This is a collaboration with another writer who is not a noob...but she wishes to remain anonymous.
Please let us know what you think!
Disclaimer: Twilight is the property of Stephenie Meyer.
Many thanks to my beta CM.
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THE SHOOBIE
Chapter 1
BPOV
I started working at the Shaw Island Diner when I was four. My dad owned the place, and he put me to work as soon as I could handle it. Well, I wouldn't call it work. But I can still remember those early mornings a dozen years ago, greeting the locals as they came in. These days, my regular customers still reminded me of those formative years of my childhood. I had been working as a waitress for two years now, but there was something to be said for humble beginnings.
My dad Charlie inherited the diner from his parents, but he was also the Shaw Island chief of police. Then again, on an island of 842 people, he didn't see a whole lot of action as a cop. In the summer, when the population tripled with the influx of summer vacationers and weekenders, he saw a little bit more. But even then, he never had to deal with much more than an occasional bar fight. Everything about this little spit of land in the middle of nowhere—well, the San Juan islands, to be precise—was predictable.
I didn't mind it, really. At least I was a local. Locals viewed the summer visitors as a bunch of unwelcome, but necessary guests. They arrived in cable-knit sweaters and loafers, never leaving home without their Raybans. The ferry dropped most of them off on Friday afternoons, and took them back to Seattle or Vancouver or wherever they came from on Sunday evenings. The ferry service made a few trips daily in the summer, but it didn't even operate in the winter. We lived here in our own little world for nine months of the year, enjoying the peace and quiet of the off-season.
Some of my friends looked forward to the summers; they liked the excitement of new, unfamiliar people, the change in routine. Sure, I got a little tired of seeing the same people every single day of my life, but I didn't delude myself into thinking that the tourists were somehow superior to us. Their lives weren't all that exciting either, even though they lived in big cities with high rises and twenty-four hour grocery stores. We didn't need that, and it irritated me every time some rich guy came in here asking me why the diner closed at 8 pm. If you're hungry at 8:30, get a snack from the goddamn fridge. Jesus.
I must have snarled just thinking about it, because the guy in the booth didn't look happy. He had his menu laid out before him, his reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. I could see the sheen of sweat on his brow, probably due to the cable-knit sweater. Didn't these people know how to adjust to heat waves? And why was he even here? Next weekend was Memorial Day. This tool had jumped the gun.
"Sorry," I mumbled. "Can you say that again?"
"I said I'd like the Breakfast Combo."
"Okay…" I said, wishing he would just tell me how he wanted his eggs cooked, what kind of toast he preferred, and whether he liked bacon or sausage so I didn't have to bother with asking. The locals never asked. The locals knew what they wanted and they had the sense to fill me in on the specifics.
"How would you like your eggs cooked?" I asked, when I realized he wasn't getting the gist of this.
Scrambled, I thought. The tourists always like it scrambled.
"Scrambled," he said. "With a little bit of cheese."
Uh huh. Cheese my ass. Ben, the cook, didn't do cheese.
"What kind of toast would you like?" I asked.
Don't ask it. Please, don't—
"What kind do you have?"
Ugh.
"White, wheat, or rye."
Wheat, I thought. Definitely wheat.
"Wheat, then."
"Bacon or sausage?"
I was two for three. Say bacon…
"Bacon."
The theory was rock-solid after all these years of working here. The rich folk liked their food a certain way, almost like some kind of secret code. I somehow managed to stop myself from rolling my eyes, and instead produced a weak, artificial smile that seemed to placate him.
"Great," I said. "That'll just be a few minutes."
He said nothing as I walked away, sighing loudly as I headed towards the kitchen. Rosalie was leaning against the hot plate, texting with nimble fingers as she waited for an order to come up.
"Let me guess," she said. "Eggs scrambled, wheat toast, bacon. Coffee with two sugars, two creamers."
"How'd you know?" I smirked.
"Oh, Bella. I know everything. Don't you know that by now?"
I rolled my eyes. "Right. Who are you texting now?"
"Oh, some guy from last summer."
