Livvy whispers from the back seat. “Let’s go home, Claire. We’re almost there.”
It’s meant to be encouraging, I’m sure. But I don’t want to be encouraged. I want Foster. And now I’m mad at the world. Or at least I would be mad, if I could feel any emotion at all.
I ignore Livvy’s plea to drive and lean back in my seat. “So, I have to ask.” My voice is hoarse from choked-back tears. But I’ve thought about Foster so much in the past hour I can’t bring myself to talk about him.
Livvy eyes me, one eyebrow cocked.
“When you told everyone you wanted to marry Evan, was that real, or…?” I let myself trail off because the alternative is too hard to ask out loud. Liv alone at the court house in some cheap white gown. Some awful statistic and legally trapped in a life with a sleaze ball like Evan. My current state of mind isn’t the best, but at least I haven’t reached that level yet.
“It was a false alarm.”
But she’s too quiet, her answer too quick. “Really, Liv. What happened?”
I’m still facing away from her, but I hear her shift in her seat. She’s probably compulsively tucking her hair behind her ears like she does when she’s upset during a conversation. “I lied. I made the whole thing up.” She sighs. “I just got tired of Mom and Dad treating me like a baby, and I figured if they thought I was going to run off with Evan they’d take me seriously.”
I frown. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Maybe now’s not the time for complete transparency, but I’m too exhausted to filter. “Seriously, that’s so bad, Liv.”
She shrugs. “I know. Mom and Dad are never going to trust anything I say ever again. They’ve already planned out the rest of my life at this point.”
I force a smile. Livvy’s not as unbreakable as she would have us all think. “I thought the hardest thing we’d have to deal with this summer was losing Opa,” I say, my voice cracking as I think back to the first day at the beach house.
There’s silence, and I think the sharing might be over, but Livvy surprises me again. “I miss him too, Claire. Opa, I mean.”
Something catches in my throat. I’ve been so busy chasing other people this summer that I’ve forgotten to remember Opa the way I planned. Something brushes my arm, Livvy reaching toward me from the backseat. She rubs the inside of my arm in soft strokes for a few seconds until the lump in my throat subsides and my eyes clear. It’s something Mom would do. Neither of us say so, but Opa would have loved to see the two of us getting along, united in thinking about him.
Thirty-Seven
The next morning I drop Livvy off at the beach before meeting Carolina for a pre-competition breakfast. I half-expect Livvy to saunter over to Evan, even though she said they broke up. But as I sit and watch from the car, she wanders over to a shaded spot with one of the wide umbrellas and lies down in the sand, sunglasses slipped over her eyes. She’s changing, that’s for sure. A bit of sisterly pride washes over me while I spy on her, lounging on the shore like nothing’s bothering her while her ex-boyfriend’s eyes roam the beach.
I’ve always wished for a little more of my sister’s attitude, but I could use it right now more than ever. Sure, it gets her into trouble a whole lot more than I’d like. But it also gives her resilience and a fire I’d kill for. Also, her hair. I was actually kind of pleased with the way mine was growing out, with little wispy curls that frame my face. But then a little girl at Guava Guava stage-whispered to her mom that I had hair just like her older brother. Carolina snorted into her smoothie with such force that she had orange/mango-flavored stuff coming out of her nose for the next five minutes.
So maybe I’ll never have hair like Livvy, but if I could just channel some of her I-couldn’t-care-less-what-anyone-says attitude, that would be nice. It’s getting harder by the hour to pretend that I’m not devastated by Foster’s betrayal. Even though he texted me from his new phone number late last night, it still feels really, truly final this time. No “Sorry you came all the way up here for nothing” text from a new number is going to change anything. If he was really sorry, he’d be here, not with his donkey-face brother.
Carolina smirks when she sees me. “Are you ready for this?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I laugh.
The truth is I don’t know if I’m ready. But the fact that I’ve made it here to the end of the summer and the final competition is kind of a miracle. Between the drama with Livvy, grief over Opa, and all of the baggage I’m carrying around from my failed relationship with Foster, the past few months have been exhausting. I’ve barely had time to remember why I joined the contest in the first place. It wasn’t even about the scholarship money or the interview to Flagler. It was Opa. I guess he knew what he was doing. I started out convinced the contest would help me find the closure I needed, and it did in a way.
But then I met Foster, and I fell in love for the first time. It turns out love sucks just as much as everyone says it does. And even though Livvy is still as wild as she was at the beginning of the summer, I think we’re making progress. We’re at least talking again.
Carolina taps her fingers on the table, signaling that she wants me to order so she can eat already. I glance at the calm blue waves and the pink morning sunrise outside the restaurant’s windows.
“I’m ready,” I say.
“In Three. Two. ONE!”
