Summer on the Short Bus (13 page)

“I was just thinking about my dad. We've never gone this long without talking before.”

“I'm sure he wants to talk to you,” he says. “It's probably just the time difference or issues with his cell. They don't all work internationally, you know.”

I nod because his efforts to console me are sweet, not because I agree with him. My dad has access to the best technology out there. If he wanted to get a hold of me, he could.

“You should take a trip up the hill tomorrow. Maybe the timing will work out and you'll catch him between meetings or something.”

Truth is, I'd already planned to tackle cell phone hill after tomorrow afternoon's hike, but I wouldn't want Quinn to think I don't appreciate his advice.

“That's a good idea,” I say. “Plus Carolyn's probably left me a message by now. It would be nice to hear her voice.”

“Who's Carolyn?”

“She's our housekeeper,” I say, feeling somewhat weird that our home lives haven't really come up yet. Not that I've minded. “And the closest thing I've ever had to a mom.” Considering I've never said those words aloud, the conviction in my voice surprises me.

“Oh,” he says, his expression softening. “Wow. I guess you two have been through a lot together then, huh?”

I nod. “She was the one who took care of my mom when she was sick. But of course I don't remember any of that.”

He offers a sincere smile, before allowing his gaze to drift away from me and to the silhouettes of the moonlit trees surrounding us.

“I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but you're probably better off. Watching someone die isn't easy. Those memories will stay with you forever.”

“You watched someone die?”

“My older brother,” he says. “About four years ago.”

My eyes fall shut. Losing a mom you never knew sucks, but losing a brother you shared memories with is just brutal.

“I'm so sorry, Quinn,” I say, repositioning myself so I can nuzzle my head into that little corner of space between his chin and his chest. “Life is just so unfair sometimes.”

I feel him nod against my head, but he doesn't actually speak again for a long time. And when he finally does, I'm surprised by his response. “You know what, I'm glad life is unfair sometimes.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Well, think about it. If life was always fair, you never would have ended up coming here and then I never would have met you. In this case, I think the unfairness of life worked in my favor.”

“Is that a line from some Efron movie I haven't seen?”

“Pfff, whatever,” he says, waving away my question. “I don't
need Efron to make me look good. I look good on my own, baby. I'm the smoothest-talking cat in town.”

“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed for him. “You did
not
just say that.”

“Hell yeah, I did,” he says, continuing with his goofy act. “Everybody's talking about it. They're like, ‘There goes Quinn. He's so smooth, just look at him. Efron wishes he was half as cool as Quinn. . . .'”

My laughter cuts him off only seconds before his own.

“You're a freak,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it takes one to know one,” he says. “But actually, there must be some truth to my smooth-talking skills. Rainbow asked if I wanted to emcee the show. I told her I was in, but wanted to make sure you were cool with it first. Seeing how you're the boss and all.”

Why did he have to derail our conversation by bringing
her
up?

“Uh-oh. What'd I say?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” he prods, jabbing a finger into that very ticklish spot just above my waist. “What's wrong? Did you want to emcee?”

“God no.” I swat his hand away before he can tickle me again. “I'm just not that interested in talking about Rainbow, that's all.”

“Why? Did something happen between you two?”

“If by something you mean, does she creep me out? Then yes.”

The confused look on his face slowly gives way to one that
borders more on the side of amusement. “Rainbow creeps you out?”

“Yes,”
I say, very aware of the sarcasm in his voice.

“Like
American Horror Story
creepy or Nicki Minaj creepy?”

“Quinn,”
I say, smacking his chest. “I'm being serious.”

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I promise I'll be serious. What does she do that creeps you out?”

“She stares at me.”

His eyes narrow. “She . . . stares at you?”

“Yes, a lot. But it's not like she's just casually watching me; it's like she's observing me. Like she's taking mental notes about every little thing I do so she can write a book about me or something.”

“Why would she want to write a book about you?”

“Because she thinks I'm a spoiled brat.”

“What?”

Now I have his attention.

“It's true. She thinks I'm a spoiled brat. She told me herself.”

“Are you serious? When?”

“The first day I was here. Right before I took off running up the hill, she told me I was an insolent, spoiled brat and that if I didn't get with the program I needed to leave.”

He reels his head back. “That doesn't seem like something she'd say.”

“Yeah, well, people aren't always what they seem.”

Even though it's dark, I'm still able to recognize the disappointment on his face. It sucks to be the bearer of bad news. “No,” he
finally says. “I guess they're not.”

We sit quietly for a moment, before he says, “Well, if it makes any difference, I don't think you're a brat.”

“That's just because I let you kiss me.”

“Well, there is that. But besides the obvious physical benefits of hanging out with you, I really don't think you're a brat.”

“Thank you,” I say, peeking over my shoulder at him. “But you didn't say I wasn't spoiled.”

