Sixteenth Summer (12 page)

“Caroline,” I said urgently. “This is research. I’m totally objective.”

She gave me a funny, searching look, but then went dreamy again as she thought about Sam. About their Moment.

“It was almost nothing,” Caroline said. “We were out at the Crash Pad.”

The Crash Pad was Caroline’s dad’s bizarro version of a play set. He had this ancient Airstream trailer that the family used to take out for long camping trips. But when Caroline was eight, her mom had put her foot down and said she’d rather live in a yurt made from recently slaughtered yak skin than spend one more night in that camper.

So Caroline’s dad had moved the Airstream into the backyard. Then he’d put an old trampoline next to the camper and connected the two with a slide.

And
that
was what we’d grown up playing on. Now the camper was completely taken over by kudzu and the slide was no longer slippery, but the huge trampoline still had some bounce. We’d named it the Crash Pad, the perfect place to look at the stars through a halo of crape myrtle branches or to just goof around, jumping between snacks and snacking between jumps.

“We were just sprawled on the trampoline, talking about some school drama,” Caroline reminisced. “I don’t even remember what it was. But then a wind came and blew all these pink crape myrtle blossoms all over us. A bunch of them stuck in my hair and Sam started pulling them out. He was so gentle, so careful not to pull even one strand. And when they were all out, he made this tiny bouquet out of them and handed them to me.”

I wanted to laugh, because this was just the sort of goofy thing that Sam did all the time.

But obviously, this time it had been different. It hadn’t been a joke. And somehow they’d both known it.

“For me,” Caroline said, “it was kind of like when my dad got new glasses. He wandered around for two days just so happy because everything suddenly looked more clear and crisp and colorful. Well, suddenly
Sam
looked, not
different
. Just more vivid, I guess. More interesting. More
Sam
.”

My own eyes went wide. That sounded a
lot
like what I was feeling for Will.

“I just
knew
,” Caroline said with a happy shrug. “And somehow he
knew
that I knew and he told me that he’d loved me for more than a year!”

“Really?” I gasped. “He kept it a secret all that time?”

“Well, what if I hadn’t felt the same way?” Caroline posed. “Can you imagine how crushing that would be?

Yes,
that
I could imagine.

Like Sam, I didn’t know how Will felt about me. Of course, I knew that he liked me. But did he like me like
that
?

Had he gone shivery all over when I’d touched his neck, or had he forgotten it before his mosquito bites had even healed?

And how much of all this time together was happening because there was nobody
else
here for him hang with except his brother and his mom?

The only time I asked myself these questions, though, was when Will wasn’t around. When we were together, I was having too much fun to think about the nuances of his feelings. We could be bobbing in the waves, talking, and suddenly two hours had gone by and I was a total prune, late for my shift at work.

We’d get lunch and I’d be too busy talking to eat it.

Strolling down the boardwalk, he’d make me laugh so hard I’d forget that I hated attracting the attention of nosy islanders.

Will didn’t mind people looking at him. He seemed to actually like the fact that we couldn’t go anywhere without people saying, “Hey, Anna! What’s the flavor du jour?” Or, “Anna, tell your mom Kat left her goggles at our house.” Or especially, “Anna, who’s your friend?”

“At home,” Will told me as he was walking me to work one afternoon, “you’re always walking through this sea of strangers. Here it’s like everyone’s family.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And what does family do? Nose into your business, remind you of embarrassing things you did when you were four, and never fail to let you know when you need a haircut. You don’t know how good you have it.”

“Yeah, well …” Will drifted off as we arrived at The Scoop. He looked through the window and as I followed his gaze, I cringed.

My entire family was inside.

Sophie was behind the ice cream case with a friend, sneaking samples. My dad was settling Kat and Benjie at one of the kiddie tables with some sorbet, and my mom was scooping for a small crowd of customers.

They looked like, well, my family. Chaotic and dreamy and … happy.

And
together
.

They were everything Will’s family wasn’t. And I’d just stuck my big, sandy foot in my mouth.

While I was wondering if I should apologize or if that would
just make things worse, Will opened The Scoop’s warped screen door and went inside.

