Crush Stuff.

by Lisi Harrison

  “What I meant was, let’s go bowling. I feel like a trapped animal in here.”

  “Great example of irony,” Ruthie said, indicating the exotic fish that were quite literally trapped inside his aquarium.

  Owen looked at her sideways. “I don’t get it.” He grabbed his cardigan off the hood of his race-car bed and slung it over his shoulder. “Anyway, the bowling alley has free shoe rentals on Wednesdays. Not that money is an issue. I mean, I can afford the fee—”

  “This isn’t about shoe rental, Owen. It’s about preparing for your language arts test.” The conviction in Ruthie’s voice was undeniable. Yes, she wanted him to experience the joy of learning. But there was more. If Owen continued to get straight D’s, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell-Kline would not only give her a terrible reference, they’d fire her.

  “I have an idea,” she tried. “Why don’t we bowl after your test?”

  “Borrrr-ing!” he said, as “Für Elise” began playing throughout the house.

  “I think someone’s at the door,” Ruthie said, irritated by another distraction. She checked her pink cupcake watch. Her grumbling stomach had been right; it was almost dinnertime.

  “Franklin and Eleanor are back from the dog spa!” Owen said, taking off down the hallway. “I shall return, m’lady!”

  Ruthie lowered her head onto Owen’s desk and banged four times—once for every bad grade he’d received under her tutelage, and one extra for the F he was about to get tomorrow if he didn’t focus. Which he wouldn’t. So now what?

  Ruthie’s father always said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Meaning: Owen would eventually persuade Ruthie to leave the house, and when he did, she’d have to be ready; quizzing him on the go was the only hope.

  Ruthie opened the desk drawer in search of index cards but stumbled on a stack of tests instead—tests that she had never seen because Owen claimed to have ripped them up; he was that upset. Only these tests were very much intact. They were also incapable of upsetting Owen unless Owen had a problem with scoring 100 percent on ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING!

  “Oh. My. Cod!” Ruthie said. There had to be some explanation. Some logical reason why she was tutoring Owen when he clearly did not need her help. What if the iridescent sea creatures in his aquarium had once been tutors, lured by the promise of money, then zapped by a laser and transformed into objets d’art? Why else would he be paying for a service he didn’t need? Rich people loved collecting rare things, and what was rarer than a talented and gifted fish?

  Ruthie shut the desk drawer and zipped up her backpack. A phone containing the numbers 9-1-1 would have been helpful. But, no. Her parents thought earning it was nobler. Well, how noble would it feel when they found her gills-up in a tutor tank?

  Terrified, Ruthie hurried for the door and slammed straight into Owen.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, clutching a miniature rust-colored poodle under each of his arms. “Wait . . . why do you have your backpack?”

  “Uh, my mom called,” Ruthie blurted. “My uncle, the professional wrestler, stopped by with like five of his wrestler friends, and you know what they say about wrestlers . . . They always come looking for you if you’re late for dinner.”

  “Seriously?” Owen asked.

  “Yeah. They get super hungry.”

  “No,” Owen said, frustrated. “Did your mom really call?” He set the dogs down on his bed. “When did you get a phone?”

  “Uh, this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Ruthie swatted her hand like it was no big thing. “It’s used. And broken. And it only accepts calls from my mother. I’m getting it fixed tomorrow. Nothing to brag about, trust me.”

  Owen held out his palm. “I’m good at fixing things.”

  “Yeah,” Ruthie scoffed. “I bet you are.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I bet you’re good at a lot of things.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. I bet.”

  Owen withdrew his hand. “Sorry, what’s happening right now?”

  “You’re good at a lot of things. That’s what’s happening right now.”

  His cheeks reddened as he glimpsed the gold cup on his shelf. “You eye-spied my bowling trophy, didn’t you?”

  “No, Owen, I eye-spied the tests in your desk drawer!”

  “Uh . . .” His red cheeks paled. “Yeah, about those . . .” He lowered onto the fender of his race-car bed and hung his head.

