Cross Me Off Your List (3 page)

A cupcake shop and a Mexican restaurant
finish off this block. A lavish restaurant sits outside of my
window. It's modern and sleek, almost like it's glowing. There's a
line of people waiting outside.

“Café Jezza,” I say, reading the sign. “Now
that’s the kind of restaurant I expect to see during spring
break.”

“I’ll get us reservations then,” Noah says.
“Pick a night. We’ll go.”

I smile and look away, a little embarrassed.
He may be able to afford it, but there’s no way he can get in with
such short notice. That place is booked solid for the next month,
no doubt. It has that aura to it, like an upscale celebrity hangout
that requires a list to get through the door.

“That’s okay,” I say. “You know they won’t
have an opening until August.”

Noah smirks, and it sort of scares me. “Trust
me,” he says. “I can get us in. I know people.”

Big Tony makes a right turn as Noah explains
that we’re meeting up with his younger brother Nat and two of their
friends.

“He’s a little over the top,” Noah warns me.
“Dramatic, loud, flailing. He’s sort of like a drunken, injured
bird trying to fly. All the time.”

Big Tony laughs at Noah’s description. It’s
the first time I’ve seen the dude crack a smile. Noah says that
Nat’s only two years younger than he is and just graduated high
school a semester early, so he’s living up his first few months of
freedom. I guess college isn’t an issue when you have drug money
rolling in or whatever it is they do. Drug money, daddy’s credit
card – it’s all the same in a way.

We pull into a parking lot outside of a giant
outdoor shopping center. Signs hang from the rafters over the
sidewalks, advertising expensive brand names. Palm trees and bright
flowers decorate the landscape. A giant fountain sits in the
distance. It may be not Los Angeles, but I can already feel the
breeze through my hair and I haven’t even stepped out of the
car.

“You sure you want to do this?” Big Tony
asks, glancing in the rearview mirror at Noah.

Noah rolls his eyes but then smiles and nods.
“I’m not sitting in the hotel all day,” he says. “I can handle
crowded malls.”

We park next to another black car with
equally tinted windows. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve joined the
mafia. The driver’s side window rolls down and a gorgeous Cuban guy
smiles at us. His smile is worthy of a Crest whitening strip
commercial. He sort of reminds me of the guy from CSI: Miami. I
look away so no one will notice my eyes bulging.

A blonde guy with surfer hair and bright blue
eyes gets out of the passenger seat as Noah and I step onto the
pavement. He looks a little less than thrilled to be here. He
avoids eye contact for the most part, aside from the initial
glance.

Noah begins introductions. “That’s Benji,” he
says, pointing to the blonde. “He’s not as high maintenance as
you’d think, I promise. He wore that same shirt yesterday.”

Benji flips him off but walks around the car
and says it’s nice to meet me, even if I doubt he means it.

“And I’m Tank,” the Cuban guy says. “Well,
that’s what everyone calls me anyway.”

Noah eases up closer to me, and I lean in so
only he can hear me when I speak.

“Am I crashing a guys-only vacation?” I ask,
my voice hushed.

He smiles and half-shrugs. “You’re not
crashing anything,” he says. “Plus, I invited you. And you haven’t
met the resident diva yet.” He nods across the other car to the guy
getting out of the backseat.

He’s thin and slightly taller than me, maybe
five-foot-seven. He wears black skinny jeans and a bright hot pink
fitted tee that says Just Freakin’ Dance! on the front. His dark
brown hair is perfect, like he spends too much time in front of the
mirror to keep it that way. His eyes are green like Noah’s.

“This,” Noah says with a grand gesture, “is
my brother Nat.”

Nat bows – yeah, like a prince – and quickly
straightens himself back up, like it’s totally normal to pretend
you’re walking through a castle and not an outdoor shopping
center.

But then all of his imperialness disappears
the moment he actually looks at me. He gasps and rushes toward me,
immediately grabbing me by the hips.

“Whoa,” I say, pulling back. “A little
forward, aren’t you?”

He cocks his head to one side and promptly
puts his hand on his hip. “Oh, no, honey,” he says. “The only
reason I’d ever want to get you out of your pants is so I could
wear them.”

