How My Summer Went Up in Flames (22 page)

“Wait until tomorrow, Rosie,” Spencer says. “You’ll see how blue it is.”

“Are you dissing the East Coast?” I ask.

“Not at all. But the Atlantic is green. This is the Pacific. We’re talking blue, blue. You’ll see,” Spencer says.

“So, I guess you guys have been to California before?”

“We drove the coastal highway from San Francisco to San Diego. I was eight and Logan was ten.” Spencer pauses. “Our family was more of a family back then.”

“Let’s find someplace to stay,” Logan interjects, before Spencer travels too far down memory lane.

“Thank you,” I say when my eyes meet Logan’s.

“You’re buying your own boogie board tomorrow, Catalano,” Logan says. “And don’t get my car seats wet.”
He turns toward the driver’s door and is about to put his index finger in the air when I gently grab his wrist with one hand and push his finger down with the other. “It’s okay. We’re right behind you.”

 • • •

The Fourth of July. We’re walking back to the hotel after watching the fireworks over Mission Bay when we pass a restaurant with an outdoor café. There’s a small stage beyond the bar, and a band is doing a sound check. I look at the poster draped behind the drum kit. It’s a sun symbol—the same one that’s on the necklace from my cowboy.

“Hey, I think that’s the band Lucca was talking about! Holy crap. What are the chances? We’ve got to check them out,” I say. I don’t want tonight to end. It’s my last night away and our last night all together, if not forever, then for a long time.

“What kind of music do they play?” Spencer asks.

“No clue.”

“Who cares?” Matty says. “It beats hanging around the hotel. Who knows when I’ll ever be in San Diego again, or anywhere else for that matter.”

As Logan and Spencer walk toward the outdoor café, I stop Matty and throw my arms around his middle. It takes
him a moment to recover from my spontaneous display of affection before he hugs me back.

“Uh, Rosie? What’s this for?”

“Everything,” I say into his shirt.

“Are we done now?”

I pull away and look up at him. “Yeah. I think we’re good.”

 • • •

I’m pleasantly surprised that the band plays a mixture of power pop and rock—Bruce-like storytelling with smartass, Weezer-type lyrics. Matty and Spencer, the music snobs, stand close to the stage to judge “the chops” of the band, as they put it. I sit on a bar stool, sipping a Diet Coke and accepting the ebb and flow of euphoria and melancholy as both emotions wash over me. Logan sits next to me, and I’m slightly irritated by this girl in a bikini top who’s talking to him while she waits for her drink, but I watch the band and revel in the fact that I don’t really want to talk to anyone at the moment. I don’t have a phone anymore, but even if I did, I don’t want to reach out to anyone on the “outside” right now. Tonight belongs to me and my guys.

I finish my drink, and since Logan is still yapping to this girl about ASU, I make my way toward the stage to hang with Spencer and Matty. As I squish through the
crowd, the band launches into a power ballad, evoking a few whoops and some applause from fans obviously familiar with their music. I’m eyeing up my next move to cut through the throng of people when I feel hands on my hips. I hope to God it’s someone I know. I gingerly turn sideways. Logan. Phew. Or maybe not. He presses against my back and sways me slowly back and forth to the music, dancing, but not really dancing. Goose bumps spread from the back of my neck across every inch of my skin. He gently lowers his chin onto the top of my head and wraps one arm across the front of me while keeping his other hand on my hip. I rest my cheek on his forearm and inhale the scent of his cologne, the scent of him. As we sway back and forth to the music, it takes every ounce of self-control I have to not turn around, put my hands on his shoulders, and—

Logan moves his lips to my ear. “I want to do so much more than kiss you, Rosie.”

I know what he means. My own x-rated thoughts start with a kiss, then progress to me running my hands under his shirt and down toward the button of his jeans. I spin around and touch the tip of my nose to his. Our lips are about a centimeter apart. Either I stop right now or not at all.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“That I’m going to be in Arizona and, after tomorrow, you’re not. You?”

“I’m thinking about something Avery said and . . . I’ve still got a lot of things I need to work out.” I stand on my tiptoes. This time I’m the one whispering in his ear. “To be continued,” I say. “I hope.”

When I pull back, he looks confused or hurt or both. But he doesn’t press me. Unlike Joey, Logan is not the kind of guy who would start something he couldn’t finish, and maybe for the first time ever, neither am I. When the song ends, so does our moment. Sometimes, it really is best to do nothing.

