Star Shack (12 page)

They're under a big yellow umbrella, and he has his arm around her. Just as the light turns green, he leans down and kisses her cheek. My lips curl in a brief smile, but then it fades. Someone behind me honks, and I step on the gas.

I think about how happy they look, how happy Jed looks with Daisy. Honestly, I can't walk down the boardwalk without bumping into at least one couple that got together after a reading at the Star Shack. I think about tonight, about how I was able to figure out why Annabelle was upset about Nate.

All of this came from astrology.

As I turn left on Magnolia Street, I make myself say the words that I've been scared even to think, ever since Nate and I parted ways. (He told his mom he was “returning a friend's wallet.” Classic.)

“It's not a coincidence,” I whisper out loud.

I mean, giving good advice once or twice can happen to anyone. But I've been doing it consistently for weeks now. Annabelle has aced her fantasy league every year since she was fourteen, a league with grown men and women who spend half their waking lives analyzing stats. Again, could it just be random luck?

If I'm willing to take the crazy risk I took this morning, to go out on a wild limb, I can make myself believe it.

Maybe, just maybe, there is something to this science of the stars.

Just then, the smile comes back to my face. And this time it won't go away. Because if there is something to astrology…hey. I'm pretty damn good at it.

Born August 13: Leo

Rising Sign: Gemini

You look for deeper meaning in the world around you and accept nothing less than the truth. Friends love your fun-loving nature, but romantic interests in your life burn bright and flair out fast. This summer, keep one thing in mind: once you truly hit rock bottom, there's no place to go but up.

Mornings in Gingerbread I used to wake up to the cozy sound of rain on the roof, the faint smell of the ocean in the moist air, and anticipation bubbling as I thought about all the lazy, wonderful things I would do in the day ahead.

But this morning? The rain thuds mercilessly, making my head hurt; the humid air smells like the eggs my mom burned; and thinking about the day ahead turns my stomach into an acidic mess. I thought the worst was when Pete left me on the boardwalk to run off with Cool Tattoo Girl.

Nope: I was wrong. It turns out the worst came in the form of finding out that Pete genuinely
cares
for Sarah, topped off with getting my pocket picked by the only guy willing to dance with me. Is there a status worse than loser status? If so, I'm about a zillion rungs below it.

My alarm beeps at me, and I hit snooze for the fifth time. Summers past I didn't even need an alarm clock, but I had to take the one out of Gabe's room so that I'd be up in time to get to the Star Shack. I could see sleeping through the whole day. I would prefer it, in fact.

Do I really have to go in today? Am I really even necessary? Pete gives much better advice than I do. Everyone knows it. I suppose my one consolation is that Pete has no idea what happened with Nate. If he knew, I'd be on an airplane to meet Gabe and Grandma Hillary in Central Asia in a heartbeat. I'm not even sure what country they're in now, since I haven't heard from either of them in a week, but it wouldn't matter—I'd rather be on my own in a foreign country where people eat horse than stuck in Gingerbread with my humiliation known.

But best just to stick with the routine. When all is said and done, this is a dare, and I'm…winning? Right: winning.

I grab my pillow, hurl it across the room, and stomp out of bed.

***

I usually make it a point to open the Star Shack early so I can at least claim the good chair—so I'm surprised to see Pete there when I arrive. Make that Pete and Sarah.
Ugh
. They don't even notice me as I approach the door.

“I'm just asking where you were last night,” Sarah snaps. Her back is to me, and she has her hands on her hips. I guess there's trouble in paradise. For the first time since the Nate fiasco, I smile. But then I feel mean and then self-pitying…and then just sort of numb.

“Just doing some stuff at home,” Pete says.

“I called your house, and your mom said you were out,” Sarah says. “Were you with
her
?”

I wonder who
her
is. I'd think it was me, but there's zero reason for Sarah to be threatened by my pathetic friendship with Pete (actually, that's too generous a term—I think “awkward business nonpartnership” comes closer), and I'm sure she's figured that out by now. She may be bitchy and annoying, but she's not stupid. Which begs the question: Is Pete seeing someone else too? What's
happened
to him? Has Star Shack fame gone to his head?

Pete spies me in the doorway over Sarah's shoulder. “Hey,” he says weakly.

“Hey.”

Sarah turns to face me, and her eyes narrow. Odd: She acts like I'm interrupting her and I don't belong, but isn't this where I work? Yes. Yes, it is. I rented it. I'm the one who's supposed to be here. She is not. I glance back at Pete and see that he's already slumped in the good chair, face obscured by an astrology book. Books are stacked in front of him and—
wait a second.
The one he's holding is a new one:
Signs of Love.
Did Pete
buy
that? No, that can't be possible.

