Woodbury, Minnesota
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Thirty Sunsets © 2014 by Christine Hurley Deriso.
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First e-book edition © 2014
E-book ISBN: 9780738741055
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Manufactured in the United States of America
In memory of my beloved mother, Jane Kamack Hurley,
whose soul guides me still.
one
“Hey, Forrest.”
I look up from my Faulkner novel and push a lock of windblown hair behind my ear, squinting into the sun.
“Hi.”
Play it cool, Forrest. Play it cool.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Um … ” I glance self-consciously at the book on my lap. Darn. The book might as well be a flashing neon sign: PROPERTY OF GEEK.
“Is it good?” Jake asks.
“I have to read it for a stupid class,” I lie, and hate myself for lying. But, for god’s sake, Jake Bennett, a senior, the senior I’ve had a crush on for two years, is talking to me! To me! Of all the things he could be doing during his lunch period (and why oh why did I pick today to read Faulkner during mine?), he’s smiling his adorable grin at me !
Jake glances at the space beside me on the bench I’ve chosen under an oak tree outside the school cafeteria. “Mind if I join you?”
I feel my face flush. “Um … ”
Don’t blow this, Forrest!
“Sure.” I sweep my arm toward the vacant spot in what I intend as a nonchalant do-whatever-floats-your-boat kind of gesture. But my arm sweep is too exaggerated, too clunky, the kind of gesture moms use to get their first grader’s attention in the school pick-up line. I’m such a loser.
But Jake sits down anyway, clearing his throat and running his fingers through a tousled lock of hair. His blue eyes sparkle in the balmy spring sunshine.
“So … did you go to the prom last weekend?” he asks me.
Yes. Then I went to the Queen of England’s palace for brunch the next day.
“No … ” I say, wondering frantically whether that’s the right answer. Does not going make me a loser? Or does it signal that I’m available? I can actually hear my heart beating against my T-shirt. “Did you?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You didn’t miss anything. It was totally lame. The theme was ‘Midnight in Paris.’ The prom committee makes an Eiffel Tower out of Popsicle sticks, and yeah, I’m totally sold.”
I laugh, my heart now actually fluttering. Here I spend the whole year worshipping Jake from a distance based on his studliness, and wonder of wonders, he’s wry and sardonic as well!
“So the original isn’t made of Popsicle sticks?” I ask, then feel a wave of relief when he laughs.
“You’re funny,” he says, and the heavens part as I sense that he considers that a good thing.
I gulp, hoping he doesn’t notice. This whole exchange is almost too surreal to believe. See, when I started high school last year, I actually thought I had babe potential. With my long blonde hair and hippie figure, people tell me I’m pretty, and my big brother’s really cute and popular, so I figured I’ve got a decent shot at high school fabulousness, right? But then I discovered that no, I didn’t at all. I was immediately sized up as a brainiac, and if the frizzy-haired president of the friggin’ freshman debate team would blow me off (which he did, by the way), then the odds of someone like Jake Bennett noticing me were approximately the same as my dreaming up a cure for cancer en route to picking up my multimillion-
dollar lottery prize. I’ve learned my place.
The rolled eyes of Olivia and the rest of the cheerleading team every time they see me in the hall glued to my brainteaser app have sealed my fate as Sophomore Most Likely to Excel at the Math Meet (which I did, by the way). But now, wonder of wonders, the cutest guy in high school is cutting through all the cliquish crap and seeing me for the incredibly nuanced babe that I am. I knew this would happen! My high school fabulosity officially begins now.
“So … who did you go to the prom with?” I ask, aiming for casual.
“Just a bunch of other guys,” he says. “I’m totally unattached … but I’m hoping not for long.”
Okay, my heart is now dancing the polka in my chest.
“Yeah?”
He blushes and smiles. “Yeah. See, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, but … ”
“Yeah?” I prod, willing myself not to sound as breathless as I feel.
“ … but I noticed that Brian and Olivia didn’t go to the prom.”
I stiffen oh-so-slightly.
“Yeah … ?”
“Right, so, you know, there were rumors that they, like, broke up.”
My stomach muscles clench.
Jake’s eyes study mine. “So … did they?”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not my brother’s keeper,” I say, an edge seeping into my voice.
He furrows his brow. “What? Oh, right. No, I didn’t mean that you … I just thought you might … oh, hell. You know what? I’m just gonna say it.”
Please do. There’s still a sliver left of my ego to pulverize.
“See, I’ve had a crush on Olivia for a while now,” he says earnestly, and yup, there goes that last slice of my ego, right into the blender. “I mean, I’ve dated other girls, but she … ” As if on cue, his eyes seem to literally turn into silky puddles of lovesick goo. Adorable.