"That frat boy from Seattle? The one who claims his dad's cousin's friend's roommate plays golf with Bill Gates every other month?"
"You're mean," she said, but I was already laughing. Rosalie picked up the hottest guys, but that was their only redeeming quality. And they all thought their wealth and experience and ridiculous knowledge about "urban living" would impress us. And maybe it did impress Rosalie—I really had no idea. But it irritated me, and for that reason, she had a million phone numbers, and I had none.
"Come on, Bella. Take advantage of the summer. Have a fling."
"I don't want a fling. And I especially don't want a fling with some random shoobie."
The word "shoobie" had its roots in South Jersey, where my mom grew up. She always used it to describe the people that went down the shore in the summer months, but spent the rest of the year living and working in Philadelphia. I had adopted the word as a kid, and it kind of stuck. Plus we could use it within earshot of the shoobies themselves, and no one ever knew what we were talking about.
"Why are you so against it?" she asked. "It's not like they're that repulsive. And aren't you sick of hanging out with the same people over and over again? I mean, please tell me you aren't just a little bit bored with Mike's constant attempts to, you know, 'accidentally' touch your boobs."
"This is a tiny town, Rose. Everyone knows everyone else's business. I don't want to walk into school on the first day of junior year and hear everyone talking about my clichéd attempt to nail a tourist."
She shrugged. "Fine. But I'm not stupid, Bella. I know you have your eye on someone."
I shifted my weight, focused on a stray mark on the floor. But she didn't elaborate, because Rosalie liked to see me squirm. And if she really did know about, well, him, then I would have to consider the possibility that she had some kind of telepathic skill.
"Who?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Rosalie enjoyed these tense silences. I could see that she intended to milk every drop of this one.
"Oh, you know, Bella," she said. "Don't play coy with me."
"I'm not being coy. You're just full of shit."
"Uh huh," she leered.
"Then tell me."
"No."
"Rosalie!"
"Jeez, Bella, I was just kidding," she said, reaching up for the plates of steaming pancakes that Ben, our cook and classmate, had just slid onto the hot plate. She draped her dishtowel over her wrists, and arranged all five plates on one arm.
"Oh," I muttered.
"But it sure seems like I was on to something…do you really have a crush?"
"Psh, no," I huffed.
"You do!" she squealed. "That neon blush of yours always gives you away."
She was laughing now, her eyes glimmering with the hint of something scandalous. I had to shoot this down now. Hard.
"On who, Rosalie? Mike? Ben? Come on."
"Not a local," she said. "A shoobie."
"Oh, please."
She threw a few packets of butter onto the plates, and flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder. I had long ago lost my taste for diner food, but the pancakes still smelled incredible. Syrup and butter and blueberries—that combination was tough to beat. I used to come here with my friends after school, but that ritual had dissolved a few years ago. Now it seemed like everyone in my class went to the bleachers after school, and had some kind of massive make-out session in the most clichéd place imaginable.
"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," she said, smirking at me as she walked out of the kitchen. "Just give me a few weeks."
***
I first saw him six summers ago, on the coldest Fourth of July in the island's history. Even my dad said he couldn't remember a colder summer, with the near-constant rain and strong ocean breeze. Something happened with the currents that year, and even the ocean never warmed up. The first month of that summer had been the most miserable four weeks of my life. Back then, I looked forward to the summers. Back then, I looked forward to seeing the shoobies like everyone else.
Every year on the Fourth of July, the whole island would gather on the south shore to watch the fireworks from Mr. Jenks' barge. I didn't think you could own a private barge, but Mr. Jenks did. And every summer, he loaded that thing full of fireworks, which he purchased during the prior week's excursion to the mainland. He put on a legendary show every year, and it was the only weekend when the ferry rides sold out, the restaurants and stores stayed open late, and the locals and shoobies mingled at the local pub. They really had no choice, because Mr. Gray refused to limit the capacity at his bar. He didn't card anyone, of course, and last year I went with Rosalie and a few other friends. I had gotten my taste of a raging nightlife, and decided I didn't want to deal with it ever again.
