You’re Invited Too (4 page)

Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:

(Who needs a love horoscope when you've sworn off boys!)

I
watch kind of a decent amount of reality TV, I'm just saying. And nowhere, in anyone else's version of reality, does shuffleboard seem to be “a thing.” Unless we're talking
Adventures in Elderly Housing
, and so far no one's made that show (although I might watch it if they did—okay, I probably would, because I watch decent amounts of
bad
reality TV). What? I'm just saying.

Anyway, shuffleboard is totes “a thing” here in Sandpiper Beach, and we owe that all to Shuffleboard Dan. Way back in 1970-something (a.k.a. the Dark Ages), Dan converted his entire front lawn into six shuffleboard courts (because five is never enough), and all summer long he sits in this little shed/shack/shanty thing he built next to them and dishes out advice to everyone he charges fifty cents to play.

Mostly his advice consists of “Be smooth when you push the puck! A light touch is all it takes!” or “For the love of sweet molasses, don't walk on the courts! You're ruining them! You're ruining them!”

I guess that last one isn't so much advice as admonition (sweet! I just used a total Lauren vocab word!) and Shuffleboard Dan's favorite thing to say. He probably yells it out in his sleep. If he had a parrot, that would completely
posi-tutely
be the first phrase it would learn.

But
he
doesn't have a parrot.

I do.

More specifically, I have Polly Want a Cracker, which is the stuffed beast molting feathers that goes along with the 100-percent-ruins-my-life-every-time-I-have-to-wear-it Dread Pirate Roberts costume my parents (who are
supposed
to love me) force me into when I give tours of the island for the Visitor's Center.

And which I'm wearing today because Shuffleboard Dan is paying me to, and also because I'm a teeny-tiny bit scared of him and his . . . er, enthusiasm. For shuffleboard.

I adjust the molting parrot on the shoulder of my puffy-sleeved shirt and
thwok
black pleather from my thighs. I swear, this costume is sticky even in February, but mid-September in North Carolina is—
blech—
the
worst
if you happen to be wearing pleather pirate pants.

I wave at a family approaching the shuffleboard courts. It's Founder's Day, and Shuffleboard Dan hired me to entertain the kids of any adults who wanted to play in the sixth annual Sandpiper Beach Founder's Day Shuffleboard Tournament Sponsored by Shuffleboard Dan and the American Shuffleboard Alliance. Try fitting
that
on a T-shirt. Also, I'm fairly certain there is no such thing as an American Shuffleboard Alliance, and Google agrees with me. I just know Shuffleboard Dan made it up so he could pretend other people share his obsession.

Anyway, obsessed he is, so employed I am. I'm not so sure the Dread Pirate costume was the best idea for this, though. The little girl I wave to looks fairly horrified. I'm pretty sure she's making that face at Polly Want a Cracker, but it's also possible that even a four-year-old has enough fashion sense to know the Dread Pirate costume should stay locked in a dark closet f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

I wave at her again, and she hides behind her mother's leg.

Le sigh.

I'd rather be wedding planning, even though we've been spending kind of all our free time doing it. At least you can plan seating arrangements and brainstorm ideas for centerpieces in a tank top. I head back to my beach chair next to the shed/shanty/shack and perch on the edge of the seat. Any farther back and the pleather sticks. Sooooo not a pretty sight when I have to get up. I wish Sadie would hurry up and get here; she promised moral support.

Usually I looooooove Founder's Day. The whole town comes out to celebrate Sandpiper Beach with a morning fishing competition, followed by a town-wide yard sale, followed by an afternoon sailboat race, followed by yet another fish fry (obligatory at every major and minor holiday around here), followed by a dance.

I got up early for the yard sale. Anything with the word “sale” in it—count me in! I mean, c'mon, it's shopping . . . on the cheap (even if some people drag the same stuff back out year after year and try to foist it on the rest of us!). But I live next door to a bookstore, and you should just see what they put out. The best.

This year I decided all interesting people have collections and therefore I need one ASAP. Lauren has a really cool shell one, so I can't steal that idea. Instead I bought three old-timey brooches from Mrs. Atwater (who called them costume jewelry) and a cloudy purple glass bottle that Mr. Vinton told me washed up on the shore with a message in it. He winked when he said it, though, so I don't believe him. But a beach-bottle collection could be cool. Or brooches. I haven't decided yet. A girl would do well to keep her options open (which is a saying of my mother's I'm totes adopting as my own).

Zero chance I was going to the fishing competition because . . . eww, fishing. Even though squishing hooks through worm guts and out of fishy mouths is totally horrendous, I
will
be hitting up the fish fry, because fried fish = super yummy and because Daddy gives the Founder's Day toast.

And of course I'll be at the dance, too. With my friends. NOT with a boy.

I've sworn off boys.

