The Summer of No Regrets (2 page)

Real name:
Michael Boeglin

Film:
A
Capella, Quitclaim, Sparrowtree, Imlandria, Le Petit Chose,
Rocket

Television:
Laser
Boy, Presto!

(see full list on IMDB)

Birthday:
October 7

Age:
17

Born in:
Trent, England

Spirituality:
None.

So today, Starlet, the ever watchful, was sure she spotted Trent Yves in the Burger Arcade. I swear, any time I’m with Starlet, celebrities are swinging from the trees. (“Trent” by the way sounded exactly like an American. You’d think he’d have that telltale British accent when he’s not playing a deaf Appalachian child or a kid from Milwaukee. But Starlet didn’t notice.)

I apologize for wasting valuable blog space on someone like Trent Yves, but hey, why don’t we talk about the
opposite
of the spiritual quest? Trent: A pretty boy
Celeb’
magazine cover decoration who doesn’t even try for meaning.

Here’s a direct quote from the May 2
Celeb’
: “I’ve been accused of having ‘reckless good looks.’ Makes me afraid I’ll cause an accident.”

’Nuff said.

Whitley Sandstone has met with the Dalai Lama. Timothy Castle raises money for orphans in Haiti.

Trent flips off photographers and shows off his pecs on Malibu beach.

beach.

Wake up, Trent! There’s a whole wide universe out there beyond your bathroom mirror.

Trentsbabe
responds:

trent is varry misunderstood & how can u dis him? hav u even seen
Rocket
? he is ½ french and that is why he is so sexy. so what if he knows it? i dont care if he dosent have a religion. who cares? thats personal anyway’s. and he flipped off those reporters b-cuz they where bothering him. I LOVE U TRENTY!!!!!!!!! I AM URS 4EVER!!!!!

Mystic
responds:

Rocket
? No, I did not race out to see it. A runaway living on the streets with a reformed hit man isn’t sure whether to stop a murder plot against his rich father? Puh-leeze. First of all, that’s a pure Hollywood-obvious script. Second—Trent Yves? The smart-alecky magician’s son from
Presto!
? The one who’s always strutting around with his shirt off?

Truly, I’d go see it if Trent’s conceited slimeballness didn’t take over everything he’s in.

Xombiemistress
responds:

Hey, Mystic! I agree with you. He might have wowed the critics in
Sparrowtree,
but since he’s grown up, Trent is nothing but hype. Loved your Whitley Sandstone post. I didn’t know he was a Buddhist. Did you see my post on the Dalai Lama? I got to hear him speak! So awesome!

Haven’t heard from you in a while, girl.

Aquarius0210
responds:

Mystic, will you hate me if I admit I’m a Trent fan? You have GOT to g iv e
Rocket
a chance. He’s not just the cute kid from
Sparrowtree
anymore.

Elfmaiden36
responds:

trent iz so hottt!

Girrlpowr10
responds:

women need to be empowered by goddess energy—not worship at the altar of outmoded male supremacist hollywood culture.

Kitty_earz12
responds:

sexee sexee trent. mmmmm.

Natalie was planted on the tree house rug when I climbed through the trapdoor. I swung my feet onto the porch and went inside. No Devon. Not that I expected him.

Natalie scrambled up before I could even say helo. “Oh. My.

God, Brigitta. I just talked to Ruby Chavez from the post office.

Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” I brushed some dirt off the rug and sat.

Natalie rested against the ladder to the loft and folded her arms. “About who bought the Hansen mansion.” Dad caled the Hansen place an “eco-monstrosity”: a sprawling estate built by a software milionaire, complete with fountains, a theater, and a heated driveway.

“Trent Yves is living right next door to you!” My heart started to beat faster. The Trent Yves guy? Fifteen acres from my bedroom?

“Ruby Chavez said it was Trent Yves? Realy, Natalie?” Natalie sighed loudly. “Wel, okay, no. She says their name is Geoffrey. Luke and Ann Geoffrey. But it’s a boy and his mom.

And didn’t Trent’s parents have a vicious divorce?” My stomach twisted. Next door! The arcade boy lived next door! It was one thing to be humiliated in town; it was another to face repeated humiliation from now until colege. The fact that he looked like a movie star only made it worse. Now Natalie would never leave it alone.

“He’s so hot!” Natalie plunked herself on the rug. “We should go see him, Brigitta. We should go over there right now!” I propped a cushion against the cedar trunk that grew through the floor. What could derail this train?

