THE GREGORYS’ CONDO
Wednesday, July 22
12:07 A.M.
Marsha Gregory yanked open the front door before Dwight, the security guard, had a chance to ring the bell. She was wearing a red paisley pajama set and beige Ugg slippers, and her mousy brown bob was pulled into a tiny ponytail. Her creamy skin was soft with night cream, making her hard green eyes look like two sharp rocks in an otherwise glistening stream.
“Who is this?” She glared at Dwight’s bushy mustache with contempt and pulled her daughter inside. “I thought you said you were sleeping at Ripple’s house? Why are you covered in mud? Where’s your bike? Is your scholarship in jeopardy?”
Even though being escorted home in a security car that smelled like McDonald’s pickles and had crackly jazz music playing through its garbled speakers had been an all-time low, Kristen was grateful she had a witness. Someone who could verify in a court of law if need be that her mother tended toward the hysterical.
“My name is Dwight Wolcott, and I found your daughter trespassing at the Westchester Country Club.” He stuck his chubby red nose a little further inside the Pine-Sol–scented foyer. After a quick evaluation of the distressed wood credenza, straw wall-hangings from Pier 1 Imports, and the glistening plastic plants that tried their very hardest to look real, he cleared his phlegm-filled throat and smirked. “And something tells me you’re not members.”
“Really, Dwight, and you are?” Marsha folded her arms across her braless chest.
Kristen wanted to hug her mother and hide at the same time. She loved how easy it was for Marsha to hold on to her pride and own who she was. But at the same time, she wished it hadn’t been necessary. For once it would have been nice to know that their lifestyle didn’t need defending. And that they could be accepted just the way they were.
Dwight coughed and quickly checked his walkie-talkie as if it were a direct line to the president. “I better be going. . . .” He jammed it back onto his brown belt, which looked terrible, by the way, with his all-black uniform.
“Yes.” Marsha put a protective arm around her daughter. “You better.”
Kristen smirked at Dwight, like a spoiled girl whose parents never punished her. But that was merely a fantasy— a fantasy that would only last until they heard the hallway elevator doors close. As soon as they did, Kristen’s worst fears would be confirmed.
“Explain.” Marsha tucked a loose hair behind her ear and glared at her daughter.
Kristen inhaled sharply, hoping something would come to her by the time she exhaled. But it wasn’t necessary.
“You’re done,” her mother snapped before she could speak. “I thought there wasn’t going to be any more trouble after your expulsion from OCD. I thought your life was going to be school and soccer. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“I was just—”
“Trespassing? Lying to your mother? Playing Russian roulette with your free pass to the most prestigious middle school on the East Coast?”
Kristen lowered her eyes. The parquet floorboards blurred through her tears—tears she cried not so much over her impending punishment but over her inability to do what other kids did and get away with it. It was like she had one of those invisible dog fences around her body, and every time she did something that went against her good-girl nature, she got zapped. Why didn’t the Pretty Committee or Skye or Dune or Ripple have invisible fences around them? Why could they break the rules and still come out smiling? Why was Kristen being forced into a lifetime of perfection?
“You are grounded for the rest of the summer. That means no—”
A light rap on the door interrupted her. It was probably Dwight, who’d just received word that her red crystal–filled backpack had been discovered in the maintenance shack, the final piece of evidence needed to land her a life sentence. The rest of her education would come from the bloodstained pages of prison library books and CNN on a TV the size of a toaster.
“Yes, Dwight,” Marsha said with an I-am-more-than-qualified-to-take-it-from-here huff.
But the opposite of Dwight was standing in their doorway.
It was Dune.
Kristen’s stomach lurched. A cute, shirtless boy whose idea of “school” consisted of several fish swimming by his surfboard at the same time could only worsen this horrible situation.
“Hi, Mrs. Gregory, I’m Dune.”
Kristen’s mom glowered at him the same way she always eyed the skinny girl who worked at the smoothie shop, silently insisting that they keep squeezing until every last drop of juice was drained from the fruit and in her to-go cup.
And, like the skinny girl at the shop, Dune eventually got the hint.
“I just wanted to come here and thank your daughter for trying to save my little sister.”
Kristen and Marsha raised their eyebrows.
“She was tutoring Ripple when Ripple snuck out to the country club. Kristen went after her to bring her home before she got in trouble or . . .” He paused for effect, shaking his head grimly. “Or worse. Anyway, my sister got away, but your thoughtful daughter didn’t. And on behalf of my grateful father, who is waiting downstairs in the car, we just want to thank you for raising such a responsible girl.”
Marsha looked at her daughter, silently asking if this was true. Kristen dried her tears on her black sleeve and nodded yes. Next thing she knew, she was being swept into a Bounce fabric softener–scented embrace, smiling into a fold of paisley-covered faux-satin.
Without another word, or even a thank you to Dune, Marsha released Kristen, turned in her Uggs, and shuffled down the parquet hallway toward her bedroom. It was her way of letting Kristen know that she trusted her again. And as for Dune, Marsha owed him nothing. Allowing him five minutes of alone time with her daughter after dark was thanks enough.
“Ehmagawd.” Kristen mouthed her gratitude. Not only for saving her, but for finally showing her that he was really, truly crushing back—a gesture far more romantic than diamonds or taking a private jet to Paris for dinner. She made a mental note to return the favor times ten, so he’d know there was no question that she felt the same way he did. But for now, a humble show of appreciation would do.
Kristen touched his arm gently. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”
“Of course.” He nervously gathered his blond hair like he was going to tie it back and then let it go. “I never leave a buddy behind. Number one rule of surfing.”
Kristen felt a sharp sting under her armpits when he said buddy, but she filed it under “surf term.” It probably meant something closer to soul mates, right?
“And how unbelievably awesome is it to have Skye in our group? People never think that super-hot girls can be cool, but she proves them wrong, don’tcha think?” His round pupils turned to hearts whenever he said her name.
Meanwhile, Kristen’s heart took a running leap off the Gregorys’ fifth-floor balcony and smashed on the pavement of the visitors’ parking lot below. She forced a smile, but it probably looked more like a crooked line. “You better go.”
“Seriously.” He chuckled. “Skye is at my house, watching Ripple. If I don’t get back soon, the walls will be covered in glitter nail polish.” He chuckled again. “Aren’t girly girls funny?”
Kristen wanted to grab him by the shoulders and tell him that she was into glitter polish. That she was a girly girl. That she was funny! And that if she’d had the confidence to ignore Ripple’s terrible advice, she would have been wearing the orange dress with the turquoise bracelets. But all she did was thank him again and close the door.
The rest she would save for a box of Puffs and David Beckham.