Star Shack (10 page)

“Actually we're not together,” Annabelle mutters, but it's too late. Aisha's gone. “I'd rather gouge out my eyes than be with Pete Riley,” she says to the empty doorway. “Just for the record.”

“Interesting,” I add flatly, my eyes also on the door. “I'd rather become a monk than have an astrology freak as a girlfriend.”

She's about to respond when Sarah marches in the door.

“Hey, can you cut out early today?” Sarah asks, not giving Annabelle so much as a glance or acknowledgment that she's present.

“Yes, absolutely,” I say. The chair screeches as I push it away from the table.

Sarah makes a weird purring sound, running her fingers through my hair. It scratches, but I smile like I think it's the greatest feeling in the world.

Annabelle rolls her eyes.

“Should we go to the movies or shoot some pool?” Sarah asks, continuing to ignore Annabelle.

“Whatever you want,” I say. It's becoming harder and harder to smile, but I keep my lips frozen in the upright and locked position.

Sarah leans against the table and looks at me from under her lashes. “So I've been thinking about my next tattoo,” she murmurs.

Oh, please, no, not this again…

“I'm picturing how a tree would look right here,” she says, pointing to the underside of her wrist. “Something stark, with no leaves, just the empty branches. Or do you think I should get something else?”

Her cells phone rings, and she flips it open just as Annabelle mumbles, “Why not get a ball and chain, since that's what you are?”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. The problem is: it isn't funny at all. Annabelle is totally right.

Born July 18: Cancer

Rising Sign: Capricorn

You lead with your heart, which means you feel things deeply, for better and for worse. Your fear of getting hurt often has you keeping your feelings locked away. This summer, things may not go as you'd hoped. When this happens, don't be afraid to try a new way to tackle the obstacles blocking your path.

It's been a long afternoon after a long week after what is feeling like the longest summer ever. Every day seems to bring some new form of torture. Either it's Sarah, showing up unannounced to whisk Pete away, or it's Pete sitting here beside me, waxing poetic and wise with his horoscopes while I just sink lower and lower with mine.

“Thanks, this is fantastic,” our second-to-last customer says. He's some wrinkled old geezer who must be close to retirement age. I suppose his look of genuine happiness should make me feel better…but it doesn't. He gets up and shuffles out, all excited to go out and find his perfect match based on Pete's unfailing astrological wisdom. Which seems to happen on a regular basis.

I've lost count of how many people have come in to tell us they found love, or at least a date, based on our advice. Pete's advice. Whatever. All I know is that I'm starting to feel like I've seen it all. I'm thirsty; the rain thunking on the tin roof is giving me a headache; and all I want is to be curled up at home drinking a cup of cocoa.

I'm staring at my flip-flops as the final customer slips into the chair across from us, so it's not until she speaks that I look up, shocked. It is none other than Vanessa, the bitter shrew herself.

“No way!” I say before I can stop myself.

Vanessa grins sheepishly. “Your booth is the talk of Gingerbread, so I had to see it for myself,” she says. “And I just read this article in the
New York Times
about young entrepreneurs, so I figure this is my shot to see two of them in action.”

“That would be us,” I say, trying to muster some enthusiasm but falling flat as always. We
have
made a chunk of change this summer, not that money was the point. But it's not a bad side effect. It might be the only good one.

“Here's the form,” Pete says, passing it to her.

She smirks as she takes a pen and fills it out. “All right, show me your magic,” she says, hurriedly scribbling. “I want to see if there's any truth to the legend of the tiny booth that finds love for all.” There's swagger in her tone, but she's tugging a little on a lock of hair, which she only does when she's nervous. Weird.

“You know me too well, so I want to hear what Pete has to say,” she says.

I've whined to her for hours about losing my astrology mojo—and about Pete—so I'm not sure if I should give her a smile of thanks for letting me off the hook or ask what the hell it is she's really doing here. She's one of the only people who gets that Pete and I aren't an item anymore…isn't she?

“Thanks, Vanessa,” Pete says in his “professional” voice, adding cryptically: “I'm glad we can move past whatever problems we had at the beginning of the summer.” He peeks at her birth info, checks something in a book, and then folds his hands on the table in front of him.

“Here's your problem in the nutshell. You're a Capricorn rising, which means you present like a tough girl, but your true self is a Cancer. You're much more sensitive than people realize…maybe even more sensitive than you realize yourself.”

I see Vanessa almost start to nod and then catch herself.

Pete leans back in the chair, wincing as the loose screw pokes him in the back. “You need to find a quiet, unaggressive type, like a Pisces or Libra.”

