Starstruck (14 page)

I
N THE MORNING
, it’s blindingly sunny and hot. So hot, in fact, that the wild rapids that were cascading down Central Avenue yesterday are nothing more than a few wet spots in the depressions in the road. But its ending so quickly is not nearly as weird as Wish’s knowing that it was going to happen.

He picks me up exactly at eight. In the sun, he’s achingly gorgeous. As I follow him, I start feeling dizzy and disoriented again. He looks a little nervous as he jogs down to the curb, jingling the keys to his truck back and forth in his hands. In the bed of the truck, I can see the nets, the traps, the buckets. He is such the little Boy Scout. That makes me smile. That is just like the old Wish, always prepared.

On the way over, we barely say two words to each other, except when he offers me half his orange juice, which I decline. In his truck, I squint, more at him than at the sun, trying to see it. Trying to see the real him. If there is a fake exterior on him, it’s a seamless one, the perfect disguise. We ride across the island, to the bay. There’s a little rickety pier there, and a small beach with a swing set and a slide. The place is empty, though. Nobody in his right mind would be crabbing or fishing after that wicked storm.

Which reminds me … though the storm has passed, the water should still be a little rough. But it’s perfectly smooth, reflecting the sky like a mirror, glistening in the sun like diamonds. Lucky us. Or is this the kind of luck Wish made?

“I brought the seine,” he says. “Or would you rather just do it off the pier?”

“Pier,” I answer. I do have on my ratty bay-walking sneakers, and I’m wearing my only bathing suit, an old-lady thing with a girdle inside and a ruffle around the middle, with cutoff jeans and a big T-shirt over it. But I’d rather stay dry for the time being. I never liked the water much, mostly because of the way it makes my clothes cling obscenely to my curves, but now there’s something about it I don’t trust. In fact, I trust it so little I’ve just about sweated through my T-shirt. “Is it really hot today or what?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

“You must be roasting in that shirt,” I say casually, hoping maybe he’ll say something to put my suspicions to rest.

“I’m good,” he says, and that’s the end of that. I guess “But it’s so awesome for helping me control the stars!” was probably too much to hope for.

I haven’t been crabbing in ages. We used to go almost every day in the summer when he lived here, but since he left, I’ve probably gone only three or four times. It just wasn’t the same without him. We walk to the end of the pier and it’s kind of like déjà vu. Everything is the same as when I was twelve, except Wish is beautiful. Or is he still the same but I’m not? He throws down a paint bucket and I grab the drop lines. “What bait did you bring?”

“Chicken necks,” he says, holding up a plastic bag.

We affix the bait to the sinkers and toss in three drop lines and a couple of traps. Then we sit on the pier with our feet dangling off. “So …,” says Wish, and that’s when my suspicions are confirmed. This isn’t a crabbing-for-fun outing. Wish has something to get off his chest. Maybe he wants to tell me about the Luminati. Or …

The breakup. Of course! Somehow I knew it would come when I wasn’t expecting it. And I’ve been so wrapped up in Christian’s theory that I’d forgotten.

Fortunately, one of the lines bobs a little, so I interrupt him. “I think this line has one,” I say.

He grabs a net. I reach down and slowly, inch by inch, pull up the line. When the chicken neck floats into view, there are two huge blue crabs nibbling on it. Wish swoops the net under them and expertly snares them. “Ha!” he says, pulling the net toward him and emptying it into the paint bucket. Then he tosses the line back into the bay.

He points into the bucket. “That one is, like, seven inches.”

We stare at them for a moment, and then I get up the courage. Better get it over with. “You want to break up with me,” I say softly.

He looks up at me. “What?”

I look away, at another line. “Right?”

He laughs. “I told you before. No.”

“You didn’t tell me that. You cracked a joke.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Why do you keep asking? Do you want to break up with me?”

“Uh, no. I just …” I just want things to be like they were before you left. This is all so confusing. I wish we didn’t have to have this conversation. I wish we could just go back to when it was him and me, in the back of the bakery, playing Yahtzee and our version, the G-rated version, of Would You Rather. But that’s not possible. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

He reaches down and quickly pulls up one of the traps. It’s empty, so he lets it fall back. “Is there another guy?”

Great, way to change the subject. I shake my head. Obviously he missed the fact that no guy at school, up until he arrived, knew I was alive.

“Because Terra told me something last night …”

Oh, right. Me and Christian. “What did she tell you?”