Which, omigosh, is sooooooo completely freeing. I have, like, 137 percent more brain space now that I'm not thinking about cute-boy things, such as the way they flip their hair when they come out of the ocean with their surfboards tucked under their arms. Who even wants to spend time thinking about
that
?

My entire existence is
worlds
better now that I've realized I don't need boys—or, more specifically,
a
boy—to write awesomesauce song lyrics about (songwriting is kind of my thing) because I can just write songs about different kinds of love. Like my mad love for my music, or for Sadie, Vi, and Lauren, or for shuffleboard.

Oh, no, wait. No one has mad love for shuffleboard. Except Shuffleboard Dan. And possibly Lance.

I spy him over by the sticks. (Sorry, Shuffleboard Dan. They might be called “tangs” officially, but that is sooo not catching on.) He's picking each one up and carefully inspecting it. Lance is totally convinced that this is the year he will beat Shuffleboard Dan. I should mention that Lance was also positive he would take down Shuffleboard Dan last year and the year before that and probably the year before that, too. If I were a betting girl (which I so totally would be if Daddy would let me), my money would be on Shuffleboard Dan.

Vi's money would be on Lance.

She glides up on her bike, all cool in her shorts and bathing-suit top, with her hair twisted into a soggy bun that lets me know she got out of the ocean for this.

“Arrrrr,” she says.

“Hardy-har. Talk Like a Pirate Day isn't for another week.” (These are things you know when you live in Sandpiper Beach and most of your tourist money comes from all things pirate-y. We're always looking for stuff to turn into holidays, and TLAPD is another one. Ahoy, matey.)

“Well, if the pleather pants fit . . . ,” Vi says, hiding a smile as she stares pointedly at my legs.

“If they fit, they would be even more uncomfortable. Baggy pleather is bad enough. But tight pleather?” I shudder. “Hey, did you see Lance?”

“Who? Oh, Lance is here?”

Vi is fooling exactly no one. We both know full well he is, and we also know full well it's the reason
she
's here. She turns to where Lance is weighing a puck in each hand and blushes six ways to Sunday when he catches her eye and gives a quick head nod.

Ah, young love. I'm so happy I don't have to worry about any of that. So, so, soooo happy. Happi
est
, really.

“Excusez-moi, pirate girl. Eez ziss where I can pay for zee shuffleboard game?”

I tip my head back in my chair to see who in Sandpiper Beach would be talking with a French accent and am suddenly staring into the warmest pair of espresso-bean/Labrador-puppy/brown-as-melted-hot-chocolate eyes I've ever seen. Attached to a boy. A my-age boy. And when my head tip turns into something more like a crane, I topple backward in my beach chair and end up with my Dread Pirate boots waving in the air at Mr. Oh-My-Gosh-He's-French.

“Are you . . . Can I help you?” he asks, as he crouches down and gently extracts Polly Want a Cracker's claws from my shoulder.

“Mmmmm-ffffffff,” I answer. What? Like anyone in my position would manage anything better. He's French and he's cute. There should be a law against that. You should be allowed to be one or the other. Not both. Sooooo not both.

Vi giggles and tugs me up. “Sorry about Becca. She must have hit her head when she fell.” She elbows me, and I regain the ability to form a sentence.

“Arrrr.”

Okay, well, maybe not a sentence, but at least a word. Sort of.

“I thought Talk Like a Pirate Day wasn't until next week, Becs.” Vi's still grinning like she thinks this is the funniest situation in the world. Like I am not standing in front of a French hottie while wearing a seventeen-sizes-too-big Dread Pirate costume and mumbling incoherent phrases. Words. Whatever.

I'll be killing her later.

“I'm Philippe,” the cute boy says. Of course he is.
Of course
he has a perfect French name to match his perfect French accent. What
is
it with me and accents? They're like my kryptonite. First there was Ryan this summer, who was visiting from Ireland. Even now, when we Skype to work on songs together, his accent still does this weird flip-floppy thing to my stomach, although we are a thousand percent
just
good friends.

Philippe has his hands in his pockets, and he's rocking back and forth a tiny bit on the balls of his feet, with this confident little smile in the corners of his mouth. Daddy says boys with corner smiles are trouble. Well, Daddy says all boys are trouble. He doesn't really make distinctions. But still.

You know what? It's a totally good thing I've sworn off boys, then. Yup, totally, totally good thing. Plus, tourist boys = not worth my time. They just pack up and leave at the end of the summer. Although the end of the summer happened weeks ago, so France must have extra-weird vacation schedules. But whatever.

Once I remember the tourists-aren't-worth-it thing, I can totes be myself again. Phew!

“Hi, Philippe. I'm Becca. This is Vi. Are you entering the tournament?”

“Yes, I am. I thought eet would be a good way to meet zee ozzer kids in my new hometown.”

New hometown?
New hometown??

Um . . . say what now?

PIZZA ROLLS

The best thing about this recipe is that you don't have to measure anything!

Ingredients:

1 roll of crescent dough

olive oil (to brush on the dough)