Until We Meet Again (2 page)

In a rare stroke of luck, it’s Frank who answers. He’s blinking
groggily, his hair mussed from sleep.
“Cass?” he says, frowning with confusion. “What is this?”
The guard releases his grip on my arm, presenting me for the
slaughter. “Your stepdaughter thought it would be a fun idea to
go for a swim in the Andersons’ pool tonight.”
Frank blinks, still trying to wake up, and stares at his watch.
I shift uncomfortably in place.
“It was an accident. I was confused. I was…sleepwalking.”
The guard shoots Frank a grimace, but Frank says nothing.
After an excruciating pause, he sets a hand on the security
guard’s arm.
“Thank you for bringing her back…” He reads the security
guard’s name tag. “Jim. I certainly appreciate it. I can take it
from here.”
The guard grimaces. “I ought to bring her in. We take trespassing very seriously in these parts.”
Frank nods. “As you should. And I can assure you, her mother
and I will not let this go unpunished.”
The guard’s frown deepens. “I don’t know…”
Frank smiles warmly. “Tell you what, Jim. You turn her over
to us, with the promise that she’ll be thoroughly taken to task,
and in the morning, I’ll talk to Mike Anderson about getting
you the weekend off. We can have Braden cover for you.”
My throat tightens. This can either go very well or very,
very bad.
The guard analyzes Frank, silently weighing the pros and
cons of his next move. But then, in seemingly slow motion, he
nods and gives me a little push forward.
“If it happens again. If anything like this happens again, she’s
in for it.”
I could explode from sheer relief.
Frank gives the guard’s arm a friendly squeeze. “Much appreciated, Jim.”
Smiling cheerfully, he escorts me into the house and shuts
the door. The smile drops as he turns to me.
“I can explain,” I rush to say.
“Tomorrow. You can and will explain everything in the
morning. Right now, I suggest you go put on some dry clothes
and try to get some sleep.”
My face burns with shame at how nice he’s being about all
this. “Thanks, Frank.”
He waves my words away with a half smile and shuffles back
toward his room. I make my way to mine with a sinking feeling. Mom’s going to kill me when she finds out.

Phase One of my Punishment Reduction Plan involves Eddie.
By the time I wake up, it’s past ten, and by now I know Frank has
told Mom what went down last night. The relative quiet coming
from downstairs is a bad sign. They’re talking about me. Waiting
for me to emerge. I need an adorable little boy to soften the blow.

Creeping on tiptoe, I make my way to the playroom first.
Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Not in his room either. That
leaves only two other places: either he’s with Mom and Frank,
or he’s watching cartoons in the den. Hoping for the latter, I
slip downstairs.

