Good Girls Part 24

"You seeing anyone?" he asks me. "Nardo-Ash-said you weren't."

"No," I say. "You?"

"Gave it up for Lent." He runs a finger in the s.p.a.ces between my knuckles. "I told my mom I'd bring the van back by six today, but do you want to go to the beach tomorrow?"

I'm surprised. "The beach?"

268 "Yeah, the beach. You know, sand, water, bathing suits. I'll do my best to win you a really huge, really ugly stuffed animal on the boardwalk. On the way, you can ask me all the questions you want."

"I don't know," I say.

"Come on," he says. "It'll be fun."

I think, Yes! I think, No! I think, There's no way this will work. I'm still me and you're still you-I'll obsess, you'll flirt, we'll go down in flames. I think, I'm leav- ing, you're leaving. Rutgers is too big and New York City is too big and there's too much to do and too many people to meet. We're seventeen years old and eighteen years old, we'll come home older and won't know who we are anymore, as if we ever did. Maybe it's better to leave it where it is, while we don't hate each other . . .

"Hey," he says, giving my hand a squeeze. "Stop it.

Stop thinking for one second. We have the summer . You can't know everything that's going to happen."

"I-".

"You don't know everything."

He's right. There are a billion things I don't know, as this year has proven. Why not take a chance? We do have the summer . Two whole months of it.

"Come on, Audrey." He drops my hand and holds his up like I've pulled a gun. "I'll keep my mitts to myself, if that's what you want."

269 I admire his long fingers. They look strong, like they could last a while, a half hour maybe. But I'm more greedy than that. There are other things I want, too. His brain, maybe even his heart. I'll start with those and see what happens. "Okay," I say. "The beach it is."

He smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Ten too early?"

"No. I'll be ready."

"Good," he says.

He hops down the stairs and takes the driveway in a jog. Then he turns around and runs back.

"Forget something?" I say.

"Yeah," he says, and leans down and kisses me- short and sweet. A casual, friendly, see-ya-later kind of kiss, the kind we never got to have before.

After he's gone, I sit there a long time, watching the clouds form and re-form, feeling the warm breeze, the kiss on my lips, just trying to be still, just trying to be.

It's hard, being. Hard not to pit yourself against your- self, hard not to measure and compare and rank yourself against everyone else. It'll take practice, and I'm not sure if it will ever work. Then I remember some dumb saying, or maybe a song, about having the same sky over us and the same stars s.h.i.+ning down on us and the same G.o.d smiling with her big G.o.d teeth, and think now that it's corny, but true. Our moon is the same moon, our sun is 270 the same sun, and the stars will sparkle for us no matter who or where or what we are-not s.l.u.ts, not players, just people. We can all look up and say, Okay, there's the South Star, there's the Big Dogpile, there's the Little Dips.h.i.+t.

Twinkle, twinkle.

271 Acknowledgments Thanks to my editor, Clarissa Hutton, who was will- ing to take a chance when I wanted to write something completely different. Ellen Levine, who is equal parts agent and fairy G.o.dmother . Anne Ursu and Gretchen Moran Laskas, who push and prod and occasionally, prop me up-every writer should have such amazing friends. The 2005 Writefesters, especially Greg Leitich Smith, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Tanya Lee Stone, Libba Bray, and Sean Petrie, who braved both the first draft and my near-psychotic fretting over it later. Audrey Gla.s.sman Vernick, who kindly lent criticism, support, 273 and her first name. Carolyn Crimi, Esther Hershenhorn, Myra Sanderman, Esme Raji Codell, and Franny Billingsley, who can take one cranky writer and make her laugh so hard and so long that she (almost) forgets how to be cranky. Melissa Ruby Horan, Annika Cioffi, Linda Rasmussen, and Tracey George, who have lis- tened for years and for some crazy reason, keep on lis- tening. My parents, who let me read everything I could get my hands on and answered every question without blus.h.i.+ng. And finally, thanks to Steve, one of the good boys.

274 About the Author.

Laura Ruby grew up in New Jersey in an era predating cell phones. She spent much of her misguided youth writing angry, angsty poems and dye- ing her hair lots of colors not found in nature. She now lives in Chicago with her husband and stepdaughters.

She is also the author of three books for younger read- ers, LILY'S GHOSTS, THE WALL AND THE WING, and THE CHAOS KING, and a collection of stories for adults, I'M NOT JULIA ROBERTS. You can visit her online at www.lauraruby.com.

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Also by Laura Ruby.

LILY'S GHOSTS.

THE WALL AND THE WING.

THE CHAOS KING.