How My Summer Went Up in Flames (24 page)

The judge picks up a piece of paper and reads. “Let’s see, two text messages, one message through a social networking website, a phone conversation between Mr. Marconi and an unnamed associate of Ms. Catalano, and, the granddaddy of them all, Ms. Catalano’s violation of space restrictions at Newark Liberty Airport on July sixth.”

Huh? The granddaddy of them all? I came to court today completely prepared to pay for my mistakes. I never wanted to weasel out of my TRO violations, and I can accept my much-deserved punishment for the things I did wrong, but that last one’s not fair. Joey was the one who came to meet
me
. I’m squirming in my seat, itching to say something, but Steve shoots me a look that says:
Zip it
. At least the judge didn’t
mention Joey’s broken nose. I guess he’s not blaming me for that, too. Again, this speaks to Joey’s vanity, not his sense of decency. How would it look if people found out that Spencer’s guitar case had kicked Joey’s ass? Or, in this instance, face.

The courtroom door swings open again with a bang. I hold my breath and close my eyes as I prepare to turn around and see who walked in. I’m convinced it’s Joey or his parents.

“Avery!” Matty yelps.

She flutters in like Tinkerbell, looks at the judge, and gives her a smile and small wave. “Sorry, ma’am,” she says with her cute Texas accent, then scurries up the aisle and sits in the second row, right behind me. My throat feels tight. I turn and mouth,
Thank you
. Avery gives me a thumbs-up. After I told her it wasn’t necessary to come today, I didn’t expect her to show up! I may have lost Joey and some self-respect, but I made three new friends—great friends—as a result of this whole mess. I’m including Logan in that count even though I’m not sure where we stand.

“Mr. Justice,” Judge Tomlison says, “would you like to address your client’s alleged violations of the TRO?”

I’m not happy that Joey showing up at the airport got lumped in there, but I’m prepared to accept my punishment. I told Steve I didn’t want to make any excuses. All my friends
and family have been ridiculously supportive even when I haven’t deserved it. I owe it to myself to face what I did, admit I was wrong, and recover my dignity. Not only that, but I feel I owe it to the universe. People have given me so much these last few weeks, and I’ve got to start giving back—and I mean by doing more than court-ordered community service.

In fact, I’m starting this afternoon. My hair is all washed and pulled back in a neat ponytail, not only because it’s a conservative look for my court appearance, but because I’m going to see my hairstylist, Jimmi Gerard, so we can chop my hair off into a nice bob with a wedge and donate my hair to Locks of Love for kids with cancer. It’s not saving the world or anything, but anyone who knows me knows it’s a sacrifice. One small step for Rosie.

Steve answers the judge’s question about my TRO violations. “That won’t be necessary, Your Honor. Ms. Catalano is not contesting those allegations.”

Judge Tomlinson writes something down and shuffles some pages before speaking again. “Okay, then, that will conclude your appearance on the TRO today, Ms. Catalano. We will set a date for your sentencing, and at that time I will determine how you will make amends for your transgressions. But let me say this: I do not appreciate your taking
that TRO lightly, and I would anticipate probation and some community service in your future,” she says. “Being named in a TRO at the tender age of seventeen is nothing to be proud of, and I intend to make sure you learn a lesson. After your sentencing, I do not want to see you in my court again. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor. It is,” I say.

Then I lean over and whisper in Steve’s ear, reminding him about my two-part plan. I discussed it with him when we arrived at the courthouse this morning.

He clears his throat. “Your Honor, if I may. My client and I are wondering if that anticipated community service needs to be served in its entirety within Essex County and, more exactly, New Jersey.”

The judge raises her eyebrows. “Approach the bench, Mr. Justice.”

I clench my fists in anticipation as Steve converses with the judge in hushed tones.

“In August?!” the judge exclaims. “It’s going to be hotter than Hades.” Then she looks over at me and I give her a sheepish grin. “I like it!” she says. “I think it will be a good experience for Ms. Catalano.”

When I turn around to face Avery, she’s all smiles.

The Texas sun beats down on me, causing sweat
to pour down the entire length of my face, starting above my hairline, somewhere under my white hard hat. The top of my head is easily ten degrees hotter than the rest of my body.