“She said something about seeing you on the boardwalk with another guy. Is it true?”

“No! Well, technically. He’s that guy who works at the bakery. You met him. We were just talking. He was telling me …” Okay, now’s the time. You can do it, Dough. “Um. When you were in L.A., did you ever … I don’t know. Did you ever start getting into that astrology stuff that your grandmother used to talk about?”

His gaze trails down to the water. I can’t tell if he’s checking the lines or if he’s just avoiding meeting my eyes. “What do you mean? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you?” I ask, pressing him.

“No,” he finally answers. “Astrology is a bunch of crap. You know that. And Grandma Bertha is a nut. All my clothes smell like some crazy Indian weed that’s supposed to ward off demons, because she stuck it in my suitcase while I was leaving. Why are you asking me?”

I can’t help smiling as I shake my head. “Oh. Forget it. It’s nothing.” I stare at a rainbow kite bobbing in the perfect, cloudless sky. “Um. Is there something you want to tell me?”

He shakes his head and says, “It was nothing,” but I get the feeling that it was something, and that I ruined it. That if I hadn’t brought up the whole breaking-up idea, he might have told me.

We spend the next few hours barely talking. We catch fifteen crabs, which I let him have, since my family doesn’t eat them. On the way home, we pass the digital sign outside the 7-E that gives the time and the temperature. It’s almost noon. And it’s one hundred and ten degrees.

In September.

One hundred and ten? It’s never been that hot in Jersey before, even in the middle of July. No wonder I’m sweating like crazy. But when I look at Wish, I realize something. After three hours in the hot sun, in a black T-shirt, he doesn’t look beat or weary at all. There isn’t even a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s cool as can be.

“Y
OU DIDN’T ASK HIM
, did you?” Christian says when I walk into the bakery smelling like salty bay water and sweat.

I would normally have avoided Christian like the bathing suit department at Macy’s. But the apartment is probably a sauna. The only place where we have air-conditioning is in the bakery. It helps a little, but the heat is so bad it’s not enough to make the place completely cool. The sugar rings in the donut case glisten with melted sugar and Christian’s cheeks and forehead are splotched red. I spend a few minutes draped over the ice machine, slurping down a carton of Nestea, trying to ignore him.

“Hello?” He waves at me. Then he laughs; it’s this annoying, loud honking noise. “Your silence tells me all I need to know. By the way, nice weather we’re having, huh?”

“Maybe I’m just not interested in talking to you,” I say, angry at myself for even beginning to like him last night.

“Then why are you here?”

“Not for you.” I bite my lip. “Okay. So he’s wearing black today and it’s really hot. And he has the mirrors tilted to his face. But—”

“That sounds about right,” he says.

“I couldn’t,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I tried to bring it up. But it … I just …”

“It’s a conversation killer. I know,” he says. “You’re thinking that if he isn’t Luminati, he’ll think you’re out of your mind. But he is Luminati. I’m sure of it.”

The thing is I’m sure of it, too. I don’t know why I can’t tell Wish that I know. Maybe it’s because best friends tell each other everything, and today I gave him the perfect opportunity to get it off his chest. If we are best friends, Wish should be telling me.

So maybe we’re not.

I sigh and head into the back room. A heavenly blast of cold air hits my ankles. Evie’s coming out of the freezer with a stack of puff pastry shells. She has a little hot pink bandanna on her head, which makes her look like a cross between Aunt Jemima and Barbie.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to clean the freezer today?” She makes a face at me.

Actually, cleaning the freezer sounds like fun compared to sweltering upstairs in the apartment. “I’m here.”

She sets the pastry shells out on the table and wipes her brow. “What time is it? I’ve got to jet at two.”

“Oh, yeah?” I wonder if her jetting away has anything to do with a certain egotistical jerk who’s recently been seen traipsing around the island with her best friend.

She shrugs. “Oh, I know he’s a jerk. But whatever. He has a Jet Ski.”

“Well, that makes it all worthwhile.”

She pulls the bandanna off her head. “No offense, but it’s not like your boyfriend is such the perfect angel,” she mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. Because that’s probably why I can’t believe anything Christian says. If I had to nominate anyone for Boy Scout of the Year, it would be Wish.

“Nothing.” Her eyes momentarily catch mine and there’s this weird look in them; she seems tired, peaked. Knowing that she’s not the type to engage in heavy labor, I’m surprised. Maybe she’s already done most of the work and I won’t have much to do after all. “I’ve got to go,” she huffs, walking off, looking almost … envious?

