How to Meet Boys (2 page)

Still, the Apple Store was a lot better than what I did the summer before. I worked at the Mall of America in a coffee chain that had four locations inside the mall. The managers rotated us from store to store, like we were car tires that needed to be switched every ten thousand coffees.

You couldn’t have a sharper contrast. I was going from listening to shrieking people on roller coasters and other neon-colored rides twisting upside down above my head—and I can’t stand rides—and parking ramps as big as an entire city and endless levels of food courts . . . to this peaceful summer resort town perched on a bay beside one of the Great Lakes. I took a deep breath of the fresh northern air.

Yes, I was going to enjoy this, I thought as I turned to enter the store.

As my foot hit the first step, someone walked out.

I looked up—and up and up, he was tall—and nearly tripped on the second step. It wasn’t just any guy. It was Jackson Rolfsmeier. Sure, his hair was a little longer than the last time I’d seen him, and he was about six inches taller, but he was still the same boy I’d kissed, or tried to kiss, back in eighth grade, only to have him say, “Um, no,” and run away. It felt like a century ago, but at the same time it could have been a couple of weeks, considering how nervous and embarrassed I felt even now, three years later.

Jackson was holding the door open for me, waiting for me to come in.

My pulse immediately doubled. Then tripled.

I hadn’t seen Jackson up close in about three years, since the kiss incident and the rumors that floated around after it. Once or twice the summer before this one, I’d seen him in town, but I crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him. I was mature like that. But it just didn’t make sense to make small talk.

We didn’t hate each other. We just . . . well, it was awkward. The way it can be when you go through something really, really embarrassing with a person.

“Hi,” he sort of grunted out of the side of his mouth. “Lucy.”

It came out as two different thoughts, like he couldn’t combine the two. He could say “Hi” and he could say “Lucy,” but not together. That might break some unwritten law boys had about acknowledging girls.

I looked up at him. Since when did he have a low voice like that? He sounded like he could do voiceovers for a movie trailer.

He had the same brown hair but it was longer, reminding me of a scruffy Liam Hemsworth. As I stepped up, I realized he had a good half foot on me, height-wise. When did he get so tall? I wished I weren’t at such a height disadvantage for such an awkward conversation.

“Oh, hey,” I said, pushing my hair back with my hand, the way my mom is always saying I shouldn’t do because it’s “a tic.” Tic, schmick. My hair gets in my eyes sometimes. I didn’t have anything else to say, really. My brain was too busy trying to figure out why this had to be the first thing that happened this summer. It felt like a bad omen.
Um, you haven’t talked to me in three years. And I haven’t talked to you, either. Why are you even saying hi? Did something fall on your head?

So I just walked into the store and Jackson let the door close behind me, and he went on his way, and I was in the store and that was that.

Except . . . there was something I realized as the door closed.

Jackson was wearing an Original Apple Store staff T-shirt, which could mean only one thing. We were going to be working together.

We were going to be working together.
This was the other so-called responsible teen my grandmother had found?
Him?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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One of my favorite things about
being in Bridgeport was the fresh air. It smelled like pine trees combined with—nothing at all. A candle could only dream of being that cleanly fragrant. This wasn’t something you could re-create with wax and perfume. I’d only been in town a few hours but already I felt like I was healthier—probably because I was riding my bike instead of sitting in traffic on a city bus, or jammed into our minivan with siblings fighting all around me.

I’d only been here a few times before: once on a camping trip in fifth grade, and once last summer when Lucy invited me and Ava up for a few days at her grandparents’ place. We’d had such a good time, cruising around town on bikes, kayaking, swimming, making s’mores, and doing all that outdoorsy stuff you do in a northern, remote place like Bridgeport.

