Star Shack (3 page)

“I think you and I should declare this a guy-free summer,” Vanessa announces. “Who needs them? We can read feminist literature and learn Italian and not worry about makeup or styling our hair or any of that crap we do for guys.”

I am silent. I like feminist literature as much as the next free-thinking girl, and Italy has pasta and gelato, so who wouldn't want to learn Italian? But she lost me right at the start, with the guy-free summer part.

“What do you say, Annabelle?” she goes on. “Why put yourself through a summer of torture, waiting for Pete to call?”

She's right. Why am I starting to approach this summer like a summer of torture? It doesn't have to be like this at all.

“Vanessa, I have to go,” I say, jumping off my bed and stuffing my feet into my blue flip-flops.

“I'll take that as a no,” she says, sighing.

“I'll catch up with you later, I promise.” I flip my phone closed before she can protest. But I'm on her side: I'm through sitting around waiting for my phone to ring. I don't have time for stupid stuff like that. If I want to talk to Pete, I will just go over to his house and talk to him.

I run down the stairs, grab my whale umbrella, and sprint three houses down to the blue-and-white clapboard house with the Subaru Outback and the silver Honda parked in front. I don't worry about what I will say or how I look. This is Pete. Those things don't matter. What matters is that we are finally going to be together.

I am smiling as I ring the bell. Moments later, the door opens and it's him.

My breath gets lost somewhere down in my chest because I had forgotten how truly gorgeous he is. That thick black hair, those blue eyes, that soft face with the high cheekbones and the little scar on his forehead from the time he tripped over his dad's skis. And those shoulders—those are new!

He's been working out for baseball, and he looks even better than he did last summer…better than how I've pictured him every day since Labor Day. I can even forgive the white Red Sox shirt (puke). The absolute best part is the look in his eyes as he stares back at me, taking me in.

For a second I do wish I had put my caramel curls in a style nicer than a ponytail or put on something besides cutoffs and an old black tank top. But then it doesn't matter because Pete is laughing and he's hugging me and I'm hugging him and everything is just right.

“Hey, you,” he says, his mouth so close to my ear I feel his breath. There they are, the shivers again. How did I go so long without this, without him?

“What's up?” I say as he lets me go. “How was your trip?”

“The usual. High-speed chases and international intrigue.”

“Meaning you managed to ditch your parents so they couldn't tail you all the way here?” I ask, giddy as he leads me into the living room with its comfortable denim sofa and love seat and the photos of the Alps and magazine covers of stories his parents have written decorating the walls.

He laughs. “Exactly.”

We settle on the love seat next to the fireplace that he has going. It crackles and spits, the wood damp even though it was stored inside. He reaches for my hand, and for a moment, his skin on mine feels so good that I can't even speak.

“You guys get here okay?”

“Yes,” I say, gulping a little. “Though my dad gave me a hard time about how much I brought. He actually wanted me to leave my astrology books at home.” I shake my head in that dads-so-don't-get-it way, but instead of sympathizing, Pete drops my hand and hunches forward, looking into the fire.

“Crazy, right?” I push.

He shakes his head but doesn't say anything.

“I mean, I'm still considering a trade or two for my fantasy team, and I need the stars for that,” I say. Baseball will get him talking.

But he just grimaces, like I asked him how to do a calculus problem. Or worse, to root for the Yankees.

“Did you know Beckett has Saturn in his sixth house right now? That's why all the right-handed batters are going to get a bunch of hits off him tonight—”

“Annabelle!” Pete turns and glares—actually
glares
—at me. “Whatever,” he says shortly. “Forget it.”

I feel like he slapped me. What is going on? Why is he suddenly acting like I brought swine flu over in a cup and offered it to him?

“Upset your guys are going to lose?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. “Because you will. Chamberlain has Jupiter—”

“Enough with the stupid astrology already!” Pete snaps. “Can't you talk like a normal human being anymore?
I don't care
about Jupiter.”

I open my mouth, shocked, but my voice catches in my throat. Before I can ask or say anything else, the back door opens, and in walk Pete's parents. For some absurd reason, each is wearing what appears to be a grown-up sized orange snowsuit, bulky and puffy as the pink one I had when I was eight.

“Annabelle! Wonderful you're here; we need your fashion advice,” Pete's mom says as she staggers toward me, sweat beads shining on her face. “This is the latest outfit from Comfortable Ski Wear. It
is
comfortable, but I'm not sure it's fashionable, and my article is on fashion on the slopes. What do you think?”

