He snaps the lock shut. “What’s with the old-school lock for the killer bike?”
I compare the lock on my bike to the one on his. Mine is literally a silver chain and black lock with a center keyhole, a keyhole for which I don’t even have the key. His is a sophisticated, black-and-yellow, U-shaped crossbar that I couldn’t figure out how to open—even using magic—if I tried.
I’m forcing back my nerves to ask him where I can buy one when Chelsea shows up. Standing next to the petite Chelsea makes me feel like an Amazonian warrior.
“Nate, we were waiting for you,” she says with a pout on her shiny red lips.
Who wears lip gloss at the beach? I chew on my lower lip, tasting only lip balm. With SPF.
“Oh,” she says to me, “I think you have something in your hair.”
My fingers pat my ponytail and come away with ketchup. Chelsea tucks a length of flat-ironed hair behind her ear. Despite how I may now look, I’ll never act like a cheerleader.
I return Nate’s good-bye wave and watch him run off, Chelsea at his side.
I don’t care. I’ve never wanted to be a cheerleader, having to worry about being popular and boys and calories and leg waxing.
Being popular is all about pretending to be something you’re not.
I pause mid-step. Seems I’ve been training to be popular my entire life and didn’t even know it.
*
The day is insane. The combination of sun and Saturday draws a full crowd. PB&Js, BLTs, BBQ wraps, I serve more sandwiches with acronyms than I would have thought existed.
Thankfully, we close at four o’clock. My plan is to find an unpopulated corner of the beach and soak up the sun.
Zoe skipped out early to go practice. I’m wiping the counter when Henry and his family, hot and sweaty from their trudge off the beach, drop their gear in front of the soda machines. When Henry sees me, he picks up three Carwyn beach chairs and approaches the snack bar.
“That’s quite the green thumb you have,” he says.
What? Do not panic. Do not panic. My brain struggles to come up with a way to explain Mrs. Pucher’s suddenly perky garden as I twist the rag in my hands. I look down. And laugh, feeling my jaw relax at the sight of green relish smeared all over my thumb.
“You seem to do that a lot around me,” he says.
“What?”
“Laugh. I might start to get a complex. You are laughing with not at, right?”
I laugh again. He’s wearing the T-shirt of a band whose songs I just downloaded, giving me the perfect way to steer clear of Mrs. Pucher’s miraculous tomatoes. “Did you see them in concert?”
“I wish,” he says, which causes me to laugh once again, though Henry has no idea why. We debate the best track until his little sister tackles his legs.
“You know the stray we can’t get out of the house, right, Azra?” Henry scoops up Lisa. “For six years, this one’s been hanging around.”
Fighting the pangs in my chest, I look Lisa directly in the eye and smile. To my surprise, her giggle, which naturally reminds me of Jenny’s, dulls the ache. I better understand how Henry can be around her.
“Ooh, tough,” I say. “We had one of those once. I think I may have something around here that helps get rid of the little critters.”
Surveying the shelves and back counter, I realize we are sold out of everything but limp salad. Dipping so far down that my stomach almost rests flat against the floor, I conjure a carton of french fries and then plop them on the snack bar. “Fries, lots and lots of fries.”
“I l-l-love fr-fr-fries,” Lisa says.
Henry shoots me a worried look. Though I haven’t spent much time around Lisa, I don’t blink. I simply pass her a freshly topped-off ketchup bottle. “Hmm, guess I was misinformed. Fries seem to be having the opposite effect. I think you may be stuck with this one, Henry.”
Lisa giggles and pops three fries in her mouth at once. I breathe a sigh of relief when she chews and swallows without spitting them out. At least my skills are good enough for a six-year-old’s palate.
Henry sets Lisa down and hands her the container. “Easy, don’t choke.”
He mouths a thanks, which I dismiss. It’s sweet that he’s so protective of her. Just like an older brother should be, or so I imagine, never having had one myself.
“Funny,” Henry says, “earlier, the other girl said you were wiped out. Not a single greasy potato was to be found.”
Uh-oh. I make a face. “Oh, Zoe’s clueless. All she cares about is b-ball and bank shots.”
I’m hoping Henry’s quizzical look is because he’s as ignorant about sports as me, not because of the fries.
“Basketball,” I say.
He grins. “Oh, I know. It just sounds funny coming out of your mouth.”
“Yeah, well, it feels even funnier.”
His grin widens as he searches his pockets. “Well, anyway, what do I owe you?”
I wave my hand. “It’s on me.”
Henry tenses. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got money.”
His tone is gruff. I’ve offended him. I don’t know why. It’s just some fries. When I fib that they were leftovers and would only be tossed, he relaxes and offers an apologetic thanks.
As I lay down a few napkins, my silver bangle hits the counter, causing Henry to say, “I saw that the other night.”
Now, I tense.
“It’s cool,” he says. “New? Birthday gift?”
I nod, though that’s not exactly the truth.
“Your necklace is cool too.”
I touch the pendant from Laila.
“Someone must really like you,” he says.
I nod again, though that wouldn’t exactly be the truth if Laila knew what I did.
Henry’s eyes linger on me. I pat the counter, feeling for my sunglasses. As I hide behind them, he says, “That spa change your hair? Looks nice. Different, but nice.”