The Last Best Kiss (12 page)

Lily pushes him away. “Just for that, you don’t get to share my good luck.”

“No one in this group is capable of being quiet for more than two seconds,” Hilary says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That’s so unfair,” I say. “I’ve been waiting patiently to hear the news.”

“Look at Miss Goody Two-Shoes,” Oscar says. “Little Miss Innocent. Miss
I-Would-Never-Get-Oscar-in-Trouble-Oh-Wait-Yes-I-Would-and-Do-All-the-Time
.”

“Will you all please shut the frack up?” Finn says.

“Frack?” Oscar repeats. “Is that how we’re swearing now?”

“It’s from
Battlestar Galactica
,” I say. “Finn loves that show.” And then I realize I only know that because he told me so back in ninth grade.

“I do,” he says quietly.

“Oh, forget it,” Hilary says, throwing her hands up in the air and letting them fall down. “You guys are too annoying to invite anywhere.”

“I’m not annoying,” Lucy says. “Invite me.”

The rest of us beg for her to forgive us, and Hilary relents. “Okay, fine. So you guys know Coachella, right?”

“A-doy,” Oscar says. “I’ve only gone for the last two years.”

Coachella’s the best music festival on the West Coast: three days of nonstop outdoor concerts in the California desert, incredible bands, and a lot of weed. So I’ve heard. I’ve never been. It’s super-expensive and you have to buy tickets almost a year ahead of time, and I’ve never saved up enough money or planned ahead enough to make it happen.

Hilary goes on: “So that’s huge, but it’s in the spring, and Dad thinks there’s room for something similar in the fall. His company’s lined up all these bands—some really good ones—”

“—and a few bad ones,” Lily says. Hilary shoots her a look, and she shrugs. “Just keeping it real.”

“Mostly good ones. Anyway, it’s only two days, and it won’t be as huge as Coachella—at least not this year—but it won’t be as hot either, and the really really amazing thing is that because it’s being run by Dad’s company, he said he could get us and some friends VIP passes, and we can have a van take us there—it’s in the Santa Ynez Valley, a couple of hours away—and he can set us up with hotel rooms and everything.”

“So what exactly is the question?” Oscar says. “Do we want to go? Because the answer’s sort of obvious.”

“Wait,” Lucy says. “When is it?”

“November tenth and eleventh.”

“But that’s the weekend before early applications are due.”

“Bring your laptop.”

“Right,” Lily says. “I’m sure there’ll be lots of time to work . . . when we’re not watching the bands play . . . or partying . . . or eating junk food . . . or doing ten million other incredibly fun things that have nothing to do with college applications.” She leans forward and grabs Lucy by the shoulders. “Come on, Luce! Don’t be such a dud. It’s our last year of high school. Are you really going to spend the whole time worrying about college? Can’t we have fun for one weekend?”

“We can invite Jackson if you want,” Hilary adds slyly. “Ah, look—that brought a smile to her face.”

“It did not,” Lucy protests, smiling.

Hilary glances at me. “We can invite that friend of his too, if you want, Anna—the guy who was draped all over you at the after-party.”

“He wasn’t draped over me!” I protest, and the others laugh. Except Finn, who’s apparently too busy watching a tiny bug crawl across his hand to be interested in whether or not Wade Porter was draped over me at the after-party. “He wasn’t,” I say again, frustrated. “We’re just friends.
Cousins
.”

Hilary shrugs. “Whatever.”

“There is nothing bad about this offer,” Oscar says. “Which is why I’m sure my parents will find something to object to about it.”

“You can promise them we’ll be good little boys and girls,” Lily says. She holds up two spread fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“That’s a peace sign,” Lucy says.

“Fine. Peaceful Scout’s honor.”

“We won’t really be good little boys and girls, will we?” Oscar asks hopefully.

Lily grins at him. “Good? No. But we’ll be great.”

I glance over at Finn. He’s carefully lowering his hand to the grass and staring down at it. He’s letting the little bug crawl to safety.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

six

I
’m happy I’m retaking the SATs at my own school. Usually I forget to register ahead of time, and by the time I finally
do
remember, there’s no room left at Sterling Woods and I have to get up super early to drive a long way to some school I’ve never even heard of and wait in line with a thousand strangers and take the test in a room that’s totally alien and unwelcoming (because any school that’s not yours feels wrong)—so I’m relieved I remembered this time.

