He takes off like a bullet, and I’m left still feeling my heart beating in my stomach. But I snap out of that quickly and jump into action. I can at least avoid humiliating myself by keeping up.
He beats me by a few seconds, and we end up lying on the muddy shore, panting for breath. I feel the sun warm my wet skin, and I look up at the blue sky, listening to James’s laugh, his utter joy. We haven’t talked about his mom at all today.
“How do you do it?” I ask.
“Do what?” He sits up on one elbow and turns toward me.
“How do you act so happy?”
“I am happy,” he says.
“But, I mean, how do you …,” I start, but I’m not sure how to ask him. “Don’t you feel sad about the divorce and everything? Don’t you miss your mom?”
He sits up all the way now, looking out at the water.
“Yeah, I think about her,” he says, slowly, carefully. And when he says it, his hand moves toward his heart. It seems involuntary, sad, sweet. But then he moves his hand to the ground and digs into the mud a little bit. “It was her choice to leave, though.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.” I sit up and look in his eyes to see if I’m upsetting him.
He grimaces. “Oh man, I’m not going to be that ‘sad child of divorce’ to you now, am I?”
I smile at him. “No way,” I say.
“Good. Then maybe we can discuss how today is, like, the best day ever.” He turns to the lake and opens his arms to the sky. “Look at that sun, look at the water, look at you.”
When he faces me again, I feel my heart speed up.
James leans in, and when his lips touch mine, they’re still a little bit wet, and we hold the softest, most perfect kiss for a few beats. I want to enjoy the moment, but I’m already narrating what I’m going to write in my journal later: Best. Kiss. Ever.
I devote a whole page to the kiss. I cannot include enough adjectives to get this feeling down. It involves fireworks, shooting stars, and sparklers on the dock, and it doesn’t even feel like an exaggeration. Then, I write:
James is having such a hard summer, and he
still laughs. He still makes everyone around
him feel happy and important. My problems
with Ethan and Amanda seem tiny next to
his. It’s not like having your mom leave or
something. Why can’t I figure out how to
deal with things like James does?
chapter thirty-one
I have trouble sleeping because I’m still feeling buzzy about the kiss. It’s an almost-perfect feeling, like there are thousands of tiny happy bubbles inside me, making me warm and fizzy. But there’s something missing: sharing it with Amanda.
Being Amanda’s best friend was my favorite thing. Sometimes people would mix us up because we were always together, so when they’d talk about us, they’d say our names really quickly and end up with something like “ClemandAmanda.” Eventually, we became “Clemanda.” It had to happen.
There was this one Saturday last year when Amanda and I went for coffee. Or, I should say, we went for coffee dessert drinks, because we both have a sweet tooth and cannot steer clear of seasonal, foamy, flavored steaming beverages. We sat down at the table in the window of the café in the strip mall near my house and watched people pull in and out of the parking lot. It was probably March or April. I know it was rainy, because Amanda was wearing her light blue trench coat and yellow rain boots. She always knew how to be the cutest girl in the room, in a good way.
I had on black rubber Hunter boots, which I’d heard were cool somewhere. I still thought Amanda’s yellow ones were the best—they had little sunshines on them.
And on that day, we didn’t talk about Ethan.
“The book I’m reading has such a scary cover that I have to turn it backside-up before I go to sleep,” said Amanda as we grabbed a table by the window.
I blew on the top of my steaming cinnamon latte. “I did that with an R.L. Stine book once. The demon cover was taunting me.”
“Terrifying.” Amanda shivers and smiles. “Oh, wait, did you see Paul Kantor’s epic status updates last night?”
“He always has a steady stream of hilarious things to say—he’s even funnier online than he is in real life. It’s like, go become a professional comedian already.”
“I know! My updates are so blah.”
“No they’re not!” I said.
“Nice of you to say, but when everyone who comments on your updates says something better than your actual update, you know you’re just not that good at one-liners.”
“I hate that!” I almost knocked over Amanda’s mocha cappuccino with my hand. I get really animated sometimes. “It’s so much pressure if someone’s comment is smarter and funnier than your actual update!”
“Especially when you spent, like, twenty minutes crafting the update to be really good,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And are you supposed to respond? Who can keep up that level of wit?”
“Paul Kantor,” we said simultaneously, before erupting into laughter.
“Well, I love your updates,” said Amanda.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her. “Ditto.”
“Speaking of updates, I talked to Grandma Rose yesterday,” said Amanda. Grandma Rose is her ninety-two-year-old grandmother who used to take us to the movies and make us leave halfway through because it was “too darn loud!” Nevermind that she’s nearly deaf. She’s a sweet lady, though—she always bought us ice cream afterward.
“How is G-Rose?” I asked.
“I think she’s okay,” said Amanda. “I’d rather just go visit her, though. You know how it’s hard to talk to older relatives on the phone?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “They can’t hear you, and they get confused about who you are and stuff?”
“Exactly. So I’m shouting, ‘It’s AMANDA! Your GRANDDAUGHTER!’ And that’s basically the whole conversation. Forget any sort of interesting exchange.”
I laughed into my foam.
