Star Shack (9 page)

“Okay…Wilson.” I squint, barely able to read his handwriting. “You're a Leo, which is a fire sign.”

“I could have told you that,” he says, winking.

“Yeah, so anyway, that means you do well with other fire signs.”

“True dat.” He laughs. “I like my women hot.”

“Actually the fire part is about spirit. Like being energetic and idealistic.”

Wilson frowns. “I don't really like chicks who get all preachy or want to climb mountains,” he says. “I'm just looking for fun.”

What a shocker.
I'm about to speak my mind when Pete holds up a hand.

“I think you want more than that,” Pete says. “I'm thinking you're a Leo who can handle a Scorpio.” He makes it sound like Wilson has what it takes to date a rock star. “Not a lot of guys can handle a Scorpio woman because they're intense, but they match that with true passion.”

Wilson is nodding, his eyes bright. “Yeah, I'd be all over that,” he says.

As Pete drones on about passion, and the bright sunlight filters through the mobbed doorway, I realize I was very wrong: nothing is going to change. At least I managed to avoid the metal chair with the loose screw today. I think that is about all that's going to go my way, though.

***

At the end of the day as we're just about to leave, Pete suddenly draws in a sharp breath. I turn—and then I gasp too. Standing in the doorway is Jed, the man known for never leaving his shop, who won't even own a dog because he says that relationship would take too much time away from his café.

But he isn't alone.

Jed
is holding hands with a woman.

Holding hands…and smiling and gazing at her like she's more wonderful than a fresh cappuccino with the finest coffee beans ever harvested in the history of coffee harvesting. But even that is not the truly shocking part. The part that has both Pete and me staring speechless is the woman. Because we know her. More than that, we know her birth chart.

Jed is holding hands with Daisy Lin, Gingerbread Beach's realtor.

Born May 1: Taurus

Rising Sign: Gemini

You are down to earth and set in your ways, and your dependability makes you a valued friend. You are slow to open your heart, but once you do, you love with everything you've got. This summer, watch out for your tendency to make things harder on yourself than they need to be.

Seriously, I was so wasted I could barely walk,” Sarah says, laughing like she's said something funny and kicking her legs (just a little too violently) to make our Ferris wheel car swing. “I don't even remember how I got home.”

For the ninetieth time, I am hearing the story of how Sarah got drunk at her senior prom. Is it a good story? No. Is there any reason she should be telling it to me every single time we hang out? No. But can I do anything to stop it? Apparently not. I actually fell so low as to try and talk about the weather (the weather!) to avoid it. But like the rain of Gingerbread, the prom story is frequent and unavoidable. At least it's better than the tattoo conversation…

“What a wild night,” she muses, suddenly snuggling against me, which has the odd effect of making the car of the Ferris wheel swing even more. I realize right then that we are high up. The boardwalk stretches far below, damp with earlier rain, the sun setting over the hills to the west, the gray ocean spreading out to the east…There's a creak, and I flinch. I think this Ferris wheel was made before even Annabelle's Grandma Hillary was born.

“Hah, you scared?” she asks.

“Um…” I ease my arm around her, even though I'm not really feeling like it. I turn my head so my face isn't close to her hair—she uses this patchouli shampoo that makes my eyes water. But snuggling is preferable to talking.

“It's so nice up here,” she breathes.

“You mean…in the Ferris wheel?”

“No, silly!” But she doesn't bother to elaborate. She rubs my palm in a way that should turn me on (I think?) but instead feels mildly irritating, like having an ant on my hand. I've been waiting for chills—
real
chills, Annabelle-caliber chills, falling-in-love chills—with Sarah. But I figure that kind of thing takes time. Then again, the only experience I've ever had is with Annabelle…and she never bugged me in the way Sarah does. At least, not at first.

“So what did you do today?” she asks, now bored.

The Ferris wheel is rotating back to the ground, and after a few more long seconds, we're able to make our escape. The wet boardwalk feels very solid under my feet.

“Um…after the Star Shack, I watched the game,” I finally answer. I keep hoping if I talk about baseball enough, she'll start to get into it.

She scowls. “You need to give that astrology thing a rest. You won the dare, Pete. You should quit while you're ahead.”

“It's no big deal. But speaking of winning, the Sox won in the ninth, so that was great.”

Sarah looks down and inspects her nails. “I bought hair dye today. How do you think I'll look as a redhead?”

“Great,” I say. One thing I've learned at the Star Shack: certain questions don't require thought; they just need to be answered right. Though you'd think if I can fake interest in her hair color, she could fake interest in the Red Sox…

“What do you want to do next?” I ask her as she reaches for my hand.

“How about you win me a teddy bear?” she says.