I'm still so upset by Pete's weirdness that I can only shake my head, and she sighs as she hugs me.

“Just as I feared,” she said. “I look ridiculous.” She turns to Pete. “What about you, honey? Would you pretend you didn't know me if I showed up wearing this at the next parent-student ski day?'

Usually Pete's mom cracks us both up, but I am closer to crying than laughing.

Pete just shrugs and says again, “Whatever.”

“I'm making grilled cheese,” Pete's dad says. “I assume you're staying, Annabelle?”

I take a quick look at Pete's face, which is devoid of expression.

“Thanks, but I have to get back,” I say, hopping up and shambling toward the front door. I can't even bring myself to look back at the love seat.

“Well, we'll see you soon,” Pete's mom calls as I let myself out.

I wait for a moment to see if he'll come after me. He doesn't. He's suddenly more distant than Grandma Hillary and Gabe, who are an entire continent away. I have no idea why, and more importantly, no idea how to bring him back.

Born June 30: Cancer

Rising Sign: Gemini

You are sensitive and self-sacrificing, eager to help out that friend with a broken heart. When it comes to love in your own life, you are the master of mixed messages. But this summer, do what you can to stay honest, because unexpected changes will make things rocky.

I sit on our sun porch and watch dribbles of rain slide down the glass windows overlooking the gray ocean. The tide is coming in, and the waves crash as though they have a beef to settle with the shore. We've had two days of rain at Gingerbread so far, so things are at least off to a good start in one way: practically zero tourists. It's weird how fast I've already gotten into a routine: working out in the mornings, getting coffee at the Opera Café, hanging out at home going through the practice SAT test book my parents got for me. Maybe I can get used to being alone.

My SAT scores were fine when I took the test last year, but my parents figure one more shot at perfection won't hurt, especially since I'm mostly just taking it easy this summer. I'll try to find a job at some point. But as Annabelle says, people who can afford to ski can afford to tip. And the guests at the lodge where I work part-time during the winter are great tippers. I don't really need the money…I don't even know what I'd spend it on…

What I haven't been doing is thinking about Annabelle. At all. Well, except for just now, or to wonder why she hasn't called or texted. I mean, okay, I guess I know: she's pissed about how I clammed up when she came over. She hates stony silences more than anything. It's not like I meant to do it, but what could I say? Jeter has the moon in his garage, or whatever? Give me a break. This is why I haven't been thinking about her.

I get up to grab a glass of water and try to figure out what to do for the rest of the day. I already went running. Jed was busy with a big crowd of senior citizens in for a bingo tournament at the rec hall this afternoon, so I didn't hang out long at the Opera Café. It's too early for lunch, and I'm not really in the mood to do more stupid multiple-choice practice questions.

If I'm honest, I have to admit that I really only want to do one thing: hang out with Annabelle. Gingerbread isn't Gingerbread unless I'm hanging out with Annabelle. For the zillionth time, I think about how good she looked when she came over, her caramel curls falling out of her ponytail onto her face, her eyes all lit up and excited.

All right, all right; I
have
been thinking about her.

My mom has always says Annabelle has “a true zest for life,” which is a painfully dorky way to put it (though not as dorky as her orange snowsuit), but it's true. Annabelle gets so into things you can't help getting into them too. Except…I just can't go along for the ride with this astrology junk. But maybe if I don't respond, she'll just let it go and we can talk about other stuff, normal stuff, like baseball and school and who is going to cream who at mini-golf.

Screw it.
I can't wait any longer.

Yes, part of me is still worried Annabelle has changed or was hiding a freak side this whole time, but I'm picking up my phone and texting before I think about it too much.

Meet me @ the beach in 15?

A walk in the rain is one of our usual summer rituals. Walking in the rain may not sound fun to most people, but Annabelle could make rummaging through a garbage dump a blast. Besides, it takes a certain special kind of person to appreciate a rainy beach. The sand is packed down tight so it's easy to walk, and we always have the whole place to ourselves—just the waves, the sky, the sand, and us. Honestly, it might be my favorite way to spend time outside of Fenway Park.

