“Would you please take down the video you made?”
“No problem.” I pull back enough to see him. “Anyway, I think all your law partners have seen it by now, don’t you?”
He shoots me a look, and I laugh. It comes out thick and mucus-y. He tries, but fails, to suppress a Dad-style chuckle.
“So now I have a question for you,” I say. “Can we keep the ducks?”
He shakes his head like he’s a fool. It gives me hope.
“Please?”
“I suppose,” he says. “But only until they’re old enough to survive on their own.”
I nod.
“And you’re going to have to build that hutch for them. They can’t keep living in your bathtub.”
“I will, don’t worry.” I don’t know how I will, but I will. I’ll pull directions off the Web or something.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says bluntly. He’s back to the constipated Dad I know and love. “I don’t want to hear the whole story, because I doubt my heart could take it. But, Carly. Please tell me you didn’t pay for those ducks.”
His words prompt a fresh batch of tears, but they’re the burbly, feel-good kind. “Don’t worry, Dad. I got a very good deal.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
THE NON-IRONIC LOVE BOODLE
On Monday, Coach Schranker has our whole PE class file into the pool area to watch Anna do her dive. He’s making her do it publicly, just as he said he would. What a wanker.
Anna comes out of the locker-room in her red bathing suit. She wraps her arms around her ribs and stands hunch-shouldered. The rest of us are dressed out in our PE shirts and shorts, and I’m sure she’s embarrassed to be the only one in a swimsuit.
“All right, Anna,” Coach Schranker says, using his no-nonsense voice. “Let’s see it.”
Anna looks at us. I give her a big thumbs-up.
Vonzelle says, “You can do it, Anna.”
“It’s easy, I swear,” Peyton chimes in.
Whatever, I think. Peyton’s acting like Saturday night never happened, and while I’m not about to join in and pretend to be best buds again, I choose not to call her on it. I do stifle a laugh when Vonzelle rolls her eyes, though. Peyton huffs and flips her butt-long extensions.
“Let’s go,” Coach Schranker says.
Anna walks slowly to the bottom of the ladder that leads to the high dive. She puts her hand on the railing. She stops and looks back.
“Anna,” Coach Schranker warns.
She locks eyes with mine, and the message she’s transmitting is, Please come here. I need you.
I hurry over. The air smells even more chlorine-y by the boards.
“Anna, you can do it.”
“I don’t know,” she says. Her tone makes my gut twist. “I’m scared.”
I try to stay calm. “I know. But you have to do it anyway.” I swallow. “You have to, Anna.”
She wraps her bare foot around the back of her other leg. Gaz ing at me from under her long lashes, she says, “Well . . . I’d kind of feel better if maybe you did something scary, too.”
Wait a second. What is she up to?
“I called Roger last night,” she says.
“What?!”
“I told him you need help building the duck hutch. And, um, that you like him.”
“Anna!”
“Oh, come on,” Anna pleads. “You said yourself that you do. Can’t you please be the right girl who finally ends up with the right guy?”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Vonzelle,” I say, thinking, Oh my God, she told him I like him? What did he say? She wouldn’t be telling me if it was bad, would she?
“But Vonzelle agrees,” Anna says. “We want you to have your happy beginning.”
I turn to glare at Vonzelle, who waves. She then gives an un-subtle jerk of her chin to direct my attention to the bleachers. I look where she wants me to, and my pulse quickens, because sure enough, there’s Roger, leaning over the bleacher railing and resting his weight on his forearms. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and his usual unflappable expression. Except he is flappable. I saw it when he proclaimed his feelings for me . . . and again when I proceeded to rip his heart out and stomp all over it.
But he’s here, looking strong and kind and handsome. So handsome, because it comes from his sweet soul, which is ten thousand times sexier than a stupid guitar.
Whoa, my body says. Not “whoa” as in stop, but “whoa” as in . . . whoa.
I turn quickly back to Anna, blushing so hard I can feel heat radiating off me.
“He came to cheer me on,” Anna says, all innocence.
“Uh-huh,” I say. I might faint. I really might faint.
“Ladies, this isn’t social hour,” Coach Schranker says from the side of the pool. “Do it or don’t, Anna. Pass or fail.”
“Roger’s your ironic love boodle,” Anna says softly.
I concentrate on breathing.
“Promise you’ll talk to him, or I won’t do the dive.”
Coach Schranker strides over. “Am I going to have to start counting again?”
Anna keeps her focus on me. She arches her eyebrows.
“Fine,” I say dizzily.
She grins.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time here,” Coach Schranker says, and damn if his eyes don’t dip to Anna’s chest. What a serious, serious wanker. “I’ve gone out of my way to give you a second chance, Anna, and I must say, I’m very disappointed.”
“Don’t be,” Anna says. She climbs confidently up the ladder, strides to the end of the board, and turns around. She lifts her hands above her head, looks up, and falls.
“She . . . she did it,” Coach Schranker says, flabbergasted.
“She did it!” I cry. I’ve got so many emotions churning inside of me that I can hardly function—but she did it, she did it, she did it!
“Wh-hoo!” Bad Attitude Cindy calls out. Other girls join in. “Way to go, Anna!” “Beautiful!” “You rock!”