He points to the scarf dangling over my hip.
“I was admiring the scarf-turned-belt – FYI,” he says. “You’re not
the first to try that either, by the way, but I will say you’re the
first to wear it well.”

“Oh,” I say, glancing down at the scarf.
“Thank you, I think.”

He smiles but then turns his attention back
to Tank and Benji. Noah apologizes for his brother’s behavior as we
follow the others toward the first store. Big Tony stays a few
steps behind us, but Noah says that’s normal.

“Is your brother…um…” I don’t want to say the
word.

“A skinny-jean-wearing, loud-mouthed pretty
boy queer? Yeah, completely,” Noah says, with a huge smile. “He
embraces every ounce of who he is and shoves it in everyone’s
faces. The more uncomfortable they are, the louder he is. If you’re
cool with him, he’ll mellow out.”

I glance up ahead. Nat walks between Tank and
Benji, steadily talking and looking back and forth for
acknowledgment from one of them. Tank smiles a few times, but Benji
looks annoyed. Maybe he hasn’t embraced Nat’s personality yet.

“So, what happened with your friend to make
her leave? Did she actually break her ankle?” Noah asks, angling
his head where only I can see his face.

I shake my head. “I think it’s just sprained.
Her parents are overprotective, and she’s never really had any
freedom, so she was excited and jumped on the bed in the hotel
room. Then she landed, and it wasn’t pretty,” I tell him. “She
could barely even walk this morning, so she left.”

“Ahhh,” he says. “When I first saw the ice
bucket, I figured you were popping champagne or something.”

“I wish,” I say, strolling along the
sidewalk. “But at least it gave off a better vibe than strawberry
milk.”

We follow Nat into a clothing store with
shirts that are way too tight for anyone other than a scene kid to
wear.

“I already told you,” Noah says. “Don’t hate
on the milk. I have to have it every single morning before I speak
a word or else the entire day is off, and you definitely don’t want
to be around me then.”

I follow him toward a shelf of expensive
sunglasses, equipped with theft-guard clips, while Nat raids the
tight T-shirts. He grabs an aqua blue one that reads “yes, your
gaydar is accurate.”

Benji laughs and catches my gaze across the
store. He motions toward Noah.

“I think your brother needs clothing advice,”
I say.

Noah looks at me like I just asked him if he
eats aliens for breakfast. “That’s what Benji’s for,” he says. “You
let divas shop with divas.”

I shrug at Benji and he turns back to the
clothing, grabbing another shirt for Nat. Noah studies himself in a
pair of sunglasses in the mirror.

“Earlier you said Benji wears his dirty
laundry, but now he’s a diva?” I call him out.

He laughs and pulls his Oakleys from his
eyes. “Benji’s a complex guy. He’s not the diva he appears to be,
but he gives off the appearance of one, if that makes sense. You
just have to know him. Either way, he’s the only one of my friends
who can tolerate Nat on a shopping trip.”

Noah debates a different pair of Oakleys
while I sneak a peek at the yellow shirt Nat is eyeing across the
store. I’m not sure what the words say, but Benji shakes his head,
and Nat immediately puts it back. I sort of feel like I’m on the
wrong side of the store shopping with the wrong brother. Fashion is
definitely my department.

I open my mouth to tell Noah I’m going across
the store, but my words are swept away by a high-pitched
bird-squawking kind of scream. I spin around to see who’s being
mugged, but a crowd of teenage girls push themselves into the
store, each and every one of them squealing in true pre-teen
style.

“Go!” Noah says, pushing me toward the back
of the store.

This is ridiculous. A bunch of screaming
girls enter the store and we’re rushing toward a back exit? This
may be the most excitement Crescent Cove has to offer. There may be
an A-list celebrity in the store because Los Angeles was
overcrowded with spring break partiers. I have to go back –
now.

“Whoa,” Noah says when I turn around. “What
are you doing? We can’t go back.”

“Keep moving,” Big Tony directs us, pointing
to the back door. He shields us from whatever craziness is
happening behind him.

We step outside into an alleyway where trucks
deliver inventory to the stores. Another black car awaits us,
slightly longer than the ones we rode over here in. It’s almost
like a baby limo.

“Get in,” Big Tony orders us.

