Picture Perfect (3 page)

“Little help?” a guy’s voice called over from next door.

“Oh. H-hi,” I stammered as he got closer. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like the same guy who’d said hi to me earlier in the car—the one with the short, platinum-blond hair.

“Did I see you earlier? You took my picture,” he said. “Old car, screechy brakes—that was you, right?”

Thanks, Dad,
I thought,
for making such a great impression.
I nodded, feeling flustered.

“You find everything okay?” he asked “Y’all looked a little lost.”

Y’all
. Was that cute or what? “We were. My dad nearly caused a wreck when he stopped and turned. I think I’ve got whiplash.”
Of course, maybe that was from looking out the back window at you
. “But. Anyway.” I laughed. “We made it.”

“Cool. Well, ask us if you need to know where to go for stuff. We’ve already been here a week so we know our way around.”

“Great. That’d be, uh, really, uh, helpful,” I told him.
Especially if you decided to give me a personal tour of the town.
“Are you, um, here
with family, too?” I asked.

“No, friends,” he said.

“That sounds fun,” I replied. “So, I’m—”

“Emily!” my mom suddenly called over to me. “Don’t forget to take your sweater, hon, it might get chilly!”

“I’ll be fine!” I called back over my shoulder at my mom. I could have killed her right then. She could be so overprotective that she made me seem a lot younger than I actually was. Half the time, she acted as if I didn’t know how to take care of myself.

“Here.” He tossed a sweatshirt over the fence. “No need to run for a sweater. Just leave this on the railing here when you get back. Or return it to me tomorrow. Whatever.”

“Really? You sure?”
You don’t even know me. And I don’t know you, though I wouldn’t mind.

“Don’t stress. It’s yours for the night.” He smiled.

“Well, um, thanks. Cool.” I was trying to act casual, like this was something that happened to me all the time, when in reality, I’d never worn a guy’s clothes before—not any guy I was
interested in, anyway. Girls at school were always wearing boyfriends’ sweaters and letter jackets and things like that. The closest I’d ever gotten was borrowing Erik Hansen’s stocking cap on a biology class field trip when it was ten below. Stocking caps belonging to hockey players weren’t exactly sexy. Smelly, yes. “Thanks again. I’m sure I’ll be freezing and I’ll be, you know, so grateful.” I held up the sweatshirt. “So, see you around…?” I paused, waiting for him to tell me his name.

“No doubt. See you tomorrow!”

Promise?
I thought as I watched him fling the Frisbee to his friends on the other side of the deck and they all jogged down the steps to the beach. Maybe this vacation had a lot more in store for me than I’d thought. Maybe instead of just taking pictures of my friends and their boyfriends, I’d be
in
the picture, for a change—with what’s his name.

“Come on, Emily! We’re waiting!” Heather yelled to me from the town-side of the house, yanking me back to reality.

“Y
ou still walk funny,” Spencer commented as he followed me into a coffee shop we’d found on the busy main drag, not too far from our rental house.

“Thanks,” I said, looking around the place for a table. “Thanks so much.”

“So do
you
.” Heather jabbed Spencer in the back as we stood at the counter to order.

“It wasn’t an insult. I’m just saying she still walks like a ballerina,” said Spencer.

“How would you know how a ballerina walks?” asked Heather. “Don’t tell me one actually
dated
you.”

I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Anyway, it’s ballet dancer, not ballerina. Not
that I’m particular or anything.” I pulled at the light blue sweatshirt I’d wrapped around my waist.
His
light blue sweatshirt. Whoever
he
was. Sigh.

I probably would have worn it no matter what, just because, but the air-conditioning was turned up high—or down low, rather—and I was already freezing, with goose bumps covering my arms. I hate it when my mother turns out to be right, that when she tells me to take another layer, I do turn out to need one. She’s spent lots of years being a stage mom, I guess, and she’s used to the role even if I’ve outgrown it.

But if my mother found out I was putting on a sweatshirt that belonged to some guy I didn’t even know, she’d have a heart attack—and, at the same time, before she crumpled to the ground, she’d spray me down with extra-strength antibacterial gel.

The cotton sweatshirt material was very soft, like it had been worn and washed a hundred times. I loved how it felt, especially that it was an extra-baggy extra-large. It was like
wearing a fleece blanket.

“UNC? Is that where you’re going?” Spencer asked, pointing to the initials on the front of the sweatshirt.

“Uh—me? No,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d borrowed it from our hot next-door neighbor. For one thing, he wouldn’t agree on the “hot” description, and for another, he’d immediately start teasing me about chasing after guys, as if it was something I regularly did. In truth, I only managed to do it on these vacations, with Heather. The rest of my life was usually so over-scheduled that I didn’t often have the chance to talk to guys, much less borrow sweatshirts from them. “It’s, um, borrowed.”

“Borrowed? From who, your dad?” Spencer asked.

“No,” I said, not wanting to get into it.

“Oh, my God—it’s your boyfriend’s, isn’t it?” Heather cried. “You finally have a boyfriend and you’re holding out on me?” she announced to nearly the entire coffee shop.

