The Shore (18 page)

Sabrina tossed her magazine onto the coffee table and got up. “I'll go grab my stuff from upstairs.”

A minute later she was back with an assortment of makeup kits, flat irons, and a few other things Polly couldn't even identify. They went into the downstairs bathroom, and Sabrina started straightening Polly's hair.

“If it's straight, isn't it just going to look limp?” Polly asked nervously.

“Not when I'm finished with it,” Sabrina said confidently, and glanced back into the living room. “Come on, April, I could use some help.”

“I'm busy,” April said from the couch.

Sabrina smirked. “Watching TV isn't busy. It's an excuse for not doing something interesting. You're the reason I'm doing this, and I know you know about makeup, so get in here.”

April appeared in the bathroom doorway looking sullen.
Meanwhile, Sabrina stared at Polly in the mirror until Polly began to fidget. “What?” she said.

Instead of answering, Sabrina turned to April. “The eyebrows?”

April nodded.

“But I keep them plucked,” Polly protested weakly, trying not to listen to the sizzle as the flat iron smoothed her hair.

“Please,” Sabrina groaned. “Making sure they don't grow together in the middle of your forehead isn't enough. You need to actually shape them.”

Polly knew she was right, but she winced just the same. As much as she wanted to change her look, she was afraid.

“Don't worry,” Sabrina said, picking up a pair of tweezers. “I'll do them for you. Then you'll just have to maintain.”

“Ouch!” Polly yelped as Sabrina yanked out the first few hairs.

“Always hurts more if someone else has to do it,” April said. “Just remember, beauty is pain.”

“I never hear Sabrina yelping,” Polly said.

Sabrina laughed, and for once there wasn't a trace of sarcasm in it. “That's because most of what you've seen is natural. Back home I do plenty of screaming.”

“Roughing it for the summer and you still look like a movie star. How very Ginger,” April said.

“Ginger?” Sabrina said.

April jerked her head toward the living room, where the
television was still on and an episode of
Gilligan's Island
was playing.

Sabrina pouted. “And here I thought I was the millionaire's wife.”

“That would mean you'd be married to Owen. He's definitely the millionaire,” Polly said.

“Eww, please. Not in a million years would I marry Owen. Besides, it's the twenty-first century—why can't
I
be the millionaire?” Sabrina said.

“And be married to some woman? That's also very twenty-first century,” April teased.

“I'd have a kept man.”

“You can only have a kept man if you can
keep
a man,” Polly joked.

“Listen, sweetheart, I could keep a man if I found one I wanted,” Sabrina said, half seriously.

“But not Owen?” April asked.

“Please. He's not the millionaire. He's Gilligan. You can count on him to always screw things up.”

At least they don't think I'm Gilligan,
Polly thought, relieved.

“You know, on second thought, why support some stupid husband while he does nothing?” Sabrina said. “I'm not even sure I'll ever want to get married. My mother used to quote some famous dead woman who said that marriage means exchanging the affection of many men for the contempt of
one. No, thank you. If Ginger really is a movie star, I'll bet she has more money than the millionaire, anyway.”

“Told you you were Ginger,” April said with a smug grin.

“Then who's the millionaire?” Polly asked.

“That would definitely be Avery,” April said.

“Because she has to support that loser Curt,” Sabrina muttered.

April and Sabrina switched places so that April could start work on Polly's right eyebrow while Sabrina moved the flat iron to the left side of her head. As April wielded the tweezers, Polly tried hard not to focus on the pain.

“So, am I Mary Ann?” she asked hopefully.

“No!” Sabrina and April chorused together.

Polly felt deflated. “Then who am I?”

In the mirror, Polly saw April and Sabrina exchange a glance. “You're the skipper,” April said at last.

For a moment, Polly thought she might cry.
The skipper lost control of the boat and got them all stranded. All their problems were really his fault.

“Oh, please,” Sabrina grumbled. “Spare us the self-pity. The skipper was the one who tried his best to keep everyone safe. He was the responsible one.”

