Swept Away (27 page)

“Oh, look!” I point toward it. “It's Ship-nado!”

The girls laugh as we approach it. “Good title,” Lexi comments as we surround the ships-trapped-in-a-vortex structure.

“Mandy!” a familiar voice calls.

I turn and see Oliver waiting on line at the lobster roll booth. I wave and turn back to the girls. “Do you mind if he just comes over to say hi?”

Cynthia looks peeved, but everyone else is fine with it. I gesture him to come over.

He holds up a finger to say “one minute,” then turns back to order his lobster roll. “Just for a sec, I swear,” I promise the girls.

Oliver lets a group of kids wearing college T-shirts pass, then crosses over to us. “Hi, everybody! Don't worry, I wouldn't dream of horning in on your girls' night. Just wanted to say hi.”

“Are you with your mom?” I ask.

“She's over at the bookstore.”

“Anyone else?” Cynthia asks.

“If you mean Pops, no.” He looks around at the bustling, cheerful scene. “Not exactly his kind of thing.”

“I bet,” Cynthia says.

“Those look wicked good,” Vicki says, nodding toward the lobster rolls. “I'm going to go get one.”

Lexi and Patti join her, while Joanna goes in search of something to drink.

“Don't you want to get that to your mom?” Cynthia asks, nodding toward Oliver's hands, each clutching a fully loaded lobster roll.

“Actually, it's for Mandy.” He holds one out to me. My stomach heaves.

“You eat seafood now?” Cynthia stares at me.

“Why wouldn't she?” Oliver asks.

“Because she hates it, that's why.”

Now Oliver stares at me. “Is that true?”

“Uh . . .”

Cynthia throws up her hands. “This is ridiculous. You actually
pretend to like fish just because of some boy?” She stomps away.

Oliver gapes at me. I dig my toe into the dirt and stare down at it. “So, uh, I guess I never got around to telling you . . .”

“Our deal was that you stop doing this!” He tosses the extra roll into a trash can, totally exasperated.

“You keep buying them without asking—”

He whirls around and points at me. “This is why you're always dropping them! You're not
that
clumsy. No one is. It's because you hate them.”

“Well, kinda, yeah.”

“You would have saved me some bucks if you had told me the truth.”

“And been a lot less hungry.” I smile weakly, hoping my little joke will help.

“Do you pretend with Cynthia, too?”

Okay, joke's not helping. “Pretend what?”

“Pretend to like what she likes. Pretend to be like her. Are you ever yourself with
anyone
?” Now
he
stomps away.

I can't believe it. We have just two weeks left and we're fighting? This is . . . this is . . . I have no words for what this is because instead I have tears.

I blink hard. I refuse to cry in the Square. Refuse. Refuse. Refuse.

“Oliver take off?” Vicki asks, taking a bite of her lobster roll.

“'S cool that he didn't try to crash girl's night,” Joanna says.

“Hey, just because Kyle's working the lobster booth doesn't mean he was trying to muscle in,” Patti protests. “One kiss and that was it!”

I swallow a few times, trying to get myself under control.

“Mandy, what's wrong?” Lexi asks.

I clear my throat. “Allergies,” I claim.

“Yeah, as in allergic to jerks.” Cynthia appears behind the other girls. They turn to look at her. “You had a fight over that stupid sandwich, didn't you?”

Now all their heads swivel toward me. I shrug.

“Seriously?” Joanna asks. “A sandwich?” She shakes her head. “And I thought Sam and I got into weird arguments.”

“Maybe he
is
a jerk,” Patti says.

“He's not,” I say. “I mean, he did overreact. And didn't give me a chance to explain . . .” I frown.

“I don't get it,” Vicki complains. “Why would anyone be mad about a lobster roll?

I sigh. “It's complicated. It's not really about the sandwich.” I push my hair away from my face. “I don't want to get into it. I just want to have fun and forget it. Okay?”

Cynthia slings her arm across my shoulder. “You'll feel a lot better after we get you a blueberry pocket.”

Somehow I doubt it. But it's worth a shot.