A sudden yank on the puley rope brought Natalie back to her feet. “That’ll be Cheryl.”

feet. “That’ll be Cheryl.”

“Cheryl?” Cheryl Thompson was a friend of Natalie’s. I couldn’t think why she’d be coming to the tree house. She’d hardly known I existed when I was at KHS.

“She’s bringing the pizza.” Natalie hauled on the rope to pull up the wooden “stuff” bin. The tree house is twenty feet up and at the edge of a clearing. It’s surrounded by enough cedar boughs that it’s practicaly invisible from the ground.

Cheryl’s fishnet arm gloves emerged through the trapdoor, folowed by her green and purple striped head. “Hey”—she glanced at me as Natalie lifted two pizzas out of the bin—“I heard Malory’s back.”

Malory was always with us in the tree house even when she wasn’t in the tree house, especialy since I had been her senior project: the Tree House Club (her name) was supposed to be a gathering where her pathetic little sister could find friends. We would discuss self-esteem and peer pressure. We would reject tobacco and say no to drugs. We would be a Community of Trust.

Malory had scoured the KHS freshman class for members. A scattering of drama girls and brainiacs had rotated through. Being associated with Malory Schopenhauer was never a bad move.

Cheryl had come once or twice. Tarah, who lived on the property behind ours, had come a few times, but once The Center was completed, her mom thought it would make her demon-possessed and forbade her to come back. Eventualy the

“club” had dwindled to me, Natalie, and sometimes Devon.

So why was Cheryl here now?

“Okay,” said Natalie. “Let’s eat quick, so we can go next door.”

Great. Natalie had invited her so she’d have backup for her Celebrity Ambush. I would chain myself here if I had to. I was not going to see “Trent.” “Hansen Manor’s probably guarded by rottweilers,” I said.

“So, we’ll bring hamburger.” Natalie passed me a Veggie

“So, we’ll bring hamburger.” Natalie passed me a Veggie Bonanza, but I waved it away. Thoughts of re-humiliation had kiled my appetite.

Cheryl roled her eyes. “Nat, are you still going on about that new guy?” She sat.

“Cheryl, he is so Trent Yves, it’s unbelievable.” Natalie folded a slice of Hawaian Heaven in half and began taking rapid bites.

“Yeah”—Cheryl wound some cheese around her finger

—“like that guy in Pioneer Square you thought was Robert Pattinson? The one who later asked us for change?” Suddenly, I had a new appreciation for Cheryl Thompson.

Natalie puled out her sunglasses and stuck them on top of her head. “All we have to do is knock on the door. We’ll speak French—and he’ll answer in French before he knows what he’s doing. And then, bang! We’ll have him!” She stood up.

“You mean you’ll speak French,” said Cheryl. “And he’ll wonder what the hell you’re talking about.”

“My French is good!” Natalie looked hurt. “I get As!” Cheryl picked off her pineapple bits and ate them all at once.

Natalie sat back down. “All right, you nonbelievers”—she puled a DVD case out of her backpack—“this is the perfect time for a TRENT MARATHON! Voilà! All three seasons of
Presto!
Compare Fox to Hansen Manor Hottie, and you will be a convert.” Natalie slid her laptop out of her pack.

Cheryl perked up. “I’m so bummed that show was canceled.

Do you have the ‘locked in the workroom’ one?” It was better than being dragged next door.

Dad cals television the “domain of the mindless.” Because I don’t relish being mindless, I’ve never let on how media-hooked I’ve become. More than once I’ve tried to quit cold turkey: no gossip mags, no movie blogs. I’ve lasted an average of three and a half days. Nobody knows about the fansites I’ve bookmarked or the stack of
Celeb’
magazines under my bed (along with a
tiny
number of
National
Enquirer
s). Nobody knows about my
tiny
number of
National
Enquirer
s). Nobody knows about my blog.

The fact is, nobody knows me. Not realy. I am a secret.

It didn’t start out that way. I used to be
The Brigitta Show
: Tune in here! What you see is what you get!

Let’s just say that Kwahnesum High School gave me an education.

On Natalie’s laptop, Trent Yves playing Fox, second son of Presto the Magnificent, appeared floating in the air. Natalie paused the DVD. “See?” she said. “Note jaunty grin. Note tasty pecs. Note magic wand.” She drummed her fingers on the laptop. “The imagination runs wild.”

I puled my hair into a ponytail. “Your point being?”