That caught Polly by surprise. Sabrina actually understood what she tried to do. Rules and responsibility created order and safety. That was how she had always seen it. They didn't mean you couldn't have fun. Polly loved to have fun. Just not at the expense of others.

“Stop twitching,” April ordered.

Polly laughed gently. “So, the skipper it is. Who does that make Mary Ann?”

“One moment,” April said. She put down the tweezers, grabbed a towel and some makeup remover, turned on the water, and bent over the sink.

“What are you doing?” Sabrina asked, but April didn't answer. After a moment, she turned off the water and rubbed the towel over her face. When she turned around, she had no makeup left on and the change was dramatic.

Not only was April very pretty, she was also wholesome looking. But, most surprising, when she pulled her black hair back from her face, she looked just like Mary Ann.

“Oh, my gosh!” Polly gasped.

“So, that's what you really look like,” Sabrina said, sounding impressed.

“Yup, that's what I've been hiding.” April smirked. “I'm actually Mary Ann.”

“You shouldn't hide under all that makeup,” Polly said.

“So my mom tells me,” said April.

“Okay, we've got Gilligan, the skipper, the millionaire and her wife, the movie star, and Mary Ann,” said Sabrina. “That just leaves the professor.”

“That's easy,” said April. “Lucas.”

“Yeah. What's up with him? He seems kind of smart for a surf slacker,” Polly said.

“Believe it,” Sabrina agreed. “I saw him reading
War and Peace
. He said it was a dare, but I don't buy it.”

“Remember what Fred said about those famous professors at Princeton having the same last name as his?” Polly said, wincing with pain as Sabrina pulled a lock of her hair. “Lucas said he didn't know them, but you have to wonder.”

“Know what's interesting about the guys in this house?” April asked. “None of them are what they appear to be. Scratch the surface and there's someone different underneath.”

“Like Curt not quite being the man we thought he was?” Sabrina said.

“And Owen,” April said.

“Oh, give me a break,” Sabrina said dismissively.

“Are you saying he's
not
an alcoholic?” Polly asked.

“I think a big part of his problem are those creeps he hangs out with,” April suggested. “Especially that guy Martin. Owen just might be a pretty decent guy if you got him away from the others.”

“Easier said than done,” Sabrina said. “Hey, here's a thought: Maybe we should all go out to dinner one of these nights. Show off the new Polly.”

Polly stared at the stranger in the mirror. There was no denying it: Freckles smoothed out with foundation, eyes big and bright with mascara, eyebrows expertly trimmed, red hair gleaming and perfectly framing her face. That couldn't be her.

Just then, a sound came from outside the bathroom.

“What was that?” Polly whispered. “I thought I heard something.”

Sabrina tiptoed over to the bathroom door and pushed it open. Outside stood Fred, a look of guilt all over his quickly reddening face.

“You weren't spying on us, were you, Fred?” Sabrina asked silkily.

“No, I, uh, just came to check out the upstairs plumbing.” He seemed sort of dazed and wasn't even looking at Sabrina. Instead, he was staring past her at Polly.

“Hi, Fred.” Polly smiled.

“Polly?” Fred stammered.

“Who'd you think it was?” April asked, teasing.

“I . . . I . . .” He still hadn't taken his eyes off her. “You look great!”

Now Polly felt her own face turn red . . . with delight and pleasure.

“So, are you here for Polly or the plumbing?” Sabrina asked.

“Uh . . .” From the way Fred hesitated, it was clearly obvious which he was more interested in. But being shy and uncertain of himself, he finally blurted, “The plumbing.”

“Then why don't you go fix the pipes and leave us alone?”

He turned and beat a hasty retreat. Sabrina turned to Polly and April. They all shared a smile.

“He is so into you,” April whispered.

“Men,” Sabrina said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

All three of them laughed.

“We suck,” Darek moaned from behind the drums. “We're never going to be ready for the Battle of the Bands.”

