The View from the Top

Table of Contents

 

 

 

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Hillary Frank

 

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

 

Frank, Hillary.

Summary: Anabelle and her fellow high school graduates navigate their way through a disastrous summer of love and friendship in the small coastal town of Normal, Maine.

eISBN : 978-1-101-43291-4

[1. Intepersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.

3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Family life—Maine—Fiction. 5. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.F8493Vie ,<010 [Fie]—dc22 2009026143

 

Published in the United States by Dutton Books,

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

 

 

O
f all the weird things about the gift Matt had just given Anabelle, the part that freaked her out most was its beard.

“So I guess you're not planning on shaving for a while?” she asked, holding up the handmade wooden jewelry box with a colorful clay replica of her boyfriend on the front.

“No, I'm keeping it.” Matt rubbed the Brillo-pad-ish dark hair on his chin. “It makes me look pensive. Sophisticated.”

And old, Anabelle thought, taking in their reflection in the mirror on the closet door. He looked like he could be her father with that beard. Which was kind of icky, considering he was snuggled up against her on his bed and twirling one of her ringlets around his finger. One of her out-of-control ringlets. Anabelle pulled a couple curls to the front, then pushed them to the side. No matter what she did, she looked like Little Orphan Annie. Only, with sawdust-colored hair. And black clothes instead of red. She still hadn't changed out of her orchestra uniform.

Matt nuzzled his nose into Anabelle's neck. “Well, do you like it?” he asked, popping open the top of the box. The inside was lined with mauve velvet and smelled of overripe berries.

Anabelle forced a grateful smile. “I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, 'ause I stayed up till four working on it. The eyes were a killer.”

The miniature version of Matt's big brown eyes gazed up at Anabelle with a pleading puppy-dog expression that seemed to say,
Please don't leave me. Never, ever leave me.
In his tiny clay hands he held a tiny bouquet of clay dandelions, just like the ones the real Matt had used to woo her—that day on his porch when he'd told Anabelle she was “friendly” and later admitted that was code for “cute.” She still had the wilted weeds pressed in a dictionary under her bed.

Anabelle's stomach was folding in on itself, like tightly creased origami. The berry smell. It was drowning her senses. She shut the jewelry box, and as the clasp clicked into place, she imagined having this thing in her dorm room next year. She pictured people spotting it on her dresser. Any boy who walked in would get the message loud and clear: This girl is taken.

“You don't seem too psyched,” Matt said, sitting up rigidly.

“No, I am,” Anabelle said. “I'm just trying to figure out what to put in it. I don't really wear jewelry.” Didn't he know that after dating her for a year?

“But I thought maybe you could start. Since you'll be a college girl now.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Anabelle pushed aside Matt's cigarette packs and put the jewelry box on his nightstand, out of her sight.

“Or you could use it to store the poems I've written you.”

“Some of them,” she said. “They won't all fit.”

A burst of singing came from downstairs. Ugh, weren't the Players sick of
Cabaret
by now? Anabelle was. And she hadn't even been singing those songs the last few months, just accompanying them. Sure, she got that it was their cast party and all.
But c'mon,
she thought,
get over yourselves.

Matt cracked each of his big toes. “You don't like it.”

“No, I do. I said I did.”

“Only because I asked.”

“Matt, it's amazing,” Anabelle assured him. “It's just ... so much.” She leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek, careful to avoid the side of his beard.

He jerked his face back, his eyes narrowing. “Why didn't you kiss me on the lips?” he asked.

“It's just, I don't like the feeling of hair on my mouth,” Anabelle told him. “It's scratchy.” Downstairs, one of the Players' voices rose above the rest. It was Lexi, Matt's sister—always the star of the show whether onstage or off.

“You're my girlfriend. You should like kissing me no matter what.”

Anabelle sighed and clunked the back of her head against the headboard. She did it again, this time hard enough that it would leave a little bruise—a tender spot that she knew would be sore when she touched it later. Matt didn't seem to notice; he didn't even look at her.

Anabelle stared up at the track lighting. One of the bulbs flashed out.

“Wow,” Matt said, with that forced-air laugh he gave when he was nervous. “You actually look like you want to hit me.”

“No,” Anabelle answered. But now that he pointed it out, she realized she kind of did want to.

“Go ahead.” He rolled up his T-shirt and offered her his arm.

“I'm not going to hit you.”

“Do it.”

Reluctantly, she made a fist and punched him, her knuckles thudding against his skin.

“What was that?” he asked. “The wind blowing? I barely felt a thing.”

The Players hit the crescendo at the end of the song. Anabelle could just picture them, shooting each other satisfied smiles as if they'd invented harmony.

She geared up again, squeezing her hand into a ball of momentum, then took aim, zeroing in on a spot halfway between Matt's shoulder and elbow. Her swing landed with a smack.

“Aw,” Matt screamed, “you didn't have to do it
that
hard. Jesus!”

He had a crazy look in his eyes, as if he were going to hit her back.

Anabelle's head fizzed like a just-opened soda can. She wasn't sure if it was because it felt good to hurt him or because she was afraid of what he might do. Leaping off the bed, she bolted for the door. “I need to be away from you right now,” she said, hearing her voice tremble. “And don't even think about following me.”