Noah jerks the door open and motions for me
to get in first. He crawls in immediately after, followed by Benji.
I lean forward to look back outside. Nat is posed with his hands on
his hips, all prissy and defiant.

“I’m going back for the shirt,” he says.
“It’s not fair to me that I can’t even shop like a normal human
being just because some girls can’t keep their composure in
public.”

Noah slides over to the open door and looks
at his brother. “Big Tony’s going with you then,” he says. “Make it
quick, please.”

Nat gasps and covers his mouth with one hand.
Then he resumes his prissy hand-on-the-hip pose.

“Oh, no, bro,” he says. “That is not going to
work. I want Tank to go with me. I don’t really care for big
muscles, but when I do, I prefer them Cuban.”

He bats his eyes and strokes Tank’s bicep.
The ‘Cuban muscle’ laughs, but Noah interjects, saying that Tank is
too noticeable and it’s Big Tony or no shirt.

Nat folds his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he
says through his teeth. “I’ll take ‘Big Tony’ with me. Although if
you were really worried about my safety, you’d send Tank. But
whatever.”

Tank gets into the car next to Benji, who is
too concerned with whatever magazine he’s flipping through to even
care about what’s happening with the diva outside. Nat says
something to Big Tony about not standing too close to him because
someone may try to take his picture. Tank closes the door as Nat
stomps away with Big Tony in tow.

Noah studies his shoes, and we sit in an
awkward moment when I finally decide to ask what the hell was going
on in there. I should’ve volunteered to go with Nat. At least I
could’ve scoped out the action.

But before I can speak, I hear it.

“Oh my God,” I spit out before I realize it.
“What the hell is that?”

Benji glances up. “What the hell is
what?”

“That song,” I say. “Is that the radio? Can
you turn it?”

It’s that stupid boyband that Erin likes, the
one I had to listen to the entire freaking drive to Crescent Cove.
Satellites of Saturn or something?

Benji laughs like he did when Nat found the
gaydar shirt. He closes his magazine and pulls it to his chest,
smiling all too happily at me.

“You’re not a Spaceships Around Saturn fan?”
he asks.

“You are?” I counter.

“I like some of their music,” he says,
shrugging. “I just figured you liked them, at least to some
extent.”

I’m slightly offended. I fold my arms over my
chest and lean back against the seat. “Why? Because I’m a girl?
Because I’m clearly not into the punk or goth scene, so I had to be
into gimmicky boybands?” I ask.

Benji studies me, this time a bit more
seriously. His over-the-top smile and happy attitude are gone. His
shakes his messy blonde hair out of his eyes, really staring into
me now.

“You really don’t know anything about them?”
he asks.

I shake my head.

“Well,” he says, “maybe you should check them
out.”

He leans forward and hands me the magazine
he’s been hugging to his shirt. I snatch it from his hand and look
down at the cover. Benji and Noah both smile back at me from the
magazine’s cover shot of Spaceships Around Saturn.

There are some things in life that are easy
to wrap your brain around. Like, you dress for your body shape, not
your size. Or how colored bottoms always increase your outfit
possibilities. And black really does go with everything. However,
boyband magazines don’t come with a guide like fashion magazines
do. If there is one, I wish a Saturnite would hand it over because
the magazine Benji handed me in the car has no survival guide to
hanging out with some of the most famous dudes in the world.

“It’s really not that complicated,” Noah
explains. He leans back against the headboard of his bed in room
413 while I thumb through this magazine again, waiting for my shock
to wear off.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Benji says. He
stares at the ceiling, stretched out on Nat’s bed. “This entire
floor is unavailable because we’re staying on it. The hotel staff
is on a need-to-know basis about who is staying up here. Everywhere
we go – even in stupid tiny towns like this – we can’t hide. It is
always
complicated.”

Benji flips over on his stomach and buries
his face into a pillow. Nat crawls over next to him and rubs his
hand over Benji’s back, but Benji swats it away. Nat stretches out
next to Benji and pokes him in the side.

“Stop being all dramatic, Baccarini,” he
says. “That’s my job.”

Benji groans and pushes himself up. “I’m
going back to my room,” he says. He stands over Noah. “If you
actually plan on doing something worthwhile later, hit me up. And
keep your touchy-feely diva on a leash.”