-blond hair, killer cheekbones, and a tight black T-shirt that shows off very toned arms. And most important, he is clearly not over eighteen.

  “I’d love to,” I say, smiling.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor, then pulls me close. This is good. I see Pete over Cute Guy’s shoulder, and he rolls his eyes, turning away. Even better. I wrap my arms around Cute Guy and sway to the music.

  “Want to go out for some air?” he asks after two dances.

  “Sure,” I say. It’s stuffy in here. But frankly, I’m ready to get to know the guy who’s going to be my summer romance. And to get away from Pete and Tattoo Girl.

  We walk out to the falling-down deck behind the rec center. A few other couples are huddled there, but he leads me around the back wall to a quiet corner where we have complete privacy.

  “I’m Nate,” he says.

  “Annabelle,” I say, reaching out my hand.

  He smiles, shakes it, and then pulls me close and mashes his face on mine. What the—? I squirm away. “Whoa, slow down!” I say, hoping to sound playful but coming out a little shrill. But really, he just practically mauled me. I wipe my lips.

  “Oh, you’re one of those,” he says.

  “One of what?” I ask, hands on my hips.

  “A tease,” he says.

  “Because I danced with you? And wanted to talk?”

  He grins. “No one goes outside just to talk,” he says, as if I’m an idiot.

  “Civilized people do,” I snap. The breeze from the ocean is chilly, and I wrap my arms around myself.

  He snorts. “Right, keep telling yourself that,” he says. He deliberately brushes against me as he moves by to go back to the dance.

  And then I’m alone. I lean against the side of the rec hall, even though the wood is damp and goose bumps are forming on my arms and legs. Talk about a perfect night! I repel one guy, insult another guy’s girlfriend, get hit on by a pedophile, and then get called a tease.

  I reach into my bag for my cell phone to call Vanessa. Maybe I can salvage what’s left of the evening in front of her TV, watching movies, eating junk food, and dissing guys. I am so in the mood for the camaraderie of the bitter shrew.

  But as my fingers touch my phone I realize my bag is suspiciously empty. My heart drops as I take everything out. My heart pounds. Oh my God…that jerk. He stole my wallet. Nate didn’t just slobber all over me and insult me, he ripped me off too. Unreal! Have I really fallen this low? I creep down the stairs avoiding eye contact with anyone.

  I pause at the bottom of the steps, debating whether to go back in there and cause a scene. But really…what will happen? Nate will deny it; I’ll look like a lunatic. No, best just to go home, cancel all my credit cards, and deal later with pressing charges (if that’s what I even want to do). There will be no movies or chatting with Vanessa tonight. Nope…there will be nothing but more misery.

  I head home in the rain, not caring that I’m getting soaked. What does it matter? Honestly, if I catch pneumonia, it’ll be a good thing. At least I’ll have an excuse not to show up at the Star Shack tomorrow.

  Charlie Fisher

  Born September 12: Virgo (not happy to be called a Virgin)

  Rising Sign: Pisces

  You seek perfection in all aspects of your life, but your practicality keeps you grounded. Sometimes your urge to fix things can annoy those around you, but the right person will find your ability to problem solve an asset. This summer, your stubborn side will emerge, but don’t worry: when the time comes, you won’t let it get in the way of doing the right thing.

  chapter 11

  Have a good day!” my mom calls as I head out into the rain. “Say hi to Annabelle!”

  “Thanks,” I say, rubbing my eyes. I decide not to remind Mom that I’m barely talking to Annabelle. There isn’t much of a point. Anyway, I’m too wiped out to talk. I’m going to need ten cups of coffee just to stay awake today. I was up half the night after the dance. I wish I could say I was thinking about the magical night I had with Sarah, but honestly? I was never so glad to have a date end.

  No, what kept me sleepless until four in the morning was the memory of Annabelle in the arms of that sleazy guy with the cheesy black T-shirt.

  Problem 1: He was all over her on the dance floor.

  Problem 2: They headed out to the back deck. Everyone knows what happens out on the back deck.

  Problem 3: This would seem to mean that Annabelle has suddenly become an easy, free-wheeling party girl.

  Problem 4: They never came back.

  So I have no idea if they talked all night, if he walked her home, or if she let him kiss her…or what. I kept tossing and turning, my mind racing through a million horrible scenarios. I mean, Annabelle and I aren’t together, but we’re still friends, and you worry when your friends fall for jerks. Sure, I don’t want to date her or anything, but I don’t want to see her get hurt or taken advantage of either. And guys like that specialize in doing damage. You could just tell by looking at him.

  Of course, it didn’t help that Sarah saw me staring at them on the dance floor and got all worked up, saying I was there with her, not Annabelle. Which you’d think was obvious. I tried to explain that I was worried about my business partner, but Sarah thought that guy looked perfectly nice. Actually her exact words were “Boring, like your little friend.” Yes. Very insightful.

