When our nameless roomie failed to open the door, Virginia twisted the knob and said, “We’ll just go on in.”
Dinah waited for me to file in behind Virginia, and when I didn’t, she made an impatient sound and pushed past me. After a few moments, when no ghastly screams pierced the air, I followed. I skittishly took in three twin beds: all of them made up with rainbow comforters; none of them occupied. The walls were made of wood, and the ceiling was sloped, with two skylights filling the room with buttery light. Best of all? Nowhere in the room did I spot a demented, scissors-wielding sociopath. Not a single one.
Well
. I felt silly.
Dinah stood on her tiptoes by the nearest skylight. “We can see the ocean,” she said. “Come see!”
“In the nighttime, you can see the stars,” Virginia said. “And once the sun goes down, you can crank the skylights open. This room gets pretty hot, but you’ll catch a nice breeze in the evenings.”
“We can fall asleep to the sound of the waves,” Dinah exclaimed. She let go of the windowsill and gave a series of light claps. “This is my favorite room in the whole house!”
It
was
a pretty awesome room. I admitted it.
But there had been a girl up here ...
so where was she now? Like I said, none of the three beds had been claimed. I saw no duffel bags or suitcases.
“Where’s our roommate?” I asked Virginia.
“What’s that?” she said.
I walked apprehensively to the closest of the three beds, ducking as the roof sloped down. The way the room was designed, a person my height—even a grown-up, as long as he or she wasn’t six feet tall—could stand up straight in the center of the room. But over by the walls it was Hunchback City. I’d have to remember that when I rolled out of bed in the morning. Otherwise I’d be looking at a nasty bump on the head.
I hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. I bounced a little, because it was virtually impossible to sit on a bed for the first time and
not
bounce.
“You want that one?” Dinah said.
“I suppose,” I said.
“Try lying down,” Virginia suggested. “I wonder if you can see the sky from there.”
I swung my feet onto the bed and lay down. At first I held myself stiff, like a corpse, but gradually I let myself relax. I
could
see the sky, which seemed both tangible and intangible at the same time.
“Nice,” I said.
Dinah came over and told me to scooch, which I did. The mattress bucked as she climbed on.
“Ahhh,”
Dinah said. She bent her elbows and slipped her hands beneath her head. “I could get used to this.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Me too,” said the person under the bed.
I bolted upright, and
wham,
banged my head on the ceiling.
“Ow!”
I cried.
Dinah’s reaction was more of a full-body convulsion, which toppled her off the bed and onto the floor.
“Ow!”
she cried, clutching her bum. “Ow ow
ow
!”
I leaned over to check on her, registering as I did that Virginia was holding her hand to her mouth and laughing.
Laughing!
“Omigod, that was
awesome,”
the girl under the bed crowed. She began to worm her way out, denim-clad fanny first, and I stiffened, because
I recognized those jean shorts.
I recognized that
fanny,
and I leaned over the bed and pummeled it, one fist per cheek.
“Cinnamon, you are so dead!” I cried.
“Hey!” she said, still half underneath the bed.
“Ow!”
“Dinah, get her,” I commanded. Dinah came out of her stupor and lunged for Cinnamon’s ankle. I scrambled off the bed and grabbed the other.
“One, two, three—heave!” I said.
The yowls coming from Cinnamon made it sound as if we were torturing her, but she was laughing, too. “Mercy! I beg for mercy!”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Ready, Dinah? One, two, three—
heave
! ”
We pulled her out as far as her shoulders. She scrabbled at the carpet, trying to retreat, and I straddled her and dug my knuckles into her armpits.
“Stop for real!” Laughing hysterically, she contracted into a fetal position, which effectively drew her head out from under the bed, ha ha ha.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” I said. I kept tickling her, and I bounced up and down on her for good measure. Just like I’d bounced on the mattress, but harder.
“Can’t ... breathe ...” she panted.
“Pity,” I said.
“Was this your big news?” Dinah asked. She walked forward on her knees, and together, we rolled Cinnamon over.
“Yes.” Cinnamon said in a teensy voice. She was sweaty and strands of hair were plastered on her forehead, and she couldn’t wipe the grin from her face.
