Crush Stuff. Page 3

  “Boring,” Henry said. “Every guy in our grade wants to go to Camp Pendleton. I know that for a fact.”

  “And every girl wants to go to Makeover Magic.”

  “For the day, yes, but not overnight,” Fonda said, aware of the frustrated quiver in her voice.

  “We can make it an overnight if we want,” Ava H. insisted. “You know, stay in hotels . . .”

  Fonda turned to PrinciBell. Surely, she would put a stop to this nonsense. But no such luck. The woman exhaled so heavily her bangs split again. “I’m hearing there’s a need to change things up this year, and I’m open to it, so I’m proposing—”

  “Catalina Island?” Fonda asked.

  “Camp Pendleton?”

  “Makeover Magic?”

  “A petition competition,” PrinciBell said. “Whoever gets the most signatures by next Monday wins.”

  “Done!” Ava H. said.

  “Easy,” Henry said back.

  “No problem,” Fonda managed, even though competing against Ava H. and Henry was a very big problem—and losing in front of the entire school was going to be even bigger.

  chapter five.

  DREW WHIP-TURNED AWAY from the door of Fresh & Fruity at the first sight of Will. She couldn’t let him think she was just sitting there, wagging her tail, waiting for him to arrive. Even though she had been. For like twenty-seven minutes.

  Not that Will was late. He was actually right on time. It was that Drew, Fonda, and Ruthie arrived early to claim the big table before the eighth graders. And claim it they did—a victory that stopped feeling like a victory the moment Fonda saw who walked in next.

  “He brought Hijack Henry?” she huffed, still bitter from their morning encounter. And who could blame her. Henry commandeered Fonda’s well-planned protest and drove it in another direction—one that could get them pelted by paintball pellets and yelled at by a thick-necked man named Sarge.

  “Don’t look,” Drew insisted, trying to look bored—as if meeting crushes at fro-yo shops was something she did so often it bordered on mundane. Instead, she turned her attention to this week’s art installation—a series of wall hangings made from plastic found on the local beaches. But all the colorful twists and knots of sea-worn forks, doll parts, and soda bottles couldn’t distract her from the fact that Will was about to spot her, then walk toward her, then say hi. And then what? What was she supposed to say after hi?

  “Who’s the girl?” Ruthie asked.

  Drew lowered the rim of her green trucker hat and sank into her chair.

  “Keelie Foster,” Fonda said. “A total bender if you ask me.”

  “Bender?” Ruthie asked.

  “Boy friender—a girl who’s only friends with boys.”

  Ruthie giggled. “Did you just invent that?”

  “Yeah.” Fonda smiled for what may have been the first time all day. “You like?”

  “Sounds like one of my mom’s made-up words,” Drew grumbled.

  “Maters gonna mate,” Ruthie said.

  “Mater?”

  “Mom hater.”

  They cracked up, which was perfectly timed. Let Will, Henry, and Keelie think they were happening upon a trio of carefree nesties who shared laughs and fro-yos after school—nesties who weren’t bogged down with crush anxiety or petty jealousy. Nesties who probably forgot Will was even coming.

  “Pen-del-tunnn!” Henry bellowed when he saw Fonda.

  “More like Pen-del-DONE!” Fonda bellowed back.

  A table of smoothie-sipping mom types began gathering their things the way mom types often did when middle schoolers showed up.

  “Hey, Drew!” Will tilted his head toward the growing line of customers, a silent invitation for her to meet him by the yogurt dispensers. It was a power move for sure: an indication that Will was comfortable taking control of boy-girl hang-out situations. It also made Drew’s belly sink a little. All this confidence must have come from experience—experience with Keelie.

  Now in line and standing awkwardly behind Will, Drew pretended to browse the flavors. Yes, pretended. Because anyone with a Fresh & Fruity coupon knew exactly what flavors they had. Still, she ogled those metal machines as if they might print out conversation topics or morph into relationship robots that offered nervous girls advice. Which they didn’t. Instead, she and Will inched toward the toppings bar in cringey silence.