I rode my mountain bike down the original historic cobblestone street through the middle of town, the bike tires bouncing on every square, it seemed. I passed a couple of coffee shops, art studios, restaurants, and gift shops that lined the street beside the lake. People were wandering on sidewalks, shopping, while workers placed chalkboard signs listing daily specials outside their cafés. I smelled something delicious baking at the small Swedish bakery as I rode past it. A girl outside the kite store was holding up a bright orange and green kite, and I glanced up to watch the breeze catch it and pull it up high over the water.

I completely missed the stop sign in front of me.

However, I did not miss seeing a small silver car headed across the intersection right at me! Just in time, I managed to swerve off toward the lake side of the road—while the car swerved in the other direction.

I couldn’t stop and plowed right into a primrose bush. At least I think that’s what they’re called. Whatever it was grows near the water and has thorns—many, many thorns. I tumbled to the ground, feeling scratches on my legs, my arms, everywhere.

“Ow.
Ow!
” I gasped.

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” a voice called to me.

I pulled myself off my bike and untangled myself from the bush branches. When I came out of the scratchy mess, I saw a boy waiting for me. He looked like he was about my age, or maybe a little older. He had dark brown hair with strong dark eyebrows, and he was wearing a faded orange retro T-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked sort of preppy.

“That was horrible of me,” he said. “I’m—I can’t believe I almost hit you.”

“No, my fault—it was,” I said. “The stop sign . . . I didn’t see.” Why was I talking like Yoda from
Star Wars
? I cannot talk to boys at all. It’s just a fact. I could take all the energy and talent I have when I’m giving pep talks to my teammates and all the skill I have when it comes to taking chemistry exams or speaking Spanish and just crumple it up into a ball when a boy who’s even slightly cute in any way at all is around.

“Wow. I’m lucky no one else was around. I mean, if any other cars were coming—or people—are you okay? Really?” He stepped closer to me again, and I couldn’t help noticing that compared to the boys I usually attempted talking to, he was a lot nicer, especially the way he kept worrying about me.

I nodded and gave what I hoped was a charming smile.

“You—you don’t look okay,” he said.

“Thanks,” I muttered under my breath. My forehead was stinging, so I reached up to touch it. My hand came away with blood on it. My arm was scratched in several places and bleeding, too. Well, at least I’d been wearing a helmet.
Look on the bright side, Mikayla
, I thought to myself.
You didn’t break anything, like your head. Just your ego.

“Need some help?” he asked. “I’m like—I don’t have any tissues but I might have a towel in the car—”

“Oh, uh, no,” I said, thinking of what kind of icky towel he’d pull out from under the seat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah—I’m sure.” I’d been in bike crashes before. I’d competed in mini triathlons. I knew how to get up. I wished I could just say that more nicely, instead of barking at him.

He looked sort of stunned. Hey, it’s a reaction I get from boys sometimes. I can’t help it. “Fine. If you say so. You look pretty bad.”

“Thanks, really.” As I untangled my bike from the shrubbery, I saw another big scratch on my leg and a smear of bike grease on my ankle. So complementary.

“I feel terrible, though. You could have been really hurt.” He tried to give me a piece of paper, and I noticed his hand was shaking. “Here,” he said. “You want my number? In case you have to go to the doctor or—”

“I won’t need to go to the doctor.” Did he think I was made out of china or porcelain or something fragile like that?

“You never know. I’m just saying . . . maybe you should get checked out?”

“Maybe,” I said, just to make him feel better. “But I don’t even have a doctor here, I don’t even, like, live here, so I wouldn’t even know where to go,” I babbled. Gah! Too much information. “I promise you, I’m fine. And you know what? I’m late.”

I adjusted my helmet, climbed onto my bike, and rode off toward the Bridgeport Beach Club. Why did I have to get into an accident on my first day in town? And why did it have to be with Mr. Cute Car Driver?

I glanced over my shoulder for a second and saw him pulling away in his silver VW Jetta.

He’d tried to give me his number, and I’d refused. Despite the fact that I found him completely cute and that he was quite possibly the nicest guy who had ever talked to me, if you didn’t count people who were saying things like “Nice game” and “Spike it, Mikayla!” Guys cheered for me at volleyball matches and in track. That was different.