I know she'll show, so I don't bother waiting for her reply. I just put on my beat-up sneakers and old navy raincoat and head out. I jog over to our spot: a little dune almost exactly halfway between our two houses. The rain is a light mist, so I take off the jacket and toss it on the sand. For a moment, I just watch the rain hit the churning ocean, tiny droplets disappearing into the gray-green water.

“Forgot your skis?” I hear behind me.

I turn, unable to hide my smile. She's got on her green army shorts and a pink camisole. Corny? I don't care: I swear the sight of her makes my heart stop for a second. Her hair is back in a headband, flying free behind her, and her eyes are sparkling. She walks right up and punches me on the arm. I'd forgotten how strong she is, and I yelp before I can stop myself.

She laughs. “Uh-oh. You're not getting soft on me, are you?”

“That's so weird…I just had the funniest sensation I was bit by a mosquito…”

“Macho is worse than soft,” she says.

“I don't care,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. “I'm all guy all the time.”

“I wish I had a tape recorder to broadcast that across the boardwalk. Just to clarify: that wasn't you tearing up last summer when we watched
The Notebook
at my house?” She leans into me, and for a second, all I do is inhale the mix of her rose shampoo, fresh coffee, and the smell that is just her, Annabelle.

“I was crying from boredom.” Yes, I am a total sucker for tearjerker movies, but I've never actually admitted it out loud. Yes, with Annabelle, there's no need.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Just like you're going to keep telling yourself the Sox are going to win the division, and this is the year you're going to beat me in fantasy baseball.”

I'm definitely not going there. Instead I take her hand, and we start walking down the beach. Just touching her hand makes my whole body feel alive and awake. I've been holding hands with girls since I was thirteen. But that's the thing: I've been holding hands with “girls.” They might as well all be the same. When I hold hands with Annabelle, I'm holding hands with a…person.

Did I say I'm a sucker for tearjerker movies?
Just please, please don't bring up astrology,
I silently beg.

“So how are your brother and grandma doing?” I ask. That's a safe topic.

“I just heard from Gabe last night,” she says, her steps falling naturally in sync with mine. “He said they're in Kazakhstan and they ate horse.”

“Horse, as in…”

“As in what cowboys ride. No one should eat the Black Stallion.”

I laugh, even though I'm grossed out. “I am with you on that one. Jeez. This will sound bad…but how did it taste?”

“He said it was pretty good actually, but you know Gabe. He'll eat anything.”

I remember last summer when he ate two bags of clams from Moe's, the greasiest, oldest seafood in Gingerbread and possibly in the world. “Good point.”

“He also told me that if I use his computer while he's gone, he'll make my senior year a living hell.”

“That was the best he could come up with? A living hell? That's not so bad.”

“He doesn't have a whole lot going on upstairs,” she says. “Maybe the trip will do him some good. Grandma says he's a late bloomer.”

A gull flies low over the water and then ducks in after a fish.

“Some things never change,” I say. “Like Gabe's brain.”

“Which, at times, can be a good thing.”

“Or the worst thing ever.”

She laughs. “Your parents seemed happy yesterday.”

“Can we not talk about it?” I say, rolling my eyes. Obviously Annabelle has seen my parents at their worst, but it's still less than ideal to have them walking around in some of the gear they test out. Yesterday wasn't that bad, but my mom mentioned that her next article is on a new line of “sexy skiwear” (her words) for teens, which should be mortifying. Especially if she shows up wearing it at the Opera Café—which she's been known to do, claiming she needs to get reactions from a crowd. “I think it's going to get worse. They looked like giant traffic cones.”

“Well, as long as there's no lederhosen involved,” she says.

I laugh. A little too loudly. Two years ago my dad posed for an Austrian magazine article on “ski instructors over fifty,” and they had him in lederhosen. Any normal person would do all he could to bury this, but my dad is actually proud of it. He had the picture framed.

“Is he still looking for the picture?” she asks, grinning.

“It was the first thing he mentioned when we got to the house. He was sure it was here somewhere, and he said he had to find it before the summer was over.”

“Good luck to him on that,” she says.

We both laugh. Last summer, I took the picture down when I was having one of those my-parents-aren't-home parties, and Annabelle said she'd help me make it disappear for good. She has it hanging up in her closet in Albany.

“Just be careful he doesn't learn how to download a copy of it.”

I think of my dad swearing as he tries to log into his email without my mom's help. “No worries there. Plus he really liked that it was the original cover. He wouldn't be as psyched about a copy.”