  “Yeah, about those,” Ruthie mimicked. “Are you trying to laser me into a fish?”

  He lifted his face and laughed. Not a villain laugh, mind you, a friend laugh. As if her accusation was genuinely funny. Which, fine, it was.

  “Why would I want to laser you?”

  “I don’t know! Why would you lie about getting straight A’s?”

  Owen stood; his smile waned. “You needed money.”

  “For a phone, Owen, not food.”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to help you.”

  “Help me? I was supposed to be helping you.”

  “You did help me.”

  “Wait.” A new kind of sweat prickled the surface of Ruthie’s skin. It was free of fear and full of pride. “You got those A’s because of me?”

  “No. I got those A’s because I am the gent in intelligent.” Owen slumped back down on the bed. “My IQ is 151.”

  “I don’t get it,” Ruthie said, which wasn’t easy to admit. She reveled in her ability to get it and loathed when she didn’t. “Why aren’t you in TAG?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Well, why do you need my help?”

  “I don’t. I just thought it would be fun to hang out.”

  Ruthie took a step back, feeling more suspicious than ever. “Why?”

  “You know, you’re cool, and—”

  “Hold up!” Ruthie released her backpack to the floor. “You think I’m cool?”

  Owen nodded. “The coolest.”

  This time it was Ruthie who blushed. That was the nicest thing a boy who wasn’t her dad had ever said to her. “Owen, you don’t have to pay to hang out with me.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No!”

  “Really?”

  “Is forty the only number spelled in alphabetical order?”

  “It is indeed.” He beamed.

  “Then, yes, I want to be friends for free. Do you?”

  “Is one the only number spelled in descending alphabetical order?”

  “Indeed, it is.” Ruthie beamed back.

  “Then free friends we shall be.”

  An instant later, the realization of what had just happened settled in, and Ruthie’s spirit began to deflate.

  Owen placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

  “Not sad,” she sighed. “Unemployed. I don’t have a used broken phone. I don’t have any phone. And now I’ll never—” Ruthie stopped herself. She didn’t want to dump old problems on her new friend. She’d find another job somehow, someday. Right?

  “I think I can help.” Owen waved Ruthie over to his closet and opened its double doors with a magician’s flourish. “Ta-da!”

  Ruthie’s jaw hung slack. This “closet” was the size of her bedroom. Only its shelves weren’t bloated with time-worn puzzle boxes, books, and trophies. Instead, they displayed color-coordinated clothes that must have been folded by someone from the Gap. The creases were that precise. However, the real shelf de résistance was to the right and contained an Apple Store amount of phones, laptops, monitors, and headphones. “Where did you get all of this?”

  “My parents. They feel guilty about working all the time, so they buy me stuff. And you want to know the weird part?”

  “That’s not the weird part?”


  “No, the weird part is I don’t use any of it. I’d rather read.”

  “How is that weird? I’d always much rather read.”

  Owen grinned. “I knew I liked you. As a friend, I mean.”

  “Obviously. And same,” Ruthie said, even though his floppy hair and spectacular brain could make her susceptible to the crush virus . . . you know, someday, way, way down the road.

  “Go for it,” Owen said, indicating the shelf de résistance.

  “Go for what?”

  “Take whatever you want. The yellow one is the newest model. They weren’t sure if I’d want that one or the red, so they bought both.”

  Ruthie extended her hand, then pulled it back. “I can’t. I have to earn it myself.”

  “Consider this logic,” Owen said. “It’s just going to sit there—waiting to be turned into landfill. Doesn’t Reduce, reuse, recycle mean anything to you?”

  Ruthie took a deep breath and considered this. It did seem wasteful to buy a new phone when a perfectly good one was sitting right there in front of her. “At least let me buy it from you.”

  “Why? It’s not like I paid for it.” He reached for his red phone, tapped the screen for a few minutes, asked her for the serial number of the yellow one, then, “Congratulations, friend. Your phone has been activated and all service fees have been added to my Friends and Family plan.”

