Star Shack (5 page)

“How can you take that stuff seriously?” His voice is getting louder too. “It's ridiculous to think these things made of gas and energy billions of miles away have anything to do with us.”

“So now I'm ridiculous
and
a freak?” I practically shout.

He shrugs again, like it doesn't matter. “I'm just saying what any reasonable person thinks: that stuff is for flakes who can't handle the real world.”

I take a deep breath so my voice won't shake when I reply. “Then I guess I won't be bothering you with my
flaky
ideas anymore.”

I turn and stalk down the boardwalk, toward the beach and my house. I expect him to follow, to apologize for being a judgmental snob, to say he cares about me so much I can talk about paint drying on walls and he'll listen. But there is no calling of my name, no running to catch up with me. He is letting me go.

Born November 29: Sagittarius

Rising Sign: Scorpio

You are the life of the party even though you love to flit from one event to the next, seeking excitement and fun above all else. Your enthusiasm for life charms others, though they can be taken aback at your willingness to speak the truth. Generally you like to see people united, but others best beware because this summer you are all about shaking things up—and not for the better.

Catch you later, dude,” Scott says, saluting me as he heads out of the teen pool hall. If “teen pool hall” sounds glamorous, allow me to clarify: it's a tiny, rotting wooden building on the boardwalk with a bunch of pool tables crammed in, a ping-pong table in the back (no one ever plays, because the humidity has warped the surface), and a bar along one side where Margo, the grizzled owner (also warped from constant humidity and who-knows-what), serves supermarket-brand soda for inflated prices. But the pool is cheap, and that's what I'm here for.

Ben waves as he follows Scott out. Night is falling over Gingerbread Beach, and the rain has finally stopped—for now. I just finished beating them both, twice, so they don't invite me to go with them wherever they're going. But I don't care. It's not like I'd go with them anyway. I'm not in the mood for a party or “cruising chicks” (their words) at the Friday night dance at the rec hall.

I only have one girl on my mind, and I doubt she'll be there. I haven't seen her anywhere the past few days, not that I've been looking. Much. I mean, looking for Annabelle would be stupid since there's really nothing to say. She's changed into a New Age stranger. I haven't. That's that.

I just wish I could stop thinking about her.

I rack the scratched-up colored balls and chalk up my cue. So, this is what my summer has come to: solo pool. It could be worse, I suppose. Not sure how, but…

“Bet you a beer I can take this game,” a husky female voice says.

I look up and see the girl from the Opera Café, the one with the tattoos. Today she's wearing a black dress with no back, and I can't help but zero in on a snake tattoo at the base of her spine as she sashays over to grab a cue stick. But sexy tattoo or no, I'm not in the mood for company.

“I'm just messing around,” I say when she returns. “Maybe another time.”

She smirks at me from behind lowered lashes. She's wearing too much black stuff on her eyes, but underneath it, I have to admit…she really is pretty.

“What, are you scared I'll beat you?” she asks. “I
am
good. Come on…one game. I dare you.”

She said the magic words that can get me to do almost anything. I never, ever turn down a dare.

“One game,” I say, but I realize she wasn't even waiting for me to agree. She's already pulled up the rack and is lining up her cue to break. I can tell by the smack of the cue ball against the others that she is for real. Good. I'm up for a challenge.

She has four stripes in holes before I know it, and I have to work hard to match that. She smiles like a cat the whole time I'm doing it, her arms folded over her chest.

“Not bad,” she tells me. “But this game is mine.” She proceeds to pocket the rest of her balls and then shoots me a wicked grin. “Eight in the top left,” she says, and moments later the black ball is flying in.

I admit it; I'm impressed.

“You owe me a beer,” she says, swinging her cue gently between two fingers.

“Will you settle for a soda?” I ask. “Considering it's all they serve here.”

She tilts her head. “Really? I thought there was a secret handshake or something that could get you something more exciting.”

I shake my head. “Excitement is definitely not what this place is about…”

“Fine, I'll take it, but you still owe me a proper beer,” she says. “I'll have anything diet.”

I can't help smiling a little as I head up to the crowded bar and order two colas, one diet.

“Who's the smoking hot babe?” a guy named Walker asks. He's part of the Scott and Ben crowd. He just graduated, and I've heard he's off to Penn State on a football scholarship. Normally he wouldn't bother with a guy like me, younger and not into parties or football, but right now he's leaning forward eagerly.

