One Moment in Time (7 page)

Gone, gone, gone, gone.

I want to scream out loud and kick the sand, which is strange, because I've never had anger issues. In fact, I've always thought anger was kind of a wasted emotion. Why waste time being angry about something when there's always something you can do to fix the situation?

But how am I supposed to fix this one? I didn't get into Stanford. It's the first time in my life that I've worked really hard for something and had it not pan out. Four whole years I worked for it. More, if you count all the time in middle school I put toward getting good grades so that I could qualify for all the advanced classes I took in high school.

It's making me really angry, thinking about it. Celia's upstairs, drunk and throwing up on the floor, and
she
gets to go to the school she's always wanted to go to. She gets everything she wants, pretty much, including any guy she wants. All she does is break rules and get rewarded for it! All I do is follow them, and everything goes to complete and total shit!

My phone buzzes then, and I look down at it, ready to take my rage out on whoever it was who would be stupid enough to call me at this exact moment. I'm almost halfway hoping that it's my mom. I'm in just the right mood to talk to her.

But it's not a phone call.

It's an email.

From me.

To me.

Before graduation, I promise to . . .
do something crazy.

I blink at the screen.

A little frisson of anticipation runs up my spine. Why shouldn't I do something crazy? After all, playing by the rules hasn't gotten me anywhere.

OF COURSE,
DECIDING
TO DO SOMETHING
crazy and
actually doing
something crazy are two different things. I don't even know how to begin to go about it. I suppose I could go parasailing or something, but that seems kind of lame. I mean, yeah, I know parasailing is technically probably really dangerous, but your odds of dying from it aren't even that good, which definitely ruins some of the excitement.

And besides, parasailing isn't breaking the rules. And that's what it feels like I should do—something that's
not allowed
. I could always go out partying tonight with Celia and Paige and see what kind of trouble we could get into, but the thought of that kind of makes me want to poke my eyes out. I'd probably just end up following Celia around, making sure she doesn't have so much to drink that she can't walk. My role within our little group is to make sure Celia
and Paige don't get into too much trouble—and tonight I want to
be
the troublemaking one.

I glance around the beach, looking for some crazy-making inspiration. And that's when a girl in a red-and-white-striped bikini walks by, holding a familiar-looking piece of hot-pink paper.

The guy on the beach. The one who told me his name was Don. The one who invited me to the club where he works. A club. On the beach. It sounds dangerous and forbidden. I'll go by myself, I decide. Not with Celia and Paige.

I'll dance. And do . . . whatever other things people do at clubs.

Once I've made the decision, I feel a lot better. About everything—Stanford, my parents, stupid Nathan. Everything just seems . . . like it's going to be okay somehow.

Now I just need to find a killer outfit.

Okay, so it definitely might be a tiny bit insane that I'm taking something so seemingly ridiculous to such an extreme level. I mean, obviously it's normal to be disappointed about not getting into Stanford. But to suddenly decide I want to throw caution to the wind and listen to a crazy email I sent myself when I was fourteen? Yeah, it's a little over the top.

On the other hand, anything can happen when you feel like your life's work has all been for nothing. I know I'm only
seventeen. But going to Stanford is all I've ever wanted
in my life
. Seventeen years is a long time to want something. So it kind of makes sense that I'm spiraling.

When I walk into the lobby of the hotel, my head is spinning. But it's not the same kind of spinning it was doing before—before, I felt out of control, like I was losing my mind. Now I'm spinning in a good way, like something exciting is about to happen. It's the same feeling you get right before you go on a roller coaster. (Not that I've ever been on a roller coaster—who wants to vomit all over themselves or get stuck upside down or be involved in a fatal accident caused by faulty equipment? But if I ever had been on a roller coaster, this is how I imagine it would feel.)

I hesitate for a second at the elevator, wondering if I should go and check on Celia. But if I go to Paige and Celia's room, they're never going to let me leave. They're going to ask me a million questions until they break me down.

And I'm determined to do this. By myself.

I get in the elevator and push the button for the second floor.

Time to go back to my room and get ready to go to the club! What does one wear to a club? Definitely not what I'm wearing now, which is my bathing suit and cover-up. And definitely not the khaki shorts and tank tops I tend to wear in the summer. Do I have anything that's club appropriate?

Clubbing! I'm going clubbing!

As soon as I step off the elevator and onto my floor, a text comes in from Paige.