Low but tense voices drift in from the dining room. Still talking about me. Clenching my jaw, I edge my way to the den.
Success.
Eddie is sitting crossed-legged on the couch, watching his
favorite cartoon about an orphaned robot alien and his robot
puppy. He looks up as I come in. He’s unreasonably cute. It’s
lucky, really. I had the typical pre-teen issues when Mom got
remarried. Don’t get me wrong, for everyone’s sanity, it was the
right thing for my parents to get divorced, but I definitely had
my when Frank came into the picture. And then Eddie was
born, and slowly I began to realize how we’d work as a family.
So much so, that I can’t imagine life if Frank hadn’t come
along. Eddie is the glue that holds us all together. Smiling, I
plop down at his side.
“Hey, buddy. Can I watch your show with you?”
Eddie points to his chest with a chubby toddler finger. “I be
the robot. You be the puppy.”
“Fair deal.” I nestle beside him, and he pets my hair.
“Good puppy.”
I make my best dog sound and sniff Eddie’s face, which smells
distinctly of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
“That tickles!” he says, laughing.
I give his cheek a quick kiss and then lay my head next to his
little shoulder. “Puppy is nervous. Puppy thinks Mommy Dog
is mad at her.”
Eddie pets my head again. “Don’t worry, Puppy. Mommy
Dog is nice.”
Ah, the safe, easy world of a kid. Almost makes me wish I
could go back to being three again. When things were so simple.
“You okay in there, buddy?”
Mom’s voice makes me sit up, and a moment later, she steps
into the doorway. When she sees me, her arms immediately
cross over her chest. She’s calm but prepared. This isn’t going
to go well for me.
“So, you’re up,” she says. “Have a good sleep?”
I pull my arm around Eddie. “Yep. Just playing a little robot
alien and puppy with my bro.”
“Cassandra. Kindly make your way into the dining room.
We’re going to have a talk.”
“Why can’t we talk in here?” I know they won’t be as hard on
me in front of Eddie.
In response, Mom raises a single eyebrow in that “I mean
business” way. Sighing, I slide from the couch.
“Say good-bye to your sister, Eddie,” I mutter. “Remember
me as I was.”
“Move it, Cass,” Mom says.
I march into the dining room, my head held high like a
martyr being walked to the chopping block.
Frank sips coffee at the table. He casts me a look as I pull up
a chair. A look of sympathy? Apology? It’s too subtle to tell.
As Mom sits down across from me, I brace myself for the full
gamut of parental clichés:
“What on earth were you thinking?” (I wasn’t thinking. Clearly.)
“Didn’t I raise you better than this?” (Apparently not.)
“This is about me not letting you stay the summer with your
father, isn’t it?” (Nope. Way off.)
“You’re going to be grounded for a very long time, young
lady.” (And that’s different from the status quo…how?)
However, Mom says nothing. Only the ticking of the Frenchchef clock on the wall invades the silence. Each moment puts
me more on guard. Then finally she releases a slow sigh. Okay,
here it comes.
“What’s going on, Cassandra?” Mom asks, her voice alarmingly gentle. “What’s happened to you this summer?”
I shift in my chair, choosing to pick at a small fleck of dried
milk on the table rather than look at her. She goes on, relentless.
“You seem lost. And it’s hard to watch. You’re so smart and
talented. You could have the whole world at your fingertips
if you focus. But you’re spinning your wheels. You say you
want to be a filmmaker, so I send you to directing camp.
When was the last time you made a film, Cass? Then there
were acting lessons.
“Then you told me you wanted to paint. I gave you private
art instructions for six months, and I haven’t seen you so much
as pick up a brush all summer. And I suppose I wouldn’t mind,
if you’d been off making new friends and having fun. But you
haven’t done anything this summer. Nothing but become angry
and reckless. What’s happening to you, Cass?”
Heat pulses to my face. I dig harder at the fleck on the table.
“You need to find yourself, young lady. You’re going to be a
senior in the fall. It’s time to learn who you are and what you
want out of life.”
Frank sets a hand on my arm. “We’re here for you, kiddo. We
just want to help.”
I don’t look up. Can’t look up. I feel exposed. Yelling,
punishments—those I can handle. But this? It needs to end
right now.
I sit back in my chair with a “ho-hum” shrug. “What can
I say, Mom? I guess I’m going through an adolescent phase.
Puberty. Hormones. That kind of thing. “
“Cassandra.”
“I know,” I say, holding up my hands as I stand. “I know.
I’m grounded.”
“Cassandra.”
I back toward the door, to my room. To safety. “Grounded
for life. Got it. I guess it’s time to take up harmonica and start
scratching a tally of days on my bedpost.”
Mom calls my name again sharply, but I’ve turned for the
hallway. I run up to my room and slam the door.

The Battle of the Dining Room Table isn’t over. Both sides have
merely regrouped at their respective camps. Mom’s next offensive comes via Frank, shortly after dinner. He knocks on my
door to cheerfully inform me that Mom says I’m allowed to go
to the party tonight.

“Allowed to go.” Clever wording, since she knows that being
barred in my room all night would be infinitely more enjoyable than going to that party. Getting all dressed up in a white
eyelet-lace dress and floral scarf. Playing the role of pretty
daughter for the guests. Nodding and smiling my way through
a dozen dull conversations. Well played, Mother. Well played.

