Star Shack (6 page)

“If it's so ridiculous, then how come I keep winning my fantasy league?”

“Luck,” I say firmly.

She shakes her head, her damp curls hanging in her face. “I don't know when you turned into such a stuck-up snob. I really don't…”

“And I don't know when you became such a total idiot!” But I know I've gone too far when I see her face. Her mouth snaps shut and her cheeks are pale. I'm about to apologize when she starts talking again, her voice a deadly calm.

“Astrology is a science. I'm sorry if you're too much of a thickheaded jock to see it,” she says.

I'm very glad I didn't apologize. Once again, I'm having that very strange I've-been-beamed-into-an-alternate-universe feeling. Annabelle and I don't fight. We joke, we talk trash, we hold hands, we…But now she's talking to me like I'm a stranger. There's nothing I hate more than being called a dumb jock, and no one knows that better than Annabelle.

“But let's just stop talking about it,” she continues. “Since we'll clearly never agree about it.”

“Fine,” I say stiffly. “Are we done here?”

“You're that eager to get back to your new girlfriend?” she asks.

Something about that word sets me off. It's…well, it's as if she's daring me to go after Sarah. But there's also something about her tone that mocks me, as though she thinks a girl like Sarah would never actually go out with a guy like me. And now I'm really seeing red.

“Maybe I am,” I say, summoning all my self-control to sound calm. “Since I might as well find someone to enjoy the summer with.”

I wish I'd kept my mouth shut; it hurts to say the words. It hurts even more to see Annabelle's face.

“So is that really it?” she asks, her lips trembling.

For a second, I pause. How can I possibly be through with Annabelle? She's been my fantasy
and
my best friend all in one since I was twelve years old. The moment I kissed her last summer was one of those rare, mystical events where real life exceeds dreams. It doesn't happen to most people, but it happened to me. I've thought about it every day since; I've waited all this time to be with her.

Then she speaks. “I thought we were meant to be. It's in the stars.”

And just like that…the memory fades. Now I know what my answer is.

“I don't think it is in the stars. After all, I'm a Scorpio and you're a Leo, and everyone knows they don't mix.” I'm just guessing since obviously I have no idea if they're a good match, but I can tell by Annabelle's face that my guess was spot on.

“That's just amateur astrology,” she says irritably. “It doesn't take into account rising signs or birth charts or anything.”

I almost laugh. Then I do. I can't help it. But it's a cold, miserable laugh, like the rain.

“Pete, are you coming back?”

Annabelle and I both turn and see Sarah coming toward us, a big, black umbrella protecting her from the pounding drizzle. Seeing it makes me realize I am soaked. And seeing her makes me realize that it is time to move on, past the new Annabelle and her endless talk about stars.

“Yes,” I say. “I'm coming right now.”

Born February 3: Aquarius

Rising Sign: Cancer

You are an eccentric who seeks out the unusual and unique. With the right match, you will remain true, despite your need for independence. But that drive for freedom can cause you to isolate yourself. This summer will see your business boom. Don't hide your true feelings behind that success, because come autumn you may have money but no special someone to spend it on.

He just left you standing there in the rain?”

Vanessa's voice is incredulous and makes my eyes well with tears. Again. Since my eyes are already swollen and sore from endless sleepless hours of crying, it's particularly painful. Though not as painful as telling Vanessa about what happened on the boardwalk last night—retelling it in real time is like reliving it.

Of course, she called first thing in the morning, worried because she had seen Pete and Sarah come back to the pool hall together. She tried me last night, but I wasn't able to talk then. And I'm starting to wonder if I'm really able to do it now. It's eight fifteen, but because I've barely slept, it feels more like three.

“What did I tell you?” she fumes, not waiting for an answer. “I can't believe he'd treat you like this. Actually, I can. Boys are jerks. End of story.”

For once a bitter-shrew rant is actually making me feel slightly better about things. Pete
is
a jerk. I still can't believe he said the things he said, or how he would actually be remotely attracted to Sarah and her stupid tattoos. I mean, okay, maybe I said a couple of things I shouldn't have. I cringe every time I remember calling him a dumb jock—that was a hit below the belt. But the things he said to me were much worse. Much,
much
worse.

“Yeah,” I mutter when Vanessa pauses.

“You know, in the end it's for the best,” Vanessa says.

“How could Pete calling me a freak be for the best?” I ask, almost laughing in spite of my misery.

“Because he showed his true colors,” she says. “Before this, there were hints at his jerkiness, but you were still tied to him. You needed solid proof. And last night you got it. He's not worth your time. It's that simple.”

“I don't know. I just…can't believe it.”

“Look at it this way,” Vanessa says, and in the background I hear her turning pages of a newspaper. “This morning in the
New York Times
there was a story on the rise of teen pregnancy in Uganda. That could've been you if you'd kept on falling for Pete's act.”

Now I do laugh. “Except that I don't live in Uganda. And I'm still a virgin, in case you forgot.”

