Sixteenth Summer (4 page)

“If you’re so desperate for Crabby’s,” Sam said after we’d settled into a table that smelled of cleaning solution and fish, “does that mean you’re paying, Anna?”

“I’m not
desperate
,” I said, glancing through the screen at the boardwalk. “I just need a change. I’ve eaten at Angelo’s for the past four days.”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a grin. “The same fried shrimp you can get on the other side of the island, but for five bucks more? That
is
a refreshing change.”

I would have responded with a crack of my own, but I was distracted by the faces passing by outside the screen.
Not Will, not Will, definitely not Will, two more not-Wills …

“Hey, who are you looking for?” Sam blurted, jolting me back to our table. “Is it Landon Smith?”

“Landon Smith?” I said. My voice was as flat as an algae-covered pond.

“Landon Smith!” Sam said. “Hello?”

“Sam thinks he likes you,” Caroline said. She glanced at Sam. He glanced back. His eyes crinkled into a secret smile, and her lips pursed into a gossipy grin. Clearly they’d already discussed the possibility of a romance between me and—

“Landon Smith?” I said with a little laugh. “I don’t
think
so.”

“The guy made a clear gesture at the bonfire,” Sam insisted.

I laughed again.

“Oh, would that have been this gesture?” I asked, swinging
my arms around like an ape. “I guess I didn’t realize that was a declaration of like.”

“Duh,” Sam said.

“Maybe he should have made himself more clear,” Caroline suggested, grinning at me. “He could have dumped a smoothie over your head.”

“Or
broken
some of my ribs,” I suggested with my own grin, “instead of just bruising them. Swoon!”

I clasped my hands under my chin and fluttered my eyelashes.

“I’m just saying,” Sam said, “you should think about Landon. The guy digs you. I can tell.”

But the preposterous idea of me-and-Landon evaporated from my mind almost immediately. As Sam and Caroline started chatting about something else, my gaze drifted back to the boardwalk and its seeming flood of not-Wills.

I’d been so sure that he’d “dug” me that night at the bonfire. But now, after days of not running into him on this very small island, I was starting to think that perhaps I just wasn’t meant to see him again. Maybe Will’s sweet smile and cute shrug had meant nothing, and the spark I’d seen in his eyes had just been a reflection of the dancing fire. Maybe the beach was the same size as always.

I decided right then that it was time to give up on this boy named Will. We didn’t have a destiny together. We didn’t have some Magic Moment.

Coming to this decision in Crabby’s Crab Shack, across the table from my mad-in-love best friends, was so depressing that I ended up ordering an extra-large curly fries from the waitress
in the pirate hat.
And
a fried shrimp basket with cocktail sauce. So when I stumbled into work at The Scoop after lunch, I had greasy skin and clothes that smelled like fried fish, not to mention a stomachache. After two hours of ice cream scooping, I was also sticky and sweaty, with my hair pulled back in a sloppy bun and an apron smeared with hot fudge.

So of course
that
was the moment—during the lull between the afternoon-snack crowd and the ice-cream-for-dinner crowd—that Will walked through the door.

W
ill was with another boy, who was the same height as him but with lighter hair, broader shoulders, and lots of freckles. Still, he was clearly Will’s brother. They had the exact same pointy chin and the same squinty eyes. But Will, it had to be said, was much cuter.

I’d been right about Will’s eyes. They were brown, but a much darker, richer, prettier brown than I could ever have imagined.

Will’s brother didn’t even notice me. Like most customers, he went straight for the glass cases, peering down at the tubs of Mexican Chocolate, Grapefruit Mint sorbet, and Buttertoe (a Butterfinger bar smashed into vanilla ice cream with some toasted coconut thrown in). I think he might have asked me if I preferred the Salted Caramel to the Pecan Praline. And I might have mumbled a reply.

But I’m pretty sure I just stared at Will and thought two things: (1)
It’s him!
And (2)
Oh, crap!

Will had clearly spent the day on the beach. He was wearing faded red swim trunks and a worn-to-almost-transparent gray T-shirt. I wanted to reach over the ice cream case and touch it. Luckily, that would have involved some not-terribly-subtle climbing up on the counter, so it wasn’t too hard to restrain myself.