(Okay, the truth is I didn’t actually
remember
to sign up early online: Lucy did. When I happened to be over at her house. So we both signed up.) And now I’m very glad I did, because it feels like home when I arrive at Sterling Woods at 7:45 that Saturday morning. A home where you have to wait in line with a couple of hundred other people to go inside to take a four-hour test. So . . . not a great home. But a home.

Lucy and I had agreed to meet at the courtyard fountain so we could wait in line together. When I join her there, she’s already talking to Finn, who greets me coolly. He’s wearing his glasses and red-plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt. Lucy’s wearing capri leggings and a Yale hoodie (“To inspire me,” she says defensively, when I raise my eyebrow at it) and has her hair pulled back in a ponytail so severe that no errant lock can possibly swing in front of her eyes, causing her to fill in the wrong circle, thereby lowering her score. I know how her mind works. I’m wearing the most comfortable sweatpants I own and a tank top under a zip-front sweatshirt.

“You guys both look like you just rolled out of bed,” Lucy says.

“I
did
,” Finn and I say at the same time, and we grin at each other before remembering that we don’t make eye contact anymore. He drops his eyes first.

“Did you at least have some coffee or Coke or something?” Lucy asks as we all head together toward the line that winds from the front entrance almost to the gate. “I made myself drink a cup of coffee even though I don’t like it, because I read a study that said caffeine really does help you do better on tests.”

“It also makes you have to go to the bathroom,” I say. “Risky trade-off.”

“Yeah, well, I always have to pee a million times before a test, anyway,” Lucy says, and, sure enough, as soon as we’re in line, she excuses herself and runs off. Leaving me and Finn alone.

“Guess no one else is taking the test here this morning,” I say, to head off any potentially awkward silence.

He glances at the long line in front of us. “No one?”

“Of our friends, I mean.”

“The twins are taking it at University High,” he says. “And Oscar’s not retaking it. I don’t know about the others.”

“Why isn’t he retaking it?”

Finn shrugs. “I assume he’s either happy with his scores or just doesn’t think he can get them up any more.”

“Either way, I’m jealous.”

A pause. “You remember your number-two pencils?” he says, after a moment.

“And my calculator, yes.” Another pause. “I feel like we should be quizzing each other or something. Cramming.”

“It’s kind of too late for that.”

“Then distract me. I’m getting nervous.”

“This seems like a good time to remember that many of the greatest minds of our era never even graduated from college,” he says. “Like Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. Mark Zuckerberg.”

“That guy who pushes a shopping cart on the Promenade . . .”

He shakes his head. “Wrong attitude, Anna.” It’s nice to hear him say my name teasingly. First time in a very long time.

Lucy returns to the line a moment later. “Oh my god, it was so gross—some girl was literally throwing up in there.”

“You really have to stop doing that before tests,” I say.

“Very funny.” She twists around to look at the line behind us and then stands on tiptoe to see how far it goes. “They have to let us in soon, or we’ll start the test late.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Finn says. “They time each segment separately.”

“Still . . .” She tugs at her blond ponytail, shifts from side to side, scratches at her elbow. “I hate this waiting. It’s worse than taking the test.”

“You think that,” I say, “but wait until you hit a question you can’t answer. And then you’ll be all, ‘I want to be back in line with Anna and Finn.’”

“No, I’ll be more like, ‘I want to die.’” She fidgets some more. “I’m going to the bathroom again. I can’t tell if I really need to or if I’m just thinking myself into it, but either way—”

“Use a different bathroom,” I call after her. “A less vomit-y one.” She nods and switches direction.

“Odds are good someone’s throwing up in all of them,” Finn says. “It’s crazy to me that people get so nervous.”

“That’s because you’re a super-genius with a photographic memory. I’m surprised you’re even retaking this.”

“I’m not,” he says. “It’s my first time.”

“Really? You didn’t take it last spring?”

“I was too lazy.”

“No,” I say accusingly. “You knew you wouldn’t have to take it more than once—you knew you’d do great.”