It's not bad advice for a Cancer with a rising Capricorn, but Pete is off the mark for Vanessa. She's all about high-powered alpha males. I mean, Silas was a Yale-bound, hockey-playing, captain-of-the-debate team future CEO. That's just what Vanessa goes for. Or went for. Besides, it's not like the bitter shrew is really looking for love anyway.

“Does that make sense?” he asks.

Vanessa grins at me. “It does. And thanks! I like seeing what you guys are about.” She stands up. “Call me later, Annabelle,” she says as she heads out.

A moment later Sarah comes in. I check my watch and realize we need to close up. Pete kisses her. For several seconds. Ugh. I should have locked the door behind Vanessa. Sarah finally removes herself from Pete's jaw and treats me to a sugary smile. I brace myself. The few times she's bothered to notice I exist, it's always been to insult me—and very lamely, I might add.

“So did Pete tell you about our plans for the fall?” she asks.

Like I'd really care. Though I can't believe they're actually making plans for the fall.

“I'm going up to his place the first snow so we can ski. Then…”

The rest of her words are lost as my head starts spinning. If I weren't sitting down, I'd probably fall over. Pete ski willingly? That's never happened in the entire time I've known him. But he's just grinning—not saying that she's delusional but going along—like he skis for fun all the time and can't wait to get back on the slopes.

And that's when I feel like I've gotten a body blow. This whole time I've been thinking Pete is just with Sarah as a fling, but now I realize I had it all wrong. If he's making plans to see her in the fall, making plans to
ski
with her, then this really means something. Pete likes her, maybe more than he ever liked me. I
love
skiing. He knows that. But he never once brought up the possibility of doing it together, or even of my visiting him…

Pete likes Sarah.

I can't believe it, but the truth is right in front of me, as Sarah pulls him close for another kiss. I want to lie down on the floor and never get up.

“So you want me to put the books away?” Pete asks when the kiss ends.

“Um, you guys go ahead,” I say, using every bit of strength I have to sound normal. “I'll clean up here.”

“Thanks,” Pete says.

I watch as the happy couple strolls off. At least they're strolling into the rain, not the sunset. After they go, part of me wants to cry for a while, but I don't give in to that. This is the summer after my junior year, one of the most important summers of my life, and I'm letting it slip by, wasting it thinking about a guy who's totally into someone else. It's time to get this summer started right, and I know exactly what that means.

I sit down at the table and pick up my favorite of all the books:
The Star Path to Love
. I'm going to find my own summer love, or at least a fun fling who will hold my hand on the Ferris wheel and kiss me good night at the door and not freak out like a lunatic if I mention a planet being in retrograde. With a little help from the stars, I'll find the perfect guy in no time and salvage this disaster of a summer.

I know he's out there.

***

The Teen Boardwalk Dances are so awful they're fun. They're held every Thursday in the Gingerbread Beach Recreation Hall, a building that should have been condemned in the 1960s, with a leaky roof and uneven floors from years of water damage…not to mention the endless supply of stale cookies served by the hostile owner, Mr. Heller.

The music is even worse. Mr. Heller uses the dances as opportunities to float down memory lane, dipping into CDs from his youth, treating us to lots of eighties pop and the occasional Led Zeppelin medley. True, it is good music but not exactly danceable. But hey, what can you expect for five bucks and free refills on punch? Quite watery punch, I might add.

But this is where I'm beginning my quest for the perfect summer guy. If the stars have anything to do with it, I think I'm going to leave here happy. My daily horoscope advised taking a risk tonight, and I have Venus in Cancer, which means I am very receptive to love. Okay, it also means I might have a tendency to see romance where it doesn't exist, but I'm too clearheaded to fall into that trap.

When I walk in, the place is packed with people dancing, crowds around the punch and cookie table, and couples making out against the walls. I see Pete and Sarah on the edge of the dance floor and look away. No time to dwell on them, not when love awaits. Or at least fun summer romance.

I ease over to the edge of the dance floor, not too far from the refreshment table, so I can scope out the room and also be scoped. I'm wearing a light-blue halter dress and sparkly ballet flats, and I took the time to flat iron my hair. Unfortunately, the second I walked into the humid drizzle it frizzed up, but it's back in barrettes so at least it's contained. And I'm wearing makeup, which I almost never bother with. But a special night calls for real effort, so I put in my time with the mascara wand. I even brought supplies for touch-ups in the little black bag Grandma Hillary brought me from Paris last year.

