Star Shack (8 page)

“Knowing the kinds of personality traits that suit you can make such a difference in finding a match,” Annabelle chimes in.

“Yes,” Daisy says, nodding. “There has to be a basic compatibility there.” She leans over and pecks me on the cheek. “And thanks to you, I know exactly where to go to find it!”

“We're so glad we could help,” Annabelle says, glaring at me. “Remember to tell your friends about us.”

Daisy is already out the door. “Oh, I will, believe me!” she calls.

I lean back in the chair and fold my arms across my chest, grinning.

“How did you do that?” Annabelle asks, in what sounds like real awe.

I shrug. “What can I say? I'm just good.”

Annabelle's eyes narrow, and she gives me a hard look and then glances around the storefront. “No computer, so you didn't get it there,” she says to herself. Then she looks at the books. “Of course. Your freakish, verging-on-photographic memory. You were reading about astrology while I was out.”

“Please,” I scoff weakly.

“It was just beginner's luck,” she says. “Daisy already knew what she needed to do, but with the hard cases, you'll just have to watch the expert in action.”

I snort.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Believe me, when things get tough, your little cram session will be useless.”

“I guess we'll see,” I say, my hackles rising. I reach out and grab another book, not caring if she sees. And all at once, I'm committed. No date with Sarah tonight. Nope, forget it. I'll cancel. I'm going home to learn everything online I can about astrology. There's no way Annabelle is going to one-up me in this. Seriously, if I can get a hug from Daisy with less than an hour of reading, who knows what else I can do?

Born March 12: Pisces

Rising Sign: Libra

Your intuition serves you when you stay grounded, but your tendency to dream can leave you detached and alone. The right person will appreciate your kindness and sensitivity and celebrate your insights to others and yourself. This summer, you need to lose the ego. Pride will be your downfall, so don't be afraid to take the risk of saying what you truly feel.

I've been scowling at Pete for a while now. He is thumbing furiously through
Astrology Matches for Love Everlasting.
I mean, yeah, he recited stuff from the book (I knew it sounded familiar), but there's a lot in there and he knew exactly what to tell Daisy.

Those books all have an overflow of info in them…and for him to parse through it…and find exactly the right things to give Daisy her match advice—that's not just memorization, that's skill. Whether he likes it or not, Pete has a head for astrology. But I'm sure he doesn't even realize it. He's scamming me to win the dare.

“Hey!” A tall, college dude ducks in the door out of the rain. I've seen him around, and I think his name is John. He's got messy black hair and horn-rimmed glasses and a too-tight, button-down short-sleeved shirt. He reeks of
The Daily Show
and worthwhile leftist causes and obscure emo. (Maybe that's mean, but astrologists deal in absolutes.) He has a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“So you guys can help me find my perfect match, huh?”

“That's the goal,” I say, smiling and ignoring that fact that his question was half-sarcastic. Why do guys have such issues with astrology? Or just admitting that they need help in the love department, period?

John sits down. “I'm the hardest case you'll have this summer.” He takes a ten out of his wallet and hands it to me.

“Why?” I ask, and I am being earnest.

“Because I don't believe in love,” he says.

He seems serious. I might as well buy into it.

“I'm not sure it exists at all,” he goes on. “I think it's a social construct invented by our forefathers to get the human race to breed.”

Pete is nodding, but I roll my eyes. “Please,” I say. “If you really believed that, you wouldn't be here.”

John laughs a little. “Okay, you've got me there. Maybe I do think love could exist. But I'm not sure it can exist for me.”

“Why is that?” I ask him.

He smiles wryly. “The usual. I got my heart handed to me on a platter by my ex-girlfriend.”

“Well, I think we can help you make that a distant memory,” I say confidently. “Go ahead and fill out your birth-date information, and we'll see what we can do.”

Next to me, Pete is looking at John's sheet, nodding as John fills out his birthday and the town where he was born: the Bronx.
Home of the Yankees!
I realize, and my mind suddenly clouds. I see that he was born on March 2, and for a second I blank out, trying to remember what sign that makes him…I can't believe it. My mind is suddenly a sieve.

Before I can get a handle on it, John is passing us the form and Pete is looking at me, a challenging expression on his face. “Annabelle, want to take this one?”

And just like that, I'm flustered. Normally I'd just open up one of my books and start there. “Um, March second,” I say, “that would be…Aquarius?”

As soon as it's out of my mouth, I know it's wrong. Pete says the word before I can: “Pisces, Annabelle. Actually, it's Pisces.” He flashes me a brittle smile and turns to John. “Sorry, it's our first day…you were saying?”“

Great. Just great.