Did she have to say “finally”?

I wanted to put up the sweatshirt hood, cover my face with it, draw the strings into a knot, and disappear. “It’s not…no,” I stammered.
At least, not yet
.

Heather peered at me with narrow, suspicious eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure. Let’s change the subject,” I suggested. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even look at Adam and Spencer.

“Okay, I’ll save you,” Spencer volunteered. “So, about that weird walk of yours. Are you still into ballet?”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Heather teased him.

“I don’t. I’m just trying to make conversation that isn’t about guys,” he said as he stirred a packet of raw sugar into his iced coffee. “So we don’t end up discussing all your crushes, like we did on the rest of all our trips.”

“Jealous or something? Should we only talk about
you
?” Heather asked, and we all laughed.

“I’m sure we’ll be doing that enough,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” Spencer asked.

“Nothing.” I sipped my strawberry smoothie. “Back to ballet. I’ve really scaled back a lot. I no longer train six hours a day and make my entire schedule around it.”

“But you were such a good dancer. Ballerina. Whatever. Weren’t you?” asked Adam.

“Thanks, yeah, I was okay. But you know. Things change.” I shrugged.

“What happened?” Spencer asked. “I mean, last I knew, you got some big part. That’s
all
your parents wrote about in their Christmas letter.”

Our parents are all nuts about sending out these long, complicated letters every Christmas to update each other, with embarrassing details about us and our “phases.” Heather and I once completely rewrote our parents’ letters and sent each other parodies of them. In my version, I’d gone through a brilliant-actor phase and gone on to star on Broadway; in hers, she’d entered a genius phase and become the youngest-ever winner of the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Not this past year—
two
Christmases ago,” I corrected him. “I know. And they sent a
picture, which I begged them not to do.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “It wasn’t just one picture. It was a
collage
,” he said.

“That wasn’t my idea!” I protested, laughing. “Anyway, you know how you can be really into something for a while, and then it’s just not your thing anymore.”

“Like you and
Sesame Street
,” Heather teased Spencer.

“I just realized that it was taking up all my time. You can’t do anything else, it’s your whole life, which is fine for some people, but it wasn’t for me,” I said. “I kind of wanted to have a normal life.”

“Good luck with
that
,” Spencer muttered.

After a while it had been more my mother’s dream than my own, to be truthful. I still loved dance and I always would, but there was so much more to me than just ballet. Or at least that’s what I thought when I realized I wanted to quit. Other people might see it differently—in fact,
were
seeing it differently. Talk about being typecast.

“So if you’re no longer a prima ballerina,”
said Spencer, “what
are
you into?”

“Photography,” I said.

“Oh, really? Just that?” asked Spencer.

“Why, what am I supposed to be into?” I retorted.

“Spencer, somehow you can insult people without trying very hard. Have you noticed?” Heather said. “I mean, good luck making friends at college, with that attitude. Speaking of. Where
are
you two going to college?” she asked. “We never heard. Is the reason we don’t already know because you didn’t get in anywhere?”

“Yeah, right,” Spencer muttered. “Didn’t you get the press release? I’m going to Linden.”

I nearly choked on the smoothie sip I’d just taken.
Did he just say “Linden”?
I wondered.
Maybe he said Clinton. Or London.

“Wait a second,” I said. “I thought you were at the University of Vermont.”

“You’re transferring?” asked Heather, not sounding nearly as stunned as I did. “Cool! You’ll be a sophomore there, so you can be our cool, older friend. Well, older anyway.”

“But I thought you were at UVM,” I said again. “I mean, you have the shirt. And everything.”

“And you have a UNC sweatshirt and that doesn’t mean anything, does it?”

“No, but—”

“Anyway, I won’t be a sophomore, because I changed my mind and took the last year off to volunteer. I’ll be a freshman like you guys, well, except I have some AP credits, and I’ll still be older than you, and therefore more mature, and you’ll be lucky if I talk to you at Linden,” Spencer said, then he smiled. “Kidding.”

“We’re going to be so popular, you’ll be lucky if we talk to
you
,” Heather replied.

I tried not to think of how weird that would be, at a small school with Spencer, the guy I’d made my one and only pass at. Would I have to bribe him to keep it to himself?

Then again, maybe he didn’t even really remember. It had been the last night of our trip to the Dells when I blurted out how we should stay in touch and how we were such a good match. I’d still had that electrified feeling—
maybe
fried
was a better word for it—when I first saw him today, but who knew what he was up to these days? Maybe he had a serious girlfriend back home. I’d have to find out.

Anyway, I’d had serious changes in my life, too, since then. Serious relationships. Okay, mostly just in my mind, but still.

Linden only had about 1,100 students, but it wasn’t that small a campus. It wasn’t as if he’d be in all my classes. He’d probably stay away from me—far away.

“So what did you do all last year, then? As a volunteer?” I asked.

“I worked in New Orleans on hurricane relief projects—building houses, rebuilding schools—”

“Then how come your parents didn’t mention
that
in their holiday letter?” Heather teased.