“Yeah, visits are better,” I agreed. “But still, the phone calls probably mean a lot, even if they do kind of suck.”
“Definitely,” said Amanda. “I will always, always talk to Grandma Rose when Mom calls her.”
“Of course!” I said. “Because one day you’ll be Grandma Rose, and who wants to be old and alone with bratty grandkids who won’t even call you?”
“Not me!” declared Amanda. “The karmic value of those calls alone is worth it.”
When Amanda finished her last sip of latte, I snapped a phone photo of her with a foam mustache. It turned out supercute, so I showed her the screen.
“Isn’t it extra special that I look especially good in candid photos?” she asked through the foam, giving me a sideways smile.
“Totally extra special,” I said, taking our cups to throw them away by the door.
“We are awesome,” she said, standing up and joining me at the exit. And even though we were being mock conceited and ridiculous, it was just in the company of each other, when we could do things like that.
Then we opened the double glass doors simultaneously and linked arms. We jumped through puddles all the way home, just because we wanted to. It was stormy and gray, but Amanda said, “Ooh! I bet there’ll be a rainbow later.”
And that’s how being with Amanda made me feel, once upon a time.
chapter thirty-two
At the next marina, I’m perched on the bow of the boat with the binoculars. I’m pretending to look at birds across the river, but honestly? I’m scouting for Dreaming of Sylvia. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead as I sit out in the sun—it’s intensely hot today. I pat my face with a towel and look through the binoculars again. James told me they’d definitely be here when we arrived, but there’s no sign of them yet.
I’ve been thinking a lot about James. About his mom just up and leaving, about his father’s hidden pain, about how he doesn’t have a big support system—just
his dad—to help him if he’s feeling sad. About the kiss.
I can’t stop replaying it in my mind. I even have an on-the-go playlist dedicated to it now. It includes the Elliott Smith song, of course—and I pictured my day swimming with James while I listened to it before bed last night.
But then I started to worry.
What if James finds out what I did with Ethan and decides that I’m a bad person? What if he thinks I’m a liar and a cheater and an awful friend? What if he never knows Amanda? What if he doesn’t understand what I’m starting to realize: I don’t miss Ethan, I miss her. James doesn’t know me like my family does—he could easily just turn his back on me when he finds out.
What if he never kisses me again?
I have to tell him.
So when I finally do see Dreaming of Sylvia coming around the bend, I feel a mix of excitement and terror.
I go back into the cabin and put on more sunscreen, staring at my face in the mirror and steeling myself for what I need to do. James was strong enough to tell me about his mom. He trusted me that much. He deserves to know.
I peek around the corner, and I can hear that Olive is in the nav station with my dad. He’s explaining the next leg of the trip to her. Her patience for nautical charts is inexplicable.
Outside in the cockpit, Mom is reading a detective novel. I hurry past her.
“I’m going to go say hi to James!” I say, edging toward the dock.
Mom smiles with pursed lips, like she thinks I’m up to something scandalous. That look is so embarrassing.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, looking back at her book. “Have fun!”
I scowl for a second, but then I look back at her and feel a surge of affection. I’m so lucky to have my mom. I walk over and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. Before she can ask, “What was that for?” I’m hopping off the boat in hopes of getting ahead of my sister’s “wait for me!” cries.
I reach the other end of the pier just as Mr. Townsend pulls Dreaming of Sylvia into the slip. James smiles and throws me a rope.
“Tie us up, Clem!” he shouts.
I show off my cleat knot, which takes about three seconds.
“That’s a beaut!” says Mr. Townsend.
“Thanks,” I say.
He goes around the other side to drop the dinghy in the water.
James jumps off the boat and onto the dock, then heads right for me, arms outstretched. It’s a hug. Like, a boyfriend hug. A big haven’t-seen-you-in-a-couple-of-days boyfriend hug. I think. I hope this doesn’t go away.
“Want to swim?” asks James, pulling away from me and peeling off his shirt.
“Sure!” I’m already ahead of him, slipping my cotton dress over my head to reveal the floral bikini that has just the right amount of ruffle (which is “very little, but enough to flatter your butt,” according to Amanda).
We jump off the dock to cool down and paddle around for a minute before I hear a third splash.
“Clem!”
Olive.
“Crazy Olive!” shouts James, swimming over to my little sister. He dunks his head underwater and then shows her the George Washington trick, which she finds hysterical.
This is not how I wanted today to go.
“Olive, can you swim to our boat and see if there’s more sunscreen for me?” I ask. “I need to reapply.”
“I just got here,” she says.
“Please?” I ask sweetly.
She nods okay and starts breaststroking back to The Possibility. I feel guilty. But I have a plan, and I need to do this now before I chicken out.
“Hey, want to take me for a spin in the dinghy?” I ask James, already hoisting myself up over the side of the Little James. I do an incredibly clumsy leg-split-flop into the boat, and then I look down at James with a goofy grin.
He’s trying not to laugh.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Even I know that move was ridiculous.”
He bursts. It’s not just a laugh, it’s a guffaw. Then I start to laugh, too, and I sit upright, adjusting my bathing suit to be sure everything’s covered.
James climbs in beside me and starts up the engine just as I see Olive get to the top of the swim ladder of The Possibility. She looks over at us.