“That is so the guy at the arcade, Brigitta.”

“His chin was different,” I said. “Also, he had no wand.” I attempted a laugh.

“Um,” said Cheryl. “I’m sure he had a wand.” I blushed. Trust me to leave myself wide open, just like I had at school.

Malory was a mighty senior when I came to KHS as a freshman: National Merit Scholar, head of the Random Acts of Kindness Club, founder of the Astronomy Society. Me? I spent three months drawing attention to myself and the other six trying to disappear.

I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to wear the patchwork coat your grandmother made you or drink nettle tea from a homemade thermos. You weren’t supposed to like school food or English class or Democrats. You weren’t supposed to audition for the musical unless you had been accepted by the

“drama crowd.” And playing the violin in the stairwel after you thought everyone had gone home? Uncool.

Natalie tried. But everything had changed between us.

Suddenly, I was in her world and she didn’t know what to do with me. We’d been almost like sisters all our lives—running through the woods singing and quoting Shakespeare. But at through the woods singing and quoting Shakespeare. But at school I saw a new side to her—a side that wanted to make sure she was doing the right thing all the time—listening to the right music, watching the right shows. I swear I never saw her do the celebrity sighting thing until after I started at KHS. And then she’d be al, “I saw Whitley Sandstone at Disneyland,” and I’d be like, “Whitley who?”

And she’d give me this look I’d never seen before.

After a while I stopped eating lunch with her and her friends.

Sometimes she flashed me a smile, but she didn’t seem to miss me.

Eventualy it had been Devon who invited me to his table.

He’d found felow geeks right away. I was the only girl, and all we talked about was gaming and sci-fi. But the secret Brigitta was thankful that nothing had changed between me and Devon.

Now everything has.

I stretched out on the rug and stuck the cushion under my elbows. In this episode of
Presto!
Fox convinces Candace, played by Randi Marchietti, that he has real magical powers, passed from magician father to son.

“I heard he got Randi pregnant,” said Natalie. “She had a secret abortion.”

Sounded like Trent Yves.

Candace and Fox end up locked in the teachers’ workroom.

Predictably, they need a rope ladder. Predictably, Trent makes one out of his shirt, jeans, and jacket, leaving himself in nothing but boxers. The effect, I hate to admit, is breathtaking.

“Ahh,” said Natalie. “You sure you don’t want him?”

“That is so cheap,” I said. “Can’t you see how cheap that is?”

“Do I care how cheap that is?” said Natalie. “Look at him, Brigitta! You want a religious experience? There’s your god.” I hated what the sight of Trent’s biceps did to me. “Trent Yves has a different girlfriend every week.”

“Brigitta!” Natalie poked me playfuly. “I thought you didn’t pay attention to Holywood!”

“I don’t.” I am such a liar. “You told me that.” Cheryl popped out the DVD. “That’s what the guy next door looks like?”

Natalie folded her laptop. “It’s eerie.”

“You know they don’t have rottweilers, Brigitta.” Cheryl had begun to succumb!

Natalie was bouncing up and down.

“I’m staying here.” I moved to the window seat. “You can go without me.” Maybe Devon would come for his coat after al.

Maybe he’d bring chapters from the novel we’d been working on. Maybe he’d sit close to me on the window seat as we leaned over the pages, his arm bumping mine “accidentaly.” I remembered the look on his face at the Burger Arcade. No.

Probably not.

Natalie stopped bouncing. “But, Brigitta, it won’t be any fun without you!”

Fun
was not a word I had considered.
Mortification
, perhaps.
Ignominy.
“Angry Stud Muffin Reencounters Tabloid Girl.”

Cheryl scrutinized me. “C’mon, Nat. Let’s just stay. You didn’t ask me to come here for Mr. Holywood.” Then why had she asked her?

Natalie looked at her cell phone. “There’s time! We could visit Trent and still do the rest.”

“The rest of what?” I shifted on the window seat. The hinge was digging into my butt.

Cheryl cocked her head at Natalie and withdrew a velvet bag from her pocket. Natalie sighed and nodded, lowering herself back onto the rug.

Cheryl unveiled a pack of tarot cards. “Natalie says you need a reading.”

“I do?”

Natalie patted my knee and looked at me earnestly. “I caled Natalie patted my knee and looked at me earnestly. “I caled Devon.”

My heart sank. “You caled him?”

“Of course I did,” said Natalie. “I told him he’d better get his sorry ass up here or you’d never speak to him again.”