Slumped in the wicker deck chair that night, I glare at Mom as
she chats with the other guests. Another mind-numbing party.
Rich, middle-aged people grasping desperately at the final
threads of youth, blabbing, and drinking cabernet sauvignon.

Frank pulls the cork off another bottle, laughing at what
was most certainly a lame joke. With as much money as these
people have, they’re shockingly dull. The only person I care
to spend any time with is Travis, but his parents are here with
him, and even though he got off scot-free last night, their piercing glares warn me not to move any closer.

So I stay in my chair, drinking a Sprite and watching a moth
swirl around the white Chinese lanterns that have been strung
out over the deck.

At ten o’clock, Mom gives me a nod. My time has been
served. I contemplate going inside to my room, but since I’ll
be cooped up there for the next few days while I’m grounded,
I decide to stay outside.

Ripping off the floral scarf and leaving it on a bush in a weak
sign of rebellion, I wander onto the grounds. This house is too
fancy for a backyard. It has grounds. For the millionth time, I
wonder what possessed my mom to come here. Yes, it’s a gorgeous old home in a gorgeous location, but we don’t belong.
And we never will. No matter how much money Frank has.
We are Middle American, live-in-the-suburbs people. We don’t
have soirees out on the veranda. We have barbeques in the
backyard, where the men drink too much beer and the kids
play truth or dare in the den.

Illuminated by an orb of lantern light on the deck beyond me,
the party group is laughing and talking about empty things.
The obnoxious truth jabs at me. I always smugly assured myself
that I didn’t belong in Ohio, that I was meant for greater things.
Now here I am, and I still feel like I don’t belong. Maybe I’m
just a hopeless snob who will be unhappy everywhere I go.

The impulse to do something stupid once again prickles through me. A small act of harmless vandalism, perhaps.
Maybe I’ll rip off my clothes and stroll back into the party,
naked as the day I was born.

I kick a rock near my foot, sending it skidding over the path.
What am I, twelve? Am I secretly trying to get Mommy’s attention because I’m worried she loves her new husband more than
me? Properly shamed, I try to jam my hands into my pockets
until I remember I’m wearing a dress and don’t have pockets.

I find myself wandering past the lit water feature, past the
rosebush-adorned gazebo, over a brick-colored path of flagstones, and across the meticulously maintained back lawn.
By default, I head to the estate’s private beach. It’s not a great
swimming beach—too rocky—and I don’t expect anyone from
the party to have wandered out there.

At the edge of the grass, a row of high, trimmed bushes act
like a natural wall. Walking along the edge, I find my secret
shortcut to the water. I happened across it a few weeks ago. At
one point, perhaps someone had intended for it to be a paved
path to the beach, but that never materialized. Now the lawn
crew lets the branches grow just enough to hide the gap but
maintain the access.

The soft pound of surf reaches me before I see the water. The
tang of salt is thick on the air. Growing up in Ohio, I didn’t
get much exposure to the ocean. The community pool was the
extent of my experience with water. Maybe because of that,
something about the size and constant motion of the sea both
intrigues and terrifies me.

A few more strides through the thick bushes, and I see the
water ahead. It’s black and vast and in what seems to be in
perpetual motion. The white tips of breaking waves roll onto
the beach, lapping the gleaming sand. It’s a surprisingly long
stretch of beach. A cove, really. Perfectly enclosed by brush to
the back and rocky points to either side. Big rocks are scattered
in the water and along the shore, but there’s enough sand to sit.
It’s quiet and rugged and starkly beautiful. I draw in a breath of
night ocean smell and immediately decide that I should have
taken my brooding here from the start. This place is clearly
much better suited for the job than some stuffy party.

I flop on a sandy patch near a crop of rocks and stare out at
the gently crashing waves. A salty breeze feathers my hair across
my face. I decide not to move it. I bet I look more pensive that
way. What I’m pensive about, I don’t really know. How pathetic
is that? I don’t even know why I’m angsty and sad. I just am.

