by Anne Dayton
“Let’s try to stay focused.” I scoot my chair away from Dean, hopping it across the floor. It’s true that Dean is very handsome, like an actor or something, but it’s still pretty rude to brag about it. Popular people, I swear. They are a separate race from the rest of us. “Why don’t we start with something basic?” I scan the list of things we need to invent for our country. A constitution? No, that’s like jumping in in the middle. A flag? A name? No, no. “Let’s decide what type of government we want, and then we’ll theme everything around that.”
“Is that what the schedule says?” Dean has a smile I can’t quite read, but I ignore him. “I want to stay on the schedule. That’s how it works when you invent an entire country. You should have seen John Adams’s schedule.”
I pretend I can’t hear him. “I was thinking we should right the wrongs of America with our new country.” I flip quickly through the section in our textbook explaining different government types. “We could do something where we all share the work and the profits. Eliminate poverty.”
“No way.” Dean leans forward, suddenly taking an interest. “I want to be king.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What?” He takes the textbook from me and flips a few pages forward. “You can be queen if you want.” He stares at me, mischief twinkling in his cobalt-blue eyes. “I’ll even share my power fifty-fifty.”
I prop my head in my hands and cover my face. I think I liked it better when Dean wasn’t here helping. How do I tell him I don’t mind doing this all by myself? He can kick back and depend on me to bring home the A for our team.
“What?” I can hear the mocking in his tone. “What did I do?”
“You are impossible,” I say through my fingers. He doesn’t laugh or snort or say anything. I peek at him through my left hand, and he winks at me.
“You’re the one who wants to found a communist state.” He shoves the book toward me. I stay still for a second, trying not to give in to his blatant attempt to get under my skin again, but eventually I realize I can’t spend our entire study group with my head in my hands.
I sit up and look at the book, and he reaches across the table and points at the definition of a communist state: a type of government where all goods are owned in common and available to individuals as needed. I gulp.
“Mao? Lenin? Trotsky?” Dean raises an eyebrow at me. “I don’t think following the advice of those guys is going to get us an A.”
I search my brain for those names. I know I’ve heard of Mao, but unless he means John Lennon, one of The Beatles, the other two don’t sound familiar.
“Fine,” I say, trying to recover a single shred of my dignity. “No communism. Obviously that’s not what I meant.” I make a mental note to pay better attention in Mrs. Narveson’s class. “But no monarchy either. I don’t want a bunch of impoverished serfs on my conscience.” I raise my eyebrow back at him. I may not have Riley’s big brain or Ana’s devotion to studying, but I’m not stupid either. I make my fair share of A’s and B’s.
Dean sighs and bows his head. “As you wish, milady.”
It takes us a good hour to argue over every type of government in the book, plus two I’d never even heard of. Dean looked those up on his iPhone to prove they exist. Somewhere between meritocracy and constitutional monarchy, I began to relax. I didn’t notice it right away, but now my shoulders feel loose, and in my mind I begin to picture the beautiful red A that will be staring back at us at the end of the project.
Finally we settle on a social democracy. I like its emphasis on compassion for the poor, and Dean likes that it promises freedom for the individual. “Here’s what I think our flag should be.” Dean holds up his iPhone and shows me a picture of a black pirate flag.
“Ohmigosh, is that the time?” The top banner of his phone flashes 4:55.
“Turning into a pumpkin?” He leans back and beams at me.
“Yes.” I snap my textbook shut and shove it into my bag. “I can’t believe we lost track of time. It took us an hour just to decide on a type of government.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t blame you.” Dean holds up my history folder with my timeline. “Your preoccupation with the schedule delayed us a little, but I can overlook it.”
“Whatever.” I take my history folder from his hands and give him a mock scolding look, which is progress because a few hours ago there would have been no mocking about it. “Just be on time next time and try to be”—he grins from ear to ear—“less of a pain in the butt.”
He laughs like it’s the best joke he’s heard in a long time. “Let me walk you to your car.”