“That's irrelevant,” she says impatiently. “The point is that all over the world girls are getting sweet-talked by jerky guys, and the guys sail off into the sunset while the girls are left with a shattered heart and possibly a child.”

“Does the article say that all the guys are leaving the girls?” I ask. “Maybe in Uganda guys are gentlemen and support their children and marry their girlfriends and don't leave them in the rain to go off with tattooed skanks.”

Vanessa giggles but quickly clears her throat. “I didn't read the whole article, but you're totally missing what I'm saying. You're lucky to have found out about Pete now, before he ruined the summer and possibly the rest of your life.”

“Maybe,” I say. It doesn't feel lucky. It feels like a nightmare that I can't wake up from.

“I know it hurts right now,” Vanessa says softly. “But believe me, you'll move on and have a great summer without him.”

Why is it so completely impossible to imagine that? I can't picture anything in my life without Pete, especially not a summer in Gingerbread.

“It's a fresh start, a new and improved independent you,” she says, sounding uncannily like Ms. Hearst, the mousy guidance counselor at my school.

“Is it bad that I hate being the new independent me?” I ask.

Luckily (or not), she doesn't hear me because she's off talking about how great it is for a girl to be standing on her own two feet with no guy to prop her up.

I guess I like props.

“We can be bitter shrews together,” she concludes. “Maybe we can start an advice column in the
Gingerbread Post
.”

“Not the
New York Times
?” I manage weakly, rolling over on my side and burrowing a little under my comforter.

“It'll be so popular it'll be picked up by papers all over,” she says, using that mildly scary tone she uses when I can't tell if she's joking or not. “Though obviously not the
Times
. They only do serious stuff.”

Becoming a bitter shrew seems serious to me. And honestly, I'm not even sure I'm feeling it. Depressed bunny or some other defenseless animal…that feels more like it. But maybe the bitter will come. “I should probably go,” I say.

“Need to wallow in bed for a while?” she asks.

Man, she knows me well.

“That's allowed,” she continues, “especially the first day. But tomorrow if you're still in bed in the same pajamas, I'm coming over and hauling you out and making you play volleyball with me at the Y.”

There's nothing I hate more than playing organized sports with hardcore jocks like Vanessa's volleyball crowd, a fact she well knows. “Okay, okay—believe me, I'll get out of bed.”

She laughs. “Good. I'll call you later to see how you're holding up. Oh, and Annabelle?”

“Yeah?”

“Lots of ice cream is allowed on day one. Chocolate too.”

I almost manage a smile. “I'm so glad to hear it.”

But when I click off the phone and fluff the comforter over me, the last thing in the world I want is to eat. Or to do anything really. Just lying here feels utterly exhausting. My insides feel like they've been hollowed out.

The thing I don't get is how the communication just…failed. Pete was the person I called when our dog Louie got hit by a car. When Gabe and I fought. When I blew my audition for
The Wiz
freshman year and was cast as “scenery” rather than the witch. (Which was actually funny in hindsight, but Pete was the one who made me see the humor in the situation.)

Pete listened to me cry and laugh; he said all the right things to make me feel better. Honestly, just knowing he was there, his voice soft and deep on the other end of the phone, made bad things bearable. Like saying good-bye to Gabe when he left for college. Or visiting Grandma Hillary in the hospital when she had a scare with her heart last year.

Pete is—
was
—my lifeline, my home base, and (yes, it's cheesy) my knight in shining armor. Knowing we could talk at anytime was like a shimmery coal I carried with me, burning bright on dark winter nights and keeping me warm and protected from the cold. I'm lost without that.

The tears have started again, sliding wet and salty down my cheeks. I don't bother to wipe them away because more will come. The supply seems endless at this point.

***

I wake up in the late afternoon and see something unusual out the window: sun. Wow. My eyes feel puffy and inflamed, and my stomach is sour from not eating since dinner last night. And the knowledge of Pete's disinterest weighs heavy on my chest, threatening to crush the air out of me all over again.

“Annabelle?” my mom calls, knocking on the door of my room. “Sweetie, are you okay? You've been in there all day.”

I wish Mom had Gabe and Grandma Hillary or even some kind of summer preschool emergency to distract her from me. I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound as normal as possible. “Yeah, just getting some work done,” I say. My mom is good about not coming into my room unless invited, so hopefully she'll think I've been reading astrology books all day or getting an early start on college applications.

“We're going to have a cookout for dinner since the weather is good, and I was thinking you and I could go pick up some clams and mussels from Uncle Joe's,” she says. Uncle Joe's has the best fresh seafood in Gingerbread, maybe even on the planet. “But I don't want to interrupt if you're…busy. Or in a groove.”

My cheek is resting against my pillow—still stained with wet spots from my tears. My pajamas are starting to sag from being worn too long, and my face is tight and raw. Really, there's no groove in sight.

“Yeah, I think I'll pass,” I manage.

“Okay,” she says. “Oh, and invite Pete to join us. If you want, I can call his parents and invite them all.”