“What are you reading?” Sarah asks, disdain in her voice.

“Just boning up on energies and qualities of the signs,” he says nonchalantly from behind the starry purple cover.

I blink. The world—which has never seemed like a very sane place this summer—suddenly flips into pure surreal dreamland. Pete is talking the astrology talk as if he's a seasoned pro, like one of those online chat hosts I am sad to admit I tune into sometimes.

“Oh, and Annabelle?” he says, before I can grill him on his choice of reading material. “Your wallet is in the drawer.”

I sit down before my legs collapse out from under me. “My
what
?” I ask.

Sarah gives me an I-must-be-mentally-impaired look. (Which isn't too far off the mark.) “He said your wallet,” she mutters. “You must have left it somewhere.”

Well, I guess you could say that. I mean, it was
somewhere
, but that somewhere was Nate's slimy paws. So how on earth did Pete get his hands on it? Maybe it's not my wallet. But when I open the drawer, I see that it is.

All right, the world
has
turned to surreal dreamland. Because everything in my wallet seems to be intact. Wait, more than everything—I didn't have this much money. There's a crisp twenty-dollar bill inside. What the hell is going on? Did Nate not steal my wallet? I am very, very confused.

“So we saw you at the dance the other night,” Sarah says, smiling at me, though her eyes are ice cold. “That guy sure seemed into you.”

“Um, I don't know,” I say. Boy, do I not want to talk about this. And why isn't she taking the hint to leave? Pete has never, ever seemed so into a book in his life, even his favorites.

“He was cute,” she continues.

I shrug, unable to fake any kind of answer.

“What's his name?” she asks.

“Nate.” Just saying it brings back the grossness of his slimy mouth on mine and the sick humiliation he left me with.

“Are you going to see him again?” she asks.

I don't even get why she cares, but Pete finally looks up.

“Nate had to leave town,” he says evenly.

Sarah and I both stare at him.

“How do you know?” she asks.

Pete shrugs and puts the book down, marking his page with the flap. “I ran into him the other night. We had some…business. But it's over, and he mentioned he was leaving today.”

“Business?” Sarah barks, for once her mind in total sync with mine.

“Yeah, business?” I echo feebly. “Like what? Are you guys going to open an umbrella stand together or something?”

Pete laughs in spite of himself, and for a second I feel a warm rush. “Why is it that nobody has ever thought to open an umbrella stand on the Gingerbread Beach boardwalk?” he asks, glancing between Sarah and me. He picks up the book again. “By the way, A-Belle, the Yankees got creamed last night. But bad guys always end up getting their due…you know what I mean?”

He emphasizes the last five words—and then it hits me: he's the one who got my wallet back from Nate. I can't fathom how, but he must have found out Nate stole it. That's something the old Pete would have done, the one who cared about me. And suddenly it's like the sun coming out after a long, cold winter. I realize I'm smiling again, and my insides feel light and sweet as cotton candy. Is it possible…?

“I need to go,” Sarah announces in a very loud voice. She yanks the book away from Pete's face and plants a sloppy kiss on his lips. His arms wrap around her, and I look away fast, the sun back under heavy clouds and the cotton candy squashed. Clearly I let a door open that obviously belongs closed.

They whisper for a moment, then she leaves, and our first customer of the day bounces in—some blond, bubble-eyed girl I've never seen in my life, who is wearing pigtails and looks vaguely like she stepped out of a modern adaptation of some '70s period piece. “You guys hooked up my best friend Aisha, and now it's my turn,” she says happily. “I'm so ready for love!”

It's all I can do not to puke all over our book collection.

***

At around noon—after the usual Pete Riley Star Shack Love Fest—I realize I'm not going to make it to the end of the day without more caffeine. It's been nonstop after Twiggy (I can't remember that first blond's real name because I've been so distracted after the wallet thing), and I need a rest.

“Your most compatible matches are fire signs,” Pete is saying. He's finishing up with a pretty, though heavily made-up, Hispanic girl. She has a sassy smile and will probably find a boyfriend the second she steps out of here. Oh, right—but that seems to happen to everyone who sets foot in the Star Shack. Everyone but me.

“Oh my God, you totally saved my summer!” she says, standing up and setting a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Thanks! My name's Ana, by the way. Ana Sanchez.”

“Nice to meet you, Ana.” Pete gives his salesman smile. He's been nauseatingly cheerful all day. “Just remember. What seems hopeless isn't. Leos get an unfairly bad rap. Mick Jagger is a Leo, which might explain it.”