“I did okay on the PSATs,” he admits, and I know him well enough to know that “okay” means he probably got perfect scores. “I figured it would be similar.”

“Plus you were too busy inventing apps and making a fortune.”

He leans against the wall. “You’ve heard that rumor, have you?”

“You never talk about it. But everyone else does.”

“I
helped
invent an app,” he says. “With this older guy I know—my astronomy teacher back up in Seattle. It was sort of my idea, but I couldn’t have done it without him. And I didn’t make a fortune off of it. I made a little spending money. That’s all.”

“So the rumors that you’re going to buy the island of Manhattan—”

“Grossly exaggerated,” he says with a smile. “But I’m looking into Queens.” The line starts to move. He stands up and we do that walking-in-line thing—a tiny step, then waiting, then another step, then waiting . . . “They’re checking IDs,” he says, craning his neck to see what’s holding us up.

I pull mine out of my pocket, and he tilts his head to see the picture on it. “You look different.”

“It’s two years old.” I start to lower my arm, and he puts his hand on mine to stop me.

“That’s how you used to wear your hair,” he says, still examining it, holding my wrist to keep it where he can see it. “The bangs . . . I always liked the bangs. I was surprised you didn’t have them anymore.”

I flush. “I grew them out a couple of summers ago.”

He releases my arm. “Did you get a good essay out of it? ‘What I Did Last Summer’?”

“I’m saving it for my college essay. ‘How Growing Out My Bangs Taught Me Compassion.’”

“Work a third-world country in there somehow,” he says. “Colleges like to see some global awareness.”

The line takes us through the front door.

“Progress,” Finn says.

“Look.” I point to a kid who’s clutching some beads and murmuring to himself. “Is he actually praying right now?”

“There are no atheists in the SAT line.”

“Remind me to ask him in a few weeks if it helped.”

“I’m guessing the success of his prayers will correspond to the number of hours he spent studying. Okay, now look at this.” We’re stopped again, and Finn’s right in front of a painting. It’s a parched landscape: cracked red clay bordered by small, withered trees. It looks like maybe it was once a water hole, but a drought has dried it up. Kneeling down next to the empty hole are two minute scratchy figures: a small girl and her dog. She’s petting him, but he’s looking away from her, at something in the distance. If you follow his gaze, you can just make out a tiny creature peeking out from between a couple of the dead trees across the dried-up pond from them. It’s so small, you have to squint to see that it has too many limbs and a malevolent gaze. “Now that’s actually good,” Finn says. “I mean, you look at it quickly, and it’s just this interesting landscape. But if you keep staring at it, you notice that there’s something else going on, and it’s more tense than tranquil. Almost scary.”

I’m starting to respond when Lucy slips through the door and rejoins us, fingers anxiously twisting in her ponytail. “The bathroom scene was intense. All these girls freaking out together—it was like a support group for people who are terrified of taking tests, except they were only making each other crazier.” She glances at the wall over Finn’s head. “Oh, Anna—your picture! I totally forgot that was right here. I always come in the other way. I love this one. It’s so weird.”

“Wait, you did this?” Finn says to me. Then, his eyes narrowing “You might have said something. Or signed it at least.”

I smile sheepishly. “I did. On the back.”

“Anna thinks signatures on the front of pictures are distracting,” Lucy explains to him.

“Plus how can you make someone look stupid for not knowing you painted it if you sign it where they can see?” Finn says irritably.

“I didn’t make you look stupid.” We’re almost at the front of the line where they’re checking everyone in. “You said exactly the right thing about it. And it meant more to me because you weren’t just being polite.”

“You should have told me.”

“I was about to, but Lucy interrupted.”

He just shrugs and stares off into the distance, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s clearly pissed off, which isn’t fair. He was the one who started talking about the painting—I didn’t trick him into it or anything. And I really
was
about to tell him.

It’s especially frustrating, because for the first time since Finn has come back to LA, he was talking to me like I was a normal person and not someone he has to be wary of.

On the plus side . . . he really liked my painting. Not knowing it was mine, he liked it. And that thought must be making me at least a little bit happy, because when I give my name and ID to the proctor, he says, “That’s the first smile I’ve seen this morning.”