“No.” A blush creeps into my cheeks. “I’m getting a ride with my friend. I have to run to catch her.” Dean stands up and seems to be contemplating escorting me by force. “Like, literally. I’m going to run.”
“Bye, then.” Dean pulls the strap of his messenger bag over his head and steps to the side. “Don’t mow anyone down.”
“Yeah, okay.” I hesitate, trying to read his face. Is he laughing at me because I’m going to run across the campus? Is he sad I’m ditching him? Does he not care? I glance at my watch. No time to figure him out. “See you in class.”
I push open the library door and take off at a sprint. Marcus stayed late to work on an extra credit project in science, and his mom is going to give us a ride home.
As I run, my books bounce up and down, banging into my back, but I keep going. Hopefully Mrs. Farcus will wait. Getting a ride with your boyfriend’s mom is kind of lame, but anything is better than having to call Dreamy to come pick me up. She drives an old van with a spray-painted scene of horses running through a desert by moonlight on the side. I round the corner of the B-wing and finally make it into the parking lot—and screech to a halt.
There’s the Farcus’ Volvo and Christine’s car. And is that . . . a guy with Christine?
“You are such a liar!” Christine’s voice drifts out her open window. Something in her tone makes me stare. Tyler grabs Christine in a headlock and gives her a noogie. She comes up laughing and gasping, then starts slapping him on the shoulder. Tyler grabs her hands and holds them in his.
I force myself to turn away and head toward the Volvo.
Tyler.
Christine had a huge crush on him freshman year, and they even went out one time, but things fizzled. They’ve been hanging out at youth group this summer, but I didn’t realize how, um, personal things were getting between them. I glance again and see them comparing the size of their hands, palm to palm. It’s clear, even from this distance, that they’re lost in their own world.
I give my head a shake, then smile at Marcus and his mom like I never saw it.
6
Ms. Lovchuck stares at us over the rim of her hot pink reading glasses, a plastic smile pasted on her face. She must have at least ten pairs of glasses. I think she gets them from the revolving display at the grocery store on Main Street. A gold chain dangles from the sides of the frames and loops around her neck.
“What can I do for you ladies?” Her words are kind enough, but her voice is cold. I’ve never understood why someone who hates teenagers this much is the principal of a high school. The fish tank in the corner of the room gurgles.
Ms. Lovchuck had to borrow two extra chairs from the vice principal’s office to fit us, and we’re a little squished, but I don’t care. It makes me feel stronger to have all the Miracle Girls gathered around me.
“We’d like to talk to you about Ms. Moore,” Ana says, pulling a manila folder out of her bag. Thank goodness for Ana. She’s so organized and self-confident. If it were me, I’d stammer and stumble over my words and walk out of here feeling like an idiot. “We would like to petition to bring her back.” Ana lays the folder on the table.
Ms. Lovchuk doesn’t flinch. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss any details of Ms. Moore’s situation at this time.”
A purplish light shines out of the fish tank, casting a weird glow on Christine’s shoes. Silvery
fish dart around nervously, and there’s some grayish algae growing on the side of the tank.
“We know she was fired unfairly,” Riley jumps in, leaning forward in her creaky metal chair. “And we want to know what we can do to get her reinstated.”
“I’m sure Ms. Moore appreciates your concern.” Ms. Lovchuck writes something on the legal pad in front of her. “And I will make a note of it.”
A fat, slow fish slides along the bottom edge of the tank, feeding off the scum on the bottom. It’s disgusting, but I can’t make myself look away.
“We really want Ms. Moore back.” I feel my cheeks turn pink as the words leave my mouth. Oh no. We were supposed to come in here and argue our case rationally. Dreamy gave me a crash course in the art of protests this morning and told me that to convince people in power to change their minds, you can’t be too emotional. You have to appeal to their reason, but the words are already out, so I press on. “She’s the best teacher this school ever had.”
Ms. Lovchuck clears her throat, and my heart sinks. I ruined it. She’s not taking us seriously at all.