But that summer six years ago, everyone figured Mr. Jenks would cancel the fireworks show. All day I had sat at my bedroom window, begging God to stop the rain from falling. I wasn't particularly religious, but that day, I didn't know what else to do. So I asked and begged and cried, but at eight o'clock, an hour before the show was set to start, the torrential downpour was still in full, unrelenting swing. I went downstairs to find my dad sitting in his favorite chair, watching the Boston fireworks on television.
I could tell just by looking at his comfy chair, half-empty beer, and TV dinner that he didn't want to take me anywhere, least of all outside. But my mom had died a few years earlier, and for that reason—maybe more than any other—he couldn't deny me my favorite holiday. So Charlie took me by the hand, adjusted my raincoat, and walked with me down to the beach in the pouring rain.
When we got there, a few people were huddled under umbrellas, looking out towards the sea. I looked up at my dad, who just squeezed my hand and kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. The last rays of the sun melted into the depths of the Pacific, casting a warm shadow of clouds and rain and darkness on the shore.
When the rain stopped, I didn't even notice the change at first. A few stars penetrated the thick cloud cover, and for the first time all summer, I could see the full moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Within a few minutes, the whole sky lit up in a glorious explosion of light and sound, and I smiled so wide that I thought my expression of pure joy would be permanently etched on my face. My dad was smiling, too, but it wasn't the innocent, ebullient smile of a kid on the Fourth of July. His was wistful, almost sad, in that way it always was when he thought of her. And even though I didn't remember her, I thought about her, too. My mom was a Jersey girl. She would have loved Mr. Jenks' fireworks show.
The children always ran to the water when the show started, and my dad watched me go as I sprinted across the dunes. There were only a few other families here tonight, unlike every other Fourth of July I had ever known. But it didn't matter. Fireworks were fireworks, and I knew Mr. Jenks would rise to the occasion.
But as I looked around, hoping to glimpse the familiar face of Rosalie or Mike or Ben, I noticed with a deep pit in my stomach that I didn't recognize any of the other kids. They were all tourists, determined to get their money's worth on a summer weekend. I hated sharing this show with them, especially on a night like tonight. They probably didn't even like fireworks. They just wanted to compare Mr. Jenks' self-designed fireworks show to the fancy extravaganza they had in Seattle or the suburbs.
When I turned around to go back to my dad and abandon all these stupid strangers, my impulsive plan to ditch the firework show vanished at the sight of a boy standing alone at the water's edge. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his bare feet buried in the sand, his eyes gazing upward. When the fireworks lit up the sky, I could make out the fiery bronze of his hair, the piercing green of his eyes. He was smiling, too, and it was the most innocent, most boyish, most genuine smile I had ever seen. He liked fireworks. He had probably dragged his dad down here, just as I had.
He never looked over at me, but I kept stealing glances at him during the brief lags in the show. I imagined where he lived, what his parents did, what kind of school he went to. I could picture his life in a big city; maybe he lived in one of those high rises with a doorman and a fancy gold lobby. Maybe his dad really did know Bill Gates, and they played golf every weekend instead of just a few times a year. And his school probably had hundreds of kids, with brand new classrooms and books and microscopes and really cool things that we didn't have. By the time the show ended, I had created a very detailed picture of this boy's life. And it didn't matter if it was true or not. It didn't matter, because we lived in different worlds, and our lives would never overlap anyway.
I shook my head to dismiss such a silly fantasy, but when I took my first step away from the water, he turned his body ever so slightly and looked at me. His eyes met mine, his gaze every bit as intense as I had imagined it to be. And then he smiled, that boyish, crooked smile that made me blush.
With a shy smile of my own, I headed for the dunes, and never looked back.
***
"So, Angela's party. You're going, right?"
Rosalie managed to tear herself away from her cell phone for three seconds to ask me this question, which she had already asked at least six times. Angela's Memorial Day Rager had become something of a legend, since she managed to attract so many random people last year. Her house sat on the main street, right between the police station and the liquor store, so some might say it had a little bit of everything to offer. The fear of arrest, the allure of cheap booze…yes, Angela's parties had it all.
