Crush Stuff. Read online

  “Excuse me,” said the mysterious girl, her head now poking through the wet suits. “Do you sell microwaves?”

  “Uh, no,” Drew stammered.

  “Then what’s with all the short boards?”

  The girl and Will busted out laughing. Drew rolled her eyes. Did she really just fall for that dad joke? It was older than Kelly Slater.

  “Hilarious,” Drew said flatly as she stepped through the curtain of rubber-scented neoprene.

  “Oh, hey,” Will said, his denim-blue eyes lightening as his cheeks darkened. “You work here?”

  “No. My brother does. We were supposed to go skating but—” She shrugged. “Whatever.” She wasn’t in the mood to share the details. Drew was in the mood, however, to know if Will L’ed the dad-joker more than he L’ed her.

  “So, uh, what are you doing?” The question was meant for Will, but Drew’s attention happened to be on the girl when she asked it.

  “Hiding from Henry,” she said, which sent them into another annoying fit of laughter.

  “Keelie tried to tell him that his wallet was falling out of his shorts and that he’d lose all his money if he wasn’t careful,” Will said. “He wouldn’t listen, so—”

  “I stole it!” Keelie proudly waved the checkered wallet as proof.

  “We bolted before he noticed,” Will added. “He’s across the street looking for us now.”

  “I say we go to Fresh & Fruity and get some fro-yo,” Keelie said. “Henry’s treat, of course.”

  “I love that place,” Drew said, forcing her way into their private little world. “I even have a coupon for it.” She quickly cringed. Who bragged about coupons? Especially the kind that are only valid on Mondays between noon and four p.m.

  “I have one of those!” Will said. His expression warmed the way it did back at Battleflag, when they realized they both loved that old movie The Skateboard Kid. “But it’s only good on Mondays.”

  “Same!” Drew giggled a little as her next thought took shape. It was risky and bold—daring, even. “We should go on Monday,” she tried. “You know, before it expires.”

  “Totally!” Keelie said, as if she suddenly had a coupon too. Which she probably didn’t. If she did, why would she be stealing wallets?

  “Works for me,” Will said.

  “Same,” said Keelie’s annoying mouth.

  “So, Monday it is?”

  “Monday it is.” Will smiled, just as Bob Marley’s “One Love” began playing over the stereo.

  Drew smiled back. Bob didn’t know how right he was.

  chapter three.

  RUTHIE GOLDMAN UNFURLED her dancing-pineapples towel on the sand, sprayed her body with SPF 100—twice—then lowered her visor to block the afternoon rays. Mother Nature had definitely put the sun in this Sunday, and for the first time in forever, Ruthie wasn’t hating the beach. As an outdoor-reading enthusiast, she preferred gloomy, overcast days—no page glare, no dripping sweat to blur her vision, no pressure to stop midchapter and jump in the ocean. But today, Ruthie didn’t even want to lose herself in a make-believe world. Today, she liked the real-life sunny one. Because today, her three-person friend group had grown to four. What was once odd was now even. And that meant they could finally play charades.

  “I just downloaded the Renaissance edition,” said Sage Silverman, Ruthie’s closest friend in the Talented and Gifted program. She was the first person the nesties had ever welcomed into their tight group, and Ruthie was beyond grateful. No more straddling two worlds, dividing her time, or missing out. Like the pink Swiss Multitool Ruthie won for selling the most Girl Scout cookies (thanks to her hungry neighbor Owen Lowell-Kline), everything she needed was in one convenient place.

  Fonda propped herself up on her elbows, her expression salted in confusion. “Renaissance edition?”

  Sage propped herself up too, intentionally mirroring Fonda. Rhea, their TAG teacher, was a huge fan of the technique. The idea is to assume the same body position as the person you’re talking to, Rhea had explained, thereby putting them at ease and letting them know, subconsciously, of course, that you are interested in what they’re saying.