The stupid bottom-feeder glugs its way along, scooting his disgusting fish face along the edge of the glass, going nowhere.
“As I said,” she says, enunciating each syllable clearly, “I will make a note of it, and I’ll see what I can do. But I cannot discuss the situation further.”
She takes her glasses off and lets them fall on their little chain. She watches, waiting for us to respond, and eventually Ana takes the folder off the desk and shoves it into her bag.
“This isn’t fair.” Ana’s voice rises. “This is a public school. Our parents pay taxes. We have rights.” She zips her bag, creating a strangely angry sound. “We just want to know who filed the case against Ms. Moore.”
Ms. Lovchuck smiles too widely and gestures toward the door. “Have a nice afternoon, girls.” There’s a note of false cheerfulness in her voice. “Thank you for stopping by.”
7
As I walk away from the noise and chaos of the party, the light from the bonfire casts a soft orange glow over the sand. We came to the Full Moon Party, as promised, but now I’m sort of regretting it. Ana and Dave are having a “discussion,” as she calls it, by the water’s edge. From what I could gather, Dave didn’t really want to come tonight. Christine and Tyler are taking a moonlit stroll, and Riley is talking to some girls from the squad. We’re all here, but it doesn’t change the fact that this feels weird. Even if I am an upperclassman now, this is Riley’s world, not mine.
I take a few more steps toward the water. It’s peaceful here in the darkness just beyond the light from the fire. The crash of the waves washing up on the shore is soothing. I take off my flip-flops and enjoy the cool sand under my feet.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. Marcus.
You home? Want to talk? I miss you! I won using only Development Cards tonight!!!
I smile. This summer we fell into a nice routine of pedaling our bikes down to Bayside Books on Saturday nights. As long as you buy coffee they don’t care how long you sit in the café and read. Plus, I always got to catch up with Ms. Moore while I was there because business at the bookstore is slow at night. I was nervous about asking him to reschedule our date night, but he was really sweet about it. He played Settlers of Catan, this weird German board game, with some friends instead. Parties aren’t his thing.
Awesome! This party is making me uncomfortable Shouldn’t have come.
Behind me the sound of the party swells as a few football players pick one of the cheerleaders up in the air. I know I should go back, but it’s kind of nice to be here in the shadows for a little while. I click my phone to sleep.
“Enjoying the view?”
I look up and see a tall guy in a black hoodie silhouetted by the glare of the fire. I squint into the light, trying to make out the face hidden in the shadows.
“Um, yeah. I guess.”
The figure steps into the light, and I recognize the cool, blue eyes, the square jaw and smooth face.
“Dean.” I laugh a little, but it comes out forced. What is he doing here? “Sorry, I couldn’t tell who you were.” I take a step back.
Dean shrugs.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Some people at this school have been very welcoming.” His tone is teasing.
“Maybe they’ve never been your history partner.” I flip my phone around in my hand. An awkward silence hangs in the air. “I was texting my boyfriend.”
“That’s cool.” Dean nods likeit doesn’t matter to him one way or the other. He takes a seat on the sand next to me. “Why aren’t you joining in the jamboree?” He jerks his head toward the party going on behind us.
“I needed a break.” I dig my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt.
“Me too,” he says. He pats the sand next to him.
“Fine.” I lower myself down. The sand is soft and cool. My phone chimes in my hand, telling me Marcus has responded to my message. I glance at the phone and then look away.
“Gonna read that?” Dean motions at my phone.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Later, maybe.” I quickly switch my phone to vibrate and click the screen off again.
“Interesting,” he says, which kind of bothers me. He studies my face for a moment, but I’m careful to keep it blank and not give anything away.
“So, um, is it true that you’re from New York?”
Dean stares at the ocean and stays silent for a long while. I can hear the bonfire crack and pop in the distance, and in the quiet I slowly become aware of the cool of the sand seeping through my jeans. “Yeah. It’s not like here.” I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t say anything more.