I clutch my novel tighter, the novel that I’m not being forced to read as a class assignment but that I choose to read because I actually have some depth, unlike all the other morons in this godforsaken school, and it’s a good thing I love Faulkner since he’s apparently the only guy I’ll ever hang out with.
“And I’m totally good friends with your brother,” Jake continues, “so I would never in a mil
lion years screw that up, but if Brian and Olivia are officially broken up, then … ”
I guess I’m staring into space. “ … and I didn’t want to ask Brian,” Jake blathers on, to fill the awkward silence, “because, well, you know, it’s kind of sensitive, and he’s seemed really bummed lately, so … ”
Another pause, one that I’m evidently expected to fill.
“They’re still a couple,” I say simply.
“Oh.”
Jake rubs his hands together, and I guess I could fill this awkward silence too, saying something cheerful or funny or consoling or cajoling or what-the-hell-ever.
Except that I don’t. I’m done with this conversation.
“Sooo … okay,” Jake says, rising from the bench, clearly hoping we’ve shared the last nanosecond that he will ever have to suffer through again. “Got it. And, hey, Brian and I are totally cool. I just thought … well … hey, enjoy your book.”
Two weeks. There are two weeks left of my sophomore year at Peachfield High School. After so many months of disappointments, humiliations, mortifications, and general crapfests, who would have guessed that my nadir would come so late in the year? Assuming this is the nadir. After all, I have two weeks to go … then two more years of high school after that.
Perhaps my slow slog through Loserville has only just begun.
two
“O-M-Geeee!” Shelley says in a singsong voice, nudging me aside as she plops next to me on the bench, her strawberry-blonde ponytail bouncing as she settles in. “Was Jake Bennett just talking to you ?”
“Yeah, we’re engaged now.”
Shelley pokes me with her elbow. “Tell me what he said!”
I shut my book and sigh. “Am I, like, hideous?”
Shelley raises an eyebrow. “He told you that you’re hideous?”
I shrug. “He asked if Brian and Olivia are still together. But I think the unspoken upshot was, ‘Oh, by the way, you’re hideous.’”
“What is up with those two?” Shelley asks, biting into an apple. “I heard they didn’t even go to the prom.”
“Yeah, I alerted the media.”
Shelley eyes me warily. “Wanna hear the rumors?”
I roll my eyes. Brian and Olivia have garnered significantly more than their fifteen minutes of Peachfield High School fame since they started dating last summer. Their adorableness is apparently too precious to go unchronicled by the school wannabes, and the tongue-wagging went into overdrive when they blew off the prom. I’m starting to feel more like Brian’s publicist than his sister.
“You know I don’t do gossip,” I remind Shelley.
“Oh please.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. Shelley’s been by my side since third grade to blow holes in my above-it-all attitude. Only she knows that I crush on cute seniors and harbor secret cravings to be invited to lame proms featuring Eiffel Towers made of Popsicle sticks. She knows I’d rather be in the game than on the sidelines mocking those who have somehow learned how to successfully nail it. She knows it, but it’s our little secret. I love that about her.
“The rumor,” Shelley continues conspiratorially, “is that Brian still totally loves Olivia but can’t bear to watch her destroy herself with her bulimia, so, you know, he’s taking a break. The whole tough-love thing.”
I bristle. “Who says she’s bulimic?”
“Uh, duh,” Shelley says. “She barfs after lunch, like, every day. And have you noticed how skinny she’s gotten?”
My back stiffens. I’m not exactly president of the Olivia fan club, but that doesn’t mean I want people being snarky behind her back.
Shelley studies my scowl and says, “Whatevs. You’re the one who hates her for being your brother’s girlfriend.”
See, that’s the thing: I don’t hate her because she’s my brother’s girlfriend. How petty and neurotic and borderline creepy would that be? I hated her before she was my brother’s girlfriend, and for totally legitimate reasons. I still remember the day I walked into chorus practice in a romper and she curled a lip at me. I know, a romper, what was I thinking? But god, did that curled lip sear my soul. I’ve been shlumping around in sweats, jeans, and T-shirts ever since.
Then there was the time I saw Olivia at a football game with some pretty blonde who looked just like her. I asked if they were sisters, and both of their jaws dropped. When I walked away, I heard this crazed hyena laughter echoing through the bleachers. I found out afterward that the “sister” was Olivia’s mother. Hysterical, huh? It was such a thrill to know my idiocy made their day.
It’s that kind of thing that makes my stomach clench when Olivia crosses my path. Throw in the factoid that she derailed my brother’s college plans and I think I’ve got a pretty fair claim to an attitude. But I’m not the kind of petty, neurotic, borderline-creepy person who hates my brother’s girlfriends just on principle. Olivia earned it.
