Star Shack (7 page)

She runs a hand over her flat belly while eying my baggy sweats. They do have a rather whale-like quality. What is up with her? She got Pete; she wins the thinner-than-thou contest; but she's still staring at me, trying to find some other way to rip me down. Does she have some deep-seated need to ruin the lives of every female she sets eyes on? Because it's not like I did anything to her. Come to think of it, I've never even had a conversation with her before this.

“If you do ever want to lose a pound or two, I recommend the Martha's Vineyard cleanse. It's very holistic,” she says. “Gets rid of toxins. Pete says you're into New Agey stuff, so I figured…” She doesn't finish.

And suddenly I get it. She
does
have something against me, something big. There's no way she'd treat me like this if I weren't a threat. And there's only one way I could threaten her: In addition to telling her that I'm into “New Agey stuff” (which I'm
not
; astrology doesn't count), Pete must have done or said something to tip her off that I was more than just a casual summer friend. She is marking her territory, hoping I will back off.

Inside, I have to admit, I am squealing with delight. But I remain calm. I take another bite of my dough and chew it slowly, then swallow. “Thanks, but I'm happy with how I look.”

She arches an eyebrow, as if she couldn't possibly believe it.

“Have a great time at dinner,” I say, turning and walking toward home.

For the first time since that horrible night, I feel hopeful that maybe, just maybe, Pete and I aren't through. If Sarah is acting this ridiculous, he must still feel something for me. And if that's the case, I'm not just going to roll over and give up. I'm going to fight. As I jog back home, my mind brimming with schemes and plans, I remember my astrology prediction…the one about business.

It's spot on.

***

It takes me two days to develop my plan—two days of begging my parents for money (I promise to pay back the $400 with interest), getting mixed up in the Gingerbread Beach summer real estate rental market (my parents have to sign the lease), and another day to corner Pete at the Opera Café. (My parents, convinced I've lost my mind, are very relieved to have me out of the house.) My heart aches when I see Pete, his curls damp from the rain, as he chats with Jed at the counter.

“Hey,” I say.

His eyes light up for the briefest moment when he sees me. Then they go distant and blank, but I know what I saw.

“I have a proposition for you,” I continue, emboldened.

Jed shoots Pete an indecipherable stare and then walks over to the back fridge for supplies to give us a moment alone.

Pete nods, not quite looking at me. “What is it?”

“Well, you're convinced that astrology is junk, and I'm convinced it's the real deal. So let's see who's right.”

He almost smiles. “How are we going to do that?” he asks. I can hear just a flicker of interest in his voice.

“I rented out a storefront,” I tell him. “Right on the boardwalk. You and I are going to start an astrology booth. We'll read people's charts for romance and see what happens. If we make a bunch of happy couples and the place gets mobbed, we know I'm right. And if it's a complete bust, you win and I'll never say another word about astrology.”

Pete's brows slowly rise and then twist into a knot. “You want…us start an astrology advice booth together? I don't think so.”

At that very moment, Sarah hurries through the door of the café and lowers her umbrella, looking around for Pete. I don't have much time. Pete is already going back to his coffee, totally unconvinced. So I pull out my surefire ace in the hole and look Pete straight in the eye.

“You and me and an astrology booth. I dare you.”

Born June 6: Gemini

Rising Sign: Leo

Your wit and warmth attract people to you, making your life rich with friendship and love. The lightning-fast way you change your mind can surprise others, but once you open your heart to the right person, you are trustworthy and genuine. This summer's motto must be “Seize the day.” Tensions that seem hostile can hide romantic possibility: don't be blind to that because then opportunity will slip through your fingers.

Even as I'm walking to the boardwalk for the first day at our astrology booth, the whole thing still feels like a huge practical joke. I actually poked my head into Daisy's Realty the day after Annabelle dared me to go into “business” to ask if Annabelle had indeed rented the same broken-down shack where Larry used to run his laser-tag scam. Not only had she rented it; Daisy informed me that had already named it: “The Star Shack.”