“Natalie, I already never speak to him again.” I slid a window open. No sign of Devon on the trail. Cheryl’s cards wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. And the thought of her using them to psychicaly vivisect me appealed to me not at al.

Natalie slid open another window and peered down sympatheticaly at the Devonless trail. “Do you have his coat?” I pointed to the loft. Devon’s coat had been there since March. I hoped it was full of spiders.

Cheryl began shuffling her cards.

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s just skip the reading.” Natalie’s face softened. “It’s Devon, isn’t it, hon? Oh, God, I feel terrible.”

Sure she did.

Cheryl brandished her cards.

“It’s a good idea, Brigitta,” said Natalie. “You need the information.”

I sighed and gave in. If it would keep them from disturbing Angry Stud Muffin, it was worth being vivisected.

Cheryl laid the cards out in a pattern. I was more fascinated than I wanted to be. Devon would laugh.

“What does it say?” I leaned forward.

“What does it say?” I leaned forward.

“Don’t rush me. I’m concentrating.” Cheryl examined the layout. “Hmm,” she murmured. She tapped the Emperor card and frowned. “Patriarchy.” She sighed. “You’re letting the male establishment control you, Brigitta.”

Ha! The only “male establishment” around here was Dad, and he’d barely noticed me lately—unless he wanted work done.

She touched another card and closed her eyes. “The Knight of Swords sweeps in like a gale,” she intoned. “He may charm you, vanish, and leave you devastated.”

“That would be Devon!” Natalie clutched my shoulder.

A gale? It sure didn’t sound like him. Devon was more of a mild draft. And why such enthusiasm over “devastation”?

Cheryl opened her eyes and drew one more card: The Lovers.

“Ooh!” squealed Natalie.

Cheryl sat back on her heels. “Whatever happens will unfold quickly.” She surveyed her layout. “Your dreams are about to come true,” she said. “But you’re afraid of them.” With Holywood timing, the floor began to shake. “It’s him!” Natalie stage-whispered.

Devon’s head and shoulders appeared. My treacherous heart tripped over itself.

“Hey,” he said. “I heard there was pizza.”

I fumbled for the last four slices, while Cheryl surveyed her layout again. “So”—she peered at Devon speculatively—“how’s Jazmina_of_the_Night?”

“Oh, okay,” said Devon. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

Okay! He didn’t even have the decency to deny she existed.

Cheryl looked a bit deflated. Apparently her divination skils needed a brushup.

I had made Malory invite Devon freshman year. She wanted her “club” to be about “women’s empowerment,” but I told her I wouldn’t do it without Devon. I guess the joke was on me, because Cheryl had visited, decided Devon was an acceptable human being, and sent him a link to the Darkworlds forum where he became Master_of_Shadows and met Jazmina_of_the_Night (aka Erika from Vermont). Natalie said he’d met her in person at Norwescon. “You’re so much better than her, Brigitta,” Natalie had insisted. “Cheryl says she’s realy skinny—too skinny. Like emaciated, you know? He’s going to lose interest. You’ll see.” Devon’s eyes flicked over to me and then down to the floor.

He had a nervous little-boy look. Nothing like a gale.

I thought about how we’d done National Novel Writing Month the last three Novembers, racing to finish fifty-thousand-word novels in thirty days. Neither of us had ever gotten the full fifty thousand, but last November we’d almost done it. Near the midnight deadline, I was up to 49,901 and he was up to 49,892.

We’d been sitting next to each other in the window seat, and he’d leaned over to check my screen. His hand was on the edge of the seat, not quite touching me. He smeled like soap and Altoids.

“We’re close,” I said.

“Yeah.” He brushed a bug off my leg. “Almost there.” He moved his arm to the cushion behind my back.

I started to sweat. “We’ve never made it this far,” I said.

His eyes darted toward mine and then away. I could feel the heat of his skin. “I’m thinking of ending with a quote by Schopenhauer,” he said.
“If we should bring clearly to a
man’s sight the terrible sufferings and miseries to which his
life is constantly exposed, he would be seized with horror.”

“That’d work.” I swalowed.

“It’s twenty-seven words,” he said. He turned, so that his face was inches from mine. “I like your book,” he said.

“Thanks.” My cheeks went hot. I could feel his breath. My lips parted slightly.

“How much more time do we have?” He swiveled his head

“How much more time do we have?” He swiveled his head back to the NaNoWriMo countdown clock on his computer: 0:00.