“No!” I bolt upright in bed. “I mean…his mom has a tight deadline, so I think the phone would disturb them. And Pete is, um, sick so he can't make it either.”

“What a shame he's sick on such a beautiful day,” my mom says. “But I guess that explains why you've been locked in your room all day.”

Yes. It does. How convenient.

“I'll get some corn too,” she adds, and I hear her start down the stairs.

“Great,” I call, sinking back down into the pillows. I glance outside. It is beautiful, but honestly I wish it were raining. The bright sun feels mocking.

I roll over on one side and notice my laptop and the stack of worn astrology books on my nightstand. I am feeling hostile toward them since astrology is the cause of my fight with Pete…but is it really? No, I remind myself: the root cause is Pete being a stubborn snob.

I reach for my computer and log in to my favorite site, www.yourlifeiswritteninthestars.net, the one that has my birth chart on file so it's always extremely accurate about what's going on in my life at the moment. My laptop battery is low, but hopefully there's enough juice for me to get some insight into what is happening—and better yet, how I can fix it.

The screen dissolves into a horoscope:
This week is a week for business! It's time to ask for that promotion, put your nose to the grindstone with that big project, or start that small business you've been dreaming about.

Okay, so not helpful. Though I shouldn't be surprised—yesterday's reading gave no notice that my world was about to explode. But seriously, business notes when my heart has been crushed to a pulp?

My phone vibrates with a text message. It's from Vanessa. I hear my dad stroll out to the front porch that overlooks the water to begin setting up the grill for the cookout. I turn over and close my eyes. I'm not up to dealing with any of it.

***

“I'm outside, I promise,” I tell Vanessa, finally mustering the courage to answer when she calls the next morning. “No need for volleyball. I'm out in the world. I'm on the beach—listen, you can hear the waves.” I hold up my cell phone toward the ocean to convince her. It's still sunny, truly a miracle for Gingerbread.

“Good,” she says. “You have to be out for at least an hour.”

“Why?” I whine. All I want is to crawl back under my comforter.

“For your mental health,” she says firmly. “There was an article in the
Times
a few months ago about how exercise creates endorphins, which fight depression—”

“Vanessa, I'm sorry, but I really don't feel like hearing about the
Times
right now. Besides, it's going to take more than endolphins to keep me happy.”

“Endorphins,” she corrects, like I really care. “It's day three, Annabelle. There are no excuses on day three.”

“Okay, a half hour,” I promise. I close my phone and tuck it into the pocket of my sweat pants. I almost didn't bring these sweats since they are baggy and totally unflattering, but now I consider my last-minute decision to stuff them in my suitcase one of the best I've made in years. They are as close to pj's as clothing can get. The best part is that I can wear them right to bed when I get back.

I walk along the beach, my sneakers sinking slightly into the wet sand. So much for the sun…it's already clouding over. Within minutes, a few droplets turn to a steady drizzle. It feels cool on my cheeks. Maybe Vanessa is right. It does feel good to be out of bed. I trudge near the boardwalk and see the scarlet letters advertising Fred's Fabulous Funnel Cakes, and I realize I am in desperate need of deep-fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar.

I'm taking my first bite when I see her. She's wearing a pair of jean capris so snug that they must make it hard for her blood to circulate and a blue halter top that shows off the tattoo on her shoulder. A huge black umbrella protects her from the rain that is running down my face and making my hair a puffball.

Suddenly the dough is like a ball of wet newspaper in my mouth, and all I want is to be hiding back in my room. Maybe she won't notice me and I can race home. I try to dash across the boardwalk to the steps that lead toward the beach, but it's too late.

“Well, hello,” Sarah says as she steps carefully around a puddle. “Aren't you Pete's little friend?”

It's true: my five feet and two inches are no match for her heels and natural giraffe-like build.

“Yes, I'm Pete's
good
friend,” I say, trying to make it sound mysterious. But the words fall flat on my own ears. Is that even true anymore?

The right side of her mouth curls up. “Right. Then maybe we'll see you at the party tonight. We're going to dinner first, though.”

I can't believe this girl.
Really?
I feel like asking her. She's like a bad reality TV show come to life. And she's so smug she might as well just say, “He's mine now, so suck it.” If Pete sees something in her…then yes, boys really
are
jerks.

“Pete is so thoughtful,” she says. “Maybe it's being from a small town, but I've never been with a guy who brought me flowers on the first date.”

Flowers? First date? The words echo in my ears, each bringing a new pang of anger and sadness. Sometime during my comatose solitude, Pete has managed to buy flowers and go on a date. With
her
. Why is she rubbing my face in this? He thinks she's hot; I get it, so let's move on. He has no feelings. He is a coldhearted—

“He's already checked the bus schedule from Vermont to New York so we can see each other in the fall.”

Kill me now, please.

“That pastry you have looks good,” she says, clearly not getting the hint to shut up or walk away, or both. “I wish I could afford to splurge on fattening things, but I'd be a whale if I did.”