S
o what
was
the deal with the lobster roll?” Cynthia asks.

We're up in her room getting ready for bed. I turn on the pump for the air mattress. The noise makes it impossible for me to answer. I need a minute to decide what—and if—I want to tell Cynthia.

She lies on her bed on her stomach, arms dangling over the
edge as she fiddles with her collection of flip-flops. I turn off the pump and sit, back still to her, and hug my knees.

“It was a whole thing, earlier this summer.” I sigh. “Something he was actually right about.”

I stand and stash the pump under her window and sit at her desk.

She sits up and crosses her legs, waiting.

“I know you don't like him, so it's weird to talk to you about it,” I blurt.

She frowns. “But I like
you
,” she says finally.

I drop my head. How can this be happening? That I can't tell Cynthia my every single secret, every feeling and thought, no matter how strange or silly or outrageous.

She slides off her bed, then plops onto the air mattress and puts her feet on top of my fidgety ones. “Stop that,” she orders.

“Okay, so the seafood thing was part of a big fight about my not being honest with him about what I like and don't like. The same thing you got on my back about.”

“Wow.” She makes a shocked face. “The boy and I agree about something!”

“Celeste too.”

“Celeste Ingram?”

“Yeah, she's working at the Keeper's Café.”

“She knows about your fight?”

I nod. “Not this sandwich one. The earlier one.” My eyes flick to her and away. I rub a nail-polish stain on the desk. “Celeste thinks I do it with you, too. That I go along with you even if I don't really want to.”

“Is that true?” Her eyebrows knit together, confusion on her face. “Why would that be true?”

“I—I didn't really think I did it until she pointed it out,” I say in a small voice.

She stands and throws up her hands. “Why would you copy me? I don't want you to do that! If anything, I want to be more like
you
!”

Shock gets me to my feet. “No way!”

“You've got this great, wild imagination! Everybody likes you without you even trying! You—”

“What are you talking about? You're the interesting, cool one. I'm just the sidekick.”

We stare at each other, eyes getting wider and wider. At the exact same moment we burst out laughing and fling our arms around each other. “How's this?” I suggest. “We alternate who's Batman and who's Robin.”

“Who's Aladdin and who's the genie.”

“Who's the Doctor and who's a companion.”

Cynthia takes a step back. “We need to come up with all-girl examples.”

I smirk. “Maybe girls don't need sidekicks. They can be
equal
besties!”

We hug each other again, then flop down onto the air mattress.

“Look, I like to imagine a summer romance, but really? Not into it,” Cynthia says. “Why would anyone want to get involved knowing it will end?”

Before I can protest she adds, “But maybe I'd change my mind
if I met someone who affected me the way Oliver affects you.”

I settle down and she continues. “I do think he's in the nerdy category, but to each her own. It would be a lot worse if we went for the same type, wouldn't it?”

“You've got a point,” I say. “By the way, since I'm now in that all-honest-all-the-time zone, I have a confession.”

Cynthia sits up and looks down at me, frowning. “Yeah?”

“I'm not crazy about musicals.”

Cynthia pretends she's been struck in the heart, flopping back down and shuddering. “Noooooooooooo,” she moans. She stops flailing and says, “Okay. I forgive you.”

We lie on our backs, each drifting in our own thoughts. “You're right, you know,” I say softly. “Freaky
is
kind of freaky. One minute he's weirdly nice, and then the next he can practically growl. And thinking about Oliver leaving . . .” My voice cracks as tears well in my eyes. “And now we're in a fight. Do you think that was our good-bye?”

Cynthia weaves her fingers through mine. “We just won't let it be.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

We're quiet again, then Cynthia says, “I have a confession to make too.”

I roll over onto my side so I can look at her. “Ooo-kay.”

Tears suddenly stream down her face without warning.

I sit up, alarmed. “Cynthia, what's wrong?”

She covers her face with her hands. “It was terrible.”

“What was?”

“Camp. It was awful. Nobody liked me, and I got the worst parts in each of the shows.”