The coordinators for Habitat for Humanity have had a radio playing all morning, but it’s hard to hear over the staccato hammering and the constant buzz of power saws and drills. Anyway, this close to the Mexican border, the musical options seem limited to country and Tejano. I’m still wearing goggles from a morning holding the ends of two-by-fours while one of the supervisors ran them through a circular saw. My face may feel cooler if I take them off, but judging from the white paint speckles, I’m doing a service to my eyes while painting this six-foot fence at one of the nearly completed
homes. El Paso in August. There’s nothing like it.

“What kind of guitar did you wind up getting Matty?” Avery is painting alongside me.

“A Yamaha. I went for the more expensive model, even though Matty said I didn’t have to. He deserves it.”

“What about your class? Are y’all gonna keep teaching it in the fall?”

“Yeah, about that. It didn’t exactly turn out to be my class. My neighbor, Mrs. Friedman, is a retired English teacher. She wound up running the class while Matty, Spence, and I helped out.”

“Still, it was your idea,” she says. “You should feel proud.”

“I do, but with Mrs. Friedman doing most of the work, I wanted to find some other way to serve the New Jersey part of my community service. Mrs. Friedman helped with that, too. She got me a gig doing makeovers at the senior center.”

Avery laughs. “Sounds like a better match for your skill set.”

“Hey, I’m good. Those older gals looked ten years younger when I was done with them!”

This summer has been super busy. I’ve learned that hard work sure does keep a girl out of trouble. In addition to the English conversation class, my dad wound up employing me, Matty, and Spencer at the lampshade factory. I worked
in the office, and my dad taught the guys to run the stitching and cutting machines. I used my lunch hour to practice sewing. I even made two sundresses, designed entirely by yours truly. The boys are still working at the factory and will be until Labor Day. I’ll be here in Texas until then, building houses with Avery and paying off the balance on my debt to society. The New Jersey chapter of Habitat for Humanity would have been happy to have me, but it’s nice to be able to experience this with a friend.

“I sure wish we were on that beach of yours right now,” Avery says.

“Tell me about it.”

My vacation at Lilliana’s family beach house never happened. I was too busy. But after surprising me in court that day, Avery stayed in New Jersey for a week and we took some day trips to the beach. It was a blast. She got along fabulously with Lilliana and Marissa, and us girls hung out with Matty and Spencer the entire time. It was more fun than I deserved to have. By the end of the week, it was clear that Avery and Matty are into each other, but who knows if anything will ever come of that. Like Avery said, time and distance (not to mention age) are not in their favor now. Still, life’s all about the possibilities.

Avery and I have been painting this fence for an hour now. I cannot wait until it’s time to break for lunch. I look like crap. I’m not wearing any makeup, my short hair is no doubt a matted mess under this hard hat, and my white Habitat for Humanity T-shirt is soaked through around my neck, down my back, and under my armpits.

“Have you heard from him?” she asks. This is the first time Avery’s mentioned Logan. I clutch my paintbrush tighter.

“No. But I’m sure he’s real busy sustaining things,” I say. Too bad one of those things wasn’t a connection with me. I’m so stupid. I thought we’d at least come out of all this friends.
Live and learn, Rosie.
It’s time to work on me.

I’m proud of the steps I’ve been taking. I’ve been gathering college applications, and my parents said they’ll take me to visit FIT in September. I’m even trying to talk them into letting me go to public school this fall—to save on my Catholic school tuition—but they don’t think it’s a good idea for me and Joey to be in the same building, even though I know I can handle it. It’s just as well; I’d miss being with Lilliana and Marissa, but somehow, if I wind up staying at Sacred Heart, I’m going to miss Matty more. I’ve grown majorly attached to him this summer. Not in a boyfriend-girlfriend way. It’s more about sharing an experience that only the two
of us, and Spencer and Logan of course, can understand.

I think back to my first day home. I felt so lost in my own town. The houses were all so much smaller and closer together than I remembered. And there was the traffic and the crowds; there was no breathing room. That’s the way it is, living in a suburb so close to New York City, but after my road trip, nothing felt right. Nothing felt the same. I know Matty felt it too. Still does. He would have given anything to come here with me to build houses, see Avery, look up at the big night sky.

