First Loves: A Collection of Three YA Novels

by Jolene Perry

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  MOM: DON’T POUT. I FLEW COMMERCIAL, TOO. AND WILL BE SLEEPING IN A TENT. LOVE YOU, SON.

  I smile. Mom doesn’t shorten anything, even while texting. I write her back.

  LV U 2. TLK SOON.

  It feels a little better—just those few words. With what she’s doing, I can’t complain the way I want to. Also, it’ll go back to her whole spoiled argument. I wonder how well we’ll be able to communicate when she gets there, though it’ll probably take her days to get set up where she’s going. The thought makes me nauseous. I’ve been to Africa just enough to know that it’s not somewhere I ever want to spend any real amount of time.

  I stand at the gated door to get down to the boats, and I don’t have one of those card thingies like Dad does. I really should have thought of that before leaving. At least this time I’ll be more prepared for the room and small spaces in his boat. As much as I don’t want to be here, I also don’t want to come off as a jerk.

  “Need in?” A woman’s voice from behind me.

  I turn. “Yeah. That’d be great. Sorry, I just got here.”

  “Oh, I’m Lynn. You must be Harris’s boy.” She’s probably Dad’s age. Some grey mixes with her blond and her large pale blue eyes peer out from underneath an impressively yellow raincoat.

  “I’m Antony.” I reach my hand out and shake hers. She has strong hands for a woman, and I’m kind of impressed.

  “Well, Antony. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m in the boat five slots down.”

  Her smile is warm, but the words are so weird, rolling off her tongue like everyone lives on boats.

  “Okay.”

  She pulls open the door, and I hold it for her to walk through.

  “Thanks.” She smiles over her shoulder as she jogs down the long metal ramp to the docks.

  I swear the thing is steeper now than it was when I got here. Oh. Stupid. Tides. The ramp moves with the tides. I take a long sip of my cappuccino. It’s the first thing I’ve been grateful for since I got here. The place makes good coffee.

  I’m not ready to make nice with Dad yet. I’ll need the rest of this cup first. Instead of going inside the boat, I step out onto the long bow. This part is covered with the metal roof, still banging with the sound of the rain. The bow of Dad’s boat sticks out quite a bit further than the rest. I wonder how many people live on boats smaller than his? It’s nearly inconceivable. Though most of the people who have boats here probably don’t live on them. The dread that was creeping when Mom first told me a week ago is now in full force, spreading through me in something that feels half horrible, and half like disbelief.

  I sit and pull my knees up, clutching my coffee with both hands. Damp cold is the worst kind of cold, and it’s quickly making its way through to my skin. The metal ramp clanks with the sound of someone else out in this crap weather. I glance over. Wow. Legs. A girl in tiny running shorts with lean, tan, legs, is walking down. She pushes the hood back on her coat as she steps under the roof covering the boats.

  Our eyes catch, and holy shit does she have perfect blue eyes. They’re blue like Hawaii ocean blue. Like blue shards of scattered glass—there’s unreal depth. I can tell even from here. One, two, three, four, five boats down.

  I look down take another drink. Right. Of course. She’ll be the daughter of Lynn, the nice lady who lives five boats down. Wonder if she likes it, or if she’s stuck like me?

  This will be the longest three months of my life.

  Three

  “Your mom’s really off to Darfur then?” Dad asks.

  Wow, this is a great way to start my morning. I’m sick to my stomach over the whole thing. I did a bunch of research after she told me where she was headed. She’s traveling with two bodyguards and a film crew of three guys. When she’s reporting like this, she pretties herself down, but I’m still nervous about it.

  “Yep,” I answer. “They want to do a long series. Guess you knew before I did.” A fact that still doesn’t feel right.

  Dad stands over the stovetop, scrambling eggs for breakfast. “She called and said it was a possibility. I’ve been…” His eyes are fixed on the eggs in front of him. “I’ve been wanting to see you, you know. It’s just… I know our lives are pretty different.”

  “Uh…” I try not to laugh. “Yeah.” Different is the nice way of saying it.