  It was a clever move by Sage, considering she used to call “typical learners” like Fonda and Drew dumb-dumbs. Ever since Ruthie had made it clear that dumb-dumb was an off-limits term, Sage tried not to act all judgy and intellectually superior. Most of the time she succeeded. Other times, not so much.

  “The Renaissance, Fonda, was a fervent period of European cultural, artistic, political, and economic rebirth following the Middle Ages. Generally described as taking place from the fourteenth century to the seventeenth century.”

  “Fun, right?” Ruthie clapped. Because how one was supposed to pantomime Michelangelo was anyone’s guess. “I’ll run up to Circle K and get some pens. I already have paper in my backpack, so—”

  “Pens?” Drew pulled her blond ponytail through the back of her new green trucker hat. “Why would we need those?”

  “To write down our topics, nerd,” Ruthie said.

  “You’re the nerd,” Drew teased. “Writing is for boomers.”

  “No, you’re the nerd,” Ruthie fired back. “How are you going to know what to act out if we don’t write it down?”

  Fonda, Sage, and Drew indicated their phones.

  “The Charades app,” Sage said. A gaggle of teeny-bikini-wearing high school girls sauntered by, butt cheeks fully exposed. “Dumb-dumbs,” she whispered so only Ruthie could hear.

  “Ugh, I can’t take it anymore!” Fonda announced.

  “Agreed,” Sage said with a toss of her pink-dyed hair. “Those girls are so desperate for attention, am I right?” She glanced down at her peach-colored one-piece to make sure she was fully covered.

  Fonda rolled onto her stomach and buried her head in a mound of bunched-up clothes.

  “I’m talking about the Ruthie situation.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You didn’t do anything,” Fonda clarified. “It’s your parents. When are they going to let you out of no-cell hell and into the twenty-first century?”

  Drew giggled. “It would make planning things a lot easier.”

  “Right?” Sage said. “I mean, Ruthie, how do you research or listen to podcasts or follow the news?”

  “I’m not a philistine, Sage. I have a laptop.” But Ruthie knew they were right. How many times had she sat on the sidelines while her friends shared fun facts, made last-minute plans, or laughed at a TikTok? She was in no-cell hell.

  Sage popped the top of a Bai lemonade. “So you don’t even want one?”

  “I do. It’s just that my dad thinks they’re addicting and my mom’s afraid the radio frequency energy will melt my orbitofrontal cortex.”

  “When’s the last time you asked them?” Fonda asked.

  “When I was ten.”

  “Maybe you should try again,” Drew said. “I ask my mom for an Xbox at least three times a year.”

  “How’s that working for you?” Ruthie asked.

  “It’s not.”

  “So how is that good advice?”

  “The point is, I’m still here. Nothing bad happened because I asked.”

  “I’d argue something bad has happened—loss of hope, along with, maybe, a lack of confidence in your negotiating skills,” Sage offered.

  “Nope,” Drew said, meaning it. “I don’t even want an Xbox. My brother does, and he gives me five bucks every time I ask, so it’s been kind of awesome. I’m two asks away from a new skate helmet.”

  Ruthie sighed. “Well, I’m probably a thousand asks away from a phone.”

  “Not if we present your parents with a cost-benefit analysis,” Sage said.

  “Or, like, we make a list of all the reasons why you would need it and show how it’s worth the investment,” Fonda suggest
ed.

  “Great idea!” Ruthie said, ignoring the fact that Fonda’s idea was a cost-benefit analysis. Because the point was: her friends were united in a common cause, and she was that cause. “J’adore making lists.”

  Ruthie stood and dusted the sand off her legs.

  “Where are you going?” Drew asked.

  “To Circle K to buy a pen.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can make my list.”

  All three girls flashed their phones.

  “Oh, right.” Ruthie sat. “Reason number one for needing a phone: no more pens.”

  They typed out that reason and came up with nine more. But the most important reason, the one that Ruthie didn’t dare say out loud, was: when a girl finally has an even number of friends, she does not want to be the odd one out.

  chapter four.