“My parents don’t send a holiday letter,” he said.

“Oh. So
they’re
the normal ones,” I observed. Spencer already seemed conceited enough, so I didn’t tell him how cool I thought
that was, that he took time off to help other people. That was the kind of thing I’d totally wanted to do myself, but I didn’t have the guts to just put my life on hold. He did. “So what exactly made you volunteer?” I asked.

“Um, I don’t know.” He fiddled with the napkin under his coffee cup. He looked a little flustered by the question. “Just, you know. Seemed like I could use a break from school and my community center was sending people to help, so…”

Heather started to smile. “So let me get this straight. You’ll be a freshman, like us. You, who’ve tortured us and taunted us every year about being so much
older
than us—”

“Which I still am. And I might be a freshman, but I couldn’t be like you guys even if I tried.”

“Oh, of course not. Never.” I rolled my eyes. “Heather, how in the world are we ever going to fit our baby cribs and playpens into our dorm rooms?”

She smiled. “So what about you, Adam?”
Heather asked. “Oh, wow. Don’t tell me we’re all going to Linden. Is it something they put in our drinking water?”

“Um. Speaking of water. Does anyone else besides me need some?” Adam started to get up and head to the counter.

“Dodging the question, huh?” Heather prodded.

“I was trying to,” he said with an awkward laugh as he sat back down. “I don’t know where I’m going to end up in the fall. Actually I got into Oregon State, but I’m, um, wait-listed at Linden. But I’m sure I’ll get in. Totally. Just mailed in my application late, that’s all. They’re going to give me a hard time about it and make me wait. I’m a legacy—we all are. They always let in legacies.” He coughed. “Right?”

My cell started ringing. It was my dad’s ring tone—I have it set to the Linden school song. When everyone heard that, they started laughing and accusing me of being obsessed already.

“Where are you?” Dad asked.

“We’re having coffee,” I said.

“Coffee? You don’t drink coffee at night,” he said.

Somehow that made him worry that I wasn’t telling the truth. “What, do you think I’m making that up? Okay, so the deep dark truth is that I’m having a smoothie. At a coffee
shop
,” I said. “And afterward we’re going to walk around and check out the area.”

“Check out what?” Dad asked.

I swear he’s not that old and hard of hearing. I just have a crummy phone. Again, my parents tend to opt for the bargains in life—with the exception of what they’d spent over the years on ballet, for me. The phone had been “refurbished,” but apparently its first owner was an octopus, or someone who spent a lot of time in the sea. It had a constant bubbling sound in the background.

Heather grabbed the phone from me and said, “We haven’t seen each other in forever, Mr. Matthias. We have a lot to talk about, okay?”

I could hear my dad laughing over the phone as they spoke for a minute, then Heather
handed it back to me. “We’ll be back soon,” I promised.

“Parents still a little overprotective, huh?” asked Adam as I slipped my phone back into my pocket.

“A smidge,” I said. Over the past year, my parents had been gradually adjusting to the fact that my social life wasn’t entirely about ballet anymore. They were having a hard time with the fact they couldn’t always reach me at the studio, where I’d be hanging out with three other dancers. Even if there were guys around—like an occasional partner from time to time—usually they weren’t my type, or rather, I wasn’t theirs.

“Don’t worry, we can always sneak out later.” Heather picked up her coffee cup and slid her handbag over her shoulder.

“We can?” I asked.

“Sure. Didn’t you see how many
doors
that house had? There’s no way they can keep track of us every second.” She smiled, then put her arm around my shoulder and we sort of danced out of the coffee shop.

We headed back to the house, and Heather and I caught up some more while Adam and Spencer walked ahead of us, having an in-depth discussion about baseball. I think. I never watch baseball, so I had no idea what they were talking about, actually.

“Okay, so here’s the way I see it.” Heather smoothed her long blond hair back into a barrette. We’d always been complete opposites: She was blond, I was brunette; she was loud, and I was quiet; she was bold and I was, well, faint. Un-bold.

“We’re here for our last real vacation before we head to college, which will be very serious and boring and not fun,” Heather continued.

“It will? What about the parties?” I asked. “The football games, the frats—you know, all the things our dads—” I caught myself, feeling horribly insensitive. “The stuff the guys go on and on about, reliving their glory days.”

“Just work with me for a second. What I’m trying to say is that we have fourteen days here, so let’s find some amazing guys to have summer flings with. Are you in?”

“Uh…is that the plan?” I asked. She made it sound so easy.

“Pretty much. I’ll help you find a guy, and you’ll help me find one, which shouldn’t be that hard because it seems like there are tons of them around here on vacation just like us…”

“True,” I agreed, thinking of our hot next-door neighbor, whatever his name was.

“And we’ll just have one of those painstakingly sad brief summer love affairs—”

I laughed. “You’ve been watching too many movies,” I said. “That doesn’t happen in real life.”

“What do you know about real life, anyway? You’ve been stuck in a dance studio the past five years,” Heather teased.