  He nods once, and I’m suddenly kind of afraid I’ve hurt his feelings. He’s weird, not bad, despite my argument to Mom.

  “I guess. I mean, I guess I’m trying to say that I’m glad you’re here.” He spoons out two small plates of eggs and hands one to me.

  Our eyes don’t meet. Dad looks down as he sits across the small table from me—more like a booth since the table is egg-shaped and half surrounded by a curved bench seat. The thing probably turns into a bed like a motor home or something.

  “Uh, thanks.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to be here. Not at all. I want my apartment and my friends in New York. I thought about tailing it back home, and being on my own, but Mom doesn’t need the stress, not with what she’s doing. I owe it to her to at least give this a chance. Well, and I really don’t want to add anything to her—Antony’s spoiled file.

  “Lynn and I are headed south to Gig Harbor for some boat parts later on today. I’m sure her daughter Amber will tag along. She’s a home-school kid like you. Smart. Driven.”

  “How do you know I’m smart and driven, Dad?” I push the eggs around my plate. I’m sure I sound like a jerk, and I don’t really mean to. I must still be in shock over this whole un-real situation.

  Now our eyes meet. “I guess. I guess I don’t. I hear from your mom more than from you, and I know you two are a lot alike. I know you speak a few languages, that you take advanced math, and she says your writing is fabulous.”

  Right. I may be in advanced math, but I suck at it. Writing, that’s the one thing Dad and I have in common. “You’re still writing, right?” I ask, even though I know he does.

  “Oh, yeah. Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” He stands up and does a quick wash of his plate. No dishwasher here. Probably no takeout either. Different world.

  I couldn’t stop writing if I wanted to either, but I don’t say that. “I’ve got some school stuff to do. I’m going to hang back today.”

  “’Kay.” Dad runs a hand over his head and walks back to his room.

  I take a bite of my eggs, and damn they’re good. A little green onion and garlic. I down my plate in seconds and then take Dad’s lead and do a quick wash in the miniature sink.

  The first part of day one down, and what feels like a million to go.

  - - -

  The sun’s out, and only the front half of Dad’s boat is under cover. The mast wouldn’t fit under the blue roof of the marina. I stretch out to lounge with my phone and send a text to my friend David back in New York. I tell him that it’s rainy, but that the boat’s nicer than I thought.

  I don’t want him to know what it’s actually like—not that it’s bad or anything. I’m sure it’s nice for a sailboat, but it’s embarrassing that half of my family lives like this. My friends freak out if someone has to move too far south in the same city. But here? I’m a long way from Manhattan.

  “Hello again.” Lynn waves from the dock.

  I jump to sitting when her daughter smiles from behind her.

  “Uh, hi. Dad went in to get something before you guys took off.” I stuff my phone in my pocket.

  “This is my daughter, Amber.”

  Amber isn’t in shorts today, but her jeans are snug, and her legs are still amazing. Her thick blond hair is pulled into a ponytail.

  I stand, and it feels like I should be polite and shake her hand or something, but I’m way up on the boat, and they’re on the dock. “Hey, I’m…”

  “Antony, I know. Your Dad’s been talking about you coming since he found out.” There’s nothing but relaxed normal in Amber’s eyes.

  I’m almost…offended.
Is that the right word? Girls usually react to me in some way. Small smiles, biting their lower lip, something. She’s looking at me like I could be her brother, or like she’s somehow better than me. The girl who lives on a boat.

  I chuckle. Unbelievable.

  “We ready?” Dad climbs out.

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m sort of unnerved that this girl isn’t looking at me. And hanging out on Dad’s boat alone all day suddenly doesn’t sound like much fun.

  “Oh,” He turns to me with a smile. “Glad you’re tagging along.”

  I shrug.

  - - -

  After a few polite questions back and forth in the backseat of Dad’s car, Amber pulls out a Kindle. A Kindle makes you look like a dork. I read a lot, but at least I do it on my iPad—way less nerdy. And no one knows I’m reading a book. She doesn’t seem bothered. She’s in a worn old pair of jeans and shoes that look like running shoes. Like she just threw something on this morning and left.