“Her name is Sarah,” I say casually.

We both look over at her, and she blows a kiss right at me. It's so corny I almost cringe, and I feel my cheeks turn red. But Walker is impressed.

“Dude, she is
into
you,” he says, with admiration in his voice.

I can't help but feel good. But honestly, it's so over the top that I half-expect Ashton Kutcher to burst in and tell me I've been “punked.”

“Yes, she is,” a voice laced with hostility says.

I turn and see Vanessa glaring at me. She's wearing a wool sweater, and with her horn-rimmed glasses, she honestly looks about thirty years old—like a vengeful aunt or schoolteacher. Vanessa has always been a girl who deliberately goes out of her way to dress down.

“Where's Annabelle?” she asks loudly.

I shrug and focus on paying the bartender for the sodas. “Not sure,” I say.

Walker whistles. “Dude, how many girls are you stringing along this summer?”

“Yes,
Dude
, how many?” Vanessa asks, her voice acid.

Suddenly the pool hall, with its low ceiling and perpetual moisture and crowd, feels claustrophobic. The smell of the old pinewood floor, mixing with the smell of sweat and stale humidity, are making me nauseous. I take a long sip of my cola and then smile flatly at Vanessa.

“I would have to say that I am stringing exactly zero girls along this summer,” I respond. I can see Walker laughing behind her, like he's in on the fact that I am suddenly Gingerbread Beach's resident stallion, but now his admiration feels stupid and empty. “I'm just playing some pool,” I tell them both.

I grab the sodas and head over to Sarah.

She's still staring at me, her fingers brushing mine as she takes the glass. “Thanks,” she says, and takes a sip.

I gulp down my drink and let the ice slide into my mouth, then crunch down on it. I'm feeling very lost at the moment, and I'm not sure why—as if I'm watching somebody else pretending to be me, living in some strange alternate universe that bears no resemblance to the summer beach town I know.

“What kind of soda is this?” she asks, her forehead wrinkled as she holds her glass out like it's got an insect floating in it.

“Margo brews it herself in the Margo-tron,” I say automatically. That's the lame inside joke the Gingerbread Beach regulars have been telling since I was twelve years old, as stale and unfunny as the air itself.

But Sarah bursts out laughing. “The way they cut corners really gives it a unique taste,” she says, setting the glass down on the floor under our pool table. “Kind of like upholstery cleaner.”

“Yeah, that should be Margo's slogan: refresh yourself and clean your sofa, all with one bottle.”

She laughs again, a low throaty sound that reminds me of movie stars from the old black-and-white movies my parents like. Maybe she's not so bad, this girl…

“How about another game?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. Why not? She's clearly a pool shark, and the game will take my mind off Vanessa and her judgments. Anyway, what's it to Vanessa if I play pool with another girl? Or if I do anything else? It's not like Annabelle needs a watchdog. And what would Vanessa be watching out for anyway? Annabelle and I have gone completely bust this summer. I'm not going to obsess over it.

Sarah racks up the balls and we play in silence, each of us focusing on our shots. This is how I like it. I don't play that many games, but the ones I play I take very seriously. (Yes, even laser tag.) Scott and Ben were so busy checking out girls they wouldn't notice if they hit the opponent's ball instead of their own. But Sarah is like me. We duke it out to the eight ball, and then I pocket it.

“Nice game,” she says.

“Thanks.” I lean back against the table, feeling…I don't even know what. Smug? Confident? Weird?

“But next time, I'll kick your butt.”

I grin. Bring on the trash talk, I almost say…But then the grin fades.

“I owe you a drink,” she says, reaching for her bag.

I glance at the bar. Vanessa is still there. “No, I'm good,” I say.

“A rain check then,” she says. “For a real one.”

“Okay.” I'm not much into beer, but I wouldn't mind hanging out with Sarah again. At least she's not into New Age “science.” I hope.

“So I see you like my guys,” she says, gesturing to my Red Sox jersey.

“You're a Sox fan?” I ask and she nods. Now I'm grinning again. Yet another reason to hang out.

“I catch as many games as I can, but it's hard living in California and all.”

“Where in California?”

“San Francisco,” she says.

“I've heard it's a great city,” I say, trying to sound worldly. I actually heard that from my mom who went there for a weekend when she was doing a teaching stint, but Sarah doesn't have to know that.