“You’re really here?” Dinah pressed. “For the whole month? ”
She nodded.
“Cinnamon! That’s
wonderful!”
Dinah hugged her, and I sat back on my haunches.
Eventually, Dinah let Cinnamon up.
“Hi, roomie,” I said in a smooth and cheerful voice.
Cinnamon gazed at me warily. “What about you, Winnie? Are
you
glad I’m here?”
“Abso
lute
ly,” I said.
“Yeah?”
I tilted my head. “Cinnamon, of course. We are going to have
so. Much
.
Fun.”
At first, I didn’t think she was going to buy it. I smiled winningly, because we
were
going to have fun. I wasn’t lying about that. I was going to get her back for this, absolutely, but even that would be fun.
“Want to help them bring their bags up?” Virginia asked Cinnamon, and the twinkle in Virginia’s eyes told me she’d been in on this from the beginning. Cinnamon must have told her about us: how we were all three best friends, and how we didn’t know she was going to be here since she deliberately kept us in the dark.
They were both dirty rotten scoundrels, Cinnamon the dirtier and rottener of the two. But again: Why get mad when I could get even?
“I suppose I could give them a hand,” Cinnamon said. She groaned as she got to her feet.
Mr. Devine tugged at his collar. Of all of us, he seemed to be having the hardest time processing everything.
“Cinnamon?” he said. “Do you ... uh ...”
The three of us regarded him.
His pudgy hand moved from his collar to the back of his neck, which he massaged. At last, he said, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“
Yes
,” Cinnamon said, as if she’d been waiting all day for that very question. She rubbed her fanny. “My boom-boom hurts.”
Take Charge with, Lars!
W
HEN I WAS A LITTLE KID—like, in second grade—I was a total social butterfly. I didn’t know that term, and I didn’t set out to be one ... I just
was.
I loved people, especially kids my own age, and I had no problem marching up to someone on the playground and saying, “Hey! Wanna play Candy Store, and we can make up candies and give them names? Like the yummy-coco-puffball, that’s my first invention. What’s yours?”
I’d be in my ratty shorts and T-shirt, usually, and usually the girl I’d approached would have her hair done all cute and be wearing an actual
outfit.
But back then, those differences didn’t matter. Back then, those differences didn’t even register. I
now
know that I was rattier than the typical second grader, but only from looking at old school pictures.
Anyway, back then I just smiled and propped my hands on my hips and waited for whoever it was to grasp the glory of the yummy-coco-puffball. And whoever it was usually did, and off we’d go, arm-in-arm, and it was just so easy. And if she didn’t, I’d find someone with better taste. No biggie.
I’d long since lost my blind self-confidence, but I still considered myself reasonably adept when it came to social situations. I knew how to smile. I knew the fake-it-till-you-make-it strategy, as well as the trick of holding my body as if I were Miz Total Chill Girl, even if inside, I was a big knot of nervousness.
I planned to use all of those skills and more when I met the rest of the kids who’d be working on the sea turtle project. I wanted to get off on the right foot, and plus I was determined to have a GREAT SUMMER even if Lars was off in stupid Germany.
Over a dinner of fish tacos—sounded really gross, tasted
really
good—I worked my mad charms on the other campers. We ate at a big round table in the kitchen, while out the window we watched the sun set over the marsh. Dinah’s dad was gone. We were in a new place with new people and new food. Everybody looked happy and tan, although that was possibly due to the gorgeous russet light flooding through the windowpanes. Even Dinah looked tan, and Dinah didn’t
get
tan.
As I smiled and chatted, I took mental notes on the rest of the DeBordieu gang:
Alphonse I’d met already. He was still as cute as ever, the only difference being that now he was wearing a shirt.
Hello, shirt!
I thought. It said ANALOG REASON across the front, and it was so worn out as to be practically falling apart.
Alphonse’s roommates were James and Milo. James seemed like a skater-dude kind of guy, with long floppy hair that hid his eyes. He ate
a lot,
even though he was as lanky as a spaghetti noodle and did that stupid thing of letting his jeans hang halfway off his butt. Still, he gave off a vibe that was goofy and sweet. He glanced at Cinnamon all throughout dinner, and at one point, after ducking under the table to retrieve a dropped napkin, he popped back up and told her she had “sweet kicks.”
