his fingers and drops back into the bowl in one gooey plop.
Sometimes I absolutely despise my friends. They‟re talking about last year when I was puking non-stop—a side effect of the nightmares I was having. And the year before that when my nightmares were causing me to wet the bed.
Jacob continues to stare at me. I know he wants to talk about my nosebleed. I want to talk about it, too. Just not right now—not in front of everyone like this. I mean, this was supposed to be a fun vacation, a stress-free summer.
A walk on the normal side.
“So why is everybody up so early?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.
“It wasn‟t by choice,” Amber says. “After you left, PJ thought it would be funny to act like he was eleven years old again. So he snuck into our room to dunk my hand into a bowl of water.”
“So Miss Priss here goes al Fright Night on me and wakes the whole house up with her cowardly cries. I mean, seriously,” PJ says, smearing a knifeful of tartar sauce on his egg and cheese sandwich, “does she need to pay a little visit to the great and powerful Oz for a smidgen of courage?”
“No,” Amber says, “but maybe you should pay him a visit for a smidgen of maturity.”
“What‟s that supposed to mean?”
“If the pacifier fits.” She stuffs a fingerful of Nutel a into his mouth to shut him up.
“Don‟t go tempting me with your kinky ideas of seduction, my little vixen,” he says, happily licking up the chocolate on his lips.
PJ puckers up to Amber, but she responds by messing up his hair, the short, gravity-defying spikes bleached a Ken-doll platinum color—to go with the whole beach vibe, I imagine.
“Did someone say vixen?” Drea enters the living room and takes a seat next to Chad. She drapes her legs over his lap and over the sports section. And suddenly I‟m reminded of just why she spends so long doing her hair. I mean, it‟s perfect—
shampoo-commercial perfect. Shiny, bouncy, golden waves with just the right amount of tousling.
I grab a strand of my own hair, noting that it feels a little drier than normal and that I could probably use a trim.
The doorbell rings and Amber jumps from the table, practically trampling over everything in her pathway to the door—me included. “Maybe it‟s one of the fratboy yummies from next door. I thought I saw one of them scoping me out yesterday.” She pulls at the wedge in her Superwoman swim shorts, finger-counts her pigtails—
seven, her lucky number—and then whips the door open so hard that it crashes against the wall.
“Looks like someone‟s a little hard up,” Drea says.
Amber ignores the comment, her patty cake smile falling splat to the ground.
There‟s a girl standing there, maybe a couple of years younger than us but undeniably cute. The kind of cute you see on one of the shows on the WB—long and straight henna-red hair, heartshaped face with yellow-tinted sunglasses, super tight T-shirt with long bell sleeves, and one of those sarong things that looks like a skirt. I peek at Jacob to see if he‟s noticed, but he‟s completely zoned himself out, watching some talk show on TV, the audience barking in the background.
“Yeah?” Amber says.
“Hi. I‟m Clara. I was just wondering if Marcy and Greg are staying at this—”
“Wait,” Amber says, interrupting her. “Don‟t I know you from someplace?” Clara cocks her head slightly, as though trying to place Amber as wel . “Were you at the Clam Stripper yester—?”
“Forget it,” Amber says. She takes a step forward to look past the girl, hoping, I think, that she‟s brought along some WB-looking male friends. “Are you staying next door?” She points to the cottage at the right, where the fraternity guys have hung up their banner, the giant Greek letters marking their fratboy territory.
“Yeah,” Clara chirps, pointing in the opposite direction. “I‟m a few houses down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So Marcy and Greg aren’t staying
Sometimes I absolutely despise my friends. They‟re talking about last year when I was puking non-stop—a side effect of the nightmares I was having. And the year before that when my nightmares were causing me to wet the bed.
Jacob continues to stare at me. I know he wants to talk about my nosebleed. I want to talk about it, too. Just not right now—not in front of everyone like this. I mean, this was supposed to be a fun vacation, a stress-free summer.
A walk on the normal side.
“So why is everybody up so early?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.
“It wasn‟t by choice,” Amber says. “After you left, PJ thought it would be funny to act like he was eleven years old again. So he snuck into our room to dunk my hand into a bowl of water.”
“So Miss Priss here goes al Fright Night on me and wakes the whole house up with her cowardly cries. I mean, seriously,” PJ says, smearing a knifeful of tartar sauce on his egg and cheese sandwich, “does she need to pay a little visit to the great and powerful Oz for a smidgen of courage?”
“No,” Amber says, “but maybe you should pay him a visit for a smidgen of maturity.”
“What‟s that supposed to mean?”
“If the pacifier fits.” She stuffs a fingerful of Nutel a into his mouth to shut him up.
“Don‟t go tempting me with your kinky ideas of seduction, my little vixen,” he says, happily licking up the chocolate on his lips.
PJ puckers up to Amber, but she responds by messing up his hair, the short, gravity-defying spikes bleached a Ken-doll platinum color—to go with the whole beach vibe, I imagine.
“Did someone say vixen?” Drea enters the living room and takes a seat next to Chad. She drapes her legs over his lap and over the sports section. And suddenly I‟m reminded of just why she spends so long doing her hair. I mean, it‟s perfect—
shampoo-commercial perfect. Shiny, bouncy, golden waves with just the right amount of tousling.
I grab a strand of my own hair, noting that it feels a little drier than normal and that I could probably use a trim.
The doorbell rings and Amber jumps from the table, practically trampling over everything in her pathway to the door—me included. “Maybe it‟s one of the fratboy yummies from next door. I thought I saw one of them scoping me out yesterday.” She pulls at the wedge in her Superwoman swim shorts, finger-counts her pigtails—
seven, her lucky number—and then whips the door open so hard that it crashes against the wall.
“Looks like someone‟s a little hard up,” Drea says.
Amber ignores the comment, her patty cake smile falling splat to the ground.
There‟s a girl standing there, maybe a couple of years younger than us but undeniably cute. The kind of cute you see on one of the shows on the WB—long and straight henna-red hair, heartshaped face with yellow-tinted sunglasses, super tight T-shirt with long bell sleeves, and one of those sarong things that looks like a skirt. I peek at Jacob to see if he‟s noticed, but he‟s completely zoned himself out, watching some talk show on TV, the audience barking in the background.
“Yeah?” Amber says.
“Hi. I‟m Clara. I was just wondering if Marcy and Greg are staying at this—”
“Wait,” Amber says, interrupting her. “Don‟t I know you from someplace?” Clara cocks her head slightly, as though trying to place Amber as wel . “Were you at the Clam Stripper yester—?”
“Forget it,” Amber says. She takes a step forward to look past the girl, hoping, I think, that she‟s brought along some WB-looking male friends. “Are you staying next door?” She points to the cottage at the right, where the fraternity guys have hung up their banner, the giant Greek letters marking their fratboy territory.
“Yeah,” Clara chirps, pointing in the opposite direction. “I‟m a few houses down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So Marcy and Greg aren’t staying