A judge in a white polo shirt embellished with the Flagler logo blows into the whistle hanging from his neck. I watch him seconds after the whistle sounds and everyone else around me starts to run to and from the water to fill buckets. If you would have asked me in May what kind of artist I wanted to be, I would have quickly walked you through the history of sketching, the pros and cons of sketching with pencil and pen, and a thousand other boring and useless facts. Useless now because sketching is no longer what drives me. Sculpting, specifically sculpting with sand, is where I feel most at home in the art world. It’s why I have to win the competition. The scholarship money would be nice, but I belong at the beach now more than ever. Turns out Opa was right. If I’m going to go to art school after high-school graduation, I want to do it right. And that means securing a spot at Flagler for the next year.
“CLAIRE!”
Carolina’s shrill screech snaps me back to the present. I quickly turn away from the judge, who’s eyeing me with pursed lips, and face Carolina’s death glare. “Sorry.”
She points to the row of empty buckets we lined up in preparation and thrusts one into my hands. I shake my head quickly and sprint to the ocean, where all the other teams are also gathering water to pack their sand. It’s common for there to be a daily afternoon thunderstorm in the Florida summers, but this week has been unusually dry, which means the miniscule white sand crystals slip through my fingers and crumble when molded. If I don’t mix enough water into my sand, my whole sculpture could fall apart within hours of assembly, which would definitely put me at risk for a bad score.
I scoop water until it just barely risks sloshing over the top of my bucket and run back to my station. I dump the water into the pile of sand I've dug, and then I run back to the ocean with two buckets this time. Once I have enough wet sand to begin working, the creative process can begin. I've decided on a sand version of the Flagler grounds. The old red Spanish-style architecture is difficult to replicate, but if I can pull it off, I have a real chance at impressing the judges and winning. It’s not exactly my style, but a little sucking-up is necessary when it comes to stuff like this.
My plan is digitized on an app on my phone, but the screen is too small and too difficult to see in the bright sunlight. So, I’ve also sketched it onto a poster board set on an easel jimmied deeply into the sand. Before I go back for a second round of sand, I start scooping up the current sand into the shape of the base.
The judge from this morning, the one who blew the starting whistle, stands in front of my barely begun sculpture. He eyes me and then my sculpture in turns, says nothing, and walks away. Carolina watches from th
e next station over, eyebrows raised.
“Was that good or bad?”
“I’m going to go with good,” she says.
I’m almost finished with detailing a particularly ornate stained-glass window on the administration building when I see the judge from earlier in what looks like an argument with two other judges. All three of them are pointing toward my station while they steal glances in my direction. They stop arguing and move toward me. Something is wrong, but all I can do is ignore their grim expressions and focus on detailing.
The original judge clears his throat until I turn.
“I’m sorry to tell you that you can no longer compete.”
“Me?” I jab a thumb at my chest. My head swivels, looking all around, like someone else will be hiding behind me and that's who they're really talking to.
It can’t be me. I haven’t done anything wrong.
There’s a beat when no one moves. I’m pretty sure I don’t even breathe. Then the judge inhales, meeting my eyes.
“Yes. You’ve been disqualified.”
Thirty-Eight
“I don’t understand.”
I squint against the late morning sun and frown. I can’t be hearing this correctly. Someone has made a mistake, or they have me confused with someone else, because I can’t be disqualified.
The judge steps closer and produces a clipboard. He jabs a finger at my name, typed in small black ink right next to Carolina’s. Beneath our contact information and scores from the qualifying round, someone has scrawled a note under my name. Reports of cheating.
I stare at the words, reading them over and over as I try to make sense of them. It’s like trying to read a foreign language. I shake my head as heat rises to my neck and cheeks.
“I haven’t cheated.” It’s lame, but what else am I supposed to say? I have no idea why I’d be accused of anything like this.
“Someone’s come forward. Another contestant saw you and your former partner using unmarked tools during the qualifying round. As you know, all items must be checked and cleared with the judging panel prior to the competition.”
The bobby pin. The stupid bobby pin that saved us, the whole reason we’d been able to qualify for the final round.
“It was just a bobby pin. It’s not like I snuck in a mold and tried to pass it off as my own work.”
The edge in my voice slips through before I can rethink it. I should be backing away gracefully, not making a scene. But I’m angry. I deserve to be in the competition. I can win this. Except now I can’t even compete.
The judges exchange glances again, frowning even more now. They’re probably worried I’ll start flinging sand at their heads.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll need you to step away now until the end of the contest.”
I look to where the judge points, a shady spot near the pier where friends and family members, along with a few curious strangers, gather to watch. I’m officially banished. Carolina's eyes burn into my back from where she's supposed to be working on her own entry. I nod to her, hoping to quickly and quietly convey everything that needs to be said. And then I trudge to the sidelines.
I shouldn’t stay to watch, but I can’t imagine going home and facing questions.
And then Livvy scampers toward me with outstretched arms. “Oh no! Is it over? Did we miss the whole thing?”
Apparently, I’m not doing a decent job at pretending I’m okay because she stops questioning me and swoops close enough to whisper, “Are you okay?”
Her blanket of hair covers both our faces, and I allow mine to fall under its cover.
“I don’t know what happened, Liv.” My voice is small and shaky.
I let myself fall into Livvy’s arms as she leads me away from the rest of the crowd. She sits me down on a bench on the outskirts of the crowd and squares my shoulders under her arms.