Avery bends down and uses a screwdriver to pry open another can of paint.

“So, do you think you’re gonna call him?”

“Call who?” I play dumb.

She sighs. “Logan.”

“Logan? Why on earth would I want to call Logan?” It comes out much louder and angrier than I expect.

“Because you haven’t spoken to him in over a month,” a familiar male voice says from behind me. I drop my paintbrush on my work boot.

Logan.

He’s standing about ten feet away from me, wearing a hard hat, a Habitat T-shirt, and jeans that are baggier than I’m used to seeing on him, but that doesn’t stop him from
looking good. Slowly, I walk toward him until I’m right up in his face—eyeball to plastic goggles. I want to make sure I’m not imagining this.

“What are you doing here?” I say softly.

“Building houses, what else?”

“You drove six hours in that blasted maroon Taurus to build houses?”

He doesn’t ask how I know it’s six hours from Tempe to El Paso and I don’t ask him if there’s a local chapter of Habitat for Humanity in Tempe. Instead, we stare at each other. He reaches over and takes off my goggles and lets them drop to the ground. Then he grabs my hips, pulls me close, and kisses me.

We only separate when one of the supervisors whistles loudly at us through his teeth. “This isn’t a high school dance,” he says.

“He’s right,” I say. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do.” I pick up my goggles and walk toward my unfinished fence and Avery, who’s pretending she’s been painting this whole time. I glance over my shoulder, raise my index finger in the air, and make a lasso motion.

I turn back toward the fence and smile when I hear Logan jogging toward me.

It’s difficult to express the deep sense of gratitude
I feel for all those who helped make my dream a reality, but I will try my best to name everyone before the music is cued up and I’m ushered off the stage.

Thanks to Kerry Sparks, my amazing agent, for rescuing me from the slush pile, believing in my writing, and working so hard to make me a published author. You rock!

To my editor extraordinaire, Annette Pollert, for her unwavering enthusiasm in championing and editing this novel. Thank you for making every sentence, on every page, better and for understanding Rosie’s charms and a cowboy’s allure. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to work with you!

And to all the amazing people at Simon Pulse, especially Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Katherine Devendorf, Karina Granda, Carolyn Swerdloff, Siena Koncsol, Karen Taschek, and Lara Stelmaszyk.

To Sarah Cloots and Rekha Radhakrishnan, editorial consultants, for reading early drafts of this novel and providing the perfect road map for revision.

To the Rutgers Council on Children’s Literature and the New Jersey chapter of SCBWI, for providing writers with the opportunity to make connections and perfect their craft.

To my writer friends who so generously give of their time and talents and push me to become a better writer: Melissa Eisen Azarian, L. P. Chase, Karen Cleveland, James Gelsey, Sharon Biggs Waller, and especially Lisa Anne Reiss, without whom I never would have finished that very first draft. I am blessed to have you all in my corner.

To Jorge Miranda and Magaly Barzola, for their excellent Spanish translation. Thank you.

To Michael Justice, Esq., for his legal advice and humor, both of which made this novel better.

To my book clubbers, Sheryl Citro, Jen Post, Lori Mido, and Francine Ruzich, for reading my drafts and
listening patiently as I shared each milestone on the road to publication.

To my
comadre
, Adriana Calderon, for believing in me when I sent that first query letter to
Cosmo
all those years ago and for reading more drafts of my work than anyone should ever have to. And to her husband, Steven O’Donnell.

To my wonderful friends, for years of antics, adventures, and road trips—the kind worth writing about!—Diana and Joe Barbour, Jeff Davis, Jennifer Johnston, Esther Northrup, Lisa Paccio, Dean Potter, and Tracy Sharkey.

To my grandmothers, Theresa Juliano and Columbia Salvato, for their respective love of words and storytelling, and to my grandfathers, James Juliano and George Salvato, my first fans.

To Dolores and John Doktorski, who make me feel like their daughter.

To my sister, Melissa Collucci, for always being the voice that tells me I can, especially when the one inside says I can’t. And to her family, Anthony (more brother than in-law), Anthony James, and Cassie. I love you all.