Copyright
Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Ockler
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: June 2009
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05321-1
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Acknowledgments
For Alex, my best monster and number-one favorite person in the whole wide world.
one
Frankie Perino and I were lucky that day. Lucky to be alive — that’s what everyone said. I got a fractured wrist and a banged-up knee, and my best friend Frankie got a fat little scar above her left eye, breaking her eyebrow into two reflective halves. Up one side, down the other. Happy, sad. Shock, awe. Before, after.
Before, all of us were lucky.
After, only me and Frankie.
That’s what everyone said.
two
It was just over a year ago.
Twelve months, nine days, and six hours ago, actually.
But thirteen months ago, everything was… perfect.
I closed my eyes, leaned over my candles, and prayed to the cake fairy or the God of Birthdays or whoever was in charge that Matt Perino — Frankie’s brother and my best-friend-that’s-a-boy — would finally kiss me. It was the same secret wish I’d made every year since Frankie and I were ten and Matt was twelve and I accidentally fell in love with him.
Frankie, Matt, and their parents — Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne, even though we’re not related — celebrated my fifteenth birthday in our backyard with Mom and Dad, just like always. When all the singing and clapping and candle blowing stopped, I opened my eyes. Matt was right next to me, beside me, sharing the same air. Mischievous. The back of my neck went hot and prickly when I smelled his apple shampoo — the kind from the green bottle he stole from Frankie’s bathroom because he liked how it made his hair look — and for one charged-up second I thought my birthday wish might finally come true, right there in front of everyone. I didn’t even have time to think about how embarrassing that might be when Matt’s hand, full of birthday cake, arched from behind his back on a not-so-slow-motion trajectory right into my face.
While cake in the face was clearly progress from the previous year’s Super Bowl coach–style shook-up soda over the head, something in the wish translation was still getting lost as it blew across my candles into the sky. I made a mental note to clarify my demands next year in bullet points with irrefutable examples from Hollywood classics and screamed, shoving both hands into the mangled confection on the picnic table.
I scooped out two giant corners overloaded with frosting flowers. Then, I charged.
I lunged.
I ran.
I chased Matt around the yard in laps until he dropped to the ground and wrestled the extra pieces from me, rubbing them into my face like a mud mask. We went at it for ten minutes, laughing and rolling around in the grass, Frankie and our parents cheering and howling and throwing more cake into the ring, candles and all. When we finally came up for air, there wasn’t much cake left, and the two of us were coated head to toe in blue rainbow-chip frosting.
We stood up slowly, laughing with our mouths wide open as we halfheartedly called a truce. Dad snapped a picture — Matt’s arm around my shoulders, bits of cake and colored chips and grass clinging to our clothes and hair, everything warm and pink in the glow of the setting sun, the whole summer stretched out before us. It didn’t even matter that Matt was going to college in the fall. He’d be at Cornell studying American literature, just over an hour away, and he’d already started talking about my and Frankie’s weekend visits.
When the novelty of the birthday cake wrestling match finally faded, Matt and I went inside to clean up. Beyond the sliding deck door, shielded in the cool dark of the house from everyone out back, we stood in front of the kitchen sink not saying anything. I stared at him in a sideways kind of way that I hoped didn’t expose the secret thoughts in my head — thoughts that, despite my best efforts to contain them, went further than I’d ever let them go before.
His messy black hair and bright blue eyes cast a spell on me, muffling the chatter outside as if we’d been dunked under water. I held out a sticky hand and threatened him with another gob of frosting in an attempt to break the silence, afraid he’d hear my heart pounding under my T-shirt. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
Matt scooped some frosting from my outstretched hand and moved to close the space that separated us, changing absolutely everything that ever was or wasn’t between us with a single raised eyebrow.
“Anna,” he said, dragging his frosted fingers through my hair. “Don’t you know what it means when a boy pulls your hair at your birthday party?”
No. Just then, I didn’t know what anything meant. I couldn’t remember how we’d arrived in the kitchen, why we were covered in cake, why my best-friend-that’s-a-boy was looking at me so differently, or even what my name was. I bit my lower lip to prevent my mouth from saying something lame without my brain’s permission, like “Oh, Matt, all my wishes have come true!” I felt the stupidity rising in my throat and bit down harder, staring at his collarbone and the small piece of blue sea glass he wore on a leather cord around his neck, rising and falling.
Rising.
Falling.