It's all I can do to suppress a groan. Annabelle has a thing about girls who want guys to win them prizes (and so do I, come to think of it), so we had a tradition where every year she'd win
me
something. Annabelle has a wicked pitching arm from her Little League days, so she'd get to the highest level. I'd be stuck carrying a huge giraffe or pink rabbit around the rest of the night. I have a stash of them in my bedroom at home.

“You're so strong,” Sarah says, squeezing my arm. “I know you can do it.” She tilts her face up for a kiss.

Why do I want to run away? Aside from the fact that every word out of her mouth is like bad dialogue from some terrible teen movie? But why am I thinking about Annabelle? I'm here with this sexy college girl who's crazy about me. True, the chemistry isn't smoking. But maybe in time it will be.

I lean down and kiss her back. And as I do, I'm aware of people walking by and the taste of fennel toothpaste—I don't get why anyone would clean their mouth out with the flavor of licorice—and I realize that I'm only thinking of all the stuff that's supposed to melt into the background. With Sarah, the
kissing
is the background. And that can't be good.

She pulls back, smiles at me, and then starts walking toward the row of game booths. I follow reluctantly.

“Yo, Pete!” a familiar voice calls down the boardwalk.

I turn to see Bill and Dave, part of the High-Five-“Dude!” set that Scott and Ben and most of the other summer regulars belong to. They're familiar faces at every keg party Saturday night and every hungover Sunday at the Opera Café.

“What's up?” I say, stopping to chat. Maybe if we talk long enough, Sarah will forget about the games.

“Just hanging,” Bill says.

“So I hear you and Annabelle started the busiest booth of the summer,” Dave says. “Pretty smart selling love advice when you guys are the couple of the century.”

Why does everyone still think we're together? I may work in an astrology booth, but I don't date astrology freaks. And I go everywhere with Sarah—who is standing right here, obviously with me. How is it possible to miss this? Before I can set them straight, a group of girls walk by and the guys are instantly distracted.

“Well…catch you later,” Bill says.

I pull Sarah close and kiss her, hoping they will see and realize once and for all that Annabelle and I are history. But when I look up, the guys have turned the corner and just strangers are walking past.

“So are you going to win me my tiger?” Sarah asks. She growls a little. Actually growls. I can feel my face turning red.

“I guess,” I mutter.

As we walk toward the games, the misty rain kicks in again, switching quickly to actual drops.

“Oh, we better go,” Sarah says.

“It's okay. Most stuff stays open in the rain,” I say.

“No!” she barks, her eyes flashing with anger. “Look at these boots, idiot! You think I want to get them wet?”

I blink several times, at a loss. “Uh…”

She shakes her head and starts toward the parking lot where I left my car. Last summer, Annabelle and I were going on rides when it started to pour. It was practically a hurricane, and pretty much everyone else was leaving. But we got tickets to the bouncy ball place for kids and spent the afternoon pelting each other with big plastic balls and sliding around on the bouncy floor as we got totally soaked. But whatever. That was last year, and if Sarah wants to get her precious boots out of the rain, it's fine. In fact, it's good because I don't have to win her the stupid tiger.

And I really need to stop thinking about Annabelle.

Sarah is already in the car when I catch up. I slam the door behind me and sit behind the wheel for a moment, wiping the rain from my face. I'm expecting her to be angry, but she's smiling as if nothing happened.

“What's this I see?” she asks, holding something up in one hand.

It takes me a minute to identify it. “Oh, a ski-lift ticket,” I say. I'm about to explain that it's my mom's and that she left it in my car when Sarah reaches over and squeezes my arm.

“Of course you're a skier—I should have known! I love to ski,” she says. “We'll have to go in the fall.”

This is why I keep thinking about Annabelle. Because she was totally right about Sarah. And I hate her for it.

***

“So I just can't thank you guys enough,” the woman with blond hair says, grinning at Annabelle. “He's perfect, a Sagittarius, just like you recommended,” she adds, nodding at me. “We're totally in love. Seriously, we're almost as perfect for each other as you guys are.”

She leaves before either of us can correct her—which is both completely annoying and all too common. It's been almost a week since my carnival trip with Sarah, but this, right here, is the reason I decided not to break up with her after realizing we have zero chemistry and zero in common. People are going to think Annabelle and I are a couple forever unless I can show the world I've moved on. And I need to show Annabelle too.

Plus, if I'm honest, I have to admit breaking up with Sarah would be a nightmare I'm not sure I could handle right now. She's already given me train and bus schedules so we can visit each other in the fall, and she texts me literally every hour.
What r u doing? xoxo
(Answer: Hoping you won't text.) And after the off-kilter boots incident, I'm not sure I want to see extended anger…the kind of anger that happens when a person gets dumped.

