Swept Away (21 page)

“Fine. More for me.”

Bad move. Claiming I'm not hungry means I can't exactly ask if there's anything else to eat. I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them. We sit silently as Oliver scarfs down his sandwich. I hope he doesn't hear my stomach rumbling.

“So what should we do?” he asks, wadding up his napkin and sandwich baggie. He stashes them into a plastic bag. He clearly thought ahead about garbage, why not water?

I shrug and rub at the bicycle grease around my ankle.

I hear him sigh, then say, “How about swimming? I read that there are—”

I cut him off. “I didn't bring a suit.”

“Why not?” He sounds annoyed.

I'm annoyed right back. “You didn't exactly give me much time to get ready.”

“So what did you pack?”

I get up and go to my bike. I pull my backpack off the handlebars and stomp to the picnic blanket. I flip it upside down, dumping out my stash: Sunblock. Which I just now realized I forgot to apply. Isn't that awesome? Bug spray. Which we will definitely need as it gets closer to dusk. I'm betting that's when he'll want to take the return ferry. Tissues. Eyedrops.

Oliver studies my supplies. “You have allergies.”

“Yup.”

“This is all you brought with you? For a picnic on Hubbard Island?”

I kneel down and repack my backpack. “I'm not an idiot, you know. I brought what I needed. And you know what? This picnic is over.”

I stand and sling a strap over one shoulder. I stomp back to my bike, slip on the other strap, and walk the bike around to face the right direction. The one leading back the way we came. “I'm taking the ferry back. Now,” I announce, hopping on. “And don't you follow me.”

“Wow. Overreact much?” Oliver calls behind me.

My body stiffens and I clutch the handlebars.
Don't respond,
I tell myself.
Just walk away
. Well,
bike
away.

Which I do. Muttering the whole time.

The ferry ride back to Rocky Point is dismal. I waited until the very last minute to board, hoping that Oliver would show up and apologize. Then I fumed over the fact that he didn't follow me, even though I told him not to. I waited just a moment longer, debating if I should wait until he
did
arrive, whenever that might be. Finally I just scurried aboard, practically as they were pulling away. I was lucky I didn't wind up in the water. That would have been the perfect ending to a completely rotten day.

By the time we approach the dock, it's sprinkling. I bounce back and forth between worrying about Oliver and thinking it serves him right. You have to prepare for a trip to Hubbard. He pores over those guidebooks—didn't that part stick? Had he checked the weather, brought rain slickers, or enough water, for goodness' sake?

I bike home in the light rain. With each street I get more and more depressed. Sleepy too. The allergy pill has finally kicked in. Another reason I'm glad I'm not on that stupid island. But a creeping feeling starts to take over that
I
should be the one to apologize. All Oliver wanted was to spend the day with me. To have fun. To see the sights.

I push harder on the pedals. Of course, he could have asked me first!

I slow as I make the turn onto my street. Even if he had asked, I would have said yes anyway. That's what I've been doing all summer. Seeing the movies he wants to see. Having him decide on our outings. No wonder he didn't ask me.

“I'm such a jerk!” I mutter as I carry my bike up the porch steps. I let the screen door bang shut behind me. I hope Mom's not home; she hates when I do that.

I've never been in a fight with a boy before. Other than Justin, but brothers don't count. A boy who means so much to me. I go into the bathroom and peel off my wet and dirty clothes. I sit on the edge of the tub, dabbing at my scratches and scrapes with toilet paper. Then my head drops and I cover it with my hands. Misery washes over me, and the tears finally come for real.

I
avoid looking in the mirror in the entryway when I arrive for Candy Cane duty. I know what I'll see. Red eyes from crying, a stuffy nose from allergies, and the face of a girl who for no good reason left her boyfriend on an island, and probably lost him forever.

That's a girl I seriously don't want to see.

I didn't try texting Oliver last night. If he didn't respond, I didn't want to wonder if it was because the text didn't go through or because he hated me. Besides, I didn't know what to say.