My dad, of course, busted the party last year. I thought my friends might give me a hard time about it, but the whole "Charlie-busted-in-here-and-laid-down-the-law" made the party sound cooler than it actually was. My dad hired a few more deputies for the summer months, but even then, an end-of-the-year high school party fell pretty low on the priority list. Plus my dad had grown up here, and he knew as well as anyone that underage drinking was going to happen no matter what. Angela, for her part, had tried to prohibit alcoholic beverages—or at least really obvious containers of booze—but the shoobies had caught wind of the party and shot that plan to hell. But Angela didn't mind, since the whole damn thing was such a hit with every teenager on the island.
"So are you going?" she asked again.
"I guess so," I muttered. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and counted twelve dollars in tips. At least the summer would mean a pay raise, if nothing else.
"Try not to sound so excited," Rosalie teased, jabbing me in the ribs. I faked a moan of pain.
"So is your boy going?" I asked.
"Who?"
"The one you keep texting."
"Oh, well, I don't have just one boy, Bella. Who do you take me for?"
My eyes widened. "You've been texting multiple guys?"
"Yes, so you can have my sloppy seconds."
I rolled my eyes and smiled, amused by Rosalie's unique generosity. I couldn't imagine a universe in which I threw myself at Rosalie's sloppy seconds, but hey, maybe it could happen. If everyone paired up and materialized at the bleachers for a mass orgy, I might start feeling desperate.
Yeah, right. Seriously, on an island this beautiful—and romantic, if I were into that kind of thing—people chose the bleachers as their make-out spot? For a place characterized by massive pines, swirling fog, and the crashing waves of the Pacific, you would think people might show some kind of creativity.
"Thanks, Rose. Appreciate it."
"You will later, Bellers."
"Ugh, I hate it when you call me that."
"I know," she giggled. "But maybe your crush will think it's cute."
"Rosalie, seriously. I don't have a crush."
"Maybe he'll be at the party."
"Yes, because non-existent people show up at parties all the time."
She climbed into her car, that familiar little gleam in her eyes. That gleam meant she had a plan, and her plans always ended with me looking stupid. And red in the face, like a kid with a big, embarrassing secret. That was a guarantee.
"Whatever," she said. "So come over Friday night? We can gossip over cheap vodka."
"Sure," I sighed.
On Friday night of Memorial Weekend, alcohol sounded like a great idea. It was, for me, the start of summer, and the worst day of the year. I'd rather just skip it altogether if I could. But Rosalie, of course, had started a countdown to this particular night since the day after last year's party. She would never let me miss it.
"Good," she said. "Look hot."
***
Hotness for me consisted of jeans—my most comfortable pair—and a t-shirt. The shirt was new, although Shaw Island didn't have much in the way of shopping. Rosalie had forced me to buy something tighter than, well, all my other shirts, which fit like football jerseys. Not that I owned any of those, but it had the same effect. Oversized clothing made it harder for Mike Newton to touch my boobs "accidentally," since he couldn't figure out where they were under a shirt that could have fit my dad.
In any case, I knew Rosalie would just force me to wear something even sluttier than this shirt if I showed up in my usual attire. She was tall, blonde, gorgeous, and she looked like a model every time she stepped out the door. I always felt average next to her, in spite of her every attempt to boost my confidence. Confidence wasn't really my problem, though—I accepted my brown hair, brown eyes, and all-around awkwardness. I wasn't looking for a husband at this point, so it didn't really matter, right? Plus I liked my job, loved my dad, enjoyed my life, and I didn't have any real urge to change it. I could watch all my childhood friends ogle at the shoobies, and feel satisfied that I didn't feel the same way. And in that way, maybe, I had something they lacked.
My dad had spent the rest of the week preparing for the summer season, and I hadn't seen much of him since last weekend. I worked at the diner on weekends, and maybe a couple nights a week. Rosalie and I made up half the wait staff in the winter, but in the summer, my dad always hired a few more. Sometimes we got stuck with old ladies, sometimes we had to deal with a bubbly summer worker. He never hired locals, because he knew he would just have to let them go in September anyway. Charlie trusted me and Rosalie, and coming from a cop—even though he was my dad—that meant a lot.