  Ruthie expressed her appreciation so many times the words thank you started to sound like thin-q, which they agreed was a good name for a weight-loss app. They also agreed to keep their tutoring schedule so Ruthie’s parents would think she was still working for her phone. It was dishonest, and she did feel bad about lying, but not as bad as she would have felt if she had to look for someone else to tutor, someone who wasn’t her new friend Owen.

  chapter nineteen.

  VAN’S PIZZA PARLOR was surprisingly crowded for a sunny Sunday afternoon, the reggae music annoyingly upbeat. Bursts of laughter swelled and popped, then fizzled like fireworks. Dishes clattered, voices carried, and that peppy little bell over the front door cling-clanged incessantly. Fonda searched for the nearest exit. If she got up from the table and ran, she could be back in her room in twenty minutes. She could stress in peace.

  This outing was all Drew and Ruthie’s fault. They stopped by Fonda’s house at twelve thirty and insisted she open the blinds, turn on some lights, get out from under her covers.

  “Lunch at Van’s?” Ruthie had suggested. “My treat!” She flashed her new phone, reminding them that she no longer needed to save her tutoring money and had cash to burn, thanks to Owen.

  “Not hungry,” Fonda groaned.

  “A change of scene will help you think,” Drew insisted.

  And she was right. A change of scene did help her think. She was thinking she should have stayed in bed.

  “Pepper flakes?” the waiter asked as he placed three personal pizzas on their table.

  “No, thank you,” Ruthie told him.

  “Ranch?” he asked. “It’s not just for salad anymore. It’s also a wonderful dip.”

  “No, thanks,” Drew said.

  “How’s about some Parmesan? We have shredded, grated, and chunks.”

  Fonda’s stomach roiled. On a good day, she thought Parmesan smelled like barf, and this was not a good day. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong, and everything that could go right was also going wrong—including her pizza. “Um, excuse me? What are those green things?”

  “Jalapeño peppers,” the waiter said proudly. “And yes, they’re organic. Every ingredient on the Spicy Vegan is sourced from local farmers markets.”

  “But I didn’t order the Spicy Vegan. I ordered the Royal Hawaiian.”

  He began flipping through his notepad. “Says right here, two Sunday Funday thin-crust specials and one Spicy Vegan.” He flashed a fake pity pout. It was infuriating.

  “Well, here is not correct,” Fonda snapped. She wasn’t trying to be rude, but come on! She’d never even heard of the Spicy Vegan. She would have assumed it was an itchy skin condition, not a lunch option if she had.

  The waiter adjusted his man bun. “I’ll get that Royal Hawaiian out as quickly as possible,” he told Fonda. Then to the others, “Bon appétit, now you may eat. Except you. You’ll have to wait.”

  “It’s okay. You can cancel it. I’m not that hungry.”

  “Don’t cancel. She’ll take it!” Ruthie told the waiter as he was leaving.

  “If you don’t eat it, I will,” Drew said with a giggle. “Ha! I said will.”

  She was giddy and clearly very hungry from her morning at the skate park, where she “coincidentally ran into Will” and “ended up riding next to him” for almost an hour. It was obvious that she wanted to analyze their “chance” encounter, break it down moment by moment, and really dissect it. But Fonda didn’t have the patience for a crush convo. The Catalina Island trip was only eight sleeps away—and she couldn’t deliver on any of her big promises. “Even if Sage does figure out how to make a sea monster hologram, we won’t be able to see it in the daylight. It will be too bright.”

  “What if . . .” Drew slapped two slices of pizza together and took a giant bite. “We wait until dark.”

  “We won’t be at sea in the dark. We’ll be in our cabins.”

  “Then project the hologram by the cabins.”

  “A sea monster on land?” Fonda lowered her head onto the table. “I give up.”

  “Solid point,” Drew said. “Hey, Ruthie, is it possible to see holograms in the daylight?”

  No answer.

  “Ruthie,” Drew said again. “Ru-thie!”

