Tiny has her bare feet up on the dashboard, her latest Ella list on her lap, and one neon-braceleted wrist hanging out the open window riding air waves. Even when she drives, which is rare, she tries to keep a foot awkwardly balanced on the dashboard. But I don’t mind driving, especially since we usually take her Jeep, which is a heck of a lot nicer than the dented fifteen-year-old Volvo station wagon I share with my mom when she’s not working, which is most of the time.
“Want to go over it one last time?” Tiny asks, turning down the music but not taking her eyes off her list.
I glance at her as we drive past a welcome sign for Ella’s town. “That’s the second time you’ve asked that in ten minutes.”
Tiny looks up, like she hadn’t realized she’d been repeating herself. “It’s the biggest case we’ve ever had,” she says, like I’m not thinking clearly. “And we have a nonnegotiable three-and-a-half-week deadline in which to complete it. Do you remember that disaster two Christmases ago? The only other time we used Star-Crossed Lovers, might I add.”
I lean back in my seat; I’ve been waiting for her to bring this up ever since I suggested it. “That was one case. And it had nothing to do with the strategy; it had to do with our being green. We’ve nailed our cases since. All of them.”
She shakes her head like I’ve got it all wrong. “This case has a shiny popular boyfriend, which is a challenge in and of itself, a controlling (also popular) friend group, making things doubly hard, and I keep thinking I’m missing something important.” She pauses, but her mouth remains open with an unspoken thought. “Plus, it’s only natural to be a little rusty, especially since you haven’t really talked to anyone besides me for the past month or so.” She says it like a casual observation. But Valentine doesn’t do casual observing.
We stop at a red light, and I turn to look at her, about to point out how not subtle she’s being, but think better of it.
“What?” she says with innocently wide eyes (also not subtle). “You haven’t.”
I shrug, now convinced she wants to have a conversation about my lack of socializing, one I’d rather avoid. Tiny has always been well liked. In fact, there was a moment when she was invited out so much that I worried she might cross over into the popular crowd and leave me in the dust, but she never did. And as Tiny’s popularity started to increase, mine plummeted.
“All I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to be more social,” she says, like she heard my thoughts and decided to be contrary. “Even a little itty bit more, like go to the diner on a Saturday morning when everyone’s there or walk along the harbor on Friday night. You never know; you might like it.”
“I’m afraid I’m just not that cool.”
But Tiny has pulled her head out of her notebook and is laser focused on my face. “Actually, you’re not uncool.”
I sigh, because I know that look and I know it means we’re going to talk about it whether I want to or not. “You have to admit that no one would say I’m cool. Ever. It’s not like anyone cuts my backpack straps or flips my lunch tray, but they don’t acknowledge me, either. I’m that quiet kid who sits in the back of the class. But hey, that suits me.”
“Yeah, but that’s not who you are. Look at you.” She gestures at my outfit. “Given half the chance, you play a character like a boss, talk to girls, and stand up to jerk-offs without blinking an eye. You know what I think, August? You’re hiding.”
Her cheeks are flushed and she grips her notebook. And even though her tone is calm, I can read her well enough to know that what she said made her nervous, which in turn makes me nervous. I scratch the back of my neck even though it doesn’t itch, hoping that she’ll drop it and we can go back to having an awesome day.
“When you stopped at Des’s room before we left . . .” she says, pausing halfway through her thought.
Or not.
“Des never missed an opportunity to talk . . . to anyone, for any reason.” Tiny smiles, but it’s the sad kind. “Before—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly, cutting her off before she can tell me what I was like before Des died.
Tiny pushes her hair back from her face. “Sorry, I just thought you might like to talk about her.”
“Yeah, no, I mean, I don’t know,” I say, stumbling over the words.
Tiny goes quiet, waiting for me to continue, but I don’t. And as usual with the mention of Des, an awkward stillness descends. We both stare out the window at the beach filled with people and the ocean behind them.
After a few moments, she returns to her list. “Also,” she says, like that exchange never happened, “remember when Ella’s mom said that until a year ago, they always used to do the Sunday crossword puzzle together? I was thinking it might be a good way for you to connect with Ella,” she says, chewing. “I copied some of my mom’s answers for you.” She points to the rolled-up newspaper in her shoulder bag.
“Right, because a crossword puzzle screams ‘Befriend me; I’m cool.’” I turn onto Main Street in Ella’s town, complete with brick storefronts and polished boutiques.
“It does,” she insists, shoving the last piece of bagel in her mouth and getting crumbs all over the seat. “You just have to be creative. Maybe work your love for crossword puzzles into your love for horoscopes.” Her grin turns taunting as I give her a warning glare.
I pull into a parking spot half a block down from the coffee shop.
