Star Shack (2 page)

So…

When I first read Annabelle's email confessing her secret about her Red Sox predictions, I assumed she was joking. Because really, how could any sane person take something like astrology seriously for even a second? But she
was
serious. She called me later and started talking about “reading the stars,” like stars actually have a message or purpose besides “pumping billions of tons of gaseous fuel into the cosmos.” (I'm quoting my science teacher.)

It was unbelievable. I was so appalled that I couldn't say or do anything; I just sat there on my bed listening to Annabelle go on and on about how Jeter had Saturn in his sixth house or something equally insane. Now, four months later, I'm still at a loss for words. Because what can you say when the person you thought you knew best in the world starts talking like a total freak?

And as I gun the motor and skid my way out of the sandy parking lot, I can't help but wonder for the millionth time since she first told me in March…have I ever even known Annabelle at all?

Born April 12: Aries

Rising Sign: Aries

You are focused and determined: when you set your sights on something, those around you had best take cover because you will not stop until you get it. Strong willed and stubborn, you do not always like surprises. But beware this summer: surprises await you, and not all of them are good.

Annabelle, we're going out to the grocery store,” my mom calls up the stairs. “What kind of cereal do you want?”

“None, just some fruit and yogurt,” I call down, trying to sound patient. I hadn't eaten cereal since I was twelve and read an article about how processed foods are bad for you. I'm a Leo, and we are sensitive to disease. So I try to be careful about stuff like that. Obviously I make exceptions for the important things, like foamed lattes from the Opera House Café and cotton candy from the amusement park on the boardwalk. A vice or two makes a girl more interesting.

“Are you sure? No Raisin Bran or anything?” she asks.

Somehow, whenever we're at Gingerbread Beach, my mom forgets I'm almost seventeen and starts treating me like I'm ten. Next she'll be asking if I want her to read
Little Women
to me before I go to sleep tonight.

“No, thanks!” I almost trip over the suitcase that's open on the floor.
One of the suitcases, that is…there are four total. Plus a duffel bag and a box of books. We're going to be at Gingerbread for eight weeks, so I packed pretty much everything I own. That cut down on the tough decisions about what to take, though my dad's been making lame jokes about needing a U-Haul. He's a light packer and acts like it's the greatest thing ever, but then he wears the same three pairs of shorts and T-shirts the entire summer, so it's clear who's
really
planning wisely.

“Okay, sweetie, we'll be back soon,” my mom says. I hear the door slam behind her as she and my dad head out in the rain. I know I should keep unpacking, since it's going to take a while to get my stuff put away in the two old wooden dressers and tiny closet of my attic bedroom, but focusing on anything is hard while I'm waiting for my phone to ring. Or beep with a text. Or the doorbell to buzz. Really, even skywriting will do.

I sent Pete that text exactly eighteen minutes ago, and I'm going slightly crazy waiting for some kind of response. I know he got it, so why hasn't he answered? We've only waited an entire nine months to be together at Gingerbread again. I know he's here because he texted me this morning that his parents got him up at eight and he was pissed about it. Pete is big on sleeping in till at least ten. But that means he got here forty minutes ago at the latest. Knowing Pete, he stopped at the Opera Café first thing. But why isn't he calling?

I swear, if the CIA used waiting for a phone call as their torture method, they'd have people spilling enemy secrets in no time. Not to make light of international torture: Vanessa, my second best friend at Gingerbread after Pete, makes certain to remind me it is a “very serious issue.” (She reads the
New York Times
, watches CNN, and checks various left-wing blogs religiously, trolling for “very serious issues.”) But honestly, I am going to go insane if he doesn't get in touch soon.

I decide to try to focus on the unpacking. I sit down on the worn wooden planks of the floor and open my red suitcase, the one with my beach stuff. Of course, the problem there is that everything inside reminds me of Pete. There's the green bikini, my first-ever bikini, that I wore last summer. I still remember the look in Pete's eyes when he saw me.

Come to think of it, that was pretty much the same look he gave the birthday cake at the resort two towns away that was once featured on the Food Network. We went there to celebrate my sixteenth birthday. To this day, it was the best meal of my life. But maybe that's because it was also the best night of my life. Later, when we were walking on the beach, Pete kissed me for the first time.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I've been waiting for that kiss since I was twelve. And let me just add: it was worth the wait. It was the last day of summer; we were at our favorite spot on the beach; and his hands were so soft on my face, his lips so warm…I'm getting the shivers. But shivers are not what I need right now, not when Pete is not calling and my stuff is everywhere. I flip the suitcase closed and open my box of books. There are a library and bookstore here in Gingerbread, so I didn't need to bring novels. But I did need to bring my astrology collection. I wouldn't go away for a weekend without it.

