I take a seat on a nearby bench and try to calm down. “I can’t believe I have to spend the rest of the day with her.”
“So you’re going to stay out, then?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Jenn wants to finish the day.”
“Huh. I’d think she’d want to spend her last day in LA saying goodbye to people. But maybe they already know she’s leaving.” He sighs again. “For someone so smart, your sister makes a lot of dumb choices.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Maybe you should keep going,” Nate says. “It’s your last chance to hang out with her before she moves.”
I glance over at Jenn again. Her eyes are closed, and she’s smiling up into the sun. It reminds me of all the times we lay on the roof of our apartment building as kids, pretending we were at the beach instead of avoiding Mom and Dad. Even though it scared me to hear them yelling at each other, those afternoons on the roof are some of my best memories of spending time with my sister. Jenn was so open, so honest back then. She’d let me ask questions about what was going on with our parents, and she’d talk to me about how she was feeling too. About how much she missed living near our grandma ever since she moved up north. The first time she told me she wanted to go away to college was on the roof too. And even though the idea of my big sister moving away terrified me, I was also excited for her. Because even then, I knew Jenn was going to want more than what our little rooftop could provide.
The anger in my chest loosens, but just a little. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll stay. But I’m not going to pretend what she did was okay.”
“Good,” Nate says. “Because it wasn’t.”
We say goodbye, and I head back toward where Jenn is waiting.
“Ready?” I ask when I reach her. “We’re running behind again, so we should probably get going.”
Jenn’s face brightens. “So we’re not going home?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m still mad at you.”
“Totally fair,” she says.
I start to feel a little better—at least she’s taking this seriously—but then she grins and my confidence disappears.
“What?” I demand. “Why are you smiling?”
“I get to hang out with you,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be smiling?”
I want to believe her. It’s the whole reason I put together this day—to cheer her up, and to spend time with her. But it’s hard. She’s yanked me around so much already, and it’s not even ten a.m. But if I’m going to get through this day, I have to give her a little bit of a break, so I push down my suspicion and frustration and let her steer me back toward the parking garage.
When we reach the car, I pull out my key chain, but Jenn snatches it away from me. “I’m driving,” she says, jingling the keys in the air.
“No way. Give them back.”
She holds the keys above her head, like the two inches she’s got on me is going to make a difference. I jump up, snatching them easily out of her hand.
“Ugh,” she says. “I forgot you’re sporty.”
“I don’t know how,” I say. “I’ve been playing soccer for years.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like there’s jumping in soccer.”
“Actually—never mind.”
Jenn doesn’t care about soccer—not since before Thomas—so there’s really no reason to correct her. Just like there hasn’t been a reason to tell her or my parents about my games in a long time, or how well I did during boot camp last month. But now that USC is interested in me, I can feel things changing. There’s no way I’m telling her about it now, though. I’ve had enough of Jenn not giving a shit about me or my feelings for one day.
“Come on, let me drive,” Jenn says. “I won’t have a car freshman year, so this is one of my last chances.”
“You don’t even know where we’re going!”
“Yeah, I do,” she says. “We’re going to Venice Beach. You showed me the list on your phone, remember?”
“Oh, right.” The list didn’t show what we’re doing, but it did show where we’re going.
“Fine,” I say, tossing her the keys. “But don’t take any weird detours. We’re on a schedule.”
“No weird detours,” she says. “Got it.”
I climb into the passenger side of the Prius and do my best not to wonder why it is that even when I’m the one making the plans, I still end up being along for the ride.
CHAPTER 8
JENN
When you say you’re from LA, people immediately think of two things—traffic and celebrities. But there’s so much more to it. Like the way the sun lights up the Santa Monica hills in the afternoon, or how the smell of the ocean gives way to the scent of candle stores and coffee shops on the promenade. They forget that LA is one of the most diverse cities in the country, and you can hear half a dozen different languages just walking down the street. Or how we have some of the best theater outside of New York City, and the best Mexican food outside of Mexico. They know a lot of people here are tan and laid-back, but what they miss is that they’re all here for a reason—because they want something out of this city so badly that they’re willing to put up with all that traffic to get it.
I don’t know if it’s seeing the sights of the last five years of my life flying by outside the window—the Urth Caffé, where Tom took me on our first date; the boutique my friend Katie’s parents own—or if it’s because I finally told someone in my family other than my grandma that I’m leaving LA, but as we fly down Lincoln Boulevard toward Venice Beach, a sudden rush of nostalgia for the city I grew up in overtakes me.
Unfortunately, the nostalgia is immediately followed by a strong bout of nervousness. It was one thing to tell Tom and my friends—they all understood why I needed to keep it a secret. But April said it herself: she’s still angry. And angry people don’t keep secrets. What if she texts Mom and Dad before I tell them tonight?
By the time we’ve circled the crowded beach neighborhood three or four times without finding a parking spot, I’m less focused on April ratting me out and more on keeping her from jumping out of the car. She hasn’t said anything, but frustration is radiating off her like heat. She’s never been patient, especially when it comes to parking.