Seconds? Hours? I didn’t know. He’d made the necklace the year before from a triangular piece of glass he’d found during their family vacation to Zanzibar Bay, right behind the California beach house they rented for three weeks every summer. According to Matt, red glass was the rarest, followed by purple, then dark blue. To date he’d found only one red piece, which he’d made into a bracelet for Frankie a few months earlier. She never took it off.
I loved all the colors — dark greens, baby blues, aquas, and whites. Frankie and Matt brought them back for me in mason jars every summer. They lived silently on my bookshelf, like frozen pieces of the ocean I had never seen.
“Come here,” he whispered, his hand still stuck in my wild curls, blond h
air winding around his fingers.
“I still can’t believe you made that,” I said, not for the first time. “It’s so — cool.”
Matt looked down at the glass, his hair falling in front of his eyes.
“Maybe I’ll give it to you,” he said. “If you’re lucky.”
I smiled, my gaze fixed on the blue triangle. I was afraid to look at him, because if I let my eyes lock on his, he might try to — and then everything would be — and I might just —
“Happy birthday,” he whispered, his breath landing warm and suddenly close to my lips, making my insides flip. And just as quickly as he’d surprised me with the cake, he kissed me, one frosting-covered hand moving from my hair to the back of my neck, the other solid and warm in the small of my back, pressing us together, my chest against his ribs, my hip bones just below his, the tops of our bare summer legs hot and touching. I stopped breathing. My eyes were closed and his mouth tasted like marzipan flowers and clove cigarettes, and in ten seconds the whole of my life was wrapped up in that one kiss, that one wish, that one secret that would forever divide my life into two parts.
Up, down. Happy, sad. Shock, awe. Before, after.
In that single moment, Matt, formerly known as friend, became something else entirely.
I kissed him back. I forgot time. I forgot my feet. I forgot the people outside, waiting for us to rejoin the party. I forgot what happens when friends cross into this space. And if my lungs didn’t fill and my heart didn’t beat and my blood didn’t pump without my intervention, I would have forgotten about them, too.
I could have stayed like that all night, standing in front of the sink, Matt’s black apple hair brushing my cheeks, heart thumping, lucky and forgetful….
“What’s taking so long?” Frankie asked, running up the deck stairs outside. “Come on, Anna. Presents.”
I pulled away from Matt just before she pressed her face against the screen to peek inside.
“Yeah, birthday girl,” Matt mocked. “What’s taking so long?”
“Be right out, Frank.” I gave him my Don’t You Dare face. “I just need to change.”
“Can I come?” Matt whispered against my neck, causing a shiver. Or an earthquake.
I suddenly remembered all the baths we’d taken together as little kids, before we got old enough for it to be dangerous. The memories seemed different now. More vulnerable. Raw. My face went hot, and I had to look away.
“So?” Matt pinched my arm as Frankie headed back to the picnic table.
“So you’re lucky Frankie didn’t see that,” I said, not sure I meant it. “And you have to go change your own shirt. In your own room. I mean, over —”
“Mmm-hmm.” Matt grabbed my hand and pulled me in tight for another kiss, his other hand on my cheek, quick and intense. He pressed his body against mine in the same configuration of hip bones, stomachs, and ribs as the first time. I pressed back, wanting to wrap myself around him, anchor myself to him. It was all that kept me from floating away like a tiny, iridescent bubble.
“Do you think she saw us?” I asked when we finally stopped. “Nah.” He laughed, still holding my hand. “Don’t worry. It’s our secret.”
Alone in my bedroom, I shoved my frosting shirt into a plastic bag to deal with later. I rinsed my face and hair with cool water, but my legs wouldn’t stop shaking and I couldn’t catch my breath. The brain that was conspicuously absent for the kitchen sink rendezvous was suddenly hyperaware, modeling scenarios and impossible questions that were about twelve-and-a-half minutes too late:
What now?
Will this kill our friendship?
What about our parents?
Does he like me, or was he just messing around?
Will it happen again?
How do we tell Frankie?
Why did he say it’s our secret?
Made-up answers raced through my mind, and I had to close my eyes and count to fifty to calm down. Fifteen minutes after everything changed was too soon to start obsessing about the what-ifs of the future.
Back outside, warm and giddy in front of Dad’s bonfire, I spent the rest of the night not touching Matt, not laughing too hard at his jokes, not looking at him, afraid that someone would read the thoughts written on my face. After the fire had faded to a soft glow and I’d opened all the gifts, it was time for the Perinos to head back to their house next door. I said my goodbyes and thank-yous to Frankie, Uncle Red, and Aunt Jayne and looked at my feet when it was Matt’s turn.