Devon’s shoulders had slumped. “Oh wel,” he’d said. “Next year.”

What about this year? NaNoWriMo was only four months away. Would we go back to where we’d left off? Maybe he realized now how shalow Jazmina was—that she only wanted him for his extensive knowledge of original
Star
Trek
. “Brigitta!” he’d say. “It was only you, all the time.”

I considered forgiving him.

“I should probably go,” said Devon. “Brigitta, do you have my coat?”

I decided forgiveness was overrated.

None of us noticed my sister until she was actualy in the room.

“Gita-girl!” Malory flung her arms around me. She smeled like coconut shampoo.

“Hey,” I said. “Welcome home.”

She was tanner than when she came back for winter solstice, though Malory doesn’t tan exactly. We both have fair Irish skin like Mom’s. Malory’s short, black hair fringed her face. Her UCal T-shirt clung to her flat stomach.

“Maloway!” Natalie hugged her.

“All my little chicks have grown up,” said Malory. She reached up and ruffled Devon’s hair. “How’s the rooster?” she said.

“Fine,” said Devon.

“still taking good care of my sister?”

Devon shrugged.

“Not exactly,” said Natalie.

How could I be somewhere other than here?

“Not exactly what?” Malory looked from Devon to me. “Is there a problem between the two of you? When I left in January, you were thick as peas.”

you were thick as peas.”

Thieves
, I thought. We were thick as thieves. Malory always spoke in mangled metaphors.

Devon looked like he’d swalowed a coat hook.

Malory got that roling-up-her-sleeves look. “Sit down,” she said. “We need to work this out.”

We
do
not
need
to
work
this
out
, I thought, but Devon had already obeyed Malory’s order, and the others were settling in, waiting for the wisdom to drop from Malory’s lips.

She turned to me. “Brigitta, could you express to Devon how you’re feeling? Try to use I statements.”

Devon became interested in a knothole by his foot. I could not open my mouth.

Natalie touched my shoulder. “It’ll help to talk about it, Brigitta. Men need to know how their insensitivity impacts other people.”

Malory turned to Devon. “Is there something you would like to say?” she asked, oh so gently.

“Um,” said Devon. He rubbed at a cut on the back of his hand. “Wel, I’m not trying to be insensitive.” He was quiet for a moment. Maybe he was thinking of me, regretting all the grief he’d put me through. “But I realy have to go home,” he finished.

Maybe he’d never met anyone more boring than me.

Malory stood up and blocked the door. “You can go home after we’ve had some honest dialogue.”

Devon stood but didn’t try to push past her. “I can’t stay,” he said.

“Devon,” said Malory. “I want you to look inside and ask yourself why you can’t stay.”

“I can’t stay,” Devon said quietly, “because I’m grounded.

And if I don’t get home before my parents, I will lose my car privileges for the rest of the year.”

“Ohhhhhh,” said Cheryl as if she’d suddenly figured something out.

out.

“Why were you grounded?” said Natalie.

Devon picked at some dirt on his jacket. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Chores. Stuff like that.”

Cheryl folded her arms. “Chores? Realy? Chores?” Devon shifted. “I realy have to go.”

Cheryl stood up. “Or did your dad check your hard drive?” Realization flashed.

“Eww!” said Natalie. “How can you look at that stuff?” Devon ducked his head. He shrugged.

Cheryl looked ready to put an evil spell on him. “This is how patriarchy has held women down for generations!”

“I don’t think it takes generations,” said Natalie. “Only a few minutes.”

I shut my eyes and wished for invisibility.

Malory folded her arms. “Girls,” she said, “we need to get a grip. This is all a normal part of psychosexual development in the adolescent male. Males use images from the Internet to—”

“Malory, it’s okay!” I said. “We get the idea.” To his credit, Devon did look like he wished he were somewhere else. Maybe in front of his computer looking at thought-provoking

pictures,

while

dreaming

of

Jazmina_of_the_Night.

Malory stepped aside so Devon could open the door. His narrow shoulders and brown curls disappeared down the ladder, leaving his coat behind.

I puled my knees to my chest, feeling naked. And stupid. All that time I’d longed for him to kiss me when he had digitized perfection at his fingertips.

I thought of what was on my hard drive: Whitley, Daniel, even Trent. They weren’t naked but…my porno? If anyone found that stuff, I would most surely die.

I thought again about the boy from the arcade, the only one who had seen my secret “starstruck” side. I prayed to God I’d never see him again.

never see him again.