There was also the fact that as good as Will looked, that’s how gross I felt.

Maybe
, I thought with a mixture of hope and dread,
he won’t even recognize me, with my hair up and ice cream toppings all over my apron. For all I know, I’ve got Marshmallow Fluff on my face
.

A quick swipe at my sweaty forehead came away Fluff free, but it was small comfort.

I glanced at my dad, who was sitting on a tall stool behind the cash register, his nose buried in a copy of
Time
magazine. I could only hope he’d stay this oblivious until Will left.

I managed to eke out a panicked smile at Will, then quickly spun around and pretended to attend to the chrome hot-fudge warmer. In actuality, I was peering at my distorted reflection in the silver cube. My face was supershiny. I grabbed a paper towel, blotted surreptitiously, then tucked a few errant strands of hair behind my ears. I would have loved to pull my hair out of its rubber band and whisk off my chocolaty apron, too. But that would have been ridiculously obvious, so I just took a breath and tried to recapture the feeling I’d had after my lunch with Sam and Caroline, when I’d written Will off and resigned myself to a summer without him.

A summer alone.

And yes, what I’d felt was sort of empty. Maybe even a little tragic.

But I hadn’t curled up and died or anything. I’d survived.

So what did it matter that Will was here, and that he was likely to take one look at me and try to forget he’d ever smiled at me? (That was, if he even recognized me.) Since I’d already lost him, the stakes couldn’t have been lower, right?

Then why was my face feeling hot (and probably getting even pinker and shinier)? And why was I having trouble getting enough oxygen into my lungs to make my brain work correctly?

Luckily, I could scoop ice cream in my sleep, so when Will’s brother finally decided on a sugar cone full of Sticky Toffee Pudding Pop, I was able to dish it up without any disasters.

But then I had to look at Will.

I mean, he was the next customer in line. I had no choice.

Unlike his brother, Will wasn’t studying ice cream flavors. Or searching for an open booth or admiring the hundred vintage ice cream scoops that dangled from the ceiling.

He was looking
right at me
.

His eyes were a little wide. And his hands were suddenly digging deep into his pockets, sending his shoulders up to his ears.

Oh yeah, he remembered me all right.

But I had no idea if this was a good or a bad thing.

“Um …,” I croaked out. “Ice cream?”

I gestured with my scoop at the bank of ice cream cases. You know, just in case he hadn’t noticed the two tons of electronic equipment that stood between us, humming loudly.

“I …” Will’s voice was on the froggy side, too.

Wait a minute. Was Will as tongue-tied as I was?

“I’m not really into sweets,” Will said. “He is.”

He glanced over at his brother with a shrug. The broader, blonder version of Will, meanwhile, was kind of moaning his way through his ice cream. Clearly, he was the sugar fiend in the family.

“I can’t believe you don’t want some of this,” he said to Will with his mouth full. “It’s the best stuff.”

“Yeah, it is! My daughter invented that flavor!”

I froze. Was that actually my
dad
inserting himself into the most awful, yet potentially fabulous, moment of my life?

“Um …?” I squeaked.

Dad had shoved his reading glasses up so they rested on top of his endless forehead. He was pointing his rolled-up
Time
at Will’s brother’s ice cream cone.

“Sticky Toffee Pudding Pop, right?” Dad said. “That’s Anna’s!”

Now he was pointing the magazine at me—at a shocked and mortified me.

“My daughter,” Dad went on, getting off his stool, “is an ice cream genius.”

He grabbed a tiny sample spoon, scooped up a little chunk of Pineapple Ginger Ale gelato, and thrust it over the counter at Will.

“Try it,” he ordered Will.

“Dad, he just said he doesn’t like sweets,” I said. My voice sounded reedy, as if my throat had completely closed up. Because it had.

But Will gave a little smile as he took the spoon from my dad and popped the ice cream sample into his mouth.

I cringed. I assumed my dad had chosen Pineapple Ginger Ale because it was
his
favorite. I had to admit, it was one of my favorites too. When I’d come up with it a few months earlier, it had emerged from the churn both spicy and subtle, bubbly and sophisticated. It had been the first time that I’d felt like an alchemist in the kitchen, instead of just someone who messed around with cream and sugar, hoping for a happy accident.