I froze.

This
was new. Will had walked me to work once before, but I’d said a quick good-bye before we’d arrived. I hadn’t wanted to subject him to my dad’s clueless questions, my mom’s big, overeager smiles, or God forbid, Sophie scanning him from head to toe for fashion appropriateness.

Plus, bringing Will home to meet my family (because The Scoop was home just as much as our house was) seemed so old-fashioned. So girlfriendy. And we weren’t there.

Yet.

Yet?

I watched Will pause inside the door and glance back at me with a look that said,
Aren’t you coming in?

There were a million ways I could have analyzed Will walking into The Scoop. But I tried (really hard) not to.

Whatever was happening between me and Will—whether it was a “relationship” or just a friendship—would make itself clear soon.

It has to, right?
I asked myself.
How many dates can you have without any handholding, kissing, or sappy declarations of like before you realize that they’re
non
-dates? They’re just two friends (one of whom has an unrequited and possibly tragic crush) hanging out
.

Something would happen, I told myself, or
not
happen, soon.

And I just had to keep myself together until then.

With that I gulped and went with Will as he met my entire family.

*   *   *

M
y peace-love-and-gelato parents are not exactly the types to give boys bone-crunching handshakes or a threatening mention of my eleven o’ clock curfew. When I introduced them to Will, they only wanted to foist heaps of ice cream on him.

“Will, I want you to taste this,” my mom said from behind the counter. Her voice sounded a little shrill and overenthusiastic. I was both touched and mortified that she was trying to make a good impression on Will. My parents hadn’t asked me much about this boy I’d been spending so much time with, but clearly they’d been curious. As my mom mixed up something at the marble slab, she kept shooting Will quick, probing glances. She must have been wondering if this introduction to Will Meant Something.

Of course, I was wondering the same thing.

Mom plopped a huge, shaggy scoop of ice cream into a bowl and placed it on the counter.

“This,” she told Will, “is a mix-in I’ve been playing around with.”

“Mom,” I interjected, “I don’t think—”

“Looks good, Mrs. Patrick,” Will interrupted, giving me a nervous glance. “I’ll give it a try.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh at all this posturing or leap in to save Will. My mother was an ice cream genius, but somehow her mix-in ideas were almost always awful.

Will took a very large first bite. He started chewing. And chewing. His eyes practically watered from the effort.

“Mom?” I quavered. “What’s in there?”

“Maple Bacon Crunch ice cream with mandarin oranges and sliced almonds,” my mom announced proudly. “It’s my play on duck a l’orange.”

“But,” I sputtered, “bacon is
not
duck. And anyway,
duck ice cream
?”

I think it took Will a full minute to choke his mouthful down.

“You don’t have to eat any more,” I assured him. “My mom won’t care, right, Mom?”

“Well, I guess not, sweetie,” Mom said. “But, Will, maybe you should tell us what
you
think.”

She looked at him eagerly.

I watched Will’s jaw tense. Either he was trying to figure out what to say, or he was working the horrible taste out of his mouth.

“Well …,” he said carefully, “it’s very, um, textured. Yeah. A
lot
of textures going on in there.”

“Do you want a palate cleanser?” my dad offered. He jumped off his stool behind the register. “Some sorbet?”

“No!” Will burst out. Then he reddened. “I mean, no thanks … sir.”

At this Sophie and her friend dissolved into giggles. I had to stifle a laugh too as I grabbed Will by the elbow and pulled him into the kids area.

“
Sir?”
I said.

“Well, like you’ve said,” Will said defensively, “it’s the South. I figured where there’s a lot of Jesus, there are probably plenty of ma’ams and sirs, too.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, “but believe me, not with my
dad
.”

“Oh,” Will said. He shook his head wearily. And then … he shrugged it off. He pointed at the doodles Kat and Benjie were making on their chalkboard table.

“Hey, what’s that you’re drawing?” he asked. “Is it an Ewok?”

An instant later Will was sitting with my brother and sister, doing a Darth Vader voice. He seemed completely recovered from the duck a l’orange, not to mention meeting my parents.