I’m on the verge of paying for one of the exorbitant beach parking lots when I see a free spot. Actually, it’s not technically a parking spot, but there’s just enough room between another car and a large Dumpster to fit our compact Prius. Plus, the famous two-story-tall mural of shirtless Jim Morrison painted on the side of a building looms overhead, so I take that as a sign—Jim Morrison is one of Mom’s favorite musicians. He wouldn’t lead us astray. Plus, this is Venice. It’s not like any of the beachy types that live here are going to call the cops.
April looks less sure. “Are you sure we can park here?” she asks.
“Totally.”
I hop out of the car, but April’s door doesn’t open. I lean down and look at her through the window. “Are you coming?”
“Just a sec.” She pulls down the sun visor and starts poking at her hair. Her curls were frizzy and dry like mine when we were younger, but sometime around middle school she developed dark brown Shirley Temple ringlets. I kept hoping mine were just running late, and that I’d wake up with picture- perfect curls like April’s, but eventually I was forced to accept that I was either going to have to live with a curly mop on top of my head, or invest in a straightening wand.
“Your hair looks fine,” I say. “Let’s go!”
She finally gets out of the car, and I start down the block. But I’ve only taken a few steps when I realize April isn’t following me. “What’s wrong?”
“The ocean is that way,” she says, pointing in the opposite direction.
“So?”
“So,” she says, “that’s where we’re going.”
I look down at my new leather flats and grimace. I should have looked at that list more closely. “Could we do something else instead?”
I ask, careful to keep my voice friendly. “I’m not wearing the right shoes for the beach.”
“We’re not going to the beach. We’re going to the boardwalk.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay, then. Lead the way.”
When we hit the boardwalk, April threads through the crowd and keeps walking. I don’t know how she does it—people just move for her, while I’m left struggling to get past a Rasta guy on a skateboard and an elderly couple with matching walkers. If it weren’t for her curls bobbing along in the sea of people, I’d lose track of her completely. I finally catch up, and we stroll past the pizza shops and weed dispensaries, a thirtysomething with a snake wrapped around his neck, an old woman painting a henna tattoo onto a guy’s shoulder, and a ten-year-old selling T-shirts with his own face on them. April might have been irritated with me a few minutes ago, but she’s practically skipping now, and I have to admit, her excitement is infectious.
Then again, the snake handler staring at me probably is too.
“This is my favorite part,” April says, pointing at the bright orange building that marks the site of Muscle Beach. She hurries over and leans on the metal fence that separates the boardwalk from the gated-off exercise area. A few of the bodybuilders on the other side are lifting weights, but most of them are strutting around, their oiled chests thrust out as they preen for the tourists watching from the sidelines.
I take a picture and send it to Tom. He sometimes jokes that the only way to get him in a gym is if there’s a library inside it, so I add a few book emojis to go along with it.
This is the third text I’ve sent him this morning—once to say hello, and another time to tell him how the day was going—but he hasn’t responded yet. My parents, however, have texted me not once, not twice, but three times each. I quickly respond to their messages—Where is the extra receipt paper? Will you please tell your mother she’s wrong about how many people come into the store on Saturday afternoons? Why did you tell your father where the tax folder is? He needs to figure things out for himself!—then drop my phone back into my purse.
“Sorry,” I say. “Mom and Dad won’t stop texting me.”
April purses her lips. “That’s nice.”
“Not really,” I mutter.
We stand in silence, watching the bodybuilders. Then April turns to me. “Have you figured out why I decided to bring you here yet?”
I bite my lip and try to think of some special memory April and I share here, but all my memories of Venice Beach are of me and my friends, or of me and Tom. “Not really.”
April pulls out a photo from her purse and hands it to me. “Remember now?”
I study the photo. We’re standing exactly where we’re standing now, and we look only a few years younger, but beyond that nothing stands out. I don’t want April to know that, though, so I smile and say, “Oh, yeah. Cool.”
Her smile slips a little. “You don’t remember it, do you?”
“No,” I admit. “Sorry.”
“It’s from right before I started freshman year. I’d just made it onto the JV soccer team, and we were celebrating.”
“Hmm . . .”
“You were really stressed about taking precalc,” she prompts. “We practically had to tear you away from the textbook even though school hadn’t started yet—”
“Oh!” I say. “I remember now. You scored a goal!”
“Yeah!” she says, her face lighting up. “Actually, it was an assist, but close enough.”
I wait for April to tell me why she brought me here if this is really more about something that happened to her, but she doesn’t say anything else. “Should we take a picture?” I ask. “We forgot to do one on the Ferris wheel.”
“Yeah, sure.” She takes out her phone and snaps a selfie of us.
“Nice,” I say, when she shows it to me. But it’s not. My mouth is pulled into what my friend Shruthi calls my “Diplomat Smile,” which is to say, it’s stiff and a little bit dead behind the eyes, but no one would be able to accuse me of not looking friendly. April, meanwhile, isn’t even trying to smile. She just looks . . . bored.