“Yeah, it was a true classic,” Annabelle says. “I keep hoping they'll do a follow-up cover story on ski instructors and their kids—and get
you
into some lederhosen.”

“Does that mean I'd have to learn German?”

She laughs, squeezing my hand tightly. “Come on, you'd look cute in the shorts. Maybe they could even get a shot with one of those mountain goats. Oh, wait: I forgot your fear of farm animals.”

Now she's crossed a line. Annabelle claims to not be ticklish, but I know better. I get her right in the soft part of her belly, and she doubles over, shrieking with laughter.

“Enough! Enough!” she wails, each word punctuated with giggles.

“What was that you said?” I asked, tickling harder.

“That you are…brave and manly…even in the face of life-threatening pigs,” she chokes out, shrieking.

A few years ago, we went with Grandma Hillary to a farm stand about an hour away. We wandered around while Grandma Hillary shopped for produce, and we ended up finding this massive pigpen. Annabelle dared me to run in and touch the pig trough. It didn't seem like that big a deal because all the pigs were hanging out in the mud sleeping. But I guess they thought I was going to feed them, because I was mobbed. Those things can hustle when they want to. And they are big. Annabelle will never let me forget how fast I got out of there.

“I didn't hear you,” I say, ticking harder.

“You are…fearless and masculine…in the face of great danger!” she shouts. “Arghhh!
Stop it
!”

I let go of her and she leans against me, giggling one last time and sighing. “Masculine and very fast.”

She links her arm with mine and her skin feels soft, once again making it hard to think. “So did you survive the end of ski season?” she asks, actual sympathy in her voice. Not that it's the kind of tragedy that deserves a telethon or anything, but it sucks to be the only person in my town who hates skiing. Especially since my parents are the biggest ski advocates out there.

I shrug. “It's over, so that's good.”

“I don't know who thought going down a mountain on two planks was worth anyone's time,” she says. “It seems like cheating. Real athletes run.”

“Tell that to Coach. He acted like I was violating some Law of the Universe when I refused to go on the ski weekend he set up for the team. He said he did it
because
of me.”

“What does
he
know?” she asks indignantly. “What if you got injured and couldn't play this season? You're going after a baseball scholarship and getting interest from team scouts. Like you'd risk all of that for some stupid male-bonding-down-a-mountain trip? Just because your parents are instructors? What a moron.”

I swear: if I were dying of bubonic plague with boils all over me, Annabelle could make me feel better about it.

“I bet that guy is a Capricorn,” she adds.

Oh, no…

But she doesn't seem to notice as I stiffen next to her. “They can be the type to only see their own agenda.”

Please, no…

“Yeah, well, that's Coach,” I say weakly, fighting to get things back on track. “It's his way or the highway.”

She nods knowingly. “Yup. A total Capricorn. But you're a Scorpio, so you can handle him.”

I detach my arm from hers and put a few inches between us as she starts going into traits of a Capricorn.

“The fact that you're stubborn works for you here,” she concludes, looking at me with a completely serious smile, as if I'm supposed to be grateful for the “facts” she's spewing. As if something so insane jibes with everything else about her: her humor, her intelligence, her…everything.

I say nothing and just keep walking.

“I know, you're thinking that you'll butt heads,” she adds.

I look her in the eye. “You're right. I am thinking that. And it doesn't—”

“Trust me: he's going to back down if you handle him right. Capricorns can be made to see reason if you present things in a way they can hear.”

Interesting. Now she's talking about reason, as if there's anything reasonable about looking at the sky for answers on how to handle an ornery coach.

“Will you give it a try?” she persists.

“Um, I don't think advice from the stars is what I need here,” I finally mumble. “Really it's not even a problem. It was just one ski trip.”

I realize I'm speeding up and Annabelle has to trot a little to keep up with me. Normally I try to be considerate about the fact that her legs are a lot shorter than mine, but now I just want to get back home.

Annabelle frowns. “Pete, wait—”

“I just want to get home, okay? You reminded me…I need to study for the SATs.” I debate whether I should say anything about how I think she's gone off the deep end with this star stuff, but before I can think of a way to put it, she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.

“I don't get you,” she says. “I'm just trying to help.”

By talking like a crazy person?

“I've got to get going,” I say, trying not to think about how beautiful she looks in the rain and the wind.