  FACT: IN THE world of activism, the clothes you wear matter. And on Monday morning, fifteen minutes before the bell rang, Fonda went to Principal Bell’s office looking like a girl who mattered. Her color palette was that of a woodland warrior: forest-green T-shirt dress, tan vegan-suede vest, leopard high-tops, and her beaded friendship bracelets, which she imagined represented the many causes she’d fought for over the years. And her hair? Side braids, of course.

  The original plan was for Fonda to approach the principal flanked by Drew and Ruthie, who would also be dressed in woodland warrior chic. But Joan strongly disagreed. “Showing up to a negotiation with your best friends gives the impression that you’re insecure,” she told Fonda. “Every movement needs a face. And since you are the most passionate about changing the field trip, you, and you alone, should be that face.”

  When Fonda relayed her mother’s theory to the girls, she expected a whole other kind of protest. One that accused her of stealing the spotlight or edging them out. Instead, she got hysterical laughter.

  “I can’t stop picturing a movement with your face on it,” Drew said, wiping laughter tears from her eyes. “A bowel movement.”

  “Same, but it’s not Fonda’s face I’m seeing,” Ruthie said. “It’s the ‘shocked’ emoji’s.”

  Fonda giggled. “Why the shocked emoji?”

  “Because it’s stuck to a bowel movement and it was not expecting that.”

  The visual had them cracking up all the way to the school. Which was another good reason to speak to Principal Bell alone. Because if the words movement, face, or shock came up during the conversation, the girls would lose it and Fonda’s credibility as an activist would be shot.

  So there she was. Waiting to check in with the office receptionist, breathing burnt coffee and eraser smells, her nerves rattled by the incessant hum of the Xerox machine and the ringing telephones. What made her think she could change a tradition? Make a difference? Fight for what she wanted, and win? Fonda was about to leave when she heard a familiar voice. “Pssst, how’s my hair?”

  It was Ava H. from the seventh-grade clique known as the Avas, because, well, when three best friends share the same first name, what else would you call them?

  She was seated at a desk in the far corner of the office, microphone positioned under her glossy lips, ready to make the morning announcements. “Is it too frizzy?” she asked, petting her brown lob in steady strokes as if soothing an anxious cat.

  Why was Ava H. even worried about frizz? Her hair was enviably reflective, and her announcements were broadcast to the school via loudspeaker, not camera.

  Before Fonda could ask, Ava H. cut a look to the boy digging through the lost-and-found bin on the other side of the office. It was Henry Goode: permanently tanned, shaggy brown hair, devilish smile. He was Will Wilder’s best friend and had a mini crush on Drew when school started. But Drew’s crush arrows were clearly aimed at Will, so he nobly stepped aside. Did Ava H. know any of that? Hopefully not. Because her crush arrows were aimed at Henry, and her jealousy arrows were supposedly very sharp.

  “Your hair is perfect,” Fonda said. She was about to take their bonding further by complimenting Ava H. on her camouflage T-shirt and bronze leggings, because metallic was a bold choice for a Monday morning, but Principal Bell emerged from her office before she had a chance.

  “Miss Miller,” she said, addressing Fonda by her last name, as principals and angry teachers often do. Her bangs had split down the middle during her swift walk toward the receptionist desk. That, along with her long nose and thin face made her look like the picture of the Afghan show dog she wore on the lapel of her blazer. Something about that realization made Fonda relax a little. “How have you been?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks. How are—”

  “And those wonderful sisters of yours?” she asked. No shocker there. It was like Fonda was the salad and her siblings were the ranch dressing. People tolerated her to get the tasty stuff.

  “They’re fine.”

  “We miss them around here,” Principal Bell said. “They kept things interesting, that’s for sure.”

  Fonda’s insides curled into fetal position and sobbed at the sound of that one. Joan often reminded her that a compliment directed at Winfrey and Amelia was not meant as an insult to Fonda. But, come on. When someone says “they kept things interesting,” it implies that “things” are no longer “interesting” without them. “Things” that Fonda happened to be part of in that very moment. Unless, of course, she could make a compelling argument for Catalina Island and win. Maybe then Principal Bell would stop missing Winfrey and Amelia and start appreciating the Miller sister that was still there.