“I'm sorry,” John says, his puzzled gaze flashing between the two of us. “Which one of you is giving me advice?”

“I am,” I pipe up. “So, yes, Pisces…” The thing is, I'm rattled now and it's hard to think. “You tend to dream big, which is great,” I begin.

“Well, John, except for how those big dreams might rub some people the wrong way, which I'm thinking might have led to your past girlfriend problems,” Pete interjects.

I shoot him a look, but John is nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “It really bugged Brenda that I'd talk about wanting to do the Peace Corps. But now I don't want to do that anymore. Can I be serious?”

“Of course,” Pete says, in a somber tone, so over the top that I want to gag.

“I want to become a reporter to expose injustice in the world.”

Pete nods as if this makes perfect sense. “See, you need a girl like you: someone who's looking past the moment, who wants to make a difference.”

“Exactly!” John says excitedly. “So how do I find her?”

Pete looks at me with an expression of pure bliss—which I actually find sort of cute—and now I'm a total mess. I shake my head.

“Well, since you're a…ah…I mean, based on your birthday and year, I think you're ruled by Saturn, which—”

“Actually, Annabelle, I'm not sure Pisces on that date
is
ruled by Saturn. I think I remember it being something else.”

Pete grabs
Astrology in Love and War,
flips to a page in the middle, and squints, nodding thoughtfully. At this point, I honestly can't even tell if he's joking or smug or what.

“Yes, I was right…You're ruled by Venus, which means you have the energy and drive to make a relationship happen this summer—a relationship with someone who wants to make a change in the way that you do. A change not only for yourselves, but for the world.”

“Great,” John says, so eagerly I'd smile if I weren't a defeated heap sitting next to the astrological wonder that used to be Pete.

“Your matches are going to be other water signs,” I say, hoping to get back in the game. “Think Cancer and Scorpio.”

“You know, I wonder…” Pete scratches his chin.

Okay, he can't challenge me on this. Pisces is water, and water signs are the best match: period.

“It's true that generally water goes with water, but in your case, I'm thinking it might be different,” Pete goes on. “I mean, you have the whole save-the-world thing happening, which makes me think you're one of those water people who will actually do better with air signs.”

I can feel my mouth drop open because he's spot on. John has a rising Libra, which gives him certain qualities that
will
match up better with an air sign.

“I'm thinking Aquarius,” Pete concludes. “Do you agree, Annabelle?”

“Uh…”

“She agrees,” Pete says.

“Wow, thanks, you guys,” John says, standing up. “I'm starting to believe maybe there is hope for me in the love department. You know, I have to admit…”

“Let me guess,” Pete interrupts, shaking his hand. “You weren't sure whether or not to trust in astrology. Believe me, we've all been there.”

Now I realize I want to kill Pete Riley.

“Just one last piece of advice,” Pete says. “Watch the ego. You don't want to let your pride get in the way of what your heart wants.”

“Got it,” John concurs, nodding thoughtfully.

Again Pete is quoting the stupid book and making himself into an astrological superhero. While I, the supposed expert, sit useless and speechless by his side. How did this happen, again? Oh, right: me and my stupid dare. But wait…isn't Pete just sabotaging himself by going along with me? Doesn't he
want
this to fail?

“Not bad for a first day,” Pete says, grinning as John steps out.

Before I can answer or ask any more questions, we hear the clomping sound of footsteps muffled by rain. We both look toward the door, expecting to see a tour group headed for the Opera Café. But this stampede isn't for food. It's a group of four college students (first-timers to Gingerbread), followed by five high school girls (regulars whom I barely know), followed by others I can hear but can't yet see. They are all stopping right here at the Star Shack.

This stampede is for us.

***

“In the end, it just means that you want to avoid the Capricorn guy, the alpha who needs to be in charge,” Pete concludes, smiling at the blond cheerleader type who is sitting across the table from him and lapping up his every word. She doesn't even glance my way. But why should she?

It's day three of the Star Shack, and the crazy crowds—first started by Daisy and quickly followed by dozens of others that we (well,
Pete
) have helped—have not abated. There's been a line outside the door the past two mornings, even today when the rain was much more than the typical Gingerbread drizzle. Under other circumstances, I'd be thrilled by our success. But since it's coinciding with my own personal failure, I'm…ambivalent.