  “What are those yellow things?” Will asked as Drew spooned her favorite topping onto a generous swirl of chocolate cream pie.

  “Caramelized yuzu balls.” She blushed.

  A slow sunrise of a smile brightened Will’s face. “Yuzu balls? I always thought that was tofu.”

  “Ew, who would put tofu on frozen yogurt?”

  Will pointed at her.

  “Look who’s talking.” Drew giggled. She placed her cup on the scale and wondered if the cashier thought they looked cute together. “You added peanut M&M’s and almonds to pecan praline?”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s nuts.”

  “You’re nuts,” he said, the playful quality returning to his voice. It had been there when they talked in the past and vanished after the incident at Ava G.’s party. But it was coming back. Maybe that meant they were coming back too.

  After handing his coupon to the cashier, Will made his way to the table. Rather than following him, like Keelie probably would have, Drew waited for Fonda and Ruthie. Did she do that because that’s what good friends do? Yes. But she also wanted to make sure someone was sitting between her and Will. If she was too close, electricity might pass between them the way it had when they were falling in L at Ava G.’s, and her fro-yo would melt.

  Not that it mattered. Henry sat on Will’s left and Keelie gunned for the open seat on his right. Across from Keelie was the only available option. A reality made worse by the fact that she was eyeing Drew’s trucker hat like an acquaintance she couldn’t quite place.

  “I used to have one like that,” Keelie said, stirring her red concoction like a witch’s brew.

  Used to?

  Drew saw her wearing it at the surf shop two days ago! That was why she bought one. Was she proud of being a copyhat? No. For one, she’d dipped into her skate helmet money to pay for it. And for two: pathetic much? She’d actually thought if she dressed more like Keelie, Will would L her more. But all it did was make Fonda ask if she had lice, or Pediculus humanus capitis as Ruthie (and scientists) called it.

  “No!” Drew had insisted during their walk to school, in between classes, at lunchtime. They had been bugging her about it all day (pun intended).

  “Then what’s with the lice lid?” Fonda had pressed.

  “I like it, that’s all.”

  If Fonda was buying it then, she certainly wasn’t buying it now. Her hot, knowing glare seared the side of Drew’s cheek with a silent message: I’m onto you, and the minute we’re out of here, I’m going to lecture you on staying true to yourself and knowing your value. That was the only problem with Drew’s best friends: they knew her too well. When she didn’t trust her own personality and tried to borrow someone else’s, she got zapped.

  “What happened to your hat?” Drew asked Keelie, mostly to avoid Fonda.

  “I stopped wearing it,” she said in that bored drawl of hers. “It made me look like a dude.”

  A flash of heat prickled the surface of Drew’s skin. Fonda laugh-snorted—a sound she made when she was proven right but didn’t want to brag.

  Drew turned her attention to Henry, who was pinching tiny cups of yogurt into his mouth. “What’s with all the yogurt samples?” she asked, casually removing her hat.

  “Yogurt?” Henry paused. “Who eats yogurt?”

  “Uh, all of us,” Will said. “And so do you.”

  “No, I don’t,” Henry insisted, then sucked a dollop of pom raz from what had to
be his tenth cup.

  “What do you think that was?” Fonda asked.

  “Yo.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “And what’s yo?”

  “Ice cream,” he said as if it should have been obvious.

  “No, bonehead.” Will laughed. “Yo is yogurt.”

  “You’re yogurt,” Henry said.

  “Now that you’ve established that you like it, are you going to buy any?” Ruthie asked, miffed that he was violating the one-sample-per-customer rule.

  “I can’t. I lost my wallet on Saturday.”

  Will and Keelie exchanged a knowing smile.

  Ruthie’s blue eyes widened with concern. “Did you retrace your steps?”

  Henry nodded. “I even checked the lost and found at school, even though I wasn’t anywhere near school when I lost it.”