For as long as I can remember, our family has
been renting the same beach house at the New Jersey shore. Rentals begin and end on Saturdays, with the standard “checkout” time being eleven in the morning. It doesn’t matter if we’re there for a week or a month, come Saturday, no one ever wants to leave. So every year, for as long as I can remember, we kid ourselves. We say: “Even though we have to be out of the house by eleven, we can still spend the rest of the day on the beach. Right?” But guess what? That never happens. Because once we’ve packed the car with bedding to boogie boards and vacuumed up sand from the hardwood floors, the vacation is over. Stretching it a few more hours wouldn’t feel right. Our time at the beach ends when we turn in our key.

That’s how I feel when we arrive in Tempe on Sunday. We’re taking a red-eye home, so we still have the entire day to look around, check out the ASU campus and Logan’s dorm, and grab some dinner. But the collective mood of our little foursome makes me realize our road trip ended when we crossed the mountains, out of California back into Arizona.

It’s nearly dark when Logan pulls up curbside at Sky Harbor Airport. On the ride over, I obsessed about how I was going to say good-bye. Should I kiss him on the cheek? Tell him I’ll call him when I get home? Ask him when we’ll see each other again? In the end, it turns out to be none of the above. Logan gets out of the driver’s seat, walks around the back, and pops the trunk. I stand on the sidewalk, fiddling with my hair, as he helps the boys unload our bags before shaking Matty’s hand and giving Spencer a brotherly hug. Then he turns to me, opens his arms to bear-hug width, and says, “Rosie.” I step toward him and give him an awkward squeeze with my backpack slung over one shoulder. When I look into his eyes, I want to cry. I get it; there’s too much to say, so we aren’t saying anything. Almost. I do, however, manage to whisper, “Thanks for the ride.”

Twenty-five minutes later, we’ve made it through
security and I’m standing at a newsstand, deciding on snacks and reading material for the five-hour plane ride home. It’s an overnight flight, but I know I’m not going to be able to sleep. I push away the image of Logan pulling away from the curb in the Taurus and the overwhelming sensation that my home for the past nine days has left me. I shake it off. I have to. This trip put me back together, and I refuse to get all torn apart again. So there, Logan Davidson. Enjoy your 120-degree Rosie-free Arizona summer. I’m just about to reach for one of the magazines listing the one hundred best college deals when Matty practically tackles me and pulls me into the aisle with the paperbacks.

“Get your hands off me, you big goon,” I say. By now, he knows I mean “big goon” in the best-possible way.

“Joey’s here,” Spencer says.

“Oh,
Dios mío
!” Apparently emergencies turn me into my mother. “How can that be? He said he wasn’t coming.”

“He lied,” Matty says. “Big surprise.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Spencer, follow him and try to find out what flight he’s on. If he’s on our plane, we’ll simply change our tickets and take the next flight home. No need to panic, right?” I take a deep breath. “Spencer, what are you doing? Get going.”

Spencer shrugs. “He’s not here.” Then he high-fives Matty, who’s all pressed up against the bestsellers with me.

Matty grins, releasing me. “I couldn’t resist.”

I expel all the air from my lungs and am reminded of Batman dive bombing my hair at the caverns—too relieved to even be angry. “Come on. We’d better get to our gate.”

Matty raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?” He sounds disappointed.

“Not exactly the reaction we were going for,” Spencer agrees.

“Maybe it’s time you started expecting the unexpected. At least where I’m concerned,” I say.

 • • •

On the plane, Matty, Spence, and I sit three across in an emergency exit row, the kind with all the extra leg room. Sweet karma. I remember why Spencer wanted Matty along to begin with and I offer to hold his hand during takeoff.

“It’s okay, Rosie. I don’t think I’m afraid to fly anymore.”

I grab his and Matty’s hands anyway.
Neither am I,
I think.

The flight seems excruciatingly long, and when they finally allow us to deplane, I want to sprint down the aisle, which, of course, isn’t possible. Instead, I watch the other
passengers search through the overhead bins and wait as one row of people at a time make their way toward the exit.