I pull out my phone. Maybe I’ll send another text to Jade.
Hey. I’m at a lame party. Bored. I hope you’re bored too.
She won’t reply until sometime tomorrow. If at all. She’s certainly not bored. She’s too busy in Paris, “sucking the marrow
out of life.” Relishing the challenge and excitement of the art
museum internship that I clearly would have applied for if
I’d known about it. Probably. I push my fingers into the cool
sand, grimacing.

I don’t know why it annoys me that Jade seems to have her
five-year plan all worked out. I mean, can’t an artist just love
to create art? Why do we suddenly have to make a job out of
it? Part of me wishes things were simple. Like they were three
years ago, when Jade and I were stoked to be going to high
school. Then Jade wouldn’t have gone to Paris, and I wouldn’t
have come here with Mom and Frank. We would have stayed
with my dad, had slumber parties, and talked about boys, and
we wouldn’t care about anything.

Light catches my gaze. There, at the black-on-black line of
the ocean’s horizon, is a wide, glowing band. It takes a moment
for me to realize what it is. The beginning of the moon’s rise.
I pull up the Farmers’ Almanac on my phone. Apparently the
moon will be full tonight.

I look back to the shimmering light. It’s magical and eerie at
the same time. Hugging my knees, I nestle to watch. The first
golden line of the moon emerges, huge and trembling in the
residual summer heat, out of the dark water. And then, something inexplicable happens.

A flash of light. A brilliant pulse of white emanates from the
rising moon and soars across the ocean, touching the shore like
a kiss.

I sit up with a start, eyes wide. It was so fast. Faster than a
blink. So fast that I’m almost not sure if I saw it. Maybe it’s
my eyes. Flashes of light are early indications of retinal tearing. Or was it glaucoma? Jade’s dad is an optometrist, and
she’s always worrying about some intense eye problem that
could happen to her. But before I can grab my phone to call
her, I notice a shape.

There’s a figure on the beach. Standing over near the shoreline. How did I not see him come out onto the beach? Was I
too busy staring at the moon?

I squint against the darkness. The figure is definitely male.
And young. Even from this distance, I can tell that. I watch
him, not moving. I probably should be nervous, alone on a
beach with a stranger, especially a stranger who is possibly a
ninja. Mom gave me a handy travel-size canister of pepper
spray to carry on my key chain for just such an occasion. I
always thought she was a touch paranoid. She’d probably be
furious with me for not running at the first sight of this guy.

But I think I’m safe. Studying him, I deduce that he’s a party
guest. The slacks and dress shirt give that away. He’s even wearing a tailored jacket. A little overdressed. Trying too hard. I
can’t tell for sure from this far away, but I’d peg this guy at
about my age. Seventeen. Maybe a year or two older. I don’t
remember seeing anyone my age at the party, other than Travis
and Brandon. More compelling evidence that he’s a ninja.

Not noticing me, the stranger steps down to the shoreline.
Tucking his jacket behind him, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and gazes out at the ocean. I feel the impulse to make him
aware of my presence, but something stops me.

Maybe it’s his oddly fancy clothes. Or something about the
way he’s standing there. Maybe it’s because he looks as lonely
as I feel.

He walks a few steps to the water, kicking a rock. He’s tall and
lean, and even his walk is pensive. What’s he thinking about so
intently? Maybe tragic, impossible, first love? I hope so.

He bends to pick up the rock and throws it into the ocean. I
should stop staring. When he notices me, it’s going to be pretty
awkward to explain why I didn’t make my presence known. I
should sneak out while his back is turned.