  “I see you’re on my schedule this morning,” she said, suddenly all business. She indicated her office, offering Fonda privacy if she wanted it. But Fonda chose to plead her case in the open. Why not show Ava H., Henry Goode, and the receptionist that she, like her sisters, could keep things interesting too?

  “Yeah, so speaking of Winfrey and Amelia,” she began. “They went to Catalina Island over the Fourth and couldn’t stop raving about how educational it was.”

  “Educational?” Principal Bell asked, head cocked, wondering where this was going. “What exactly did they learn there?”

  Having anticipated this question, Fonda mentioned Catalina’s renowned Marine Institute outdoor science school, astronomy hikes, beach amphitheater, nighttime snorkeling adventures, and the wild bison that had been imported to the island in 1924 for a silent film and never left. “As you can see, the opportunities for us to learn and bond are endless.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Principal Bell said in that grown-up way that Fonda found a little unnerving. Because how many times did Joan say “sounds wonderful” and then shut her down?

  “I’m glad you agree, Principal Bell,” Fonda said, then smiled a little. After saying that name out loud, she decided that PrinciBell was more efficient. It would also make Drew and Ruthie laugh their ears off. “Which is why I propose we go there this year instead of Ferdink Farms.”

  Fonda shot a quick side-eyed glance at Ava H. to see if she had been listening. Ava H. flashed a thumbs-up to show that she was.

  “I admire how well you articulated your idea, Ms. Miller,” PrinciBell said. “But the students at Poplar Middle love Ferdink Farms.”

  Henry lifted his head from the lost-and-found bin. “Uh, no we don’t.”

  “Like, not one bit,” Ava H. added.

  Fonda stood a teeny bit taller. Her movement had caught on faster than she anticipated.

  “Hmmm.” PrinciBell finger-combed her bangs into submission. “I can’t imagine the rest of the student body feels the same.”

  Fonda glanced at Ava H., who urged her to go on. “They do. And I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “With a petition,” Fonda said. With the help of Ava H. and Henry she could probably get the entire grade to sign by tomorrow.

  “Interesting . . .” PrinciBell tap-tapped her dog pin. “What
kind of educator would I be if I stood in the way of democracy?”

  “Does that mean I can try?”

  “Yes. If you can get one hundred signatures, I’ll consider—”

  “What about Camp Pendleton?” Henry said.

  “The Marine Corps base?”

  “Yeah. It’s like thirty minutes from here, and it’s awesome.”

  “More, uh, awesome, than Catalina?” PrinciBell asked.

  Meanwhile, Fonda wanted to stuff Henry in the lost-and-found bin and seal it with a kick. How dare he hijack her plan?

  “Way more awesome,” he continued. “They have paintball and boot camp, and the beds are in real army barracks and—”

  “And, ew,” Ava H. said.

  “What do you mean, ew?” Henry asked. “You’re literally wearing camouflage.”

  “What does camouflage have to do with army barracks?”

  Henry laughed, assuming Ava H. was joking. Ava H. blushed, because she definitely was not.

  “The point is,” Fonda pressed, “Ava and I think Catalina Island would be perfect—”

  “Actually,” Ava H. interrupted. “If we’re going to change things up, I say we visit the set of Makeover Magic.”

  “Excuse me?” PrinciBell said, her patience starting to wear.

  “You know that show where sad, boring-looking people get made over into happy, cool ones?”

  “I don’t,” PrinciBell lied, because everyone knew that show. It was hosted by Lulu Green—supermodel, wellness advocate, and number twenty-four on the Forbes billionaire list. Either PrinciBell didn’t have Wi-Fi or she was embarrassed.

  “My aunty Jasmine is the producer and can give us a whole behind-the-scenes tour and introduce us to her experts. They could give us all makeovers and—”

  “That sounds like a super-fun day trip,” Fonda tried. “But for the overnight, I think Catalina would be—”