Inside the terminal, we head for baggage claim on the lower level. I stand by the automatic doors while Matty and Spencer go and pick up our luggage and Spencer’s guitar, which required special cargo instructions. I keep peeking through the doors to see if I can spot my dad’s car. Outside, the sun is rising. I’m considering waiting by the curb and trusting Matty and Spencer will know where to find me when I see the boys coming toward me with all our bags and the guitar. Hooray for me, positive energy continues. Except—“That’s not my bag.” My heart sinks. My favorite sandals are in there. And the dress I wore the night we all went out in Dallas, and the Elvis stuff for my family, and the necklace from my cowboy. What if somebody took my bag by mistake?

“Stay right here,” I say, grabbing my suitcase’s doppelgänger from Matty. “I’ll find it.”

“We’ll go back,” Matty offers.

“It’s okay, really.” Matty’s handled too much for me already. “I’ll be quick. See if you can spot my dad.”

I dash back to the baggage carousel. I don’t want the person whose luggage got switched with mine to leave. I arrive at carousel 2, which only has a few bags left, including mine.
I see it turning the bend on the conveyor belt. As fast as I can, I throw the strange bag back and head for mine.
Come to Mama.
I’m jogging alongside my suitcase and am about to snatch it before it goes around another turn when I hear—

“Rosie!”

Joey.

Slowly, I turn as my bag continues along on its merry way.

He’s on the other side of the carousel and partially blocked from view by the chute where the bags come out.

“What are you doing here?” I look back over my shoulder to see if I can spot Matty or Spencer. I feel trapped.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

Me and my big mouth. Why’d I go and tell him I’d be on the red-eye today? I keep moving along the belt. I just want to get my bag and sprint toward the door. Joey follows my gaze and grabs my suitcase before I can.

“Drop the suitcase, Joey,” I say. I don’t want to get any closer. I’m probably already within TRO violation territory. “You know I can’t talk to you. Whatever you need to say, tell it to my lawyer.”

“Come on, Rosie. I miss you.”

He’s lying. I know it. He’s up to something; I just don’t know what it is.

“Maybe we can work things out without going to court.”

Hmm. Why does Joey want to stay out of court? “So drop the TRO, why don’t you,” I snap. “You’re the one who filed for court protection from big, bad Rosie.”

I want my suitcase. I’m not going to lose all my special memories because of Joey. I take a few steps backward, keeping Joey in sight while glancing around for any sign of Matty and Spencer. Joey starts moving toward me. “Come on, Rosie. Let me hand this to you.”

“Just leave it right there, Joey. You’re going to get me in more trouble.”

The internal struggle is becoming too much. I’m about to say screw it and just get the hell out of there when, out of nowhere, Spencer comes up behind Joey and screams: “Drop the bag.”

Startled, Joey whips his head around and that’s when it happens, Bam! His face smashes into the guitar case Spencer has slung over his shoulder. I didn’t think Joey hit it that hard, but he obviously hit it the wrong way because blood spurts everywhere. Holy mother of God! I’m ashamed to admit this, but my first reaction is to run toward Joey so I can grab my suitcase and sprint for the exit.

And that’s exactly what I do.

So much can happen in nine days. I sit on my bed,
laptop on my knees, paging through all the photos from our trip. Matty brought them over on a flash drive this morning. He probably could’ve just e-mailed them, but he said he also wanted to wish me luck. Me and my parents are meeting with Steve Justice later today. Anyway, I’m glad he stopped by.

It’s so weird, I think as the photos slide by. During the school year, the weeks can sometimes blur together like one colorless, uneventful day. But in just over a week, I’d been from Chestnutville, New Jersey, to the Pacific Ocean and back again: 3,165 miles of driving. Spencer tracked it.

I thought it would feel good to wake up in my own bed this morning, but honestly, it was strange. Despite the fact
that Pony was plastered against me, his head on my pillow with one paw draped over my shoulder, I felt lonely.

Yesterday morning, after I recovered from my initial reaction to the Joey bloodbath at Newark Liberty Airport, I returned to carousel 2 with my dad to find Spencer, Matty, and Joey’s brother all gathered around him. Spencer, who of course is certified in CPR and first aid, was applying a makeshift compress to Joey’s nose. It looked like someone’s T-shirt, but I really didn’t want to ask. I just stood beside my dad until airport security arrived with one of those golf-cart-type vehicles to help Joey to his brother’s car. All this time I wondered how it would feel to talk to Joey again, but as I watched him drive away, I didn’t feel love or like or even hate. All I felt was sorry. For everything.