Tiny hands me the newspaper. “How about this? If I’m wrong about the crossword puzzle, I’ll buy you lunch.”
I groan. She knows I can’t turn down a bet. “You’re on,” I say and tuck the newspaper under my arm.
Tiny’s phone dings and she glances at it. “Text from Ella’s mom. She says Ella just left the house with the girls.”
I know there’s no rush, but I hop out of the Jeep anyway, ready to get started.
“Wait!” Tiny says as my feet hit the pavement, and she yanks a worn rainbow notebook out of her bag, flipping it open to the first list she made when we decided to start Summer Love Inc.
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
1) Approach the subject person in a group, gaining interest without putting pressure on the subject person
2) Hook an invite to a party or something social from the subject’s person’s friend (No Flirting! It’ll cause drama)
3) Build trust and create a bond with the subject person by talking to them about things they care about
She holds up the notebook. “Kiss it for good luck,” she says, leaning over the center console.
“Definitely no.”
She shrugs and kisses it herself. “Fine, but bring me an iced mocha if you want to continue this friendship!” she yells after me as I walk away.
The sidewalk is full of chatting families and people eating at outdoor brunch tables. The Saturday energy is contagious, and I feel myself standing a little taller as I breathe in the salty air.
I step around a shaggy dog on the curb and grab the door to the Beach Brew. The bells on the door chime, and I’m greeted with the scent of pastry dough, warm chocolate, and coffee. I scan the small, popular café, decked out with driftwood and a mosaic made of shells. Most of the seats are taken, except for a couple of stools by the window and a four-top.
The corners of my mouth pull up as I formulate the beginning of a plan. I plop the newspaper and my phone down on the four-top and walk to the counter, ordering from the disinterested guy behind the counter, who sports black suspenders and tight jeans. He looks markedly out of place in the nautical-themed café, like a blaring reminder that sand gets caught in unwanted places if you wear the wrong clothes to the beach.
I shift to the part of the counter where the drinks come out, keeping an eye on the window and reviewing what I know about Ella.
“Holden,” the suspendered dude announces unenthusiastically and places an iced mocha and a black coffee on the counter. As I grab the drinks, three girls walk up to the café door—one with a blond bob and a strut, who I know from my research is Amber, the talkative, self-proclaimed leader of the group; a tall girl with box braids woven into a high bun named Leah, the most confident of the three; and Ella, with her wavy brown hair falling down the middle of her back and an exhausted look.
I take my drinks and slide into a seat at the four-top, pulling out my phone.
Me
Tiny
Me
Tiny
It’s guaranteed that everyone from our school will be at Bob’s Beachfront Diner for lunch, where they can conveniently go from eating fries and strutting to jumping in the ocean and then strutting some more.
I look up when I don’t hear the door chime as expected, and find the three girls stopped on the sidewalk. But instead of coming in with Ella, Amber and Leah continue down the sidewalk.
Damn it. Engagement rule number one—approach a subject in a group.
Me
Tiny
I look at the four-top I snagged and frown. I was going to offer up my table to Ella and her friends, giving me a conversation starter, but now Ella will easily fit at one of the available stools by the window.
Ella orders her drink, something long and complicated that makes me wonder how there can be ten substitutions on a drink that only has three ingredients. I watch her in my peripheral vision, careful not to look up from my phone.
Me
Tiny
Ella walks toward the window as I predicted, coffee in one hand and a beach bag in the other, lost in thought. She sits down, pulling out her laptop and hanging her bag over the back of her stool, and immediately starts typing. I tap my fingers on the table, brainstorming how to get her attention without something lame that might convince her I’m hitting on her.
The bell on the door chimes and a family with two children comes in, pausing to assess where to park the stroller while they order.
And I’m back in the chivalry business. “You can have my table,” I say loudly enough for them to hear me and with a happy lilt to my voice that earns me approving nods from the nearby customers.
Ella, however, doesn’t notice my considerate gesture. Mission not accomplished.
“That’s so nice, and I’m not going to say no,” one of the dads replies.
I grab my two drinks, smile at the dads trying to wrangle their children, and move toward the stool next to Ella’s.
“Is this seat free?” I ask Ella, who’s staring at her laptop.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says but doesn’t look up, doesn’t smile.
Ella leans forward, her brow tensed in concentration, typing away. I know that look; it’s the same expression Tiny has when she’s working on her lists, and I also know that anything I say at this point will be met with dismissal.
My phone buzzes.
Tiny
I look out the window. Sure enough, Tiny is in the vintage music store across the street, typing into her phone and grinning at her own joke.
Me
I pause, my finger hovering over the send button, not because I’m rethinking my unfunny response but because Tiny’s comment just convinced me something physical is exactly what I need. I look at the rolled-up newspaper and then at my coffee. I could spill a little coffee on the counter, not enough to get on Ella, just enough to start a conversation over the cleanup. But with her laptop out, it’s a risk. I could also make it so she spills my coffee on me, not my favorite choice, but one that will force us into a conversation. Hmmm.