“Well, I think we both know that you've got it pretty good.”

“Excuse me?”
I whip my head over my shoulder and look him dead in the eye. “Whose side are you on?”

“Whoa. Yours, of course. But you didn't let me finish. I was going to say that being spoiled isn't your fault. Your dad has you living in a bubble, Crick. Private schools, personal drivers, ritzy vacations . . . Can't you see how someone might label that as being spoiled?”

On instinct, I open my mouth to retaliate against his words. But as they roll around in my head, I realize there might be some truth to them. I do sort of live in a bubble. A very posh, fancy bubble, but a bubble nonetheless.

“That still doesn't justify her calling you a brat, though,” he continues, his voice carrying a cautious tone. “And now that she's gotten to know you, I'm sure her opinion's changed anyway.”

“Why would her opinion have changed?”

“Because you're kicking ass with the kids. Now that she's seen
you in action, there's no way she can still feel that way.”

Kicking ass with the kids. . . . Oh, man. I am totally going to hell.

THIRTEEN

T
he next afternoon I claw my way up cell phone hill in search of a little Windy City pick-me-up. As I feared, my dad hasn't left any messages, but I am grateful to find a voice mail from Carolyn. Other than informing me that Mr. Katz has gone schizo and is barking at his own tail, there's nothing particularly informative about her call. I still manage to get a little choked up, though. Her accent never sounded so beautiful.

I'm halfway through the second play-through of the message, when the beeping in my ear alerts me that someone is calling me right now. I glance down at the screen and see Katie's picture pop up.

“Oh my God! Katie?”

“Cricket? Hello?”

“I can hardly hear you!” I shout into the phone, staggering around like a drunk in search of a stronger signal.

“Can you hear me now?” she says, finally coming in loud and clear.

“Yes. Thank God.” I settle onto a large, moss-covered rock on the far side of the hill and heave a sigh of relief. It's so good to hear
her voice. “Where are you?”

“I'm at the beach with some people I met a couple of days ago. There's this guy, Shane—oh my God, Crick, he's so hot and totally into me. I'm having so much fun!”

“That's great,” I say, eager for my own turn at boy talk. “What's he like?”

“Not sure really. He's super cute and drives an H2. That's as far as we've gotten. So what's the deal there? Are the retards still driving you crazy?”

I hear a chorus of laughter in the background, and by the muffling sound against the phone, can tell Katie's joining in with them. I suddenly feel very alone.

“They're not completely retarded,” I say. “They can actually feed themselves and even know how to use the toilet.” She returns to our conversation with a hearty laugh. “Of course you still have to get over the whole smashed-in, dog-faced look, but I suppose life would be boring if we were all gorgeous and desirable.”

“I suppose,” she says, and in my mind I can see her dark eyes rolling. “I still can't believe your dad did this to you. I mean, what the hell? Sentencing you to work at a 'tard farm. That's so unfair. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No, but I'm not surprised. I told you he was really pissed. I'm sure I'll hear from him when he gets home in a few days.”

“But you're surviving, right?”

“Yeah, it's definitely gotten better since the last time we talked.”

“Oh my God, that's right! What's up with the hottie? Don't tell me you're swapping spit with some one-legged freak.”

“He's got two legs,” I say. “But yeah, he's totally hot. In fact, he looks just like Zac Efron if you can believe that.”

“No shit? Shane and I just watched that cheesy Nicholas Sparks movie he was in. Totally predictable but he was still smokin'. So what's the deal? Is he loaded? What kind of car does he drive?”

“Uh . . .” I find myself stalling for time, as I grow surprisingly uncomfortable with her line of questioning. “He doesn't come from money, and he hasn't mentioned anything about a car. But he's super smart and really funn—”

“I'm coming!” She cuts me off to yell to someone in the background. “He sounds great, Crick, but I gotta run. Call me when you get home.”

The call goes dead before I even have a chance to say good-bye, and I'm left to wonder whether or not Katie is actually the person I want to get a matching tattoo with next year.

“Cricket?”

I turn my head, transforming into my usual mess of giggles and warm, happy fuzzies when I discover Quinn standing just a few feet behind me.

“How do you always manage to sneak up on me?” I ask, rising to greet him. “I swear I must be going deaf. Is it dinnertime already?”

His distant look sends a chill down my spine.

“What's wrong?”

“Is that really what you think?”

“What?” I ask, walking slowly toward him. “What is it?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Katie,” I answer cautiously. “Why?”

“So what you were saying to her—that's really what you think?”

I think back to my brief and incredibly disappointing conversation with my best friend. Beach parties, retards, cars . . . Oh, he's wondering about what I said about him. “Of course I think those things,” I say. “You
are
the smarte—”

“God, Cricket!” He silences me with a tone I've never heard him use before. On instinct I backpedal a few feet. “I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about what you said about
them
—about the campers. Is that really what you think of them?”