Or maybe I could watch him a little longer…
It’s almost as if I’m waiting for him to pull out a notebook
and start to write exquisitely sad poetry. Is it pathetic how
quickly I assign a persona to a complete stranger and then start
imagining what it would be like to fall in love with him? In real
life, he’s probably a snotty rich kid, obsessed with his soupedup Camaro or getting laid in the backseat of said souped-up
Camaro, or both.
I sigh. A little too loudly. Ninja Boy whips his head around
and looks right at me.
My spine straightens. I contemplate running. Or perhaps
feigning blindness. Anything’s got to be better than owning
up to the fact that I’ve been creepily watching him for the past
five minutes.
Great. He’s walking over.
“Sorry,” he calls out. “I didn’t see you there.”
I open my mouth to sputter some fumbling apology, but
then a stab of rebellion cuts through me. What’s the point? I
don’t owe this guy an apology for sitting on my own property.
So what if he thinks I’m weird or psycho? After this summer,
I’m never coming back to Crest Harbor, which means I’ll never
see this guy again.
My pulse speeds up in spite of my resolve, but I stand my
ground.
“Don’t mind me,” I say. “There’s plenty of room on this beach
for all brooding loners.”
A half smile pulls at his lips. “That so? Well, is there a required
distance between brooders or can I take this spot here?”
He’s pointing to the sand right beside me. Without waiting
for a reply, he sits down and smiles. It’s a pretty fantastic smile.
Add to that sandy blond hair that’s been slicked back and deep
brown eyes, and it’s settled. He’s too gorgeous to be anything
but a rich jerk looking to get laid.
Sad, really. I almost don’t want to talk to him and have my
perfect construction ruined. Couldn’t he have stayed in the distance looking mournful and poetic?
He bends back on his hands and looks out over the water.
“Some moon, huh?”
I follow his gaze. The moon is now a huge, golden circle
of light.
“Yeah, pretty spectacular.”
“Very interesting moonrise too.” The boy shoots me a sidelong glance. “Did you by chance see…?”
I tense. “See what?”
Looking suddenly self-conscious, he shakes his head.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I narrow my eyes. He didn’t see the flash of light too, did
he? I’m about to ask him when he stretches his arms out and
inhales deeply.
“Ned was right. It’s the perfect night for a party.”
“I suppose,” I say dryly.
He sits up, folding his arms across his knees. “So, what are
you doing out here all alone?”
The feeling of reckless abandon spreads in me again, drowning out any socially acceptable small talk I could offer. I have
nothing to prove and no one to impress.
“Not much. I’m just pondering the subtle anguish of life.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Well.” He studies me, probably
thinking I’m some crazy emo girl.
Then he nods, turning his gaze back to the ocean. “That
makes two of us.”
He doesn’t seem to be mocking me. In fact, he looks rather
lost in his own thoughts. A little smile comes to his lips.
“For each ecstatic instant, we must an anguish pay.”
The words are oddly familiar, and then I remember. “Emily
Dickinson.”
“That’s right,” he says. “You seem surprised that I would
quote her.”
“I am.”
He lets out a single laugh. “And why is that?”
“You
don’t
look
like a
pondertheanguishoflifeandquoteDickinson kind of guy.”
He seems amused. “Don’t I? Tell me, what does
that
kind of
guy look like?”
He’d look like Mr. Perry, my balding, spindly English
teacher. Not a young, stylishly dressed, uncomfortably goodlooking ninja.
“Let’s say you look like you fit right in at the party, not a
poetry reading.”
His smile fades a bit. “I suppose it was rude of me to leave the
party. But I couldn’t think with all that noise. I was standing
there and I realized I’d had quite enough. You know?”
“So you left because it was too loud? That’s not exactly a typically accepted reason to brood, but I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Okay, so what then?”
He sighs. “Have you ever been in a room full of people and
felt completely alone? And everything around you, the lights,
the champagne, the people, it all feels so…”
“Empty?”
“Exactly.”
He studies me so directly that my skin starts to tingle.
“I’ve felt that,” I say, holding his gaze.
“Is that what brought you out here to the beach?”
This guy is either well-rehearsed at wooing angsty, artistic
girls, or he isn’t quite the jerk I had him pegged to be. Adrenaline