So what does that mean?
I started to ask myself. But before I could even begin to ponder that question, I gave my head a little shake.

Don’t analyze, don’t analyze, don’t analyze
, I ordered myself.
Just because he isn’t traumatized after kind of bombing with Mom and Dad doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not interested in me
.

After another few minutes of amusing my brother and sister, Will stood up to leave.

“So my brother wants us to try ghost-crabbing tonight,” he told me.

“Ah, yes,” I teased. “For those who don’t like cow-tipping, there’s always ghost crabbing.”

“You know I have to do it,” Will said. “It’s so Dune Island.”

“Yeah, you kind of have to,” I agreed with a grin. “Well, you and Owen have fun.”

“Um, Anna,” Will said, clearing his throat. “That was sort of me asking you if you wanted to come.”

“Oh!” I said, rolling my eyes and grinning. I hesitated before answering, though. A date with a boy and his brother was definitely a non-date, wasn’t it?

Just like this powwow with my family seemed to be too.

It was all just so
friendly
.

My heart sank a little bit. But then Will grinned at me, and he shrugged his bony, broad shoulders and I noticed a small hole in the neck of his faded navy T-shirt. It all made me feel that familiar Will-induced intensity once more.

So what could I do? I said yes. But in the back of my mind, I was also steeling myself.

Crabbing with Will’s brother isn’t exactly a setup for a first kiss. I might as well face it—it’s not going to happen tonight
.

I didn’t want to think about the bigger picture, though, which was this: If we didn’t kiss soon, there was clearly not going to be any romance between me and Will Cooper.

“
W
ow,” I said to Owen and Will that night on the beach. “It’s a good thing I’m here. You guys
really
don’t know anything about crabs.”

Both of them were crouching next to a little hole in the sand, shining their flashlights down it. They looked at me, bewildered.

“Yeah, where
are
they?” Owen said. “It’s eight thirty and finally cooling off. I heard this was prime ghost crab time.”

I laughed, walked over to the brothers, and turned their flashlights off.

“Give your eyes a minute to adjust,” I said. “Then listen …”

The three of us stood very still.

Except I didn’t feel still.

Ever since I’d made that secret pact with myself at The Scoop, I’d felt buzzy. Like a quivering pitch fork. Like a ticking timer.

All I wanted was for Will to put his hand on my arm or shoulder, to quiet all that nervous vibration.

But he didn’t—because Owen was there, cracking jokes.

Or maybe Owen was there so that Will would have the perfect excuse to keep his distance.

Maybe this was his signal.

Maybe this was how it was going to be. Me and Will—and Owen. And Caroline and Sam and my parents and siblings …

Maybe we would just be friends.

I was trying to be fine with this. I mean, this evening had been fun so far. Until I’d turned off their flashlights, Will and Owen had been splashing water on each other and romping on the beach. Like all boys, they reminded me of dogs. (In a good way.)

Also, Owen—who would apparently do
anything
for a laugh—had actually checked out one of those
Love Story
s from the library. He kept tossing the book’s cheesiest lines out at the most perfect moments, cracking us all up.

And I’d forgotten how ridiculously fun ghost-crabbing could be.

That was, if I could get the crabs to actually recover from Will’s and Owen’s flashlights.

I told Owen to stop talking.

“Just listen,” I whispered.

Then I heard that familiar crunchy skittering and my
instincts took over. I snatched Owen’s flashlight out of his hand and clicked it on, illuminating four tiny crabs zipping sideways over the wet sand.

If not for their darting, spidery movements, we never would have seen them. Ghost crabs were often smaller than your palm and a mottled beige, the exact color of the beach. They camouflaged themselves so perfectly, they were always a surprise, even to ghost crab lifers like me.

“There!” I shrieked.

“Aaah!” Owen and Will yelled together as the crabs scattered. Will grabbed the tin bucket they’d brought with them, pounced at one of the crabs, and scooped.

Which left him with a bucket of sand, water, and probably some crab poop.

“Oh my God,” Owen huffed, bending at the waist and putting his hands on his shins. “Those things are
scary
. And so fast! I mean, they’re worse than roaches.”