I locked the door behind me as I headed out the front door—we only locked it in the summer, for obvious reasons—and walked the half-mile to Rosalie's house in the waning afternoon light. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, which usually forecasted a very busy weekend ahead. I groaned just thinking about it. Why couldn't winter last all year?
Rosalie was waiting for me when I got there, sitting on the steps with that mischievous grin on her face. I didn't really share her excitement for this party, but her good moods were always contagious. When she smiled, I smiled, too. When she laughed, the whole room laughed with her. Rosalie was more than my best friend. She was like a sister, and in some ways, like the mother I never really had. Well, a mother who advocated drinking and random make-outs, but still. She gave me advice when I needed it, and she knew exactly what I was thinking without saying a word.
I sat down next to her, and pulled my knees up to my chest. I noticed the bottle of cheap-ass vodka by her side, and a carton of orange juice in her hand.
"I'm underage," I said, teasing her.
"So am I," she said, taking a shot of vodka in one swift, fluid motion. I could never do shots. I always ended up gagging and choking and asking for a screwdriver instead.
"Go," she said, handing me the shot glass.
"I can't. My mouth is too small."
"Better not be. But you'll rise to the occasion when the time comes."
I took the glass, studied it, and brought it to my lips. Smelled like rubbing alcohol. Maybe it was, for all I knew.
I looked over at her, noticed a little smirk on her face.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said, a little too sweetly.
"You said something dirty, didn't you?"
"I didn't say anything dirty. I might have implied something, though."
"Ugh," I groaned, rolling my eyes. But I was smiling as I took the carton of juice from her, and tried to chase, then drink, then chase again. As predicted, I choked on the distasteful combination, and most of it ended up on Rosalie's front porch.
"God, you're remedial," she laughed, taking another shot. At this rate, we would both be stumbling before we even got to the party.
"Thanks," I muttered, going for half a shot this time. It worked out better than the last one, even though my throat was still burning from the aftertaste. This was some cheap-ass vodka, which meant a nasty hangover tomorrow. And I had to work tomorrow, which meant a long, miserable day ahead.
"That shirt looks nice on you," Rosalie said, gesturing to my plain red t-shirt. It was a loud, vibrant red, but she had insisted on it, since red was apparently my color.
"Well, you picked it out."
"I know," she said. "But I'm not wearing it. You should flaunt your assets more often."
"What assets?"
"Just you, Bella. You're a hot piece of ass. When are you going to realize that?"
I don't know where I inherited such an overactive circulatory system, but I could feel my cheeks turning their telltale red at her misguided enthusiasm for my "hotness." Rosalie exuded sex appeal in every way, and she knew how to maximize the effect. It didn't surprise me that she had rallied eight guys from last summer to crash Angela's party. I could have sloppy seconds, and thirds, and….many more, apparently.
"There's no point in flaunting myself in front of our friends, Rose. I'm not interested in any of them anyway."
"Yes, I know, but this is summer. This is different."
"How?"
"I just think you should take it upon yourself this summer to change some things."
"Like what?"
She sighed, poured herself another drink.
"Think of it as a summer challenge," she said. "Just make out with one shoobie. Okay? That's all I ask. He can be fugly, if you want. Just have a teeny, tiny fling. For me."
I watched as she downed her third shot, licking her lips as she studied the empty glass. At this point, Rosalie was beyond chasers. When she drank, she always did shots of alcohol and nothing else. She hated the taste, and just liked to get the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Rosalie had never admitted this to anyone but me, since most people seemed to drink and enjoy it. But I definitely did not enjoy it. Sure, getting tipsy was fun, but then there was the social weirdness, the drunken dancing, the hangover…
I tried to shake those thoughts as I took the bottle from Rosalie, and took one more swig of that nasty shit. She watched me and grinned, satisfied that I had downed three-quarters of a shot without choking on it.
"So you want me to have a fling?" I asked.
"Yes. This summer, one fling for Bella Swan."