Where'd u go?

I hesitate for a second, then decide to avoid and deflect.

Is Celia okay?

She's fine, she's sleeping.

Pause.

Where r u???

I don't feel so good—too much sun, I think—gonna head back to my room and nap for a bit.

Wow. That lie slipped out of me like it was nothing. Of course, it's a temporary solution—a pretend nap isn't going to keep them from wondering where I am all night.

But whatever. I'll worry about Celia and Paige later. Planning things out hasn't gotten me anywhere. I mean, I tried to plan out my whole summer, my whole next year, my whole
future
, and look what happened. It all fell apart. So I think it's probably better to take this night moment by moment. As soon as I decide this, I feel almost giddy. I for sure could be having a mental breakdown.

When I open the door to my hotel room a few seconds later, Lyla's there, sitting cross-legged on her bed. Her presence throws me—I wasn't expecting anyone to be here. She looks up at me and our eyes meet, and in that second, I miss her so much I can hardly take it.

I suddenly wish the three of us were still friends, that
we were here on this trip together, that I wasn't stuck with Paige and Celia. If I were here with Lyla and Aven, I wouldn't have to pretend I didn't get into Stanford. Lyla and Aven don't care about stuff like that—if I'd told them I didn't get in, they'd understand. They'd help me come up with a way to tell my parents, they'd soothe me and tell me all about how Yale and Georgetown are completely amazing schools, they'd take me out to a club if that's what I wanted to do, even if they thought it was a dumb idea.

I hesitate for a second, then turn and walk into the bathroom without saying anything to Lyla. Then I turn around and come back out. If I'm going to be true to my whole not-planning-everything-out strategy, maybe I should try to talk to her. It's how I'm feeling in this moment.

I look at her, sitting there on the bed, and that same feeling of missing her overtakes me. It's so strong I feel my eyes fill with tears. The three of us were so close—not just friends. We were like sisters—so different, but when we were around each other, it didn't matter. I loved hanging out at Aven's house, cooking out on her grill, swimming in her pool. I loved going shopping with Lyla, waiting patiently while she'd take her time trying on fifteen different T-shirts before picking out the one she wanted.

I miss them both so much. I want to be friends again.

But when Lyla turns and looks at me, I lose my nerve. What could I possibly say to her that would change
anything? How could I possibly even begin to apologize for what I did to her? Especially since she made it perfectly clear she doesn't want to hear what I have to say.

Now that I'm out here, though, I can't just turn around and go back into the bathroom without saying anything. I'll look like a total idiot.

“Please tell me you didn't use all the hot water,” is what I come up with. It's a completely ridiculous thing to say—why the hell would I think she used up all the hot water? Can you even use up all the hot water at a hotel? I'm pretty sure they have, like, an unlimited supply.

“I didn't use all the hot water,” she says, all snotty-like. “I've been out of the shower for at least an hour.”

“Right,” I mutter, mostly because I don't want her to think I care. I walk back into the bathroom and shut the door and then I just stand there for a moment, wondering if I should go back out there. I want to tell her about Stanford, I want to ask her what she's been up to, I want to ask her what happened between her and her mom and her dad after I did what I did. I want to order room service with her and forget about this whole plan of going out clubbing. I want to stay here with Lyla and Aven.

That's never going to happen,
a voice in my head whispers.
She hates you. And she
should
hate you. What you did to her was unforgivable, and this is your punishment—you lost her friendship.

So I do what I do every time I think about Lyla—I tell
myself it's not all my fault. I apologized to her. I did everything I could. And she just blew me off, like it was nothing. She just shut down. And that wasn't right.

Whatever.

I'm done with letting my past derail me. I need to focus on the present. And the present right now is sticking to my plan.

My phone buzzes again with my email.

Before graduation, I promise to . . .
do something crazy
.

Don't worry, universe . . . I'm coming for you.

After my shower, it's time to work on my clubbing look. There's a tangle of makeup sitting on the counter, stuff Aven and Lyla must have left out. I pull my own makeup bag out from where I stashed it under the counter, survey all the stuff in front of me, and then get to work—smoky metallic shadow on my eyes, two coats of mascara, and tons of big, springy curls in my hair.

I usually make it a rule not to wear much makeup—why waste time putting a bunch of crap on your face that's just going to make you break out? But I'm actually pretty good with makeup, because I've watched Celia and Paige getting ready, like, five bazillion times.

