Crush Stuff.

by Lisi Harrison

  “Oh my log!” The moment was too glorious to consider how a phone that weighed close to seven ounces could dislodge from the ocean floor and get swept so far, so fast. And even if it could, would it work? Whatever. Logic was for later. All Ruthie cared about now was getting that beautiful red rectangle back in her hands and—

  “Wait.” She paused. “That’s not my phone.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No, mine was yellow, and this one is . . .” Ruthie swatted a fly. “This one is yours!”

  Owen lowered his head. “Guilty as charged.”

  Ruthie stomped back to her rock and sat. How dare Owen fill her with false hope and then deflate her? And double how dare he play her for a fool?! Did he really think she’d buy the physics of that ridiculous story?

  As he flipper-marched toward her, head still low, Ruthie decided that forgiveness wasn’t an option because she wasn’t mad. She was grateful. Owen had concocted an elaborate, albeit ridiculous story for her. And that alone cheered her up.

  “Take it,” he said, offering his phone.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. I have six more.”

  “No, I mean I can’t because I don’t want it. The smartphone was turning me into a dumb-dumb.”

  “Ironic, much?” he said.

  “Ironic very much.” Ruthie beamed. Finally, a friend who valued literal opposites as much as she did! “Can you please tell me why you never tested to be in TAG? You’re kind of a genius.”

  Owen folded his hands across his cute pudgy belly. “Kind of?”

  “Fine, you’re a total genius. Why aren’t you in the program?”

  “It’s a tight group, and I’m not a fit-in type of guy.”

  “That’s the second-dumbest thing you’ve ever said. You have been fitting in ever since we got here. You’re one of us now, whether you like it or not.”

  “When you say us, do you mean your nesties or your Taggers?”

  “I mean my friends.”

  Owen’s eyes got a little watery. He turned away from the sun. “What’s the first-dumbest thing I’ve ever said?”

  “Subwater sand patterns,” Ruthie teased. “Is that even a thing?”

  “Of course it’s a thing.” He turned back toward her, offered his hand, and pulled her up to stand. “I’ll show you.”

  And off they went.

  chapter twenty-five.

  THE PALM OF Fonda’s right hand still stung from the countless high fives she received earlier on the ride back to Dana Point Harbor. Though painful, its sting was a glorious reminder that Catalina Island had been a huge success, Fonda was responsible for that success, and everyone knew it.

  “Is that your mom’s car?” Leah Pelligrino asked Fonda as they disembarked the ferry. They were dragging their bags, and themselves, to the parking lot—tired but triumphant after their action-packed adventure.

  “Where?” Fonda quickly removed the yellow sunglasses she’d “borrowed” from Amelia on the off chance that Leah was right.

  “There.” Leah pointed at the red Prius. “I wonder if Amelia’s using the triple-pom keychain I gave her.”

  Adrenaline zipped up Fonda’s spine. Something must have happened to her mother. “And I wonder why they’re here.”

  Without another word, Fonda hurried toward the Prius.

  “What is it?” Fonda asked. “Did something happen to Mom?”

  Barefoot, Winfrey got out of the car and popped the trunk, the coconut scent of her leave-in conditioner leading the way. “You mean Joan?”

  Fonda nodded. How many mothers did they have?

  “Joan’s fine,” Winfrey said. “A little preachy, but fine. Why?”

  The passenger door opened, and Amelia emerged. “Hey, how was the trip? Need help with the bags?” Her mirrored sunglasses reflected Fonda’s confusion. Why were they here? Why were they talking to her in public? Why were they being so . . . unmean?

  Winfrey grabbed Fonda by the wrist. “Cool bracelet. Are those real shells?”

  “Yeah, we found them on the beach.”

  Amelia twisted her wild auburn curls into a topknot. “Did you snorkel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Zip-line?” Winfrey asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Fonda said, still suspicious.

  “Jump on the water trampolines?”

  “Twice.”

  “Climb the boulder wall?”

  “Sort of.” Fonda smiled at the memory of her friends lying in a heap on the mat, laughing.

  “How about that epic candy shop?” Winfrey narrowed her cactus-green eyes. “What was the name of it . . . the Hot Spot?”

  “The Soft Spot,” Amelia tried.

  “The Sweet Spot,” Fonda said.

  “Yes, that’s it!”

  Winfrey high-fived Fonda. The pain was searing. “What’s with all the questions?” she asked, blowing on her palm. She wanted to revel in their sudden interest, roll around in it like a dog on a field of fresh-cut grass. But she resisted. It had to be a trap. “Why do you care so much?”