Still, I’m way too cool to let her know she gets under my skin. (My romper days are over.)
“Hey, are you coming to Bri’s graduation?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Mom is having some people over to the house afterward.”
“Oooohh, is she making her gooey butter bars?” Shelley asks.
“I’ll put in your order.”
“I’m in. I’ve got to fill my quota before you abandon me this summer.”
I jab her lightly with my elbow. “You know you’re always welcome at our beach house.”
I wince at how pretentious I just sounded, and Shelley notices right away.
“Oh, please can I come to Spackle Beach?” she teases, pressing her palms in prayer position. “You’ll never even know I’m there; I’ll hole up in the east wing and have your butler bring me table scraps.”
I sputter with laughter. Yes, it sounds nauseatingly Kardashian-esque to lay claim to a “beach house,” but Shelley’s been there enough to know that it’s strictly no-frills. The butler, for instance, is only there on weekdays. (Just kidding. We don’t have a butler.)
And yes, it’s on an island (a huge draw for us residents of landlocked Peachfield, South Carolina, a boring orchard grove turned mill town turned computer-parts mecca housing all of forty thousand people), but that’s where the glamour begins and ends. The actual name of the island is Sparkle Beach; Brian and I renamed it as a shout-out to Mom’s badger-
like tenacity, which in this case worked to our advantage.
Dad usually lets Mom have her way, but he put his foot down when she decided that we needed a beach house. Too expensive, too impractical, too much of a flood risk, too indulgent (“Do you want our kids to be spoiled rotten?!?”)—he lobbed all of his most trusty artillery.
But Mom lobbed right back: it would be an investment. We’d never spend another dime on a hotel, cruise ship, or amusement park. Think of the tax breaks! The kids are only young once.
Dad probably would have stood his ground, but in addition to Mom’s arguments, her ace in the hole was having Brian and me jump up and down like banshees pleading her case. (We were happy to oblige.)
We finally wore Dad down, but with the caveat that we would not spend one more red cent on that &#*$ house than was absolutely necessary. We’d furnish it with our old tattered sofa and squeaky recliner; we’d decorate it with Brian’s and my crappy art projects; we’d eat peanut butter sandwiches morning, noon, and night.
“Fine, fine!” we’d all squealed, scooping each other off the floor in ecstasy. Our own beach house! I’d never felt so deliciously elite in my life.
Mom’s been a good sport about making good on her end of the bargain. When Brian knocked over a space heater and seared a hole in the house’s family room carpet, Mom tossed an area rug on top of it. When I splattered nail polish on the wall, she hung a mirror to cover it, even though it was way lower than the eye-level height she prefers. When the tattered sofa started literally bursting
at the seams, she flung a slipcover over it.
So we dubbed it the Spackle Beach House. Looks great at a glance, but things get dicey if you dig just beneath the surface.
“Come,” I cajole Shelley.
“You’ll be there in June?”
“Right, the whole month. We’re leaving a couple of days after Bri’s graduation. We’ll even upgrade you to the west wing this summer, if you’d like.”
She gives an exaggerated pout. “I gotta work at my aunt’s office this summer.”
I squinch up my face disapprovingly. “The veterinarian?”
She huffs. “Yes, Forrest. I’ll be cleaning out litter boxes while you loll on the beach. Thanks for making sure we’re both abundantly clear on that point.”
I narrow my eyes at her playfully, then turn wistful. “At least we’ll be away from her for a while. Maybe I can make Brian come to his senses once he has a little distance from her. I mean, Starrett Community College? He’s planned on studying pre-med at Vanderbilt since he was, like, in the womb, then Olivia breezes into his life and it’s like, ‘Welding school, here I come.’”
The bell rings, and Shelley and I rise from the bench as other students start filing past us en route to their next class.
“I like welders,” she says cheerfully as she hoists her backpack onto her shoulders, tossing her apple core into a nearby trash can. “But not as much as I like gooey butter bars. Remind your mom: gooey butter bars.”
I tuck my Faulkner novel into my backpack.
“Right. Gooey butter bars.”
three
“The crudités, Forrest, the crudités.”
Mom’s voice is a whisper, but it’s a Significant Whisper, an I’m-asking-you-for-the-last-time-to-refill-the-gosh-darn-crudité-tray whisper.
Then she turns around and gives an exaggerated smile to Aunt Faye.
“More crudités, coming up!” she says brightly, and really, just how desperate is Aunt Faye (or anyone else, for that matter) for more crudités?
But I slog to the kitchen anyway. Mom’s type-A personality goes into overdrive when she’s playing hostess, and she’s been anal for a full two weeks about Brian’s graduation party.
Thirty Sunsets Page 1