“Wait!” she says, starting down the ladder again. “I’m coming!”
I look at James. He shrugs like it’s fine with him. But it’s not okay with me. I need a break from my little sister. I pretend I didn’t hear Olive.
“See you in a little bit!” I shout. “Tell Mom we’ll be back in an hour!”
I don’t look to see her face fall, I just tell James to gun it, and he does. The engine sputters and we cruise out of the cove and around the corner. I don’t look back, because I’m sure Olive is waving like mad to try to flag us down and come with us. James stares straight ahead too.
“Remember when you asked me what happened?” I say to James after he turns off the loud engine and we idle on the water for a minute. I have to jump into this or I’ll avoid it forever. No small talk, no beating around the bush, just straight-up telling.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I fell for my best friend’s boyfriend,” I say. It’s just seven words, and it sounds so innocuous and so terrible all at once when I hear it out loud.
“Did you hook up with him?” he asks.
I can’t read his eyes—I can’t tell whether they’re judging or curious or surprised, or something else entirely.
“No. I mean, not exactly.” I look down at my hands, which are twisting in my lap. “I really liked him, and he really liked me. We kept spending time together, and … it was just really not okay.”
It would almost be easier to explain if we had hooked up, because then there’s this thing—this tangible thing—that was wrong. But as it is, I just have this bad feeling, and a whole lot of guilt.
James isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s frowning and staring at the water.
His silence makes me nervous, so I start to ramble. I try to express how it was with Amanda, how close we were. And then I tell him how Ethan and I just clicked in this way that made it seem like we were supposed to be together. But that I realize now that it’s about Amanda, and I’ve lost her. And it’s my fault. My heart starts pounding a little when I explain things—it sounds so dumb in parts, and so awful in others—but James just sits quietly, listening.
“I’m not sure what to say, Clem,” he says when I’m finished. His eyes are still cast downward.
I feel a surge of regret for having rambled on so openly. Maybe I was wrong about James and this new thing we have. Maybe now that he knows this about me he won’t want to hang out anymore. I can’t blame him if he thinks I’m a bad person, but I can’t stand the thought of the rest of the summer without him.
“Do you think I’m horrible?” I finally ask.
He doesn’t answer, but when he looks up at me, his eyes are squinted in disapproval.
“We should go back,” he says. He starts up the engine before I have a chance to stop him.
I feel my bottom lip start to quiver as the wind hits my face, and I lower my sunglasses and point my head up toward the sun—somehow that helps me avoid crying. When we get to the marina, I jump out into the water and swim to the dock ladder, climb it, and walk hurriedly to The Possibility.
I hate the look I saw on James’s face. It’s the same look I saw all over school the week after my drive with Ethan. It’s the same look Amanda gave me. And I know exactly what it means: whatever we had going on, whatever James felt for me, is over.
In my rush to get away from him, I trip over something on the dock and land on one knee with my hands out in front of me.
“Ouch!” Great. There’s definitely a huge splinter in my left palm.
I raise my sunglasses and look around to see what caused my fall. Mrs. Ficklewhiskers is behind me, giving me the eye. Is it me, or does she look amused?
“Clem, dear, are you all right?”
Ruth is pushing herself up out of her folding chair.
I put up my hand. “Don’t get up, Ruth—it’s okay.” I stand and inspect my palm. The splinter is too small for me to grab with my fingers. How can something so tiny pack such big pain?
“George, get the kit!” shouts Ruth, who has appeared at my side. “That wily old cat!”
She takes my hand gently and leads me to her chair. “Sit, dear. We’ll fix you up in no time.”
George sticks his head out of their cabin and steps out onto the dock with a green metal box in his hand.
“I was a nurse in the Korean War.” Ruth takes the case from George and opens it up.
“I bet you looked cute in your uniform,” says George, looking at her affectionately.
“Oh, Georgie, stop!” says Ruth, giggling.
I smile in spite of myself.
“It’s not bad,” I say. “Just a splinter.”
“Let Ruthie take it out,” says George. “Those things can get infected.”
Ruth grabs the tweezers from her kit and focuses in on the sliver of wood poking out from my palm. Her hand wavers a little bit at first, but it steadies as she grabs the splinter and pulls it out cleanly.
“You’ll live.” She winks at me.
“I don’t know,” says George, helping me to my feet. “I think she may need some extra medicine. James! Get over here!”
I freeze.
“Come on!” George shouts, waving his arm in the direction of James’s boat. “Your girl needs a kiss.”
Obviously James is refusing to come over and help me because he hates me and thinks I’m a monster, which I am, so who can blame him? I will myself not to look.
“Oh, honey, what is it?” asks Ruth softly.
That’s when I realize that the tears I’ve been holding onto since James first looked at me all squinty on the dinghy have started to leak out. I put my hand on my cheek and it’s wet. Ack.
“Nothing,” I say, quickly wiping my face with the back of my hand.
George gives up on James and kneels down next to my chair.
“Did you have a fight?” he asks.
How did I end up here, on a dock in the middle of nowhere, with two old people saving me from splinters and asking about my love life?
Unbreak My Heart Page 15