April pulls out a pair of sunglasses and looks past Muscle Beach to the ocean in the distance. “Do you think you’ll miss Venice Beach when you move away?”
“A little bit, but I can always visit when I come home for the holidays.”
“I guess,” she says. “But what about the ocean? If you move, you’re going to really miss the ocean.”
“Stanford is right next to the ocean.”
“That’s true . . . but it won’t be the same.”
Something in her voice gives me pause. Is she . . . sad? I try to read her face, but it’s hard with the sunglasses. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” I say slowly. “Maybe change is exactly—”
A whistle blows, cutting me off. A Hispanic guy with huge arms and a teeny-tiny waist jumps the fence out of the gym area and strides into the middle of the boardwalk. “Who’s ready for a show?” he calls.
People hesitate, not sure they want to interrupt their previously scheduled boardwalk activities. Mr. Muscle Beach holds up his arms and smiles. “Gather around, everyone,” he says. “Don’t be shy.”
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by tourists, all jostling for space to watch whatever is about to happen. “Let’s go,” I say, but April shakes her head. “I want to watch!”
People continue to crowd in, making a circle around him. I try to press my back up against the fence, but April grabs my hand and pulls me forward until we’re right at the front.
Someone turns on a boom box that looks like it should be for sale in our antique store, and three more guys join him in the center. They start to perform—it’s half dancing, half acrobatics—and the crowd pushes closer in, trapping April and me. A white guy wearing a backward baseball hat takes off his shirt, revealing a chest so cut it looks dangerous, and breaks through the line of dancers. They pretend to shove him, and he flies forward. For a second I think he’s going to face-plant right there in front of us, but instead he kicks up into a handstand and begins to walk around the circle on his hands, his legs scissoring in the air as he dances upside down in time with the music. Everyone cheers.
Mr. Muscle Beach steps forward and lifts a cordless mic up to his mouth. “I need a volunteer!”
April’s hand shoots into the air.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Are you serious?”
“What?” she says. “It would be fun!”
I wave her off. “Don’t be ridiculous, April.”
Her expression turns stony. “You know what? You’re right. It’s ridiculous for me to go up there.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s a great idea for you to do it.” And then, to my horror, she turns back to the front, cups her hands around her mouth, and yells, “We’ve got a volunteer over here!” She points at me. “Right here!”
“No!” I exclaim, but it’s too late. The white guy in the hat is already grabbing my hand and pulling me forward.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Jenn,” I say, “but I don’t—”
“Let’s give a round of applause to Jenn!” he yells to the crowd.
Everyone claps, but I only have eyes for April. I will kill you, I mouth.
Worth it, she mouths back.
The guy in the hat takes the mic and calls out for more volunteers. While the crowd is distracted, Mr. Muscle Beach leans over so we’re eye to eye. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. Okay, chica?”
I blink stupidly at him, too nervous to speak.
“Hey, how old are you?” he asks. “Seventeen?”
“Eighteen,” I answer.
“Same age as my sister, Mariana.” He smiles. “Listen, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to put you on my shoulder, and then I’m going to turn in a circle. Then I’m going to pick up another volunteer, and we’re going to turn around again. When I’m done, I’m going to tell you both to fall backward.”
“Backward?” I squeak.
“Yes. You’re going to fall backward, and my homie Brian—the guy in the hat—is going to catch you. Okay?”
The words hell no are on the tip of my tongue, but if I say that he’ll send me back to the crowd, and then everyone will know I was too scared to try and they’ll all think I’m a wuss. April especially.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “But if I hit the ground, I’m going to sue you.”
He laughs. “You sound just like Mariana. Let’s do this.”
He turns back to the crowd and the music changes. It’s all drums and bass, and I couldn’t tell you what song it was if you paid me because the only thing I can think is, Please don’t let him drop me. Please don’t let him drop me. Please—
And then there are hands on my waist, and the next thing I know, I’m in the air. He doesn’t lift me so much as throw me, but either way I suddenly find myself seated on his shoulder, at least six feet above the ground. I grip his other shoulder, but then I realize that I feel almost as secure up here as I would on a chair—his shoulder is just that wide. It also helps that he’s got a death grip on my knees.
I look down, searching for April, but then Mr. Muscle Beach starts to turn in circles, just like he said he would. I start to grip his shoulder again, but then I realize . . . I’m not scared.
He eventually faces the front again, and a second later a woman around my mom’s age pops up onto his other shoulder. She throws her arms into the air like I did, and the crowd goes bananas. But when Mr. Muscle Beach starts to turn around again, she yelps and covers her face.
“Don’t worry,” I call to her. “He won’t drop you.”
She uncovers her face. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”
“Me either!”
We eventually face front again, and I catch sight of April. She’s staring up at me, her eyes wide—with shock or fear, I don’t know—and suddenly I imagine myself from her perspective and start to laugh. If someone had told me when I woke up this morning that in a few short hours I’d be sitting on a stranger’s shoulders in front of a cheering crowd, I would never have believed them.
She's the Worst Page 6