I stare at the crisp white counter like it’s a daunting blank page in an exam booklet. The words most important case ever and three and a half weeks play on loop. And as I wind myself up, a line drawing forms in my mind. I press my eyes closed, but it refuses to disappear.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t check it, because I’m too focused on my timing. I pop the top off my coffee cup as Ella reads from her computer. It doesn’t take long before her phone buzzes, too.
I grip my coffee, putting one leg on the floor. And when she reaches back to grab her phone out of her bag, I stand. Her swinging elbow collides with my cup, but it’s not the subtle motion I imagined—a splash on the floor and a spray on my shirt—it explodes coffee everywhere, drenching us both in more liquid than could possibly exist in one cup. It’s on my shirt and on her dress, not to mention the counter, my face, her face, and the window.
For a moment we both freeze, stunned.
“Holy shit,” she says, immediately turning toward her computer. Luckily her body shielded it and there are only a handful of droplets on the screen.
I reach for a napkin dispenser. “Wow, I’m so sorry,” I say and mean it; I had absolutely no intention of getting coffee on her, much less drenching her in it. “Here, let me help.” I offer her napkins, but she grabs her own instead.
“You’ve already done more than enough,” she says, and for a second, I’m shocked; while I regret the way that played out, the lack of acceptance of my apology is unexpected.
I wipe a napkin down my coffee-splattered face. “I’m not saying I don’t deserve that . . . but there were definitely two of us involved in that collision, one of us with very bad timing and one of us with a hammer elbow, and even though it doesn’t really cover the damages, at least the badly timed one apologized.”
“Apology not accepted,” she says and goes directly back to cleaning coffee off her things.
And I laugh, not because it’s funny but because it’s so spectacularly bad—the actual worst introduction I’ve ever had to another person.
“Asshole,” she says under her breath.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m failing here, and if I don’t do something fast and clever, I’ll have no shot of ever talking to her again.
“Scorpio,” I retort and wipe coffee off my arms.
Now she turns to me. “Excuse me?” she says, squeezing coffee out of her long wavy hair. “I’m not a Scorpio. I’m a Leo.”
I do know her birthday after all. But as someone who knows what it’s like to obsess over specifics, I knew she literally could not resist correcting me. “Then don’t act like one.”
Her mouth hangs open. “I’m . . .” she blusters and settles on, “Ugh.”
I suppress a smile. “Nice try, but apology not accepted.”
“Seriously?” she says like she can’t believe I’m allowed to exist. “You’re a menace.” Her eyes narrow. “And a Gemini,” she declares. “Definitely a Gemini.”
For a split second I falter. She’s spot on. And she knows it, because she looks pleased by my reaction.
“Are you saying that because half of me is charming?” I ask. Even though I hate astrology, I do know the basic idea that Geminis are supposed to have two distinct sides of their personalities. I can practically hear Tiny trumpeting her victory over me for utilizing astrology. A little piece of my pride just withered and died.
“Wow, just wow,” she says, and even though she’s not being friendly, she no longer has ice in her voice.
“And because the other half of me is funny?” I try again.
She shakes her head, unconvinced that I should be making jokes.
“Look,” I say, conciliatory. “I know I’m not your favorite person in this café right now. You may have even ranked grumpy suspender dude above me.” I gesture at the guy behind the counter, and despite the fact that she tries to hide it, the corners of her mouth tilt upward. “But I really do feel bad about what happened. I’d love to make it up to you by—”
She stops me. “If you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you could hit on me after—”
How is it possible that every single thing I don’t want to happen in this conversation is happening in hyperdrive?
“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands. “I definitely don’t want to date you.”
Her eyes widen, and I know I’ve offended her even though she has no interest in dating me (funny how that works).
“I just meant that I’d love to pay for your dry cleaning,” I continue quickly but reconsider after seeing how stained her dress is. “Or maybe pay for a new dress entirely?” And as much as I hate to lose a bet to Tiny, I grab the newspaper and tear the crossword puzzle out of it, reconciling myself to go to Bob’s godforsaken Beachfront Diner.
I scribble my phone number on the back and then add:
Sorry again, Scorpio.
I hand her the note and she frowns, readjusting her bag on her shoulder. “I’m not going to call you.”
“No worries,” I say. “A text is perfectly fine.”
She opens her mouth but closes it again, shaking her head. And she walks away. She doesn’t say goodbye and she doesn’t look back, but she does stare at my note longer than she needs to.
I look at my phone, which now has a billion texts from Tiny, the last of which reads: What if this strategy is CURSED?!?