That's it
, I thought.
She's lost it completely.

On the other hand, she was still sane enough to dare me (which she knew I would never be able to turn down)…so here I am, up before nine on a stormy morning, making my way to the shack of stars. Good times ahead, I'm sure. Though really we'll weave a few fortunes; people will get pissed that we don't know what we're talking about; and in a week, I'll be back to my life.

As I walk down the boardwalk, I can't help smiling: for a second, I remember that first moment of seeing Annabelle brandishing a laser-tag gun and waving it at Larry. But the warm glaze of memory lifts fast when I see the words on the wooden sign she has hung up. It spells out “Star Shack” in big letters with all these little symbols painted around it that must be astrology mumbo jumbo. Annabelle is not the most gifted artist, so it's a little sloppy—but you get the gist.

And as I get closer, I see a sign on the door that says, “Get your love horoscope for ten dollars, and find your perfect match written in the stars.”

Puke.

I push open the door. I half expect to see Annabelle wearing a turban or a long gauzy skirt, but she just looks her usual gorgeous self in a pink T-shirt and faded cutoffs. Not that I notice the gorgeous part. Or how her hair is pulled back in some kind of fancy braid so her blue eyes look even bigger.

“What do you think?” Annabelle asks, smiling, and for a second I fall into it and smile back.

But then I get a hold of myself and glance around the booth. She's hung tapestries on the walls and put up posters of constellations. There is also a big picture of Cupid shooting an arrow that I know she got as a joke, but I'm not going to get suckered into laughing about it because, really, this whole place is a joke.

“It's fine,” I say in a monotone.

She looks disappointed, but she had to know the last thing I'd do is get all excited about the décor. Even if it were a baseball booth, getting psyched about décor is not my thing.

“Well, anyway, this is where we'll sit,” she says, gesturing to a table she's set up in the middle of the tiny room. There are two folding chairs behind it and one in front, for a customer I guess, if we even get any.

“I made up a form for people to fill out with their birth information.” She points to a clipboard neatly filled with half-page forms next to a pink mug filled with pens. “We can't do a whole birth chart since that would take forever, but I have what we need for reading the seventh house and rising signs and stuff.”

I shrug since she may as well be speaking Russian. I start thinking about Sarah. We kissed for the first time at Jed's party, and while it wasn't some major religious experience, it was still awesome.

The one drawback was that Sarah kept harping on how I shouldn't fall into Annabelle's “trap” of accepting the dare. But whatever. Like I said: we'll be over and done with it as soon as people see what a huge crock it is. Then Sarah and I will move on to
real
conversation. I've only known her a little over a week, I remind myself. Things are moving plenty fast.

“And I brought a few books for reference,” Annabelle adds, laying them out on the table.

“Wait…you need books? I thought you were an expert.”

Her cheeks flush. She glares at me. “It's not something you just pick up from the back of a cereal box. It takes years to learn, and even hardcore astrologers use reference books. Doctors use reference books too, you know.”

I grin a little at her defensiveness. “Right. Doctors.”

“So do chemists and physicists,” she says. “Even baseball coaches.”

“Sure, they do,” I grumble, but unfortunately I know she's right. Not that I mention what I know about baseball managers' reading habits.

The rain is pelting down hard, and it thuds on the tin roof of the booth. It's a soothing sound, though I notice a small leak toward the back of the booth that has water pooling in a corner. Oh, well. If there's a flood, we get to close early.

“So what do we do now?” I ask.

“Wait for customers, I guess,” she says. “I'm sure we'll get some soon. I hung fliers around and left a pile of them in the Opera Café and Freddy's Fabulous.”

But after twenty minutes, it's still just us, stilted silence, and the rain.

“Maybe I'll go and actually
hand out
some fliers,” Annabelle says. “Just to get things started.”