"Define fling," I said. She stood up, and held out her hand to pull me to my feet. I could already feel the buzz clouding my thoughts, slowing everything down. I might even enjoy this party, as long as I didn't lash out at a shoobie like I did last year.
"Well," she mused. "A fling for me would be a summer of wild, intense, passionate lovemaking—"
"Oh, come on," I said, rolling my eyes. Rosalie had lost her virginity precisely eight weeks earlier, to one of her older brother's friends. They had known each other since birth, and Rosalie had propositioned him one night while watching television. She was impulsive like that, and when her mind was made up about something, Rosalie went ahead and did it. She didn't waste time second-guessing herself like I did.
"Okay, fine," she said. "But I mean, it would have a lot of make-outs, late-night escapades, and romantic walks along the beach. And then when the summer ends, the fling ends."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning a fling is just a fling, Bella. You obviously don't have to go and fall head over heels in love with someone. In fact, that is Rule Number One when it comes to summer flings: you can't actually like the person all that much, or you'll get attached."
"So you want me to have a fling with someone I don't like? That sounds great, Rose," I said, laying on the sarcasm.
"Well, think about it. If you have a fling with a shoobie, it means he'll be leaving in September. And you will most likely never see him again, unless he comes back next summer. And chances are that next summer, he won't even remember you. Or, you know, he'll probably be with someone else."
"Wow," I said. "Sounds like you have a lot of faith in my ability to make a lasting impression."
She smiled, shook her head. "You know what I mean, Bella. I'm just being realistic. You never want to get attached to a summer fling."
"So then why bother?"
She stopped walking, her blue eyes studying mine. "You plan on getting attached?"
"Well, no," I said. "Of course not. I'm just saying that it sounds hard to have a nice romantic fling with someone without getting attached."
"Yeah, well, nice romantic flings aren't realistic. They happen in movies, but that's about it. I mean, look at The Notebook. She almost married someone else. See? Bad idea."
Whenever Rosalie referenced The Notebook, I knew she meant business. I didn't like to admit to the general public how many times she had subjected me to Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling's sappy reunion in the rain. Too many times. Way too many times.
"So then, what?" I asked. "Just a make-out?"
"Yeah, just a make-out. And hey, if you do it tonight, you'll get it over with!"
"And if I don't do it?" I asked.
She smiled that devious little grin of hers, and shrugged her shoulders. "If you don't do it, then I'll make my brother fling you."
"Ew, Jasper? I'm not going near your brother, Rosalie."
Jasper wasn't gross—not at all. In fact, he was way out of my league, and I didn't want to subject him to my inexperience. Plus he had just spent his first year of college at Berkeley, which was probably the headquarters of cool. I had only seen pictures of California, and it looked to me like another world.
"Well, sorry, hon. You don't have a choice."
"Fine," I mumbled. "I don't see any upside to this challenge, though."
"You will," she said. "You hate the shoobies, and I'm trying to get you to see the light. There's a whole other world out there, Bella. One day, maybe you'll want to live in it."
"You mean leave Shaw Island?" I looked at her, shook my head. This was home, and I had no reason to leave. Sure, I might go to college on one of the main islands, but I had no desire to go any farther than that. I could open another restaurant, maybe, since I knew so much about the food industry. Well, I knew a lot about diners. That was probably sufficient, especially on an island this small.
"Don't you ever think about getting away?"
"Of course I do," I said, but even I could hear the insincerity in my voice. Maybe at one point in my life, years ago, I had dreamed of big cities and state universities and a fancy career. But at sixteen, I didn't want those things anymore. My dad would be devastated if I left, especially since Renee was gone. I couldn't leave him here with nothing but memories.
"You never know what's around the corner, Bella. Things change."
"I'm happy here," I said. "I have everything I could ever want."
"Well, then, that's good," she said. "But maybe one day, you'll want different things."
I nodded, thinking about a future that wasn't meant to be. I would never leave here. I had accepted that; I would always be a local.
"Come on," she said. "Let's have fun tonight."