Some people get into astrology to tell their future or navigate romance. And not that I haven't used it for those things too, but the reason I got into it was baseball. I've been a Yankees fan since before I could talk, thanks to my big brother, Gabe, and my Grandma Hillary. Grandma Hillary had us both in Yankees onesies the day we were born. By the time I could talk, Gabe, who was six, was already going to games every season and talking stats.

Grandma Hillary has two loves in her life, baseball and the beach, and she hasn't let anything get in the way of them—not a sun allergy (that was why she bought the house in Gingerbread: lots of rain means very little sun) and not the fact that we live more than five hours from Yankee Stadium. (She has the train schedule from Albany to New York City memorized.) And as Grandma Hillary always says, sports are best served with a big side of trash talk. Even though Gabe and I root for the same team, we find plenty to trash talk about, mainly our fantasy baseball teams.

Fantasy baseball is where you put together a roster of players from a bunch of different teams, and the fantasy team that wins the most games wins the league. That can mean money if you gamble online, which Gabe and I both do. (Yes, it's illegal until we're eighteen, but as I've said, a vice or two makes a girl more interesting.)

More importantly, though, you win bragging rights, which in my house means a lot. And every year, Gabe was the one winning them. But two years ago, I read a blog about assembling a fantasy team and someone mentioned using astrology. I checked my first astrology book out of the library the next day. Halfway through, I was hooked.

Astrology will tell you everything you need to know about a person, all his or her little tendencies and personality traits. From that, you can gauge almost anything: all of life's possibilities—and most important for me, all of baseball's possibilities. That year, I not only beat Gabe, but I swept our entire online league and won a thousand dollars. Not bad for a few hours' work consulting the stars.

After that, I started using astrology for everything: figuring out the best time to prepare my tryout for
Grease
(I got Rizzo), who to work with on my semester-long English project (I went with wildcard Hank Sweet, and we got an A), and of course, predicting real-life baseball winners.

I didn't want to tell anyone about it at first. People can be weirdly judgmental about New Age stuff, I admit. But even though it might sound flaky, it's totally not. Astrology is practically a science; that's why it works. It's been used for thousands of years. My belief is that only the really good stuff, like the wheel or fire, can stand the true test of time.

But still, people can be funny about the stars. Even now, the only person who knows is Pete. He kept asking me where I got such great baseball tips, and finally, a few months ago, I told him.

It's been great having him in on it because now I can just be totally honest about how I chose my fantasy team for this year and why I'm taking extra math courses in the fall. (Leos lack innate business sense, and I may want to run a nonprofit or a theater company one day.) That's the thing about Pete: we tell each other everything, and it was a relief to come clean.

Or so I thought.

Pete. Yet again, everything comes back to him.

Twenty-three minutes and counting…What is going on? Did he forget his cell phone at home? Did he get caught in bad traffic or get a flat? Is he trapped under fallen debris with no access to a communication device? I twist a curl that's fallen out of my ponytail and sigh.

The thing is that Pete isn't just any guy; he's
the
guy. I think some girls (read: me) only really fall in love once. We fall for the guy we are meant for, the one who was in the stars for us since the day we were born. Pete and I were meant to be. It was written in the stars. I mean that literally since I did both our star charts. Well, it took a little tweaking since Leos and Scorpios aren't necessarily the best match. But, yes, once I took into account birth times and rising signs, it was clear: Pete and I were soul mates. And this was our summer to finally be together.

At least it would be if he'd pick up his phone and call me already.

I glare at my cell and then, suddenly, it rings. I'm so surprised I jump. Good thing there's no video. But as I pick up the phone, my heart falls and my eyes prickle a little, which is the weird thing that always happens to me when I'm disappointed. Because it isn't Pete at all; it's Vanessa.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. It's not Vanessa's fault she isn't Pete.

“You were hoping it was Pete,” she says immediately, without even a “hi.”

“Well, kind of.” No point in lying since she's already seen right through me. “But I'm happy to hear from you too.” That's true too.