Now I just have to worry about my outfit.

My carry-on bag is sitting in the corner of the bathroom
where I left it. I wanted to unpack it, but my laptop is in there, and I didn't know who was going to be coming in and out of our room. Who knows who Aven and Lyla might be hanging out with these days—there could be all sorts of nefarious characters in their social circles, just looking for a laptop to steal.

But now I remember I put a few clothes in my carry-on, too—just in case something happened to my luggage, I didn't want to be stuck in Florida with nothing to wear. I rummage through it now, wondering if there's anything in there that's club appropriate.

I come up with a white tank top and a gauzy white shirt, along with a red-and-white-striped halter. Both of the shirts—the white tank and the halter—are supposed to be worn underneath the gauzy shirt. But I can't wear a gauzy shirt to a club. Even I know that would be completely ridiculous.

I pull the tank top on and study my reflection in the mirror. It's kind of tight and low-cut, and without the gauzy shirt over it, it could work. And then I remember something. The red-and-white-striped halter—when I first bought it, Celia laughed and said it was one of those shirts girls like Katie Wells would wear as a skirt. Which at the time I thought was totally ridiculous, because hello, the shirt would be way too short as a skirt. (Also, it wasn't that nice of Celia to make fun of Katie Wells, because Celia and Paige wore skirts just as short all the time. But Celia was pissed
because Katie had just gotten Most Attractive in the class superlatives poll, and even though Celia got Best Smile, I think she was secretly hoping to get the Most Attractive award instead.)

Anyway, at the time I didn't think anything about it—it was just a throwaway comment. But now I wonder if I could use the halter as a skirt. I step into it and pull it up over my hips, feeling ridiculous. It's obscenely short, and my hands immediately go back to my waist to take it off. I'm already venturing way out of my comfort zone to go to a club—I can't wear this in public.

But then I stop. Why can't I? Girls dress like this all the time. And not just girls like Katie Wells, but girls like Celia and Lyla and even Aven. At least, she did once. The three of us went to a Halloween party sophomore year, and Aven went as a sexy cat. Which basically meant wearing a black ballerina skirt and a black bodysuit and then painting her face to look like a cat. She thought Liam would like it if she showed her sexier side. Of course, he ended up making out with some girl from another school all night, and so Aven's outfit was for nothing. But still. The point is she
wore
it.

Just because I'm not used to dressing like this doesn't mean I
shouldn't
. It's like colleges are always saying—they don't need the smartest candidates or even the best ones—they need the most well-rounded. New experiences are always a good thing. So before I can change my mind, I turn
and walk out of the bathroom.

Lyla's lying on her bed, a faraway look on her face, like she's deep in thought about something. Why is she spending her vacation in this room? Doesn't she want to be out and about, getting into mischief, like me?

“Why the hell didn't I pack that bustier?” she mutters.

Which makes no sense. Why the hell would she pack a bustier on vacation to Florida? It's, like, eighty-five degrees and humid every single day. She'd be sweating like crazy.

“Wow,” I say. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

She turns her gaze toward me, and I see her eyes widen as she takes in my outfit. “What the hell are you wearing?” she blurts.

“Seriously?” I ask her. “You're wishing for a bustier and you're questioning
my
fashion choices?” I mean, come on. I pull a lipstick out of my purse, then paint my lips with it and drop it back in my purse. Wow. This lipstick is a little . . . bold. But that's okay. I'm in a bold kind of mood.

“Um,” Lyla says. “Is everything okay?”

Well, let's see. I didn't get into Stanford, I'm about to go out to a club by myself in a strange place wearing a shirt as a skirt, and I'm avoiding my mother because she's probably going to disown me. “Everything's fine,” I say. “Why do you ask?” I pull out some perfume and spritz it all over my body. It was a birthday present from my aunt, and I totally forgot I even had it in my purse. Usually I don't wear
perfume—another thing that seems like a complete waste of time.

“Since when did you start wearing perfume?” Lyla asks, which totally annoys me. It's like, now you want to pretend that you're interested in my life? After you've been blowing me off for years and years? Well, two years. But still.

“Since, like, forever,” I lie.

“Are you sure you're okay?” she asks again. And her tone sounds so sincere that for a moment, I think about telling her what happened. I think about telling her that I didn't get into Stanford, that I didn't get my internship, that Nathan was on the beach kissing some girl, and even though I don't like him that much, it somehow made me upset.