The blond girl leaves, practically slobbering on Pete as she goes, and our next customer comes in: a girl our age named Carmen who sometimes takes shifts at the Opera Café. She's always struck me as nice, friendly, and giggly but not the sharpest claw in the clam bucket.

“Hi,” she says as she sits down in the customer chair opposite our table. “I hear you guys are going to be the answer to all my guy problems.”

Pete smiles this new smile he has: a kind of knowing and mysterious grin that tells people he has incredible insight. It's annoying on its own, but coupled with the fact that he actually
does
have insight, it's beyond exasperating.

“It's so cute you guys are in love so you started this booth to help other people find romance,” Carmen says, which quickly wipes the smile off Pete's face and has me fumbling for the form.

That's the other thing: everybody in this tiny town thinks we've started this business to share our own brand of special love—which doesn't exist. The only exception to this rule is Tattoo Sarah, of course, who lurks outside the door whenever we're about to close, glaring at me and muttering to herself, waiting to whisk Pete away the second he steps outside.

“Here,” I say. “Just give us your birth info, and we'll give you your reading.”

Carmen jots down the date, time, and place, and then hands me the form and her crumpled ten-dollar bill.

“Okay, October 12…that makes you a Libra.” I raise my voice, trying to drown out the noise of the muttering line outside and to distract myself from the intensity of Carmen's gaze—and most of all, to distract myself from Pete, who sits waiting, coiled and ready for me to make a mistake so he can take over.

I am at a total loss as to how or why it's possible that I—who have used astrology for years—cannot give a single piece of advice past what you'd find in the daily paper's horoscope, while Pete, who still calls astrology “freakish,” is coming up with the most perceptive advice available outside of Oprah.

Carmen nods. “Right. I'm all about balance.”

“Which is a great thing and can serve you well in relationships,” I concur. I want to put all thought into October 12 and what that means in terms of Venus, but it's hard with Pete bearing down on me, leaning just close enough that I can smell his peppermint shampoo and the Tide his mom uses on their laundry. Suddenly I'm overcome with nostalgia. How can a girl focus on anything? Not to mention the fact that he's just waiting for me to screw up…

I look at Carmen's birth year and then flip open a book. “Your Venus is in Virgo, which makes you a perfectionist in love.”

“Totally,” she says, nodding.

Okay, this is good. I'm on the right track. “And you can be reserved, waiting for guys to take initiative rather than going for it yourself,” I say, still cribbing from the book. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I'm wrong.

This is the thing about astrology: You have different elements—sun signs and rising signs and houses and planets—and every one offers insight, but you have to take it all in a big-picture way…seeing how maybe some tendencies are less developed while others are dominant. That's where the insight (which Pete is so good at and I apparently suck at) comes in. Because anyone with observation skills can tell that Carmen is not reserved at all; she's got the social part of Libra kicked into high gear.

I don't want to look up, but I know I have to. When I do, I see Carmen's doubtful expression and Pete grinning.

“Actually, I think Carmen is a flirt in the best way possible,” he says, and she turns away from me to look at him. “I think you are all about charm.”

Carmen shakes her head, but anyone with eyes can see she's pleased. And that Pete's right.

I sigh and sink down in my metal chair. I look at the line of eager people standing at the door and trailing out and then close my eyes, wishing the day was over and I was in bed reading a book about anything—
anything
—except astrology.

***

My astrology slump is ten days and counting, while Pete's winning streak is still going strong. But still, today, for some reason, I feel confident. Maybe it's the rare sun. The change in the dismal weather means something good, that things are going to take a turn in my direction for once. They have to.

I mutter a “Hey” to the people already congregating outside the Star Shack and then head inside to where Pete is waiting.

“Ready?” he asks.

I sit down in the metal chair and try to pretend like it's the first time I'm doing so. It's a fresh start. This is
my
shack, in
my
name, after all (well, technically my parents')—but still, Pete is just along for the ride. I take a deep breath and nod.

Pete opens the door and beckons in the first customer: a guy we've never seen before (weekend visitor, up to see some tourist?) with shaggy hair decked out in a faded T-shirt and frayed cargo shorts.

“So I want to find me some
lo-o-ve
,” he coos, leering at me as he sits down.

I pass him the form while Pete says, “I hear you, brother,” and they high five. Pete has this irritating way of putting on different personas with different customers. Like with certain girls, he's all “sensitive.” But with caveman types, he's slapping palms and laughing at burps and chuckling at stupid sexual innuendos that they seem to think I'm too thick to get.

I roll my eyes and wait for
Mr. Lo-o-ve
to finish scrawling sloppily on his form and to hand it over to me.