On my very first inspection of the room, I see a promising candidate. He's not a regular; he's got sandy-colored hair and one of those round faces that has boyish charm. Plus he's tall, which I like…and—best of all—he's wearing a Yankees jersey.
Score!
I shoot Pete a quick glare without realizing it but then focus. I try to catch the guy's eye, and when I finally do, I smile flirtatiously. Or maybe not. No? Maybe I somehow leered at him because he looks away fast and then heads out the door.

Nice. I've succeeded in scaring him off. Not the start I was hoping for.

“Hey, Annabelle,” a guy says. It takes me a minute to recognize John, one of our very first Star Shack customers—the tall college dude with the messy black hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

“How's it going?” I ask.

“Oh, you know, ‘looking for love in all the wrong places,'” he says, smiling like he's told a joke. Which I totally don't get. I guess he can tell because he explains, “Yeah, you just got here. It was the first song Mr. Heller played.”

“Someone wrote a song called ‘Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places?'” I ask. “Could it get more cheesy?”

“Actually, yes,” he says. “It was a country song.”

We both laugh. I give John a quick once-over to see if he might have summer romance possibility. But he was a customer, and I don't want to be unprofessional. Plus he's cute but in a soft, almost nerdy way, which isn't really my type.

“Well, I'm off to find a Scorpio or Cancer who wants to save the world,” he says, and he disappears into the crowd.

I scan the room again…my eyes zeroing in on a guy with long brown hair in a ponytail. Normally long hair doesn't really do it for me, but he's laughing at something his friend is saying, which makes him seem nice, and he has sharp cheekbones, which is one of my weaknesses. Pete has great cheekbones. Not that I'll be thinking about him tonight. No. He's the past, and tonight I am all about my present and future. Right.

I smile at ponytail guy, and he grins back, widely. This is good. Then suddenly a hand appears on his shoulder. A hand with bright pink nails attached to a girl who is giving me a very hostile look. Oops. Not so good.

I turn away quickly, pretend to straighten my bag, and then notice a different guy in the corner looking at me. He's stocky and bookish but tall with decent cheekbones. And he saw me first, which means he's single and interested. Now things are happening. I smile at him, and he waves a little and then starts making his way across the dance floor toward me. I get a tingly feeling of anticipation that makes my face flush and my heart beat just a little faster. Finally!

But as he steps out from the crush of bodies swaying to “I Can't Fight This Feeling,” a shiver of revulsion runs down my spine. This is no guy; this is a man. An
old
man. He's got to be at least forty. How creepy is it that he's here at a teen dance?

“Want to dance?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and turning away.

“Come on,” he presses. “I saw you checking me out.”

Eww.
“I didn't realize you were old enough to be my dad,” I tell him frostily and am satisfied to see him turn red. “I think I need glasses.”

He stalks off, and a couple on the dance floor catches my eye. It's Pete and Sarah. Her claws are wrapped around his shoulders, and I feel my lips turn down in disgust. He's dressed up tonight…he's wearing a button-down Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He never used to dress up for me. Why is he with her? It just makes no sense. He catches sight of me and almost seems to pull Sarah closer. I turn away to avoid making the universal sign for
barf
.

“Excuse me, would you like to dance?”

I nearly jump. The guy in front of me has appeared out of nowhere. He's like a magical gift: totally hot, with honey-blond hair, killer cheekbones, and a tight black T-shirt that shows off very toned arms. And most important, he is clearly not over eighteen.

“I'd love to,” I say, smiling.

He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor, then pulls me close. This is good. I see Pete over Cute Guy's shoulder, and he rolls his eyes, turning away. Even better. I wrap my arms around Cute Guy and sway to the music.

“Want to go out for some air?” he asks after two dances.

“Sure,” I say. It's stuffy in here. But frankly, I'm ready to get to know the guy who's going to be my summer romance. And to get away from Pete and Tattoo Girl.

We walk out to the falling-down deck behind the rec center. A few other couples are huddled there, but he leads me around the back wall to a quiet corner where we have complete privacy.

“I'm Nate,” he says.

“Annabelle,” I say, reaching out my hand.

He smiles, shakes it, and then pulls me close and mashes his face on mine.
What the—?
I squirm away. “Whoa, slow down!” I say, hoping to sound playful but coming out a little shrill. But really, he just practically mauled me. I wipe my lips.

“Oh, you're one of those,” he says.

“One of what?” I ask, hands on my hips.

“A tease,” he says.

“Because I danced with you? And wanted to talk?”

He grins. “No one goes outside just to
talk
,” he says, as if I'm an idiot.