  Fonda lifted her head to find Ruthie staring at her phone, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile.

  “Dude!” Drew said with a flick to Ruthie’s forehead. “Hello?”

  “Owie! What did you do that for?”

  “I was asking you a question.”

  “Sorry.” Ruthie smiled, her eyes still fixed on her phone. “A cat is spinning around on a record player. It’s hilarious!”

  “I know, but Fonda needs our help. We have to focus.”

  The waiter appeared and placed a meat-covered pizza in the center of the table. “Sorry for the wait,” he said. “The kitchen is really backed up today.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The Three Little Pigs,” he said. “Pepper flakes?”

  Fonda lowered her head again. “That’s not what I ordered.”

  “Oops, my bad. This is for table nine. What did you want again?”

  What do I want? Fonda thought. I want Nanci from Catalina Island to tell me that she checked with her boss, and he said paintball is legal on the island. I want Sage to figure out how we will see a hologram in the daylight. And I want Lulu’s makeup magicians to not charge me fifteen hundred dollars per makeover because fifteen hundred times sixty is impossible to calculate, let alone pay.

  “She wants the Royal Hawaiian,” Drew said. Then to the girls, “Do you think Will thinks I was stalking him? Because I wasn’t. I was there with Doug.”

  “Why aren’t you talking to him?” Ruthie asked. “He bought you fro-yo. I thought you were all good.”

  “I said stalking, not talking. And we are good. I think. I mean, we’re not in a fight, but we’re not really friends either. We’re somewhere between friends and fight—we’re frights.”

  “You have every reason to be afraid,” Ruthie said. “Stalkers are scary. Have you told your parents?”

  Drew leaned across the table and yanked the phone from Ruthie’s clammy grip.

  “What the heck?”

  “You’re not paying attention to, like, anything we’re saying.”

  “Give it back!”

  “No!”

  “Come on, Drew. Jerry’s about to wakeboard!”

  �
�So?”

  “So? Jerry’s a squirrel!”

  “Well, we’re your best friends, and we need you to focus—”

  Fonda’s phone started to ring. “Shhhh,” she hissed. “It’s Nanci!” She plugged one ear to block out the music and answered with a chipper “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Nanci with an i from the Catalina Island Tourism Board. May I please speak to Rhonda?”

  “It’s Fonda, actually.”

  “Oh, hello, Fonda. It’s Nanci from the Catalina Island Tourism Board. I’m calling about your paintball inquiry. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. My boss had oral surgery on Thursday and wasn’t picking up his messages . . .”

  Fonda rolled her wrist, silently begging the woman to get on with it.

  “What’s she saying?” Drew whispered. “Can we do it?”

  Fonda lifted a finger to her lips. Shhhh.

  “. . . I understand your seventh-grade class will be joining us for two nights,” Nanci continued.

  “Yes, and—”

  Nanci exhaled. “Gosh, I just adore school groups. You know, my first visit to the island was on my seventh-grade field trip. Of course, that was a million years ago. But not much has changed. As you can imagine, I just fell in love with the place. So much so, that, well, here I am.”

  “Wow. That’s so cool,” Fonda said in that saccharine tone she saved for lonely grown-ups. “So, anyway, I was wondering if—”

  “Becca, my eldest daughter, got married here last month. September is such a beautiful time of year. The tourists are gone, the weather is spectacular, and those monarch butterflies! Such miraculous creatures, aren’t they? The way they transform themselves—”

  “I know, right?” Fonda managed. “You know what else is transforming? Paintball. One minute your clothes are clean, and the next they’re full of paint. It’s so much fun.”

  Nanci snickered. “I feel sorry for whoever’s doing the laundry when that’s over.”

  Hope swelled inside of Fonda. “Does that mean we can do it?”

  “Oh, no, dear. Absolutely not. Those pellets are a real threat to our wildlife. But if it’s adventure you’re looking for, I’m happy to make some recommendations. For example, capture the flag—”