Could she really be jealous of Wish and me? She’s tiny, but her footsteps pound like a jackhammer on the staircase outside. The screen door upstairs slams forcefully. I pull open the heavy door to the freezer and flip the lights on. Seems like the only thing she did was move the pastry shells, because everything else is one big disorganized pile. I sigh and get to work, laughing a little to myself. Really. Jealous. Of me. Who’d ever see that one coming?

A
FTER AN HOUR OF CLEANING
, I head upstairs to take a shower. Since I’m positive I smell like a combination of seawater, sweat, and spoiled ricotta cheese, I really need one. But I find the bathroom door closed and locked. Evie’s probably in there, doing one of her marathon eyebrow waxing sessions so she won’t be furry for Rick.

My mom walks out of her bedroom, shaking a thermometer. “Found it!” she shouts to Evie.

Evie doesn’t answer.

My mom knocks on the door. “Hon?”

Evie moans a little.

I snort. “What, is she sick?”

She shrugs. “She looks terrible. And she just threw up her lunch.”

The toilet flushes, and a few minutes later, Evie appears in the doorway. She looks the dictionary definition of “terrible.” I never thought I’d ever be able to say that about Evie, but her skin looks almost purple and blotchy and her eyes are glassy and bulging. The glands on her neck are swollen like golf balls. I instinctively swallow. “Mom …,” Evie says miserably as my mother leads her to the couch.

My mother props a pillow under her head and feeds the thermometer between her pale lips. “She said some of the kids at school were sick?”

I nod. “Well, no, just one. It’s not like it’s an epidemic or anything.”

Mom’s already in the kitchen, pulling down a big mug from the shelf. “Hon, let me get you some tea.”

Evie takes out the thermometer and groans at me. “I need to call Becca.”

“Becca?” I ask. Oh, right. Her two-timing best friend.

“Yeah, she wanted to borrow my black top,” she says, her voice hoarse and weak. “The one with the ruffles. For tonight.”

I shake my head, take the thermometer from her, and push it back under her tongue. “Don’t even think about her.”

Evie spits it out. “She’s my friend. And I know you don’t know this, but friends look out for each other. No …” She starts to cough. It’s a horrible hacking noise that I didn’t think little perfect Evie was capable of.

“Offense, I got it,” I say, watching her drift off. “So you knew that she and Rick were … together yesterday?”

“What?” I’ve obviously caught her in the headlights. “Oh, yeah,” she finally whispers, in such a way I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth.

My mother punches a few buttons on the microwave. “Let her rest. And get away from her. The last thing I need is you catching it.”

“Don’t give me that look,” Evie says, though her eyes are so glazed I don’t know how she can see a foot in front of her.

“What look?” I really, really don’t have a look. I thought my face was completely blank.

“That ‘I told you so’ look,” she moans.

“I’m not,” I insist, though I am kind of feeling that way, but inside.

Her drooping eyes turn hateful. “Oh. Right. You were in the bathroom when Erica and your boyfriend were together.”

I don’t say anything, just shove the thermometer back in, so forcefully that she starts to gag, and walk away so she can’t have the satisfaction of seeing my confused expression. She’s delirious. Or jealous. Or maybe both. After all, Wish was in the bathroom with me the whole time. That’s what everyone said.

Or at least, that’s what Wish said.

I walk into my bedroom, trying to recall that night. All I can remember is flashes of the inside of a toilet bowl. I remember Wish saying, “I was in the bathroom with you for the last few hours.” And Erica, at the beach, saying, “Did you have fun in the bathroom?” Did she mean fun with Wish, or fun with my cheek pressed against the porcelain of the toilet? How vague can you get? There’s an IM from Wish on my computer, and in it, he sounds a lot cheerier. A lot more like the friend Wish than the boyfriend Wish I’d been crabbing with earlier:
THANKS for today!!! Having steamed crabs tonight for dinner!!!

I mean, come on, it is not possible to get more angelic than Wish. Then I remember what Evie said. “Wish was in there, too. You guys were … doing it?” Right. So obviously, this stuff Evie’s sputtering in her delirium is pure nonsense. Still …

“Evie, where did you get the idea—” I stop when I’m standing over the couch. She’s asleep, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, face half buried in a pillow. My mom’s still steeping her tea, so I reach over and pluck the thermometer out of her mouth, since it’s about to fall out, anyway, and read it:

One hundred and five.