“So what, you left him a message and he hasn't called back?” Vanessa asks knowingly.

“No, I haven't called,” I say, flopping down on my bed. A text is not a call, so technically I'm being honest.

“A text?”

Okay, this is the thing about Vanessa. We both live in New York State, but she lives in Brooklyn, which is six hours from where I live in Albany (or as she often reminds me,
suburban
Albany)—and we only hang out during the summer, but somehow she can read my mind like
she's
the astrology expert.

“Well, yes, but maybe he's busy driving or dealing with his parents,” I say, cringing at how defensive I sound. Vanessa's biggest flaw is that she's a total cynic about guys.

She hasn't always been that way. When I first met her three summers ago, she was as bubbly about guys as all the rest of my friends. But then last summer her boyfriend, Silas, dumped her at the top of the Ferris wheel for this bitchy college girl, Risa. Silas and Risa walked around making out all over the place, and Vanessa has been a “bitter shrew” about guys ever since. Her words, not mine.

“Right,” Vanessa says. “Keep telling yourself that. Or just accept wisdom from the bitter shrew herself, that all guys are self-centered jerks, and move on.”

“Thanks for the totally unbiased advice,” I say, leaning back against the pillows on my bed. They're just the tiniest bit damp from the rain, like everything in Gingerbread, and they smell like the salty sea air, my favorite smell in the world.

She laughs. “You suburban girls live in the land of make believe.”

“Right, we don't get reality like you hardened city girls.”

“Exactly,” Vanessa says. “But seriously, you said he's been acting funny since the spring.”

For the millionth time, I curse myself for telling Vanessa that Pete started to change, just a little. The worst thing about it is that I still can't figure out why.

Everything seemed perfect: we were texting and emailing every day, talking for hours every weekend. I turned down almost every guy who asked me out because it was more fun to lie in bed in my pj's and talk to Pete until we were both falling sleep. No way could I go out with some second-rate loser who would talk about himself all night and then paw me at the door when he dropped me off.

But then in March the texts and emails stopped, and Pete was getting off the phone after only five minutes. A few times, he didn't even pick up. And I can't figure out what I did. I mean, it's not like I'm a supermodel or the most fascinating person to talk to. I can't start talk about the latest issues with the Chinese government or whatever, like Vanessa—but the thing is that with Pete, none of that had ever mattered.

He was interested in everything I had to say, even when I was just complaining about first-period gym or how my English teacher is the most sadistic person to live since Charles Manson. I figured it was no big deal until the night before the first Red Sox–Yankees game of the season.

Pete is from New England. The result: he roots for the team of evil, the Boston Red Sox. I am lucky enough to be from the state with the best baseball team in the history of the game, the one that stands for all that is true and good in the world, the New York Yankees. And whenever a Yankees fan and Red Sox fan talk baseball, it gets pretty heated. With me and Pete it can get downright explosive, but there's nothing like some hardcore trash talking to make the games even more awesome.

But that night, when I started riding him about how his team was going down, which would normally make him go off for fifteen minutes, I got a quick, “Whatever. I've got to go.” That was when I knew for sure that something was off.

Rather than think too much about what it was, I decided to wait until we were both here, at Gingerbread. Face to face in the place we both love, it would all fall into place again. But then, in a moment of weakness, I spilled the whole thing to Vanessa, and now I have to hear about how Pete is just a schmuck (a Grandma Hillary word) like every other guy. Which is pretty much the last thing you need when you are trying to convince yourself that you've found your soul mate.

“Grandma Hillary and Gabe left last night,” I say in a glaringly obvious attempt to change the subject.

Grandma Hillary gave Gabe a two-month trip for his college graduation gift and then decided to tag along with him. They are going to take trains all over Central Asia and Europe. The whole thing would make me beyond jealous if Grandma Hillary hadn't promised me a trip to Greece when I graduate from high school. I've always wanted to see the Acropolis and the places where the Greeks did their stargazing. The ancient Greeks were some of the earliest (and best) astrologers.

“It'll be strange without them here this summer,” Vanessa says, sounding like herself and not the bitter shrew.

“I know,” I say, feeling the words cut into me. It's the first summer we won't all be together watching Yankees games and going clamming in the rain, Pete and Grandma Hillary trading barbs about baseball. It's just me and my parents—who don't even
like
the Yankees. Though on the bright side, that will mean more time for me and Pete to be alone together…if that's what he wants.