I didn't even try Cynthia. There would just be too much to explain, and with her all caught up with camp—I've only been getting super-short texts—she barely has time to talk.

“What is wrong with me?” I moan to the empty room. Thankfully, it doesn't answer back.

It's busy enough that it's only when my stomach rumbles so loudly it turns the head of a little boy sitting on the bottom step of the lighthouse tower (I know, I know; I'm supposed to tell him not to sit there) that I realize it's past lunchtime. I consider skipping it since it means I have to face the celestial Celeste. I'm sure she's never been mean to someone who was just trying to be nice to her. But my stomach refuses to be ignored, so I force myself to deal with her perfection.

“Hey, Mandy,” she greets me. “Lemonade?”

I nod and take a seat at the counter.

“You going to wait for Oliver to order?”

My head jerks up at this. “Is he coming?”

She looks confused. “How would I know? Aren't you meeting him? It seems like he's always here on the days you work. Though not always for lunch, I guess. . . .”

I fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers. “Just me.” I can feel her eyes on me. I wish she'd stop looking. “Salad please. Chicken.”

“You got it.”

She disappears, and I notice some of the tourists from this
morning sitting at booths. A big group with a baby in a high chair is probably having lunch before checking out Candy Cane. Still, it's pretty sparsely populated. From what I've seen, the boys mooning over Celeste tend to show up just before she's getting ready to close. I wonder what they order.

Celeste returns with my salad, then leans against the back counter, arms crossed. “So you want to tell me what happened between you two?”

I plunge my fork into a tomato. For some reason I can't lift it to my mouth. “I was a total jerk and now he hates me,” I blurt.

“He said that?”

“Well, no. But I know he does.”

“Do you?”

I let out a shaky sigh. “
I'd
hate me. I treated him really badly, when all he wanted was to explore Hubbard Island.”

“So what was the problem?”

“Where do I begin?” Then it all comes out: my allergies and general lack of interest in the so-called great outdoors, his not asking me about going, my not bringing the right things, his better biking skills. Celeste listens patiently. I'm too embarrassed to look up, so I'm well acquainted with every leaf of lettuce and slice of cucumber in my salad by the time I'm done.

“Yeah, you were a jerk all right,” Celeste says. “But not because you were so snippy.”

“Great.” Just what I need. To feel worse.

“The real problem is that you haven't been yourself. You've been whoever you imagine he wants you to be.” Her eyes flick over my shoulder. She taps the counter in front of me. “Hang on.”

She picks up the coffeepot and goes to refill a customer's cup. I stare at the sickeningly sweet pastries in the case on the counter. That doesn't make any sense.

“I
have
been myself,” I tell Celeste as she comes back around the counter. “And myself is annoying and whiny.”

“Why didn't you just tell him you didn't want to go to Hubbard? You could have found something else to do. Something you'd
both
think was fun.”

I open my mouth to say something, but since I don't know what to say I close it again.

She replaces the coffeepot, then starts rolling silverware into paper napkins. “I bet this isn't the first time either. I bet you've been seeing the movies he wants to see. Going to the parties he wants to go to.”

“We haven't gone to any parties,” I mumble.

Celeste grins, making her look like a wry fairy. “My bad. That woulda been me.”

“You?”

“I know the syndrome all too well. I thought I had to pretend to like the stuff my boyfriend liked—my
ex
-boyfriend that is.”

This is fascinating. Not only is Celeste telling me personal things, as if we're, I don't know, equals, but she's admitting she screwed up with a boy. “Why?”

“So he'd like me, of course! Why are
you
doing it?”

“But you—you're—you're perfect!”

This cracks her up. “You're kidding, right?”

I stare at her blankly. She shakes her head and continues. “
Any
way, if it's the right guy for you it's because he likes the real
you. Not the you who pretends to be into professional wrestling and Xbox.”

“He feels like the right guy. . . .”

