Kristen Read Free Page A

the Spanish pop songs Alicia kept e-mailing the Pretty Committee. There she was in the middle of the Long Island Sound without a board, a crush, or a clue.
    Thankfully, the water remained relatively flat. In fact, Dylan could fart bigger waves in the Blocks’ Jacuzzi. Maybe they got bigger as they got closer? Kristen took a few strokes toward Dune and Brice, hoping for some insight.
    TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT.
    “Dad, are you serious?” Dune asked as his father paddled up beside him. His board barely bobbed as the first set passed underneath. “It’s completely dead out here.”
    “SUCKER PUNCH!” Brice shouted. He stopped paddling, leaned over, and playfully cuffed his son on the back of his leg. “I can’t believe you fell for
barge
surfing.”
    Dune’s mouth hung open, somewhere between embarrassment and amusement. “I can’t believe you lied to me!”
    “It got your mind off the tour, didn’t it?” he chuckled.
    Dune slowly turned and glanced back at Kristen. “Yeah, I guess.” He smiled. The sun kissed his full lips, and the warm breeze blew it straight to her cheek.
    She lifted her face to the cloudless sky and grinned peacefully, as if treading water in the Long Island Sound was the new yoga. It didn’t matter that Kristen had been the first one in the water—she still peed her wet suit.

THE BAXTERS’ CHEVY
    BACKSEAT, SANDWICHED BETWEEN RIPPLE AND DUNE
    Friday, July 17
    4:07 P.M.
    Ahhhhhhhh
.
    Kristen pressed a cold can of Diet Coke against her sun-fried cheeks, even though her left knee was burning up. It had been pressed against Dune’s leg for the entire drive back to Westchester and was IM’ing severe crush warnings to every other part of her body.
    “Dad! Stop the truck!” Dune slapped his hand against the Chevy’s back window and unsnapped his seat belt. “Drop me here.” He pulled his knee away and Kristen instantly lost her heat, like an unplugged flatiron.
    The sprawling green grounds of the Westchester Country Club were just ahead. As always, the majestic stone clubhouse seemed to glare at her with condescension, reminding Kristen that even though she had eaten in the Blocks’ formal dining room with Massie—twice—she definitely did not belong.
    It was shocking that Dune wanted to stop within a mile of the ultra-exclusive club. From what Kristen knew, it seemed like the kind of place that would make his down-to-earth CLAM blood boil. But as the truck slowed to a stop, it all became clear—the grinding sound of wheels zipping across the pavement, the clusters of helmet-wearing kids addicted to Red Bull and bruises, the rolling asphalt hills. They had arrived at Gray Acres Skate Park, or GAS Park as it was fondly called.
    “Anyone else coming?” Dune grabbed his yellow, purple, and green striped Element skateboard out from under his seat, opened the car door, and jumped onto the sidewalk. He balanced his board on the curb like a seesaw and then popped an ollie.
    “Not, not,
not
a chance,” Ripple muttered, flipping through the pages of
Teen Vogue
. She drew a lopsided heart around a turquoise pair of Diane von Furstenberg shorts she’d never be able to afford.
    “Why not?” Kristen asked, surveying the crowd. All the super-size clothing and Billabong hats made it impossible to tell whether they were girls or boys.
    “I can’t, Ms. Gregory! Look at me!” Ripple screeched at her reflection in the rearview mirror and then turned to her brother. “My hair is all frizzy and my makeup washed off, thanks to
you
and
Dad
,” she practically spat.
    “Who cares, Rassie?” Dune joked, kick-flipping the board off the ground and into his hand.
    “Since when do you care what you look like at the GAS?” Brice turned around to face his daughter. It was the first time his expression had been somewhat serious. Now that his face was relaxed, thin white lines of untanned skin were suddenly visible at the corners of his eyes—proving that whenever Brice was in the sun, he was smiling.
    “Um,