  “Dunno,” Winfrey said. “It’s been quiet with you gone, I guess.”

  “And it’s cool how you made the whole thing happen,” Amelia said. “I wish someone had saved us from Ferdink Farms.”

  “Same,” Winfrey said. “Hey, who wants to celebrate with a tower of Stack’s pancakes?” She flashed her mother’s debit card. “Joan’s buying!”

  Fonda glanced at the sky, tempted to thank whoever was responsible for her sisters’ newfound respect. Instead, she stopped and thanked herself. She was the one who fought for change, then risked everything to get it. The credit belonged to her. Not some heavenly force or stroke of luck. So, yes, Fonda was going to celebrate, just not with them.

  “Stack’s sounds fun. Maybe some other time,” she said in her kindest voice. “I’m celebrating with my friends.”

  “You mean Drew and Ruthie,” Amelia snipped.

  “Yes,” Fonda said proudly. “And a few others. You can meet them if you want.”

  Before they could respond, the nesties, along with Sage, Owen, Will, and Henry, appeared by Fonda’s side.

  “We’re thinking of staying at the harbor,” Henry said. “You in?”

  “There’s a sno-cone truck,” Drew said.

  “We can rent stand-up paddleboards,” Ruthie said.

  “And kayaks,” Owen added.

  “Rent?” Fonda glanced at the debit card in Winfrey’s hand and widened her eyes.

  After a sharp exhale, Winfrey gave her the card. “Fine.”

  Fonda wanted to hug her sister but didn’t want to risk ruining the moment. Instead, she kept her cool and introduced her new friends. Then she braced herself, expecting Sage to fawn over their style and the boys to fall in love with them, forgetting Fonda ever existed.

  “Hey.” Sage waved.

  “Sup?” Will mumbled.

  “Pleasure,” Owen said, though he didn’t look overly pleased.

  Henry didn’t say anything. He simply lifted his palm, then turned back to Fonda. “Are you in?”

  It was as if Winfrey and Amelia were just two regular people and Fonda was the only Miller that mattered. “Totally.” She beamed. “Let’s go.”

  Her days of being a tagalong were finally over. Fonda was a be-long now. The future was so hers.

  acknowledgments.

  If you’re the type of person who reads the acknowledgments, you will notice that the following names are also at the end of Girl Stuff. That’s because these people showed up again for me and, as always, brought their A game.

  Thank you, Jennifer Klonsky, president and publisher at Putnam Young Readers, and Jen Loja, president of Penguin Young Readers. This book would be a very long blog post without you.

  Thank you to my longtime collaborators at
Alloy Entertainment: Josh Bank, Sara Shandler, and Lanie Davis. Ready for another one?

  Thank you to the dealmakers: Richard Abate, my agent, who, after eighteen years, still manages to have better hair than I. Thank you, James Gregorio, my patient contract lawyer. Thank you, Romy Golan, for getting these books into foreign countries and keeping us all on schedule.

  Thank you, Olivia Russo, Christina Colangelo, Kara Brammer, Carmela Iaria, and Alex Garber, for your PR and marketing genius.

  Thank you, Jessica Jenkins and Judit Mallol, for this fabulous cover. Thank you, Suki Boynton, for making the inside look equally fabulous. And a massive thank-you to copyeditor Ana Deboo and proofreaders Jacqueline Hornberger, Ariela Rudy Zaltzman, and Cindy Howle for making you think I am an English-language savant. I am not. They are.

  Thank you, Caitlin Tutterow, for making it all run so smoothly.

  Thank you, Xbox, for keeping my wonderful sons, Luke and Jesse, busy so I can write. And a billion thank-yous to my parents, Shaila and Ken Gottlieb. Probably the only two people who have read this far. I take that back. No way my dad did. (Thanks, Mom.)

  Off to write another . . .

  Xoxo Lisi

  about the author.

  Lisi Harrison worked at MTV Networks in New York City for twelve years before writing the #1 bestselling Clique series. That series has sold more than eight million copies and has been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than two hundred weeks, with foreign rights sold in thirty-three countries. Alphas was a #1 New York Times bestseller, and Monster High was an instant bestseller. She is currently adapting her Pretenders YA series into a narrative podcast for Spotify and writing a new middle-grade series called The Pack. Lisi lives in Laguna Beach, California, and is either working on her next Girl Stuff novel or hiding in the pantry eating chips.

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