The Best Week of My Life

The
Worst Day
Best Week of my Life

SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS

Feel-Good Romance

© 2013
The Best Week of my Life
by Suzanne D. Williams

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Recommended for ages 12-16 and anyone young at heart.

CHAPTER 1

All it took was a major face plant to make Carter Pruitt look my way. I’m talking a head-rattling, chin-jarring, sand-in-my-teeth plow into the sun-warmed concrete. I’d like to say I planned it, that I knew what would happen, but that’d be taking credit for something the heavens above must’ve ordained.

Of course, he laughed, and it’s sobering to have the guy you like laugh at you. But it’s so much worse to peel yourself off the ground and find your best pants ripped at the knee, your skin shredded, and blood running down your leg. Then top that off with the buttons of your shirt popped off right across your breasts and your bra hanging out like, “Hello, see me?”

Yeah, he saw. He wasn’t blind. And I was so embarrassed.

This was actually the second time I’d embarrassed myself in front of Carter. The other time was in English. The teacher asked what our most humiliating moment ever was, and I wasn’t about to tell mine because what am I, stupid? Carter Pruitt’s sitting right there. But then she called on me, made me stand up at my seat, and he’s looking at me and I’m wanting to make something up instead of telling the truth.

It was one of those please-God-have-a-hole-open-up-and-swallow-me moments.

But it wasn’t in me to lie. I’d eaten too many bars of soap at my mother’s hands to do that. So I gulped down the bullfrog leaping around in my gullet and launched into the tale. Come the end of it, he was laughing, the class was laughing, I was laughing, but mine was more out of pain.

Pain almost as bad as face-planting at his feet.

Weird thing was, we weren’t in school. We weren’t even in the same town, for that matter. And it’s not like my family schmoozed with his family and planned some vacation together. Honest Abe I was simply carrying my things from the car to our rental apartment, my thoughts on sporting my new bikini down at the Gulf and not so much on the height of the curb. Next thing I know, I’m eating concrete and there he is.

“Daphne Merrill, what are you doing here?” Carter asked.

Now, him speaking had two effects on me. First, it was nice to know he knew my name. Second, oh, no, he knew my name. Only person I’d ever heard of with my first name was that chick on TV, and she had a cool English accent that counter-balanced having such a dumb name.

I clutched the edges of my shirt together. “Apparently, falling at your feet.”

He started laughing again and wiped the corners of his eyes. “You kill me.”

But the only one dying here was me. After all, I’d just done an earth dive in front of Carter Pruitt.

Then my mom walks up and makes the whole thing worse. “Daphne? What did you do to your pants?”

Why are parents like that? Not, “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself? Let me check your knee,” but worry over my pants, as if they needed to be revived or something.

“I fell,” I said.

“You fell?” She said it like she had doubts.

I wanted to say,
Gees, Mom, look at me
. But I didn’t.

Then she notices Carter standing there. “Oh, you’ve made a friend.”

Sigh. Little kids
make friends.
Teenagers do not
make friends
. And girls especially do not
make friends
with boys by busting their kiester.

“This is Carter. We go to school together,” I said.

She lowered her shades, peering out over the top. “Well, that’s perfect. You two can spend time together.”

No sooner had she said that than my dad walked up. Now, Dad, was on an average day a complete embarrassment to me. But give him the week off, take him to the beach, and he becomes the epitome of parental horror. He had on these khaki shorts, the puffy kind with front pleats that made him look even fatter, a red floral Hawaiian shirt with dolphins swimming between the blossoms, and mandals.

Dear Lord, I hate mandals.

As if that’s not bad enough, he’s lugging
the suitcase –
1972, yellow, hard plastic you could drive a car over and it’d not burst – and beneath his elbow, my mom’s car pillow. He stopped short at the sight of Carter and negotiating his hold on the two objects, stuck out his hand. “Hello, Son.”

Carter was trying his best not to laugh, and I can’t say as I’d’ve blame him if he had because there we were Geek Family #6. Mom in her sundress and little white sandals. Dad looking like a clown. And me – skinned knee, missing buttons, and all. But fortunately for my pride, he didn’t. Instead, he offered to help tote stuff, and Dad, being himself, took him up on it.

“Why, that’s kind of you.”

And I thought the already awful start to things wasn’t going to get worse, so I led Carter to the car where he reached into the trunk, and of all the things he chose to take out, he picked my clothes bag.

Why? Why? Why … did I use that bag?

Frayed straps, jiggy zipper, hole in the bottom. Hole in the bottom. Oh, yeah, did I mention there was a hole in the bottom? A hole that became a hatchway to release a week’s worth of undies all over Carter’s shoes.

If my face wasn’t several shades of red, it sure seemed like it. My ears burned. My cheeks flamed. I threw myself down on my knees, forgetting one was cut and remembering it instantly, and scrabbled at my underthings. I thought I’d pick them up real fast, and we’d both act like nothing happened.

Only one pair got caught on his toe, and my mortification was complete. This was officially the worst day of my life.

***

Staring at Daphne Merrill’s backside while she picked up her underwear from the pavement was the highlight of Carter’s day, especially since he’d thought this week would be boring.