She wrinkles her nose. “It's okay, I guess. It gets old after a while. I'm going to NYU this fall, and I can't wait. It's going to be a relief to be in a real city where people really
live
, you know?”

I swallow. A college girl. Or about to be. “I don't know,” I say, not letting on that the NYU thing impresses me. “That's Yankees territory.”

Sarah grins. “Well, I guess every place has a downside. Though it can't be as bad as here. This rain is going to make me crazy. I feel like I never left the Bay Area. Does it ever stop?”

It's funny. Before this summer, I'd have said Gingerbread has no downside: that it's as close to perfect as a place could be. But now? Even the rain I used to love feels depressing.

“Not really,” I say.

Sarah shakes her head. “I can't believe my parents are making us stay the entire summer at a beach where it rains every day. It's insanity.”

“At least you won't get a sunburn,” I point out.

She smiles slowly, looking right into my eyes. “But I was so looking forward to wearing my new string bikini.”

My head glazes over a little because that really does sound pretty great, even though if Annabelle were here, she'd probably make the universal sign for barfing. I try to ignore Vanessa's icy glare across the room. “Well, we do get a few days of sun.”

She nods, her smile getting bigger. “I'll look forward to that, then—”

“Pete!” The sharp voice makes me jump.

Speak of the devil…
There she is: Annabelle, her eyes flashing, her hands on her hips. I can't help but smile, though, because with her cheeks all flushed and her hair a cloud around her face, she looks completely…herself. But then I focus and see how her mouth is a thin line and how she's shooting an evil glance at Sarah. I'm thinking I can thank Vanessa for Annabelle's sudden appearance, but I'll be annoyed about that later. Right now, I have enough to handle.

“What's up?” I say calmly, like I think everything's fine.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” she hisses. “In private?”

Sarah moves closer to me.

“Sure,” I say. I turn to Sarah. “See you later.”

Sarah stares straight at Annabelle as she answers. “You can count on it. Remember, you still owe me a beer.”

Nice,
I think, feeling slightly sick. Annabelle is going to have a field day with that one. I grab my jacket off the folding chair and follow Annabelle outside, where, of course, it's raining again: heavy droplets that slip down my face as I walk. The tide must be going out because the waves are soft as they hit the beach in the cool night air.

Annabelle leads me down the boardwalk without speaking and stops at some benches that face the water. But instead of sitting, she leans back against one, brushes her wet hair back from her face, and stares me down.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

“Playing pool.”

“You know that's not what I mean,” she says.

I'm starting to get annoyed. “I'm not sure I do.”

“What are you doing with
her
?” Annabelle says in exasperation.

“Playing pool,” I say again. I can tell by the way she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment that she is as annoyed as I am. But what does she want from me? She asked what I was doing, and I told her. Can't she see that
she's
the problem?

“That girl is trouble,” Annabelle says. She pulls away from the bench and begins to pace a little, her flip-flops splashing on the wet surface.

I have to laugh. “How do
you
know? You've never even spoken to her.”

“I don't have to speak to her to see the obvious,” she says.

“What, you're judging her based on a couple of tattoos and a tight dress?”

Oops.
I probably shouldn't have mentioned that the dress was tight.

“No, I'm not judging her,” Annabelle snaps. “But things like that tell you about a person. The way you present yourself speaks volumes about what's inside. And she wants to buy you a beer!”

“Is that part of your astrology wisdom?” I ask, ignoring the beer part since it's not a big deal. “Or something you got out of a fortune cookie?”

Annabelle throws up her arms. “I can't say anything to you anymore without you making some kind of snotty remark! If anyone here has a problem being judgmental, it's you.”

“What am
I
judgmental about?” I ask. “I'm the one who's being open-minded and giving the girl a chance.”

Annabelle snorts. “Yes, aren't you the altruistic one, giving girls in tight dresses the benefit of the doubt.”

I knew she wasn't going to let the dress thing go. “Besides, why would I be open-minded about something stupid?” I ask.

“See?” she asks, pointing at me in triumph.

I shake my head in disgust. “That's not judgment; that's being logical in the face of stupidity.”

“Yeah, it's not judgmental at all to call my interest stupid without even knowing anything about it.”

“What's to know? A bunch of crap about how giant balls of white-hot gas can tell us the future? It's ridiculous, and you know it.”