  Sarah was still in a huff when we left, and it took a lot of work to calm her down and get her out of my car. I had to promise to see a chick flick at the movies tonight. I was honestly willing to promise anything to finally be alone. Though I’ll regret it tonight when I’m stuck watching a stupid musical montage of love scenes with Sarah falling all over me.

  I swing by the Opera Café. I don’t know why I bother; I can barely even get a cup of coffee because Daisy is there and Jed can’t seem to function when he’s with his new girlfriend. He’s too busy holding her hand or crooning opera to her to do something like, say, serve coffee. I finally get to the Star Shack with my house blend just as the rain lulls. Annabelle is already there.

  “Hey,” I say, walking in and sitting down on the chair with the loose screw, the consequence of being the second one to arrive.

  She nods but doesn’t speak. I’m a little surprised. I thought she’d be going on and on about her date, rubbing it in my face that
she was with some guy. But whatever…it’s not like I want to hear about it. Plus we’ll probably just fight when I tell her I think the guy is trouble.

  I sip my coffee as Annabelle stares down at her hands. Not that we usually chat up a storm in the mornings, but we still at least occasionally trash talk about baseball…and the Yankees did win last night. Maybe her night wasn’t so great after all. But I’m not asking. It’s not like I’m interested.

  “My mom says hi,” I finally tell her, just to break the silence.

  She doesn’t answer. She just stares at the pile of astrology books on the table.

  “So, good night last night?” I ask. Okay, so maybe I’m a little interested. And really I should give her my advice before we start getting customers.

  “Fine,” Annabelle answers, not looking up. Her voice is hoarse and tight.

  She definitely doesn’t want to talk about it. No big deal. I flip through Astrology and You: Perfect Together, but I can’t focus on any of the words…I’m way too distracted by how quiet Annabelle is. I steal a quick peek at her and notice she has circles under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept well either. I’m about to ask what’s going on when she suddenly raises her hands to her face.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, and I realize she’s crying.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” My arm goes around her automatically.

  But she shakes me off and doesn’t answer, just roots around in her bag for a tissue to blow her nose. All at once, a flash of worry hits me. Did that creep do something to her? If he did, I’ll kill him.

  “I’m sorry; I’m sorry…I’m fine,” she chokes out, pulling out another tissue to wipe the tears off her face. She sniffs and forces an empty smile. “Let’s open the door and get started.”

  “But—”

  “Really, let’s just get started.”

  I’m not refusing her when she looks this miserable. I’m even less happy when I open the door and let in our first customer—a frat boy type who looks suspiciously like he’d be great friends with Creepy Black T-Shirt Dude.

  He fills out his form and hands it to us. I am sneaking looks at Annabelle, with worry consuming me. She’s pale, practically trembling.

  “Pete, you want to start?” Annabelle asks.

  I grab the clipboard. “Let’s see, September 12…you’re a Virgo.” I feel as if I’m on autopilot; I hardly know what I’m saying. “The overriding trait of Virgins is—”

  “Whoa, who are you calling a virgin?” the guy asks.

  “Sorry…” I glance at his name. “Charlie. It’s just the name of the sign, not a comment on your status.”

  “Okay,” he says, looking at me skeptically.

  “Here, let me handle this one,” Annabelle says.

  The guy’s face lights up, which would normally annoy me, but it’s clear that she needs a distraction. While she listens to him start to ramble, an insane idea hits me. I ease open the copy of A Year of Horoscopes and look up Annabelle’s birthday. If this astrology thing comes so easy to me, why not trust it? It takes me half the morning to piece things together from a few books—we have a good flow of people coming in and out, and Annabelle loses herself in giving them advice—but if the stars are right, I start to get a picture of what is going on. Annabelle was in prime position to be duped last night, ready to see romantic possibility in a person with very different motives. So now my question is: what was this guy after?

  My stomach growls, breaking my train of thought. Normally Annabelle would make a joke or at least roll her eyes, but today she doesn’t seem to even notice. She also hasn’t noticed how I’ve kept my mouth shut and let her handle all the advice. This is bad. But I can’t figure it out on an empty stomach.

  “I’m starving,” I say, stretching a little. “How about I get us some sandwiches from the deli?”

  “Okay,” Annabelle says, reaching for her backpack. “Let me just give you…oh.” Her face falls, and she drops her backpack.

  “What, did you forget your wallet? No problem. I can loan you money. Or we can just take it from the Star Shack stash.” So far we’ve just let the money pile up in a manila envelope in a drawer. We might as well start using it.

  Annabelle shakes her head. “Actually I’m not hungry.”

  “It’s no big deal if you don’t have money,” I insist. “You can pay me back if you don’t want to use Star Shack money.”