We stopped in front of Angela's house, the deep pulse of the music reverberating across the street. A few people were sitting on the front porch, talking and laughing and having fun. I didn't recognize them, but Rosalie did. She hugged the lot of them, and managed a few quick introductions as I shook their hands and forced a smile. They looked so goddamn preppy, with their popped collars and cashmere sweaters. I felt like gagging, but I put on a convincing show for Rosalie's sake. With another beer or two, I probably wouldn't give a shit about what clothes anyone was wearing, but it bothered me now.
"Beer?" one of them asked me, handing me a can of something cold and nasty.
"Sure," I said, taking it from him without so much as a smile. I looked at Rosalie, and nodded toward the front door.
"I'm going inside," I said. "I should say hi to Angela."
"Okay," she said, grasping my wrist before I could move. She pulled me closer, and said in a hushed, but serious voice.
"Be open-minded, Bella," she said. "And be nice."
"I am nice," I replied in the same hushed tone. The guy who had handed me the beer was giving me a weird look, and I couldn't tell if my rude behavior had insulted him or turned him on.
"You know what I mean," she said. And with a quick squeeze of my wrist, she let me go.
I walked inside without knocking, which seemed like the right thing to do given the volume of the music. The halls were already packed with people, their body heat and sweat saturating the air. I tried to maneuver my way down the hallway and into the kitchen, but I had never in my life experienced such a mosh pit. People were dancing in the living and dining room, and the hallway was a bottleneck. After ten minutes, I finally made my way to the end of the hall, and was rewarded by a much less crowded kitchen. There was a keg in the corner, and I decided to hide out there for a bit.
But when I got there, I saw Mike lurking around the beer like the vulture he was. The laundry room had a back door, so I slipped through the kitchen and headed in that direction. The door opened into a expansive back yard, shaded in pine and willow trees. Once again, I didn't notice the people standing out here—the shoobies far outnumbered the locals, and this party was no exception to the shift in population dynamics that characterized the summer months. I glimpsed a tree at the far edge of the yard, a nice place to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. Not that I really had many deep thoughts, given the beer and all. But at least I wouldn't have to deal with so many sweaty, gyrating individuals.
When I took that first step off the back porch, though, I misjudged the landing. I stumbled and fell, landing on the patio with a dull thud. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, and I scrambled to my feet and headed for my salvation at the corner of the yard. I could just stand by that tree for a while, and wait until Mike Newton passed out so he couldn't cop another surreptitious feel.
When the tree was just twenty feet away, I caught a glimpse of something moving on the other side of the trunk, and for a minute I thought it must be the very palpable buzz now clouding my consciousness. But as I got closer, I could make out the vague outline of a person standing behind that tree, his voice carrying over the wind. I slipped behind the nearest tree, and craned my neck for a better view. Usually, I would just move on to a different tree and forget all about this cellphone-obsessed shoobie, but he had the most musical, most beautiful voice I had ever heard. I wondered for a few seconds if I had imagined it.
But as he kept speaking in low, hushed tones, I couldn't keep myself from moving closer. I was just a few feet away now, his conversation still barely out of earshot. I debated taking another step, which at this point seemed stupid because if he saw me, he would knew I was eavesdropping. And I had no reason to eavesdrop. I didn't even know this person. My only excuse would be, "well, your voice kind of called to me." Spoken like a true stalker.
My curiosity won out as it often did, but of course I managed to step on a massive branch that groaned and then cracked under my weight. He whirled around, his eyes wide with the sudden sound.
His gaze met mine in a moment of sheer, momentary recognition that took my breath away. His eyes were the same piercing, magnificent green, and for a solid three seconds I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. He ran his hand through his hair—that glorious mess of bronze—and his voice seemed to die in his throat.
In six years, he had changed so much, and yet not at all. He was a cute kid back then, with a devious grin and crazed hair. Now he was older, more refined, more beautiful. I didn't know how else to describe him, really. He was simply the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.
In six years, I had changed in a lot of ways. But in some ways, in other ways, I hadn't changed at all.
And so it didn't surprise me that I left him standing there, just as I had six years ago, and walked back toward the house without saying a word.
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