pushes aside my usual wall of sarcasm.
“I think I wanted to do something crazy, but I chickened out
and came here to sulk instead.”
“What would you have done?”
“If I hadn’t chickened out, you mean?”
He nods, watching me.
“I don’t really know. That’s part of the problem.”
He laughs a little. “You’re different. I could tell by the way
you sat here looking out at the shore.”
“You’re pretty strange too, you know.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says, with a wink. “So what do we do
about it, you and I? A pair of odd ducks searching for meaning.”
“I guess we have to do something crazy.”
“Let’s,” he says. “What will it be?” Then he springs up. “I
know.” He grabs my hands, pulling me to my feet. “We’ll jump
into the ocean!”
I laugh at the irony of his suggestion. “No thanks. I had a
nice swim last night, and that got me into enough trouble.”
“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun.”
“Nope.”
A sly smile creeps onto his face. “You didn’t come out here to
talk. You could have done that at the party.”
Without warning, he bursts into a run down the beach, pulling me along with him. We run into the rush of stormy ocean
wind. I can barely stay on my feet to keep up with him.
“Hey!” I shout, my hair streaming behind me. “Stop!”
“Enough talk! Now we act!”
“I said no swimming!”
He keeps running. “We’ll dive off the point, see if we can
catch a mermaid.”
“No! I’m too young to die.”
He laughs, and I can’t help laughing too. We run until we
reach the base of the rocky point, where we both stop, bending
over to catch our breath.
“Push me in that water and I’ll drown you,” I say between
gasps of air.
He grins. “I thought you wanted to do something rash.”
“I do. I’m just not into dying with a complete stranger. Not
quite what I had in mind.”
“I am getting a little carried away, aren’t I? I don’t even know
your name.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, are you going to tell me or have I lost my chance to
know you?”
My breathing has calmed, but something about the way he
looks at me keeps my heart pounding.
“Cass,” I say. “Cassandra.”
He holds out a hand. For a handshake, I guess? Quaint. I give
his palm an awkward tug.
“And you are?”
He blinks. “Lawrence,” he says, looking mildly surprised I
asked.
“Sorry, I’m not from around here. I don’t know all the
cool kids.”
His brow furrows a little.
“You’re honestly shocked I don’t know your name,” I say,
with a scoff.
“No, but since this silly party sort of centers around me, I
thought
you’d—”
“Excuse me, what? The party centers around you?”
He shrugs, looking cornered. “Easy. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, so you’re claiming that my mom and stepdad randomly
decided to make you the star of
their
party at
their
house? You’re
either outrageously narcissistic or delusional. Right now, I’m
thinking probably both.”
He frowns. “We must be talking about two different parties.
I mean the one right there through those bushes.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s my mom and stepdad’s house.”
He stares at me, “You’re mistaken.”
My face burns. “I know we don’t exactly fit in, but they rent
the place fair and square, so it is, in fact, their house.”
He furrows his brow as if straining to understand my words.
“I don’t believe I know your parents.”
“Oh, of course not. They only invited you into their home
for a party, which is apparently in your honor. No, no reason
to bother knowing who they are.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean—”
“Whatever.”
“Are your parents related to my Uncle Ned somehow?”
“Uncle Ned?”
Again, he looks surprised that I don’t know the who’s who of
Crest Harbor. “Ned Foster.”
“I suppose he’s another big-name, fancy person in this area
who I need to know and worship? I’m not that girl, okay? I
couldn’t care less about Ned Foster.”
Lawrence looks at me like I’m crazy. Shame ripples across my
face. This is what I get for letting my imagination run away
with me. For thinking this guy was somehow different. I start
to march up the beach.
“I’d better get back.”
“Wait.” He runs up after me. “I didn’t mean to offend you.
I’m just…very confused.”
“Well, I’m not. I had you pegged the minute I saw you.”
Before he has a chance to reply, I run the rest of the way up
the sand and through the bushes. Once I’m on the lawn again,
I slow down. But there are no footsteps rustling behind me.
I come to a full stop, hating my weakness, and glance back
toward the beach.
But Lawrence isn’t following me.