“Jeffrey—that's my boyfriend now—he's not into engineering. He's an English major, and he loves those scary movies that I avoid like the plague.”

“But you get along anyway?”

She smiles a soft, almost private smile, obviously thinking about him. “Yeah . . . ,” she says a little dreamily. “Yeah, we do.” She comes back to earth and points at me with a fork. “You don't have to be someone's clone to be close to him. Same thing with friends, too. Sometimes it's your differences that help keep you together.”

“Complementary, not opposites,” I say, remembering Oliver's words.

She comes around the counter and sits on the stool next to me, leaning on an elbow. “Here's a really tough question. Have you
ever
been yourself around him? Be super honest.”

Panic tightens my chest. Has the whole thing been a sham, and the girl Oliver likes—or
liked
, past tense—never even existed?

But as I think more, I know the answer. “Yes. Plenty.” Building Candy Cane Jr. At “our” place by the river. Up in the lighthouse tower watching the fireworks. I've been
me
when it has really counted.

“Good. Because from what I've seen, Oliver's really into you. Glad to know it's actually Mandy he likes. Not some imaginary girl, not some Cynthia clone.”

This startles me. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs as she slides off the stool. “Hey, I went to Rocky Point High too. This is a small town. Sometimes it seems as if . . . well, look, never mind. Maybe I'm wrong.”

“You are,” I insist. “Cynthia's my best friend since we were little kids. If we're alike . . .”

“That's the thing. I don't actually think you are. But I could be totally off.”

“You are.”

I don't want to end in a fight. She's being so nice. Not to mention that hearing she has a boyfriend is super reassuring—and that I never had any reason to be worried that she might be into Oliver. And she says Oliver likes me. These are all things that make me want to hug her, not get into an argument.

I take a long last sip of lemonade. Sweet and tart. Kind of like relationships, I guess.

“Do you think he'll talk to me?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.”

“That's what I was afraid you'd say.”

T
his would be so much easier in an e-mail. But I can't count on Oliver finding Wi-Fi somewhere any time soon. So here I am, pacing in the raggedy front yard, my bike leaning against a crooked tree, trying to work up the courage to knock.

What's the worst that can happen?
I ask myself. Bad question. The list is enormous, and all of it makes me want to grab my bike and get out of here quick.
Try again,
I tell myself. What's the
best
that can happen?

“You can do this,” I mutter for about the millionth time. The problem is each time I tell myself this, another self counters, “No you can't.” Once again I wish that Cynthia were here, not just to give me advice but also so we could come up with a script together that I could follow. We would have even practiced.

I take in a deep breath to fortify myself, stride to the front door, and knock before I can talk myself out of it. Maybe he won't be home. I can't tell if this possibility is a relief or a problem.

I decide I'll try one more time, and if no one answers, I'll chalk it up to “not meant to be.” It will suck, and tears spring to my eyes just imagining never being with him again, but what else can I do?

I knock more forcefully this time. I start hyperventilating as footsteps approach, then my breath catches in my throat when Freaky Framingham flings open the door. He looks as startled to see me as I am to see him. “Oliver didn't say you were coming over. He's not here. He and his ma went to the farmers' market.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Nah, it's rude of the boy to not be here. . . .”

“He didn't know I was coming.” I fiddle with the end of my braid, not sure what to do now.

“Oh. Well, they shouldn't be too long. Got muffins in the oven,” he says, turning and heading toward the kitchen.

I could back out now, but that would be bad, right? Even though I'm not exactly sure if that was an invitation, I follow him inside.

I cross the living room, wondering if this is going to be the last time I'm ever here. My throat feels thick, and no matter how much I swallow, the lump won't go away.

I hover in the archway that leads to the kitchen, watching Freaky remove two muffin tins and place them on top of the oven. The smell is tantalizing.

“You just cool a bit,” he tells the muffins. He gives me a quick glance over his shoulder. “They're for tomorrow's breakfast.”