  She pulls a knee up to rest her head against, and I’m glad she’s not wearing shorts, because there’s no way I’d be able to focus. She’s pretty damn flexible.

  The vibration of the phone in my pocket brings me back to reality. I pull it out and spend a few more minutes texting to David and my occasional on/off girl, Gem, back in New York. I want them to know how lame this is, without actually knowing the reality.

  Dad and Lynn talk non-stop in the front seat. They’re practically speaking in a foreign language of Garmin, props, and furlings.

  “Wha’cha reading?” I ask Amber as we stop.

  “The Maze Runner. James Dashner. You know it?” Her eyes catch mine, and I stare again. I really, really need to stop reacting to them. She doesn’t strike me as a girl who would be up for a little fun, so she needs to be left alone.

  “It’s a great book.” But I’m also a bit surprised. I figured her for a girly book kind of girl. The Maze Runner is sort of a kick-ass guy book.

  “Don’t ruin it for me. I hear the ending’s awesome.” Her mouth pulls into a small smile, but there’s no flirt in it at all. I must be losing my touch.

  We step out in front of a store called West Marine.

  “I’m gonna let you two play in the candy store. I’m headed out to pick up a few books.” Amber smirks at her mom.

  “Can I come?” I ask. What the hell’s wrong with me? “And wait. Candy store?”

  Dad laughs. “It’s a joke, because Lynn and I hang out in here like kids in a candy store.”

  Weird. “Oh.” My eyes pass back and forth between them. Dad never said anything about a girlfriend, or whatever Lynn is to him.

  Amber drops her Kindle in the car and rests her hands in her raincoat. “It’s this way if you want to tag along.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and follow. We walk next to each other, but not next to each other. I guess this is okay, but I can’t remember the last time I did anything with a girl where I felt like nothing more than friends. Well, and that the possibility of more wasn’t there. Or maybe it’s that she’s not looking at me like she wants more from me, and that also feels off. I know what to do with girls who smile through thick lashes and bite their lip. I don’t know what to do with girls who wear running shoes, faded jeans, and read on Kindles.

  We’re on a small street lined with bakeries, coffee shops, and tourist traps. Everything looks as if it’s perpetually soaked in rain—moss grows in crevices on buildings, and paint peels.

  “You look out of place,” Amber says. Guess she’s one to put it out there.

  “What?” I’m in Dolce jeans, my black coat and shoes. Nothing special. I didn’t even know we were going out.

  “Too cool or slick or something for way out here.” Her smile is slight, but makes her comment less awkward.

  “Oh.” I start to say how the people we pass don’t seem to give a crap what they look like in their functional raincoats and worn jeans and hiking pants, but Amber blends in well, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I’m smart enough to know I’d sound spoiled and pouty or something, and I really don’t want to give off that impression.

  “Oh, this place has great hot chocolate. I’m gonna stop. You can follow. Or the bookstore’s right up the street.” She points.

  “I could go for something hot.” Not a drink for a kid. But I keep that to myself.

  In five minutes I’m sitting across from this girl who’s prettier every few minutes. No makeup, raincoat, worn-out shoes. It’s her perfectly shaped lips, high cheekbones and straight nose that have me.

  “You don’t seem thrilled to be here.” Her voice isn’t accusatory, just curious.

  “Not particularly.” I slowly spin my cup in my hands.

  “I’ve known your dad for a couple years, and I’ve never seen you, so I guess I assumed you two don’t get along.”

  “We don’t really know each other.”

  “I know who your mom is.” She has this faint smile—just enough that I can see her dimples and a teeny strip of white teeth.

  I laugh. “Most people know who my mom is.” Then I realize I may have sounded like a jerk. “Sorry. Most people know who she is, but not how cool she really is.” What’s with me? Getting all personal and noticing strips of teeth?

  “You two are close.” Her deep eyes are on me so intently I can’t look at her as directly as I normally would.

  “Very.” Which is another reason I can’t believe she’s doing this to me—leaving me out here with my dad.