  Drew felt bad for Henry and a little disappointed in Will. It was one thing to play a practical joke, but it had been two days. The joke was over; now it was a crime. Or maybe she was disappointed that Will was more loyal to Keelie than to his best friend—that he was loyal to Keelie at all.

  “What time is it?” Drew asked.

  Ruthie consulted her pink cupcake watch. “Three fifty-eight.”

  “Here,” she said, handing Henry her coupon. “You have two minutes to get a free medium. Hurry, before it expires.”

  Henry’s dark eyes warmed. “Really?”

  “Really,” Drew said, happy to right Keelie’s wrong . . . until Fonda kicked the side of her calf.

  Fonda’s narrowing eyes asked, Why are you helping my enemy?

  Drew raised her brows: What am I supposed to do? Let him starve?

  Fonda cocked her head: Yes, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. If you let him starve, he won’t have the energy to compete in the petition competition and we can go to Catalina Island!

  “Hold up, Hank,” Keelie called after Henry.

  He stopped and turned.

  She removed the checkered wallet from her army jacket and waved it. “Forgetting something?”

  Henry hurried back to the table and dropped Drew’s coupon like a bloody napkin. “Where did you find that?”

  “Hanging out of your back pocket,” Keelie boasted. “I told you you’d lose it.”

  He reached for it; she pulled it back. “Apologize.”

  You’re making him apologize to you? Drew wanted to ask. But she didn’t want Fonda to kick her again, so she kept her mouth shut. Not that it mattered in the end. Henry reached for the wallet and snatched it from Keelie’s grip.

  “Ha! Get wrecked!” he said, then hurried for the machines.

  The moment he was out of earshot, Fonda leaned into the center of the table and said, “Does he seriously think anyone would pick Camp Pendleton over Catalina?”

  “I would,” Keelie said, twirling a strand of fuchsia hair around her finger. “The paintball park is rad. It’s like being in a real video game.”

  “Or a war,” Drew said.

  “Yeah, it sounds kind of dangerous,” Ruthie added.

  “It’s actually one of the safest sports in the world,” Will said. “Statistically, there are less injuries in paintball than bowling.”

  “Probably because no one plays paintball,” Drew said.

  “Yeah, there’s no way it’s safer than bowling,” Fonda said.

  Henry returned, his yogurt buried under a kaleidoscope of toppings. “It is.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Possible.”

  “Imposs.”

  “Poss.”

  “Im.”

  “Po.”

  Without another word, Fonda slapped her phone into Ruthie’s open palm. She unlocked it in seconds and started researching.

  “She knows your password?” Henry asked.

  “Yep,” Fonda said proudly. It was 13 15 17—the nesties’ house numbers. They used it for everything.

  “I know yours,” Will told Henry.

  Henry smacked his phone into Will’s open palm like a challenge. Seconds later, Will handed it back, unlocked.

  “How did you know that?”

  “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. I know how your mind works.”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking now?” he asked, glancing first at his cup of yogurt, then at Will.

  “Yes, and the answer is no. Get your own spoon.”

  “Dang.” Henry pushed back his chair. “You’re good.”

  “Bad news,” Ruthie said, holding the phone up to Fonda’s face. “According to a study by the National Injury Information Clearinghouse, paintball is safer than bowling. So is running.”

  “How is that even possible?” Fonda asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough because I’m going to win the petition competition,” Henry announced from the cutlery stand.

  “You’re not going to win!”

  “Well, Ava H. won’t, and you won’t, and three minus two is . . . WON!”

  “I already have fifteen signatures, not including parents. By tomorrow I’ll have—”

  “I have thirty-three,” Henry said, pulling a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “Not including everyone at this table.”

  “No one at this table is going to sign that, right?”

  Drew and Ruthie nodded yes.

  “Right,” Keelie added.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Because Will and I already signed it.”

  “Paintball sounds kinda fun,” Will said, as if apologizing to Drew.

  “What about zip-lining, night snorkeling, hiking?” Ruthie tried.

  “The makeover idea sounds better than that,” Henry teased.

  “Your brain needs a makeover,” Fonda said.