“Who?” the girl asks.

“He pitches for the Red Sox,” I snap.

Pete bursts out laughing and then stops. “Um…he's actually the singer for the Rolling Stones. But he's played many of the same stadiums.”

The girl shoots us both a quizzical look and heads out.

“Do you mind if I make a quick coffee run?” I ask Pete before he can say anything. I've barely looked at him since the kiss with Sarah.

“No problem. And do you mind if I leave a little early?”

So you can get ready for your hot date with Sarah tonight? Maybe you'll get matching tattoos. How precious.
“Sure,” I say.

“Hey, A-Belle—”

“What?” I am annoyed that he's using the nickname he gave me when he was twelve and abandoned when he was thirteen. I'm annoyed about a lot of things.

“Nothing.” He picks up
Signs of Love.
He must have bought it, but now is not the time to ask. “The Leo thing wasn't meant as an insult,” he adds.

“I didn't think it was.” I leave before he can ask me to get him coffee. I know I'm being silly. He got my wallet from a scumbag. But how? Or am I completely wrong? But I know I'm not, so if anything, I should be grateful. More than grateful. But those few precious seconds where I thought he might still care for me made me realize how not over him I am. And his big make-out with Sarah made it obvious how totally over me he is. So—wait, what, oh, my God, what am I seeing?

I stagger backward a step.

Vanessa, the bitter shrew, the girl who mocks love like it's yesterday's boot-cut jeans…is kissing a tall guy. Forget tall—
kissing a guy!
Any guy. The fact that her lips are locked with a male human being confirms full Surreal Dreamland status. Have the end times arrived?

They are in front of Freddy's Fabulous, the pink neon of the funnel cake sign bathing them in soft light. When she comes up for breath, she sees me. The guy turns. I get my second shock of the afternoon: it's John with the horn-rimmed glasses—our customer seeking an idealistic Cancer. Which he has apparently found in the shape of my formerly cynical friend.

Vanessa rushes over to me, a goofy grin on her face. If there's one person who doesn't do goofy, it's Vanessa.

“Can you believe it?” she squeals in a whisper.

“No,” I say. “I absolutely cannot believe it. What happened to the bitter shrew? And the summer without guys?”

She waves a hand like she's dismissing a silly fad. “I was angry and hurt, you know? Really it was just like Pete said. I was dating the wrong kind of guy. I needed someone who could appreciate my idealistic, sensitive side, you know?”

I am stuck back on the part where she says Pete was right. “Um, I guess.”

“Pete said I needed to open my heart again, and he was right. And just when I was ready, I met John.” Her voice gets all gooey when she says his name.

“How did it happen?” I ask, wondering why she hasn't mentioned the
New York Times
once during this entire conversation.

“It was at Putt a Little,” she says, stars in her eyes, like meeting over mini golf is the most romantic thing ever. (Which, in all fairness, I suppose it could be.) “I was at that hole with the windmill. I gave my swing a little extra power because my club went flying and hit John back at the hole with the waterfall. I was so worried I'd hurt him, but he just started telling me about this article he'd read in the
New York Times
about head injuries that of course I'd read too. He actually quoted from it!”

A smile forms on my lips. For a second, I forget all the anger and bitterness. “Go on,” I say.

“Well…that's when I knew it was meant to be. When we both knew.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it looks like it,” I say, and I squeeze her arm. I'm also completely stunned, but she doesn't need to know that. She practically skips back to John, who wraps her in his arms as if she's been off at sea for years—not chatting with a friend for less than two minutes. And that's when I realize the other thing I'm feeling: straight-up jealousy.

I want what she has. And not just with a summer fling. I want it with my best friend, the guy I know I'm meant to be with, despite everything that's happened. The guy who's proved love right, again and again.

***

The rain is really coming down as I start closing up shop. Pete is long gone, headed out a few minutes ago with an inscrutable “Bye,” smiley as ever on his way to meet Sarah. We never talked about the wallet; we never talked about anything. We haven't talked about anything all summer long. We've talked
at
each other; we've talked
about
each other; we just haven't talked
to
each other.

“Hey, Annabelle,” a voice says, making me jump. I turn and see Vanessa.

She smiles. “I just wanted to thank you and Pete again.”

“You're welcome,” I say, pretending to be busy as I neaten the stack of astrology books on the table, with
Signs of Love
on top—yet another thing I didn't talk about with Pete.

She nods, smiling dreamily. “Yeah. So you must be getting psyched about your birthday,” she says, and her words stop me cold. The summer has been so miserable I'd actually forgotten about it. But August eighteenth is less than two weeks away.