What was wrong with me? No guy had ever offered me his number before. Unless you count the coach for St. Augustine Academy, our biggest rival, and I definitely do not. He was only trying to recruit me. That does
not
count.

I quickly rode the last few miles out to the Club, but was stopped at the entrance gate by a security guard.

“Hudson, Hudson . . . let’s see. You’re here to check in? I don’t have a special note about it and your name is not on this list.”

I sighed. What kind of place was this? I needed a special note just to get in? Of course, I kind of knew that about the Club. It was exclusive. Right now I was on the outside, the “ex” side of things.

“Check in as a summer employee. I don’t officially start until Thursday, so I don’t have a keycard yet,” I explained. “That’s the problem.”

“But you’re not on my list,” he said.

“Well, then it’s a mistake,” I argued. “How about if you call my supervisor, Sarah?”

The boy working the security gate shook his head. He had blond hair that was so short he could have been in the military. He was wearing a blue BBC polo shirt—the kind I’d have to wear—and leaning his elbows on the window of the little booth.

The collar of his shirt was folded up in that preppy way and the shirt color matched his eyes perfectly. He was too neat. That made me not trust him. You could tell that he really liked being the one who got to turn people away. He was a born hall monitor.

“I’ll call her, but do you have an ID on you?” he asked. “Because I can’t let you in without verifying who you are first.”

I dug in my back pocket for my wallet. This was ridiculous. We were talking about a beach club, not an international flight. What did he think I was, a terrorist?

Still, I thought, handing him my driver’s license, I guess that was part of the appeal of the Club. You didn’t show up at a place called Bridgeport Beach Club and expect it
not
to be that way. Everyone who came through the gate needed a special ID pass, and there was no talking your way around it.

I would know. I had tried it the summer before when I was visiting Lucy at her grandparents’. All I wanted was a place to go to the bathroom. I was out on a long training run and sometimes a person just needs to make a pit stop. But no, not at “the Club,” as everyone called it. You’d be turned away, probably even in a thunderstorm with deadly lightning.

It wasn’t a country club, exactly. But it was darned close.

You had to live within certain town boundaries to have access to the beach, buildings, tennis courts, shuffleboard courts, nine-hole golf course, wine bar, swimming pool—and you had to pay monthly dues, too.

“I can’t reach her.” He handed me back my license. “But I wrote down your info, so if you try to make off with any of the silverware or statues or anything, they’ll be able to find you.”

“I wouldn’t—take—” I stammered.

“I’m kidding. I’m Liam, by the way. And do you have a number or a local address I can write down here? ’Cause I assume you’re not planning to ride up from Minneapolis every morning,” he said.

I laughed and gave him my cell number. I heard a car honk and glanced behind me. There was a short line of cars waiting to go through the security gate. “I should go,” I said. “See you later.” I started walking my bike toward the main building.

“Hold on, hold on. Mikayla!” Liam called after me.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked, leaning way out of the booth.

“Oh—it’s nothing,” I said, glancing down briefly.

“Nothing?” He pointed at my shin. “You’re bleeding and you have chain marks.”

“I—a bike accident,” I said.

“You should go to the nurse’s station. It’s just past the spa,” he called after me.

“Thanks!” I yelled over my shoulder. He was so nice—not at all like my first impression.

“Yeah. Get some Band-Aids. That looks disgusting!” he shouted after me.

I don’t meet boys well. At all. It’s just a fact.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I found my grandmother in her little
office behind the sales counter.

“Lucy! You finally made it!” she cried. “What did you do, drive here by way of Canada?”

Get lost once, and your family will never forget it. Was it my fault the signs made it seem like Bridgeport was north of the Canadian border? I’d only gotten my license about a month earlier, and I didn’t want to check my phone while I was driving; I’d been drilled about not doing that for two years straight, even before they’d let me get my learner’s permit.