“Well, how was it different?” I’m not sure I really care, but it’s better than awkward silence.
“You ever been to Brooklyn?” Dean looks at me skeptically, a touch of the arrogance I detected that first day in his voice. I shake my head. “The streets are alive,” he says simply. “More people, more excitement, more interesting things going on.”
Oh. Is that all? So, apparently everything is better in New York. I roll my eyes.
“But my mom got a job with a dot-com start-up in Silicon Valley, so here we are, whether I like it or not.” He digs his feet into the sand. His hair is dark and short and slightly messy. It looks like it’s actually a real style of some kind, not the sun-streaked, dried-out-from-the-ocean frizz most of the guys here have.
“Some of us like it here.”
For a moment, we’re both lost in our thoughts. I shut my eyes and try to enjoy the calming sound of the surf. I swear living with my parents is giving me the early signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m walking on eggshells all the time, hoping that nothing sets them off. Meanwhile my brother is a shadow, always holed up in his room, wasting hours and hours on his stupid laptop.
“I hear you’re a musician.” Dean’s voice is deep.
“Not really.” I flush, grateful that it’s too dark for him to see. How did he hear that? “I’m not in a band or anything. I’m only in the marching band, which is hardly”—I get another text from Marcus when I’m midsentence, so I press the button to stop the vibrating—“like being in a real band. No leather, no lead singer with a criminal record. It’s just a bunch of geeks playing the fight song, really.” Dean watches as I babble on, his eyebrow cocked. “Why do you ask? Do you play an instrument?”
“My dad’s a professional musician. He plays the sax.” Dean keeps his eyes focused on the ocean. “Moving here was a compromise for him. At least he’s pretty close to San Francisco. He played all the jazz clubs in New York.”
My phone buzzes again, and I contemplate quickly checking to make sure everything is okay.
“Well, that and my mom loves boats. She wanted to live by the water, so here we are.”
There might be a crisis or somethi
ng. Maybe one of the horses got out of the stable. I glance at my phone secretly and see that I have three text messages from Marcus.
“Granted no one asked me where I wanted to live.” Dean pushes himself to his feet and takes a few steps toward the huge Pacific Ocean, stretched out before us. My eyes rest on his back, but I quickly skip beyond him, to the vast moving abyss on the other side of his dark figure. There is incredible power in the waves, constantly pounding away at the shore, slowly breaking down the vast cliffs into smaller and smaller pieces. I don’t understand how you can look at the ocean and not see God. I whisper a quick prayer for my family, hoping that a creator big and powerful enough to fill the oceans can fix us.
I watch Dean staring at the sea, then steal a glance at my phone and scan Marcus’s messages. Oh, I get it. My stupid text to him made him worried that people were drinking or doing dangerous stuff. The first two are panicked one- and two-word messages wondering where I am and why I haven’t called. The last one says:
Call me. Please. I’m worried.
Dean turns around, the moonlight casting his dark shadow up the beach.
“What did your messages say?” I feel like he’s daring me to say or do something, but I don’t know what.
“My boyfriend is worried. I need to call him.”
Dean doesn’t move, seems not to even breathe for a few seconds, then he walks over to me and puts out his hand. I stare at it, trying to figure out what to do. I glance up at him, a cocky grin on his face.
“You know,” I say as I reach out for his hand. “I think you should give it some time. It’s not really so bad here.”
Dean pulls my arm gently, and I’m slowly lifted back to a standing position. He lets go of my hand, and I dust my palms off.
“I never said it was.”
8
When I wake up Sunday morning, the forest is shrouded in fog. It even drizzles lightly for a moment, little drops decorating my window, but then it stops. You can’t grow up in Half Moon Bay without learning to love the fog. Our little town is nestled between the ocean and the mountains, and the moisture blows in off the water and settles over the town most days, thick and damp and comforting. Unfortunately, it’s not the same as rain, which soaks into the earth and feeds the thirsty soil, so it doesn’t help much with the drought.