But things were never boring when she was around. She’d proved that within minutes of climbing out of her car. Tripping over the curb, she’d sprawled face-down on the sidewalk and hopped up to display a nice view of pink lace and pale skin.

She rose from her kneeling position, cramming her underthings in her pockets as hard as she could, and all he could do was smile and ogle the gap at the front of her shirt, something she rectified by mashing her hand flat to her chest.

She curled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I knew better,” she said, minutes later.

He raised an eyebrow. “Knew better than what?”

“Than using that bag.”

“Oh.” he shrugged. “It happens.”

“And I’m sorry about them.”  She jerked her chin toward her folks. “My mom gets carried away. You probably got plans and all.”

He slouched on one hip, his hands at his waist. “No, no plans. I was gonna ask anyhow.”

This wasn’t strictly true. He was originally going to say hello, but given an opening, he’d jump through it.

Her eyes spread wider. “Y-you were gonna ask? Wait.” She paused and narrowed her gaze. “Ask me what?”

“What do you mean
what
? I’m here. You’re here. And there’s the whole week to blow.”

“So you
wanted
to ask me?”

He eyed her and laughed. “Sure. I wanted to ask.”

“But …”

Bending over into the trunk, he lifted a couple grocery bags. “But what? And where’s your room?”

“Upstairs. 223. And … but you don’t talk to me at school.”

He glanced at her over the edge of the paper bags. “I wanted to. Does that count?”

“You wanted to? For real?”

He juggled the bags and started up the stairway. “Yes, for real.”

“Then why didn’t you?” She followed so close her breath blew hot on his neck.

Arriving on the landing, he took a left and entered an open door labeled 223. Daphne’s mom looked up from the tiny corner kitchen. “Oh, thank you, Carter. Put those right here.”

Lowering the bags, he dusted his hands and shoved them in his pockets.

“Well?” Daphne asked.

“Well … Peer pressure?”

She frowned. “Really? What kind of reason is that? Am I funny looking, or do I have horns on my head that I’d ruin your reputation?”

He chuckled. “No.”

She’d forgotten about her shirt again, and he wasn’t about to remind her. He did, however, leave the apartment. Outside on the landing, he leaned over the rail. A half dozen cars sat in the parking lot.

She followed his gaze and then looked back along the landing. “Where’s your room?”

“Downstairs. 125.”

“You here with your mom?”

He nodded.
His mom and her boyfriend.
He kept that to himself. Henry Kozecky was an all right guy, friendly enough, but his being here was … wrong. Complaining about it, however, was fruitless.

Carter held his breath in hope Daphne would move on. She did, and he exhaled.

“So when we get back to school, you’re going to talk to me. Right? I mean, ‘cause you can’t exactly speak to me all week and turn around and not speak to me.”

He glanced at her. “Sure.”

“Pinky swear?”

His right eyebrow shot up. Was she serious? But she was. Hand out, pinky crooked, she waited. Shaking his head, he laughed. Daphne always made him laugh, and this week that was a good thing.

“Pinky swear,” he said at last, and he hooked his finger with hers.

***

So, okay, I admit the pinky-swear thing was childish, but having Carter agree to it was worth my saying it. And he didn’t appear to mind because he simply went back to be himself – casual and eye-poppingly cute. Something enhanced by the backdrop of sand and waves and overheated parking lot.

He glanced away from me and I was treated to a fine view of the back of his head. You’d think that’d be disappointing but it wasn’t. Being the well-ignored girl I was, I routinely saw the backs of boys’ heads and had actually catalogued them by shape and hair color. Carter’s fit all the top criteria. First, it wasn’t round. I hated a guy with a basketball-shaped head. Second, it wasn’t narrow either, but the perfect oval. Third, he had black hair, and I was a sucker for black hair.

Black hair and brown eyes, the color of a good glass of iced tea.

I indulged myself in a vivid daydream of running my fingers through that hair, only to have my dad ruin it.

“Poppet,” he said. “Need you to help your mother.”

Carter turned back toward me, one eyebrow arched.

Yeah … Poppet.
I rolled my eyes at my dad’s affectionate name for me.

The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up.

“Guess I gotta go,” I said.

He nodded. “Okay.”

I turned my back on him and went to move indoors. But he called out from behind.

“Hey, you wanna swim later?”

Well, duh, I was at the beach. Of course, I wanted to swim. Then I realized I’d be swimming with Carter Pruitt and that made me all nervy. But no way was I gonna act like it or be stupid and say no.

“Like three?” I asked.

“Three’s good,” he said.

And with that I entered the apartment and shut the door.

I was instantly glad the door was closed because the sight that met me would’ve only added to my day’s embarrassment. I took in the scene and suppressed a shudder. My dad had claimed the couch. Dad, tiny green throw pillows wadded beneath his head. Dad, large, hairy feet propped on the far arm. Dad, mouth open, eyes at half-mast. He was fast on his way to an afternoon nap, but apparently my presence woke him up.

His eyelids flipped open and he focused his gaze on me. “You help your mother yet?”

“I’m going,” I said.