Still, Pineapple Ginger Ale definitely wasn’t for everyone. I wished my dad had picked something easier to love, like Peanut Butter Crisp or Mud Pie.

I watched Will’s face as the ice cream melted in his mouth. His dark eyebrows shot upward. The corners of his mouth slowly lifted into a surprised, and very satisfied, smile.

He looked at me and said, “I’ll have a double.”

I bit my lip and looked down at my feet, trying to keep a dorky grin from erupting on my face. I failed completely, of course. But hopefully Will didn’t see me beaming as I ducked into the ice cream case and dished up his two scoops. I hovered in the case for a moment, my eyes closed, feeling a cloud of sugar-scented coldness billow over my hot cheeks. It felt wonderful.

But it couldn’t compare to the knowledge that Will loved my ice cream.

Or, I realized, he
didn’t
, but had ordered it to be polite. Which you would do only if you really cared what the creator of that ice cream thought of you!

Either scenario seemed shockingly promising.

I carefully stacked Will’s scoops into a deep brown waffle cone.

“It’s a gingerbread cone,” I explained as I handed it to him. “It really brings out the zing in the ice cream.”

Will smiled at me for two beats too long, as if he didn’t know what to say but wanted to say
something
.

I wanted to say something too. I felt my head buzz as I searched for the perfect witticism.

“I just don’t understand people who don’t like sugar,” I blurted. “I’m obsessed with it.”

Um,
what
was that?

I so badly wanted to bite my words back, I think I might have clacked my teeth together.

Of course, I couldn’t take the words back. So for the next minute or so, I squirmed because I’d basically just called Will a sugar-hating freak. And Will took galumphing bites of his ice cream, probably thinking that the sooner he finished the stuff, the sooner he could get out of The Scoop and never come back.

We were saved from all this awkwardness by Will’s brother, who spoke up once again as he paid my dad for the two cones. I liked that guy already.

“I know, right?” he said to me. “
How
does anyone not like sweets? Of course, you’ve never seen anyone more obsessed with salt than Will. He used to buy those giant soft pretzels on the street and cover them with mustard. Then he’d lick the mustard off, along with all the rock salt, and throw the pretzel part away.
It was like nails on a chalkboard listening to him crunch that salt between his teeth.”

This made Will stop eating. His mouth dropped open and he gave his brother one of those
how am I related to you?
looks. I knew that look well.

I glanced at my dad, who was now cleaning out the milkshake machine, his
Time
open on the counter next to the sink so he could read and (messily) work at the same time.

Well, Will and I already have something in common
, I thought, feeling shaky and exhilarated at the same time.
Familial humiliation
.

Will returned his gaze to me.

“We’re from New York,” he explained. “There’s a lot of street food there.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I love New York.”

Which was true. I
had
absolutely loved New York during the three days my family had vacationed there when I was twelve. I’d loved it so much that my daydreams about my future self were almost all set there. I always pictured myself—taller and with shorter hair—striding down those impossibly busy streets. I carried a cute little short-handled purse under my arm and often ducked into one of those subway stairwells with the wroughtiron railings and the globes that glowed green or red.

What this future self was doing in New York, and how she would get there, was a mystery. More than that, really. It seemed just as fantastical as, say, becoming magic. People in movies and books did it
all
the time, but in real life? It just didn’t happen. Likewise, it didn’t seem possible that a girl who’d lived her entire life on a nine-mile-long island could end up in New York City.

“I never had a pretzel when I was in New York,” I told Will. “But I remember having a knish from a street cart. It was delicious.”

Suddenly, Will’s mouth started twitching. He looked like his was trying mightily to suppress a laugh.

His brother didn’t even try, though. He guffawed.

“It’s
kuh-nish
,” he said, correcting me. “Not
nish
.”

“Oh …,” I choked out.

Will gave his head a little shake, then took a few more enormous bites of ice cream. The silence between us grew awkward. And
more
awkward, until …

“Did you know,” Will blurted, making me jump, “that if you leave your beach towel on the sand at seven p.m., it’ll pretty much be sucked out to sea the minute you turn your back?”