  “This assignment must be a big deal for her.”

  I shift in my seat, needing to change the subject. It all makes me feel dumped. For three months.

  “Sorry.” She blows on the top of her cup. “You probably don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Not really, no. It sucks because I have places I could’ve stayed in New York, and Paris, but she wanted me here. We’ve been all over the world together, and now…” I can’t even finish. It hurts. I probably should have played that card—only it felt too personal even to share with Mom.

  “You’re stuck on your dad’s boat.” She’s kind of frowning, but her dimple’s still there. Like a perma-dimple or something. It all adds to her appearance of general wholesomeness.

  “Yep.” I lift the cup to my lips. I don’t care if this crap will burn me—I have to do something.

  “Sorry.”

  Pity is not something I want from her. Or from anyone, really. “So, they totally like each other, huh? My…dad, and your mom?”

  “You catch on quick.” She chuckles.

  “I’ve only been here a day.” I feel kind of defensive. It’s not like he’s really talked about her or anything.

  “They’re frustrating about it, though.” She takes a drink of her hot chocolate.

  “What do you mean?” Mostly I’m glad we’re not into personal Antony stuff anymore.

  “They’ll hook-up once in a while, for…you know,” she whispers over the table, and her cheeks turn pink.

  I shake my head. “Okay, I do not want to think about old people having sex.”

  “They’re not that old.” She smiles a real smile at me this time. More like the kind of smile I’m used to seeing from girls. This is better.

  “Still.” I shudder.

  “I wish they’d both get over themselves and do something about it.” She takes another drink and her eyes wander out the window to the street.

  “What, like get married?” The whole idea of marriage seems kind of foreign. Nearly all my friends’ parents have affairs, or have been divorced. My own parents were divorced years ago, and neither re-married. It kind of puts down the whole thing for me.

  “No. I mean, yeah, but even if they’d admit to the other that they’re in deep like, or in love, or whatever.” She stares at her cup as she spins it with her fingers.

  Her hands look strong, and she has these incredibly thick, dark lashes that girls spend loads of time trying to make with mascara, but nothing could compare to the real th
ing. Our eyes meet, and I feel something in my chest—kind of like the first time I saw Hélèna, or Gem from New York, only a little better, because it has as much to do with comfort as excitement. And comfort? I can’t be there yet. Comfort and girls don’t go together. Other emotions, yes. But not comfort.

  I’ve known this girl for minutes, and really shouldn’t be thinking this much about her. As much as it would be fun to fool around with someone who has her body, she’s not that kind of girl. I’m honestly too lazy to put forth the effort for something more. So crazy. I’m living on a boat and sitting across from a girl I’m probably going to end up being friends with.

  “Ready to continue on?” I stand.

  “Sure.” She stands with her cup still in hand. “So you read a lot?”

  “I write.” And then I cough because almost no one knows I write. Just Mom, well and Dad a little, my English teacher. That’s it.

  “Like your dad?” she asks.

  It’s already out now; guess it doesn’t matter if we keep talking about it. “Hopefully more literary than my dad.” Dad’s mystery novels make him a little money because they’re published so cheaply. I’d want more than that. We step back outside and continue up the sidewalk.

  “Oh.” Her eyes travel across my face, taking in my features.

  I start a smile, but stop, knowing how girls like the dimple on my right cheek, and knowing it comes out more when I’m holding in my smile. And what the hell am I doing? Amber won’t care.

  “How much have you written?” she asks.

  “I’ve finished two.” It comes out before I can think, or edit, or anything.

  “Novels?” She stops, staring, her eyes wide.

  I nod. Even Mom doesn’t know that. Why did I say something? “Don’t say anything. It’s sort of my escape.” Shit. My head’s definitely not on straight. It’s just, how can I be anything but real around someone who’s so…real? Walking around drinking a kid drink, reading on a Kindle, and wearing running shoes while not running.

  “If I wrote a whole novel, I’d be screaming it from the rooftops, even if it sucked.” Her smile is wide and her small arched brows rise.