“Okay, talk.”
I hiccup through the entire story, but I finally get it all out. “They said I cheated. They disqualified me because of something dumb and insignificant that happened last time. I didn’t think it was even a big deal. But someone saw and told the judges.”
I’m blubbering into her shoulder, tears I can’t control forming a wet spot on her shirt. I should be embarrassed. At the beginning of the summer, I’d have rather died than have a complete meltdown in front of her. But something has shifted between Livvy and me, and I’m not embarrassed to be crying like this with her. At least there’s that.
“Let’s get you home,” she says. “We can figure out what happened later, but you don’t need to stay here. Mom and Dad are looking for a parking spot, but I'll go tell them to pull around."
She glances toward the area where the rest of the teams are putting finishing touches on their masterpieces. Where I should be right now. I follow her gaze and shudder. She’s right. I can’t be here anymore.
I squeeze my eyes to stop the rest of the tears and wipe my face on the shoulder of my T-shirt. “Okay, but I’d like to go alone. I’ll see everyone later. And thanks, Liv. You kind of saved me from everyone seeing my meltdown.”
She grins. “Well I still kind of owed you.”
My phone rings less than ten minutes later as I’m driving back to the beach house. I jump, and it slides down under my feet, next to the gas pedal. I thought the distance from the contest would calm my nerves, but the closer I get to home, the more my heart rate rises.
By the time I pull into the driveway at the beach house, my paranoia still cripples me enough that I stay in my car for another few minutes before I remember my phone. I fish it out from below my feet and slump back into my seat. I tuck my feet under my body and check my missed calls. They’re both from Foster, and as soon as I see his name on the screen, I breathe a sigh of relief, despite my complicated feelings for him. If anyone will be able to talk me down from what just happened, it’s him.
I press call, and he answers on the first ring. Which should be my first sign the conversation is not going to go well.
“Claire.” He says my name and then spends another five seconds panting on the other end.
“Foster, what’s up? Is something wrong?” A rhythmic beat sounds behind his heavy breathing. “Are you okay?” It’s hard to contain my rising panic at the weird phone call. More seconds pass before I hear him breathe into the phone. What is happening?
“Yes. Hold on.”
I clutch my phone to my ear with sweaty palms and trembling fingers. It’s stupid, but I push my finger down on the lock button in my car to lock all of the car doors. It doesn’t make me feel any better though. Foster’s ragged breathing and the pounding sound from earlier start to match the rhythm of my heart beating in my chest. In all the confusion, I’ve almost forgotten what happened at the beach and spurred this panic-fest. That is, until Foster speaks again.
“It’s Johnny,” he says. It’s a soft whisper compared to his earlier words, but it causes chilled goose bumps to appear on my arms, even though it’s a typical scorching and humid summer afternoon.
“What? What about him?” It’s impossible to contain my voice. I screech at him, but I’m only met by gulping-for-air sounds. Foster groans loudly, and the sound plays on my already fragile nerves like a harp. I scream at him out of impulse, but I’m met with complete silence. I pull my phone away from my face to see that the call ended. And then there’s a banging on my car. It takes my terror to a completely new level. I turn in the direction of the noise and let out my most high-pitched scream. A face is pressed against my window, directly in front of me. I scream again and fumble around with my hands to remember where I put my keys. I find them on the passenger seat next to me and quickly turn to the ignition.
There’s another pounding on the window, and I’m one split-second away from peeling out of the driveway.
“Claire, wait! It’s me!” Foster’s voice outside my car reels me in, and I stare at the face in the window in confusion. It’s definitely Foster. He’s wide-eyed and looking more scraggly than usual. I p
robably would have recognized him sooner if I wasn’t already in full-fledged panic mode. I put a hand to my chest and gulp air into my lungs. Then I open the car door. Foster stares at me.
“I thought you were going to run me over.”
I throw my head back, letting it thump against the headrest. “I thought I was too. Where did you even come from?” He points to the passenger side of the car, and I nod. Once he’s opened the door and taken a seat, he leans back and rubs his temples. I lean farther back. I’m still trying to catch my breath.
“I ran here from the beach. I took Johnny’s truck and drove after you an hour after you left Alabama. I tried to tell you on the phone, but I couldn’t run and talk at the same time.” He ducks his head.
I furrow my brow and sigh. “You scared me to death. I thought you were hurt or being chased by someone or something.”
He frowns. “I wasn’t being chased by anyone—yet. But, Johnny will probably want his truck back and come looking for me at some point. I parked it at the beach for now.”
I shake my head. “You better have a good reason for showing up like this because I just lived out a real-life horror movie because of you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to answer my phone again.”
I look down and cover my eyes. I can’t have this conversation right now. I need longer than the requisite minute to get over what’s happened in the past hour. “I got kicked out of the competition,” I say, remembering suddenly.
“Yeah, I know.” Foster reaches for my hand, but I don’t give it to him. “That’s why I ran here. I saw Carolina at the pier, and she told me what happened.”
The Art of Falling in Love Page 20