I peeked to see which “kicks” she was wearing, because sometimes guys used the I-like-your-shoes line as a come on. Was James randomly hitting on her, or was he being real?
I felt better when I saw that Cinnamon was wearing her hot orange, flip-flop-style Etnies. James was a skater boy, and he dug Cinnamon’s skater girl vibe.
Of course
.
“Why, thank you,” Cinnamon said. She reached down, slipped off a flip-flop, and brought it above-table so the others could appreciate it as well. Then she flipped it over and displayed the sole. “Check out what they say.”
“I can’t see,” Dinah said. She grabbed Cinnamon’s wrist and pulled the shoe closer. “Omigosh, that is
awesome
!”
“You gonna tell the rest of us?” Ryan asked. Ryan was one of the guys in the blue room. He and his roommate, Mark, were buddies from Chicago—which they pronounced Chi
cah
go—and their accents were hilarious. It was possible, I suppose, that they thought our Southern accents were hilarious. But theirs were far more so.
Cinnamon read aloud: “Preserve the Ocean, Respect the Beach, Don’t Litter.” She grinned. “It’s so I can leave a positive message in the sand.”
“Tight,” Mark said.
Cinnamon slid her flip-flop back on. She promptly reached for a chip, but the girl named Brooklyn swatted her hand. Brooklyn was bone-skinny with curled blond hair. Not
curly
blond hair, but long, thin hair she’d clearly gone at with a curling iron. She wore short-shorts and a stripey tube top, which I found both impressive and slightly disturbing. I have never ever ever in my life worn a tube top.
“Whoa,” Brooklyn told Cinnamon. “You were just touching your shoe.”
Cinnamon gazed at her, confused.
“First wash. Then chip.”
“Oh, sorry,” Cinnamon said, pushing back her chair with a scraping sound.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Erika asked. Erika, who was Brooklyn’s roomie, wore a white, ribbed wife-beater, green army fatigues cut off below the knee, and combat boots. Hooked on her belt loop was a thick metal chain, the other end of which snaked into her front pocket. I wasn’t sure what would be on such a chain. A pocket watch seemed unlikely. A ... knife? Did people carry knives on chains?
I hadn’t formed an opinion about Erika yet, except that she seemed sort of ... well ...
butch
. Not that there was anything wrong with being butch! I just didn’t run into many butch girls at Westminster. Zero, to be exact.
“Alphonse is going to take Dinah and Winnie out and show them how to patrol for crawls,” Virginia said in response to Erika’s question. She raised her eyebrows at Dinah. “Unless you’d rather have a different assignment? I want this to be fun for you.”
“Patrolling for crawls is fine,” Dinah said gamely.
Virginia cocked her head. “Or you could canvass the beach later in the morning, when more people are on the beach. You could help Brooklyn and Ryan distribute bumper stickers.”
“I pick that,” Dinah said so quickly that everyone laughed. Her cheeks turned pink. “Um, why bumper stickers?”
“To remind people about the light ordinance,” Ryan said.
“Huh?” Dinah said.
“The bumper stickers say LIGHTS OUT,” Virginia explained. “After ten P.M., property owners and renters are supposed to turn off any beachfront lights. We don’t want the sea turtles to come ashore and get confused.”
Dinah wrinkled her forehead.
Cinnamon who’d had more time than we had to absorb turtle knowledge, jumped in. “Say I’m a turtle, ’kay?” she said.
“You’re a turtle,” I said, though I wasn’t the one she’d addressed.
Alphonse chuckled. Cinnamon made a face.
“I’m not
really
a turtle,” she said, talking s-u-p-e-r s-1-o-w-l-y. “I’m just pre
ten
ding.”
“
Ohhh
,” I said.
“So I’m a turtle”—she glared at me—“only not really. And I swim out of the ocean. Swim swim swim, swim swim swim. And it’s nighttime, so it’s dark. With me so far?”
“Nighttime. Dark.” I glanced at Dinah and raised my eyebrows. When she nodded, I turned back to Cinnamon. “Please, go on.”
“Well, since it’s dark, I can’t see,” Cinnamon said. “That’s good, because that means other people can’t see
me
.”