They were in the living room in the band's house, which was jammed with instruments and speakers. Curt sat on his amp, cradling his guitar. They'd been rehearsing for days, but still hadn't found the groove. It was just after 10 p.m. and they'd been rehearsing since noon.

“We've just got to keep going,” Curt said. “This is why we came here this summer, isn't it?”

He was met with groans of frustration.

“We can't quit now, not when we've come so far,” Curt said, feeling more than a little frustrated himself.

“Yeah, but we've come as far as we're going to unless we do something about our songs. They suck,” Austin, the lead singer, complained.

“They do not!” Bobby, the bass player and lyricist protested.

“They do, Bobby. Everyone knows it but you,” Curt said tiredly.

“Yeah, well, I don't see anybody else in this band writing any songs,” Bobby snapped.

“You're right about that, bro,” Austin admitted.

“What are we going to do?” Darek asked. “If we sound like this at the Battle of the Bands, we'll be laughed off the stage.
There are bands coming from hundreds of miles away.”

There was one idea Curt had been avoiding. It was dishonest and sneaky and would probably guarantee him an enemy for life. But if he didn't do it, the band was probably finished.

“I'll tell you what we're going to do,” he said, getting up and laying his guitar against the amp. “Bobby, you're going to practice that bass fifteen hours a day. Austin, you're going to take care of those pipes. Darek, you're just going to keep on doing what you do best, buddy. And I'm going to come up with something.”

“Like what?” Austin asked.

“A way to make us the best band there.”

“How're you going to do that?” Bobby asked.

“Trust me on this,” Curt said as he headed for the door. “I'll catch you guys tomorrow.”

When Curt reached the house, he stepped inside. “Avery!” he shouted. “Ave!”

“She's still at the restaurant,” Polly said from the kitchen.

“But it's ten. She should have been off an hour ago,” Curt said, confused.

“Private party, she had to stay late.”

“Then why aren't you there with her?” he asked.

“Because two of the other waitresses volunteered to stay and I didn't have to,” Polly said. “Don't worry, she should be getting off soon.”

I'll just go and see,
Curt thought, and headed for the restaurant.

With the dark waves lapping at the shore, he marched down the beach. Curt didn't like the idea of Avery staying late at work. He didn't trust her manager, Anthony. The guy was a snake. The memory of him dancing with Avery at the outdoor concert was still fresh in his mind. Maybe Avery had been dancing with him because she'd wanted to get STF a gig at the Surfin' Spot, but that sure wasn't what Anthony had had in mind.

Besides, Avery had been acting a little weird lately. A little too clingy. It felt good to be needed, but something about it felt forced. As if she was forcing herself to be with him. And then there was all this crap about going out. For the last two days she had been going on and on about the frickin' pier. What did he care about rides and overpriced hot dogs? He had a band to whip into shape before the battle.

He could feel himself getting worked up as suspicions crossed his mind.
Staying late for a private party? What kind of party? If the restaurant was closed, then it didn't need a hostess, and Avery never waits tables. Could this private party be her and Anthony?

By the time he reached the restaurant, his imagination was so far into overdrive that he practically collided with a couple who were leaving. He glanced through a brightly lit window and saw people seated at a long table. So there was a party after all. But the waitresses were clearing away the coffee cups and dessert plates, and the partyers were getting up and leaving. Then Curt spied Avery in a far corner of the room, talking and laughing with Anthony.

Curt bristled. The party was over. Why was she still hanging around with that guy? Great, with all the headaches he had with the band, he sure didn't need this. He yanked open the restaurant door and went inside.

It was an effort for Avery to stand there with Anthony chatting and laughing when she was only doing it for Curt's sake, still trying to get STF a slot at the Surfin' Spot. So Avery almost couldn't believe her eyes when Curt strolled into the private party room. “Curt! What are you doing here?”

“Walking you home,” he said, smiling as broadly as he could. But Avery had seen this act before and she knew it was completely forced. “Curt, this is Anthony,” she said.

Curt shook the restaurant manager's hand, Avery noticed that he seemed to be making sure to squeeze extra tight.