I rush to the side of the pool. When she surfaces, I squat and slap her a high five that turns into a wet handclasp.
“Anna! I’m so proud of you!” I exclaim giddily. She spits out a little water and smiles.
“Gefeliciteerd,” someone says in a deep voice behind me.
Still gripping Anna’s hand, I glance over my shoulder. It’s Roger, of course, saying some Dutch thing that no one understands, but which is clearly congratulatory.
I’m dimly aware of Anna telling him thanks. I’m far more aware of his eyes on mine. He might have come to support Anna, but really, he’s here because of me. His expression tells me that without words, as does the up-and-down jerk of his Adam’s apple. He’s flappable all over again.
I’m slammed with nervousness. Still, I manage a timid smile which means yes and I’m sorry and you are a beautiful, gorgeous boy.
Relief transforms his features, followed by solid, sturdy joy. My heart leaps, and I lose my balance. Or maybe Anna accidentally tugs me. All I know is I’m falling backward. Oh, crap.
And then Roger lunges forward and extends his hand—
which I grab—
and it’s big and strong and holds me tight—
and yet I’m too far gone, I’m toppling into the pool. I’m in the pool, my PE clothes drenched, and Roger falls in with me, his fingers clasping mine. He comes up spluttering like a surprised, flannel-wearing Loch Ness monster, and I laugh. Anna squeals, and water goes up my nose. I can’t stop laughing.
The Wanker blows his whistle. “Carly! Out of the pool!”
I ignore him and grin at Vonzelle, issuing a challenge with my eyes.
“Not a chance,” she says. Then she makes an oh, fine face and jumps in, splashing the girls on the side.
Bad Attitude Cindy launches herself into the air next, yelling, “Cow-a-bunga!”
Anne Heather and Tatiana shriek, and then they leap in. Lydia shields herself with her hands and cries, “You’re getting me wet!
”
“Too bad!” Jodie says, giving her a shove. Lydia yelps and clutches Jodie’s arm, and they both plunge in together.
The Wanker blows and blows his whistle. “Girls! Out! Now!”
Jackie, Hailey, and Margot interpret that to mean “Girls! In! Now!,” and they jump in holding hands. Peyton is the only girl left on the pool deck. She steps away from the water, anxiously gathering her extensions into a ponytail and holding them off her back. I’m almost sorry for her, my once-upon-a-time friend who’s unable to get wet for fear her hair will fall out. It’s too bad for her. I’d rather have real-ness any day.
Roger pulls me toward him in the deep end. We’re treading water, because even he isn’t tall enough to stand.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he tells me.
“You are?” I say, giggling and also struck with a sudden zing of nerves. “Better do it quick before the Wanker calls the National Guard.”
He draws me close. My heart flutters like crazy.
“I’ve got to warn you, I’ll probably taste like chlorine,” I say.
“Sakkerloot,” he says. He presses his lips to mine, and we both go under.
And then? We paddle harder and come back up, because that’s all we can do. Anna and Vonzelle are whooping. The Wanker is furiously blowing his whistle.
Roger and I smile foolishly at each other. We keep paddling and try again.
BIG DUCKY KISSES TO:
All the quacks at Dutton who take care of me with such skill and enthusiasm: Stephanie Owens Lurie, Steve Meltzer, Scottie Bowditch, Eileen Kreit, Irene Vandervoort, Rosanne Lauer, and Lisa Yoskowitz, as well as every single sales and marketing peep out there, because I know how hard y’all rock. I mean work. Oh, let’s be honest, I mean both.
A special Dutton-thanks to Allison Verost, for casting the deciding vote to allow “Git R Done” to stay in—and for being an absolutely fabulous publicist (who just happens to have absolutely fabulous hair).
My Atlanta buds who help me with Atlanta details whenever I need them: Gini, Julianne, and Mags.
Jeanette Meyer for talking to me about sisters.
Sarah Mlynowski and E. Lockhart for their most excellent early reads of this book. Sweetie-dudes, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Y’all helped me make this novel sooooooooo—takes deep breath—oooooooooo much better. And plus, y’all are just cute, and you make me laugh, and if you were ducklings, I would throw you the yummiest bread crumbs ever, and they wouldn’t ever be stale. ☺
Bob! Yo yo yo! Couldn’t have done it without you.
My huggable agent, Barry Goldblatt, whose outward ferocity hides his squishy-marshmallow-Peep interior, and who keeps me safe in the shelter of his wing.
My family in general (every one of you, always), but especially:
*my mom, who’s the best mama duck IN THE WORLD;
*Le Grande Fromage for all the life lessons he’s passed on, and which I’ve absorbed, though not always in the form he intended;
*and Susan White, Mary Ellen Evangelista, and Eden Knox for being my dear sisters. Love youladies!!!
My in-house flock of duckies: Jack, Al, Jamie, and Mirabelle. Y’all inspire me, delight me, put up with me, and is loving me. I is loving you right back, forever.
And finally, Julie. Oh, Julie. Julie Strauss-Gabel, that is—an editor so extraordinary she can turn duck poop into gold. Thanks for pushing me so frickin’ hard. Thanks for caring. Thanks for being you.
Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Page 24
