The Creeping

“Maybe you should eat something?” Caleb calls from Cole’s other side. He’s unwrapping what looks like a turkey sandwich and offers me half, spilling wheat crumbs on Cole’s midsection. He moves to brush them away, stops, and blushes crimson at almost touching her.

Cole plucks one of the crumbs off her stomach and pops it into her mouth—she is definitely more a Zoey than a Michaela. I don’t see Caleb’s reaction, because Zoey shouts out for me. “Stella, get in here! Let’s play chicken.” I shake my head mutely. “Fine. Cole, c’mon and bring Taylor!” Taylor shrugs and sprints into the water. Cole gallops after, emitting a burst of high-pitched noises as she hits the lake. Five minutes later Zoey’s and Cole’s shrill screams are likely heard across town. Michaela brings the magazine she’s been reading and reclines on Cole’s towel, talking off and on with Caleb about her early admission college apps as I force the last bite of sandwich down.

“You okay?” Michaela whispers to me after a few. I incline my head in a way that could mean anything. “I guess that’s a stupid question, because how could you be?” I muster a smile for her. “Let me know if you need anything. My sister just had another baby and my parents are gone for the next two nights, and I will totally throw you a pink wine slumber party.” Michaela might be pursuing her idea of the glory that lasts—tomorrow’s glory—but she isn’t one of those stuffy girls who are all pasty and cross-eyed from too much studying.

This rare combination of being fun and obliterating the scholarly competition was one of the reasons we became friends. Here is a girl who spent honors eighth-grade math drawing a graphic novel about our teacher’s love life and still managed to pull off perfect scores on the quizzes. Mr. Ralph—picture Mr. Potato Head with a lazy eye and a vintage Beanie Babies collection on his desk—never had a clue the entire class eagerly awaited Michaela’s Monday installments, which featured his weekend adventures in dating. It was obviously a comedy.

That’s why I fell in love with Michaela. For Zoey, it was practically love at first sight. It was the first week of eighth grade, and Zoey attended the informational meeting for all the kids who wanted on student council. She had her sights set on social chair—obviously. Michaela wanted class treasurer—shocking. They hadn’t met because they didn’t have any classes together, and Zoey wasn’t the omnipresent force she is now. They locked eyes across the classroom full of brace-faced kids, bouncing in their seats. They just knew. Zoey seconded Michaela’s nomination for class treasurer without missing a beat, and Michaela returned the favor. They campaigned hard for each other—okay, Michaela campaigned and Zoey made bribes and threats. The rest is history.

I smile at my pink-wine-loving friend. “Thanks, M. I may need it.” She turns back to Caleb, and they continue talking about his experience applying for schools. Michaela’s being generous, since Caleb’s college is fathoms less competitive than the programs she’s interested in. Caleb isn’t exactly an overachiever; his group in school was a hodgepodge of stoners, skateboarders, and wannabe musicians. Senior year he scored high on the SATs and got into a small college in Chicago. Zoey’s never forgiven him for it. Rather than her average grades being the standard Caleb was measured against, it was the other way around. Zoey became the loser of the family in her mom’s eyes, overnight.

“Shot?” I ask them, pouring myself a third. Michaela shakes her head and withdraws a rose-colored bottle with dolphins on the label. She rarely drinks anything but pink wine—oh, and pink sparkling wine. Caleb wags a chastising finger as I tip the glass to my lips but doesn’t say anything to mother me. I try to sip the shot slowly, but the sickening-sweet taste makes that impossible. After I choke it down, I check my cell to see if Sam’s responded. He has.

With Daniel. At library. When/where should we pick you up?

I’m instantly all keyed up and can’t sit still on my towel bunching under me. Daniel and Sam are at the library, most likely researching past disappearances in Savage. I should be there. I’m the Wildwood Herald reporter with supersleuth research skills. And here I am: in a bikini, drinking girly vodka, and getting ogled by lacrosse players, while Sam gets his hands dirty in our town’s history. But as the seconds tick by and the alcohol takes effect, the sense that I’m penned in lessens, and my frustration loses its edge. I text back:

At cove. Pick me up at 1.