  “Your comebacks need a makeover.”

  “Your comebacks’ comebacks need a makeover.”

  “Stop saying comebacks!” Drew shouted. “It doesn’t sound like a word anymore.”

  “I know.” Will smiled. “Same with makeover.”

  “Oh, so now you’re siding with her?” Henry said.

  “Siding? I’m not siding with anyone. I actually think you’re going to win.”

  “Wrong!” Drew said. “Fonda is going to win.”

  “Bet?” Will said with a sweet half smile that told her this was not their fight.

  “Sure,” Drew said. “What are the terms?”

  “Large fro-yo for the winner. Made the way we like them,” Will said. “So yours will have tofu balls, and mine will have—”

  “Nuts,” Drew said, extending her right arm, excited to feel his hand. Which she did, but only for one unsatisfying second. Because the moment that electric current started to pass between them, Fonda yanked Drew away.

  “Come on, we have signatures to get,” she said, handing Drew and Ruthie their backpacks.

  “No, you stay,” Henry said. “We’re leaving. Right, guys?”

  Before long, both friend groups were racing each other to the door and charging down Mystic Avenue in opposite directions, each on a mission to destroy the other. It was a classic Romeo-and-Juliet moment. Two star-crossed crushes being pulled apart by dueling families. A story that didn’t end well for Shakespeare’s characters—and Drew was starting to understand why.

  chapter six.

  IN THE GOLDMAN family, any conversation worth its salt (an expression Ruthie never understood because if something was that good, why would it need salt?) began with a stroll into town for gelato and ended in tears. “Ruthie, Grandpa Stu had a heart attack . . . Ruthie, Grumpy Cat died . . . Ruthie, we’re thinking of sending you to school in San Clemente . . .” But tonight’s family conversation was going to be different.

  Instead of suggesting they stroll to gelato, Ruthie invited them to dine on th
e back patio. Partly because she had fro-yo after school and too much dairy made her gassy, but mostly because she wanted the nesties nearby for moral support. And Fonda’s bedroom window was right there. Let Fran and Steven think Ruthie prepared spaghetti Bolognese, set the table, and put sliced lemons in the water just because.

  “How’s everything going at school?” her mother asked, clearly sensing something was up. “Are you still enjoying the TAG program?”

  Dr. Fran, a pediatrician, was still dressed in her navy-and-yellow seashell-print scrubs, which was not ideal. She was more relaxed once she changed into sweats. Still, Ruthie insisted her mother wait. If the Bolognese got cold, the meal would be ruined, and if the meal was ruined, Ruthie’s parents might be irritated, and if they were irritated, they might not be receptive to—

  “Wow, what’s the occasion?” Steven asked as he opened the sliding glass door—tie loose, shirtsleeves rolled. “Isn’t our anniversary in June?”

  Fran locked eyes with her husband—a warning that something was up. “Ruthie did this. Isn’t it great?”

  He responded with a squint-nod. I read you loud and clear.

  They had a twinlike telepathy that Ruthie found unnerving.

  “So, how’s school going?” he asked as he settled into his seat.

  “Great,” Ruthie said, amused. They obviously assumed this was about TAG. How cute. “We’re growing a medicinal herb garden and learning to treat ailments with plants. Lavender is very calming.”

  “Noted,” Fran said, chewing. “Thank you.”

  It was a polite thank you. Too polite. The kind of polite that reminded Ruthie of the blanket her mother draped over the couch to cover stains—a poorly disguised barrier to the truth.

  “Great dinner, Ru-Ru,” her father said. He lowered his fork into a mound of spaghetti and twirled. “When’s the last time you surprised us with dinner? A few months ago, right? When you wanted a hamster?” His lawyer tie was loose, but his cross-examination game was tight.

  Ruthie stabbed a meatball. “Don’t remember.”

  Suddenly, a prism of light danced across the table. Fonda was sending a signal with her mother’s compact mirror. She was getting impatient and wanted an update. Ruthie scratched the top of her head. Code for Give me a minute.