“But you're the best!” I protest. “You're better than anyone else here!”

“That's the thing,” she says, using her hands to wipe her face. “Everyone at the camp is the best in our hometowns. And there were also people from places like New York and Boston and LA and who were getting professional lessons. How could I compete? What I'm doing here in Rock Bottom is strictly amateur hour.” She gives a shaky sigh. “And they let me know.”

“Just some meanies,” I insist. I get up and grab a box of tissues from her dresser and hold it out to her. “Did you make
any
friends?”

She sits up and yanks tissue after tissue out of the box. “The other losers.” She swipes at her face.

I sit back beside her and sling an arm across her shoulder. I lean my head against hers. “I'm so sorry. But look, you'll keep training. And now you've set the bar for yourself super high. You know what you're aiming for. Then no one can knock you down. And if anyone tries”—I make a fist and shake it at her—“they'll have to answer to me!”

She laughs. I laugh. And everything's just fine.

T
he next morning Mom picks me up at Cynthia's, and when we arrive back at the house, Oliver is sitting on the steps, his bike parked nearby.

“Morning, Oliver,” Mom says cheerfully as we head up the walk to the door.

Oliver stands. “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan. Mandy,” he adds a bit tentatively.

I don't say anything. Is he here to yell at me some more? Make it an official breakup?

Mom goes inside and we're alone. Well, alone-ish, considering we're standing in my front yard. Next door Mrs. Jackson picks up her newspaper from the bush where the delivery boy tossed it. Thunder the dog walks Mr. Martin past us.

“Your pals adore you, just so you know,” Oliver says.

Interesting start. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They ambushed me at Scoops.”

“They went back?” He looks confused. “Never mind. What do you mean?”

“Basically they told me off,” he says. “That I was a jerk. That you're the best thing that could ever possibly happen to me. The one with the New York accent—”

“Joanna.”

“She suggested I choke on a lobster roll.”

I cover my smile. That's so Joanna. “I never told them what the fight was about. Not really.”

“Cynthia had filled them in, I suppose.”

“Look,” I say. “I know you're not crazy about Cynthia, but she's my best friend, whether you like her or not. And you haven't exactly been very nice to her.”

“She hasn't exactly been nice to me,” he protests hotly.

I run my hands through my hair, exasperated. “You told me to be honest, right? Well, this is me. Sticking up for my friend. The way she sticks up for me.”

We both cross our arms and glare at each other as if we're in a staring contest. Oliver folds first. His body sort of collapses, as if he were a balloon losing air. “Point taken.”

“I can like you both, right?” I ask softly. “Even if you don't like each other.”

“Of course.” He winks. “Theoretically anyway.”

“Well, that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.” I tip my head toward the screen door. “Want to come in?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

As we settle onto the front-porch swing I say, “Just so you know, that fish thing. It really was the last thing I didn't mention. I didn't know how to after all those sandwiches.”

“You've been lucky. Every time you've stayed for dinner, Freaky made something
other
than fish.”

“I've wondered about that.” I tilt my head, considering. “Do you think he knows about my fish aversion?”

“You always complain about this being such a small town,” Oliver says. “Maybe everyone knows. Everyone except me, that is.”

“You're from away,” I tease. “We Mainers don't open up the gossip pipeline all that easily.”

“Not to outsiders anyway.” He touches his ears gingerly. “All last night my ears were burning.”

I smack his arm, laughing. “Ego much?” Then I bring my legs up and curl into his side. “Okay, since it's all about the truth now, yeah, you were definitely a primary topic of conversation.”

He rests his hand on my leg and stretches the other along the top of the sofa swing. He uses a foot to gently make the seat sway. We both let out long, contented sighs.

Even though Cynthia scared me, mentioning the possibility of Oliver having an at-home girlfriend, not one single molecule of me believes it. For one thing, I don't think he'd get all on my case about not being honest if he was keeping that kind of secret. Besides, I know this boy.
Really
know him. Maybe even better than I know myself, since I seem to still be figuring out how to actually be Mandy, plain and simple.