She heads out into the stormy day with her whale umbrella, and I slouch down in one of the folding chairs. The chair is hard metal, and a loose screw is poking into my back. I shift, and my elbow brushes against one of her books. This one has a pie chart on the front split into twelve slices with the signs of the zodiac. I flip it open and notice that it's worn and dog-eared. For a second, I flash on Annabelle reading it late at night, in bed, in her pj's, her hands turning the pages, maybe brushing a curl out of her face as she reads.

She takes this stuff seriously. Amazing.

With a jolt, I realize that I am on the verge of looking like a complete moron. It's a dare, but I have to play fair. We are doing this booth together. I need to at least know
a little
about astrology.

I turn to the table of contents and see there is a breakdown of each of the twelve zodiac signs. Good thing I'm a fast reader. But as I start flipping through the pages, I begin to feel lost. I know I'm a Scorpio, so I look up what it says about that. There's a man-woman breakdown, so I flash to “Scorpio Man.”

The Scorpio Man burns with passion. But on the outside, he is calm, cool, and collected. If you're thinking about double-crossing him, don't. He'll explode. When he loves, he loves forever. So if you're the object of his fire, it will never die or fall to cinders. He is smart, emotional (though he hides it), philosophical, and a lover of life. He goes overboard when it comes to eating, drinking, and romance. If he wants to live in luxury, he will.

Wow. That's actually…okay, no, that's
not
accurate. Who
wouldn't
want to live in luxury? And yes, I'm passionate about the Red Sox and baseball and—

I quickly look up Leo: Annabelle's sign.

Leo: You are full of courage and creativity, generous with love, and know your strengths. Those include (perhaps too much) self-confidence. You don't like complications. You admire individuality and strive for it in yourself. You don't respond well to people who don't share your complete enthusiasm and creative spirit. Your oversensitivity to personal criticism makes you fly into a rage. You are, in a word, stubborn. You hold onto a belief or stick to a course of action through thick and thin. You are proud, outgoing, happy, kind, generous, self-expressive, intelligent, and broad minded.

The door opens. Annabelle is back. I stuff the book under the table so she won't know I've been reading it.

“No one interested in our little business venture?” I choke out. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

She shoots me a sour look. “The rain is letting up a bit so I'm sure we'll be mobbed in no time.”

“Sweet!” I laugh uncomfortably, not sure if I'm mocking her or if I suddenly buy into this crap.

“I'm gonna get some coffee,” she says. “Want a cup?”

“Uh…”

“I know what you want,” she says in a strange tone, and she's off again, fliers in hand.

I go back to my reading and hope that there is a line at Opera. If I can just get through the basics about each sign and then look up rising signs and the seventh house or whatever…I'll be okay. Or did she say sixth house? How many houses are there? I should have Googled all this before I showed up today…

It's almost half an hour before she is back, and I've gotten through a lot of it, including a segment on what signs match up well. Scorpios and Leos are a no-no in terms of a match—in both the Leo
and
Scorpio sections,
and
for both women and men. I can't help but feel oddly pissed off.

Plus, there's a section that gives advice for each sign. It's actually sort of funny. Not intentionally, but the tips tend to read far less accurately than the sign traits. (One Scorpio horoscope: “Don't fear love. It will come.”) Now I'm eager for my coffee. I'm enjoying my first sip when Annabelle sits down and clears her throat.

“So how's Sarah?” she asks. “Did she get you that beer yet?”

“Yeah, she did.” A lie: I hate beer, and Annabelle knows it. At the party, I kept spilling, pretending I was already drunk. “We had a great time this weekend.”

Annabelle snorts. “I'm sure it was a wild time.”

“It was great,” I say. “Sarah is really smart, and she loves baseball.”

“Does she now?” Annabelle asks skeptically.

Actually she has a right to be skeptical since Sarah isn't a real fan. It's more like she thinks the Red Sox jersey is cute. But hey,
she
looks cute in it, and it's better than a girl who likes wearing a Yankees shirt.