“Hey,” an unfamiliar skater-dude says, poking his head in the door. He's skinny with long, dark bangs. “Can I post this on your door?” He holds up a flier for a skateboard tournament—optimistic considering all the rain.

“Sure,” I hear Annabelle say in a sugary voice.

I jerk my head around and see her smiling widely at the guy.

“So you skate?” she asks, like it's a fascinating pursuit, not just riding a board on wheels, which is boring when you think about it.

“Yeah, you should come watch the tournament. We get some good people.”

“Great. We'll try to make it,” I say loudly, to cover up whatever Annabelle is saying next to me. I ignore the sharp elbow she gives me. “So, yeah, go ahead and hang it on the door, and you can tell our next customer to come in.”

I'm not sure there's anyone out there, but I want this clown gone. Something about him just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's the hair: it's trying too hard to be retro or slacker or Beatles mop-top…or something.

“Thanks, dude,” he says, flashing me the peace sign.

“You didn't have to be rude,” Annabelle says, after he leaves.

“What?” I ask, holding up my palms. “I told him he could put up his flier for his little skating fest.”

Annabelle grumbles but doesn't have a chance to say anything because our next customer walks in: an African American girl with cornrows whom I've seen on the beach a few times, collecting shells in the rain.

“I hear you guys are a couple,” the girl says bluntly, settling down across from us. “It's too cute that you're doing a matchmaking booth together.” She twirls one of the ends of her cornrows around her finger as she smiles.

I purse my lips. “Actually, do you know Sarah Walker? We're—”

But before I can finish my sentence to set the record straight, Annabelle has a coughing fit, bending over and hacking her lungs out like she just inhaled noxious fumes.

“Sorry about that,” Annabelle says a minute later, when she finally stops. She straightens and smiles. “Why don't you go ahead and fill out this form?”

I shoot Annabelle a look, but she ignores me. No problem. I can set the record straight another time. Besides, I know what's really bothering Annabelle. It isn't hearing about Sarah; it's how she has lost her astrology mojo and I am the horoscope king of Gingerbread. You'd think this would prove to her once and for all that astrology is a joke. I mean, she's been studying it for years, and here I am, one-upping her left and right. What more proof could you need that it's a bunch of guesswork based on absolutely nothing?

But it's just made her more of a freak, studying it in her spare time and coming in with info that is more and more out there, like how retrograde planets impact the houses or whatever. If it weren't for the fact that I'm the one who's right all the time, it might even annoy me.

“You want to start?” I ask Annabelle. I try not to smirk.

“Yes,” she says, biting the end of the word. After scanning the form, she glances up at the girl with a friendly smile. “Aisha, you're a Taurus, which means you can be stubborn. When you set your sights on something, you go for it with everything you've got.”

Aisha is nodding.

“You have Venus in Aries which means you're fiery, and guys love that,” Annabelle says. “You just have to choose one wisely.”

“That's where it gets hard,” Aisha states. “I've been choosing unwisely.”

“And that's our specialty,” Annabelle says. “With that fire you have, you need to seek out fire signs.”

“You think?” I ask.

Annabelle shoots me a look of poison, but I've seen my opportunity and I'm taking it.

“Aisha's rising sign is Gemini.” Aisha looks confused so I explain. “Your rising sign is like the mask you wear out in the world, the way you present yourself. But it covers your true self, which is more down to earth. Am I right?”

Aisha nods. “Yeah, I'm definitely a creature of habit. I have my set ways, and I stick to them.”

I turn and give Annabelle a look that says, “Watch the master,” and then I give Aisha all I've got. “You're attracted to signs like Aries or Sagittarius, and they like your Gemini shell, but the real you needs an earth boy, like a Virgo.”

“What dates are Virgo?” she asks.

“August 22 to September 22,” I say, and her eyes light up.

“The guy I'm totally crushing on at work has a birthday August 30!” she says.

Am I even surprised? The king does it again. Annabelle shoots me another withering glare, but Aisha is bubbling over.

“He's totally not the type I usually go for, but I keep noticing him even though my girlfriends say he's boring. But I say still waters run deep, you know?”

I nod. “Definitely.”

Aisha reaches over the table and grabs my hands. “Thank you,” she says, looking into my eyes. “I was making things hard on myself, doubting my own feelings, but now I know I need to trust my instincts and go for it.”

“I couldn't agree more, Aisha.”

“Oh, please!” cries Annabelle.

Aisha looks up, puzzled.

Annabelle blinks and then manages a shaky smile. “Sorry…I was just thinking about something else. I got distracted…”

“Well, I can see why everyone raves about this place,” Aisha says as she stands up to leave. “The love you guys have for each other is contagious.”