  I’m shocked to see tears pool in her eyes. “Really, I’m not hungry. Just go and get yourself something.”

  Clearly she wants to be left alone. I can take the hint, so I head to the deli trying to put it all together. Did she just forget her wallet? That’s not something to cry about; it has to be more. There was something in her eyes, almost as if she were ashamed. Did she lose her wallet? But if so, why not just admit it? And that wouldn’t have her feeling embarrassed. Everyone loses stuff. I’m worse than she is.

  I order a turkey and Swiss on rye and think back about what I’ve read. If I’m going to take this star stuff seriously, just for a second, I’ll assume that I know that Annabelle’s in a place where she’ll be easily fooled, where someone might try to take advantage of her. And there was also something about watching out for the things close to you. Could that mean something material, like a wallet?

  And then something completely insane occurs to me.

  Is it possible that Creepy Black T-Shirt Dude stole her wallet? It can’t be, right, though…can it? I mean, no one would stoop that low. Would they? It would be stupid, because he’d get caught too. But it would explain why neither of them returned to the dance. And weirdly enough, a part of me is relieved at that scenario.

  I wait until Annabelle takes an afternoon bathroom break and then peek in her backpack. I don’t want to violate her privacy or anything, but I have to know. Sure enough, she has a book, some loose change, and a receipt from the grocery store that’s a few days old. The pocket where she normally keeps her wallet is empty.

  So now I’m almost certain. Ten-to-one that jackass stole her wallet. And if I have anything to say about it, he’s going to pay.

  ***

  It doesn’t take much asking around to find out that his name is Nate Browning. Jed’s served coffee to him (in between smooching with Daisy) and says he’s been here for about a week now. I jog home to Google his address. On the way, Sarah calls. Uh-oh. I forgot our chick-flick date.

  “Hey, I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it tonight,” I tell her in one breath, flipping my phone open. I know it’s best to get this done fast.

  “What?” she practically screeches.

  “Hey, it’s just a movie,” I tell her. “We can do it another time.”

  “I spent two hours shopping for the perfect dress,” she huffs.

  Who buys a new dress to go sit in the dark for two hours? I wonder, but mutter: “Sorry.” I open the front door of my house and kick off my wet sneakers.

  “You better make it up to me,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say, already hanging up. “Bye!”

  Once again, I feel a very odd wash of relief, in spite of what I’m about to do.

  ***

  Nate’s not home, and his mom isn’t sure where he is. I check all the spots on the boardwalk and finally find him at Kitty’s Clam Shack sitting with a group of guys as moronic looking as he is.

  “Hey, Nate,” I say, leaning over the table. “Can I have a word?”

  “Who are you?” he asks in a hostile voice.

  “We have some business,” I say.

  “I’m not sure I’m interested,” he says, and his meathead buddies laugh.

  “Trust me, you are,” I say.

  If I have to go into it in front of his friends I will, but I’d much rather get him alone. It’ll go easier that way. He gives me a long scowling look and then stands up and follows me out of Kitty’s into the cool drizzle outside.

  “So what’s this about?” he asks, folding his arms over his bee
fed-up chest. He looks like he shoots up steroids. Which, come to think of it, is probably why he’s sunk as low as stealing wallets from girls. Unless I’m completely wrong. I mean, do I really trust the stars?

  I take a deep breath and go for it. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. Worst-case scenario: I’ll piss this guy off and apologize. And hope that he doesn’t take a swing at me. “You have something that belongs to a friend of mine, and I need it back,” I hear myself say, very evenly.

  He holds up his hands. “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He takes a step back toward the door.

  I move close to him, right up in his face. He may do the gym thing, but baseball gives you real muscle and I’m pretty sure I can take him if it comes to that. But I don’t want it to come to that. I’ve never been in a fight before. Plus, I know myself: I’m so pissed at what he did to Annabelle I’m going to go from zero to a hundred if he gets physical and probably end up hurting myself even more than I’d hurt him. I can hear my beating heart in my ears.

  “You have Annabelle Lomax’s wallet, and I need it back, with everything still inside.”

  He stares at me for a second, I guess trying to gauge how far I’m willing to go. And he must see something in my eyes because he looks away fast.

  “Sure, dude, whatever,” he says. “I was going to give it back to her. I just wanted to teach her a lesson.”

  The shock that I was actually right—that the stars were right, and that I read them correctly, no faking—is outweighed only by the shock of the garbage coming out of this guy’s mouth. “You wanted to teach her a lesson,” I repeat.

  “I was just pissed she wouldn’t mess around, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know,” I say. Unconsciously, my fists clench at my sides. My jaw twitches. I try to take a deep breath.

  “Relax. I didn’t know she was your girlfriend,” he says, backing away.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I say.

  “Well, she’s obviously something if you’re this amped up,” he mumbles. “The wallet’s back at my mom’s place.”