“I know you buy into all the stereotypes about tattoos,” I say. “But you're wrong about Sarah. She's very down to earth, and we have a great time together.”

Correction, not for Annabelle: I know we
will
have a great time once Sarah and I hang out a little more. She can't always talk the whole night about how she met the lead singer of (now I can't even remember), right? And it's just a fluke that she hates punk. She probably just hasn't been exposed to the good stuff.

“Well, I'm glad,” Annabelle says.

“Me too. It's a relief to have normal conversation with someone,” I say, staring pointedly at the pile of astrology books.

“You know, sometimes you…” Annabelle begins, turning in her chair to glare at me head on.

“What? Sometimes I
what
? Annabelle, you have to—”

“Um, excuse me,” a timid voice says.

Annabelle and I both turn toward the front of the booth. It's Daisy Lin—the very same Daisy who gave Annabelle the lease. She's always friendly…though, as I think about it, I mostly see her by herself. She's in her early thirties, with long black hair and a T-shirt emblazoned with
I Sing for Love.

Yikes. Maybe that's why she's always alone?

“Are you guys open?” she asks.

“Yes, absolutely,” Annabelle says, beaming and reaching out her hand to welcome our very first customer. “Are you here about the property—”

“No. I'm here for…” She doesn't finish.

“Great! Just fill out this birth-date information, and we'll give you a reading.”

“Thanks.” She avoids Annabelle's eyes, talking as if she's on a job interview. “Not that I'm one of those people desperate to find a boyfriend or anything…”

“Of course not,” Annabelle says.

Daisy smiles. “But I'd love to find someone as perfect for me as you guys are for each other.”

Now I want to crawl under the folding chair and die. I've never seen Daisy smile before. There is a very long, very awkward pause.

“So, yeah, here's the form,” Annabelle finally says.

Daisy scribbles onto the form, and I read it upside down as she writes. Born June 6—that means she's a Gemini. I quickly think through the things I read about Geminis and their matches. Daisy hands Annabelle the form with a ten-dollar bill and looks at her expectantly.

Annabelle turns to me with a smirk. “Pete, want to kick things off for Daisy?”

I can tell she's planned this as a typical Annabelle-one-ups-Pete moment, and it makes me smile, because—what do you know?—I have some knowledge, and even when we are barely speaking, I can't deny the kick in surprising her.

“Sure,” I say, casually. “Let's see…you're a Gemini. That means you're a thinker. You love ideas and making them happen. You change your mind fast, but you're loyal when you find true love.”

Daisy is nodding like I've said something incredibly insightful, which is kind of cool, actually. It makes me feel as if I wasn't a complete idiot about what I'd just read about my own signs—or that I'm an idiot spouting garbage about stars that seem to indicate you're a total genius. (How else could you interpret “thinker?”)

The shock on Annabelle's face is too priceless. She's gaping at me as if I'm a stranger.

“You're independent though, Daisy,” I continue, adding her name for personal emphasis. “So you can't be with a sign that needs constant attention. I'm thinking maybe Libra or Aquarius. You see, they're air signs, like you. And air signs share…what's the term I'm looking for? Let's say intellectual curiosity.”

I'm pretty much reciting the book word for word, but Daisy is staring at me as if I'm an old-time Biblical prophet. I have to admit: I'm kind of liking this. I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember the advice for Gemini. The chart in the back had a breakdown of the whole year…there was something specific about summer…

“The thing that's keeping you from finding your match this summer is tension with the right person,” I conclude, opening my eyes and fixing her with a meaningful stare. “You need to look past your surface conflict and see the true connection.”

Daisy jumps up. “You're incredible!” she says, reaching over the table to hug me. “This is just what I needed,” she adds, more calmly but still beaming. “I think I knew before coming in…but hearing you tell me is a shot in the arm. And that stuff about me being independent! That's what I've been doing wrong, getting with guys who were too clingy.”