“Thanks for the cake,” I said. “And the journal.” He knew how much I loved my diaries — as much as he loved his books. It was the best present ever. Well, second best.
“Happy birthday, Anna,” he said, picking me up and spinning me around in a giant hug, telling me with a wink that he’d see me tomorrow, just like he’d done on a thousand other nights. “Write something for me tonight.”
To everyone else he was regular Matt, the big brother part of the inseparable Anna-Frankie-Matt triangle, the boy who used to bury our Barbies in the backyard and read us adventure stories when we couldn’t sleep. But to me, he’d become something else as soon as he pulled my hair at the kitchen sink. Something other. Something that would never be the way it was before.
You awake? Matt’s text message lit up the phone on my night table later that night.
Ya.
Of course I was awake. In the hours since the party, my heart hadn’t slowed its furious beat. Sleep was out of the question.
Meet me out back, k?
K. 5 min.
I pulled on a sweatshirt, brushed my teeth, and put my hair in a loose ponytail. I started to dig for my eyeliner but decided it would look a little strange (and obvious) if I showed up behind the back deck at one in the morning in full makeup. Instead, I opted for hair down with a little mango-flavored lip gloss — casual but cute.
It wasn’t sneaking out, exactly. I mean, it was my own backyard, and if I saw any of the upstairs lights go on, I could duck back into the kitchen and pretend I was snagging the last piece of cake salvaged from the birthday battle.
Matt was waiting by the stairs when I tiptoed out the back door. My bare feet hadn’t even touched the dewy grass when he pulled me against the side of the house.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, kissing me again, this time with a purpose and intensity I’d never seen from him in the long history of our friendship. I kissed him back, wrapping my arms around his neck as his mouth pressed against mine. I must have been shaking, because after a minute he stopped and asked if I was cold.
“Just — surprised,” I said. “And happy. And scared.” It was barely a whisper, but I hoped it communicated everything I was thinking. Scared of getting what I wished for. Scared of hurting Frankie. Scared of losing my two best friends. Scared of undoing everything the three of us had known and loved since we were kids.
“Me, too,” he whispered, breathing hard. “Anna, did you ever —”
Before he could finish, a square of light fell on the grass from Mom and Dad’s bathroom window upstairs.
“I have to go,” I said. “Tomorrow?”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me close to him, a whisper brushing against my cheek. “Tomorrow.”
Then he kissed my neck, his lips alighting on the skin below my ear like a spark from the bonfire that burned long after I crept back to my bed.
He called the next day.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” I was still dazed from the late-night backyard encounter and kiss-induced insomnia.
“Frankie and I are going for ice cream. Come over?”
Frankie.
“Sure,” I said. “But Matt, should we — I mean, did you say anything to her?”
“Not — exactly.”
Does that mean he doesn’t think it’s a big deal? That we can just go for ice cream like any other day, like it didn’t happen? Like it won’t happen again?
“I want to, Anna,” he said, reading my mind. “It’s jus
t — she’s my little sister. And you’re our best friend. And now you’re my — I mean — we need to look out for her, you know?”
And now I’m your what? “I know,” I said. “Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll tell her, okay? Just let me think about the best way to do it.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me? Promise you won’t say anything?”
“Don’t worry.” I laughed. “It’s our secret, right?”
I spent an hour getting ready, obsessing over hair and clothes and things that never used to matter so much. I couldn’t calm the butterflies in my stomach about seeing Matt again, about feeling his lips on me, about telling Frankie, about the rest of the summer, about the rest of always.
When I first got to their house, I climbed in the backseat of Matt’s car and avoided eye contact with him, worried either that he’d already told Frankie, or that he hadn’t. We rode the whole way not looking at each other, Frankie chattering in the front seat about their upcoming California trip, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the whole world had changed the night before. It wasn’t until we got inside Custard’s Last Stand and Frankie forgot her purse in the car that we finally locked eyes.
“Hey, you,” Matt said gently, smiling at me. I opened my mouth to say something important, something witty and charming, but in the new dawn of our relationship, where everything suddenly mattered, I was tongue-tied.
“Hey,” I said lamely.
Matt jangled his keys and kicked at the floor with his foot. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, tracing a line across my forehead.
Before I could invent something better than “Last night at the party and behind the house and I wish you would just shut up and kiss me again,” Frankie was back with her purse, pressing us to make the difficult decision between the banana split and the fudge brownie sundae.
Sparing Frankie any further agony over the ice-cream selections, Matt ordered one of each, along with a caramel sundae for me, and we shared everything, fifty-fifty-fifty, just like always.