KRISTEN’S ROOM
Saturday, July 18
9:13 A.M.
Kristen woke up in her white Pottery Barn twin bed spooning David Beckham. Her top arm rose and fell with his breath, a gentle rhythm like the lazy sway of a hammock. It had offered her solace many times in the past. Like the time she’d gotten a super-short boy cut. Or when she’d gotten kicked out of OCD. And even a few weeks ago, after her parents had announced she’d be spending another boring summer at home. But this morning, no matter how hard she side-hugged her fluffy white Persian kitty, Kristen could not get rid of the churn in her stomach. In fact, every time she thought about her visit to GAS Park it got bigger. But why? Was it:
A) Her inability to be instantly adored by Dune’s friends?
B) Dune’s failure to hint at follow-up plans when they’d parted ways?
C) Skye Hamilton’s Dune-or-die attitude?
D) Skye Hamilton and her good-luck-competing-with-my-hotness confidence?
E) Knowing that Dune would be at the country club in less than two hours flirting with Skye Hamilton and the DSL Daters?
F) Not having any plans on her day off?
G) All of the above.
The answer was clear. It was G, all of the above. And choosing G meant texting M, aysap.
Kristen lifted her arm off David Beckham and palm-patted her night table. She knuckle-bumped her hard copy of The Daring Book for Girls, an empty bottle of Vitamin Water, the base of her lime-green lamp, which matched the painted walls perfectly, and finally, her black Razr. Sitting up, she pulled David Beckham onto her lap, pushed back the sleeves of her A&F periwinkle blue sleep shirt, and flipped open her phone. Her thumbs took care of the rest.
K: crush x 10 on Dune Baxter. Skye 2. How do I win?
Kristen dragged her gold locket from one side of the chain to the other while she waited for a response. Did she sound too desperate? Too insecure? Too—
Ping.
M: Dune the SURFER?
K: Y!
Ping.
M: Is he endorsed?
K: N.
Ping.
M: Rich parents?
K: N.
Ping.
M: Then Dune’s done.
Ping.
M: Dune = D-EW-N
Ping.
M: Wave goodbye.
Ping.
M: Get it?
“Ugh!” Kristen snapped her phone shut and self-pity-whipped it across the room. It landed in the middle of her sea blue beanbag with a thud-hiss.
Gawd! How many expensive lattes had she sipped listening to Massie talk about Derrington and Chris Abeley? And how insulting was it to dismiss Dune as a crush candidate just because he was ATM-challenged. Especially knowing Kristen was on scholarship. It was more unfair than Dune’s deeply tanned skin.
Even if Kristen wanted to turn to her mother for advice—which she didn’t, because she would be told to avoid boys and stay focused on work and school so she could learn to thrive in this world without a man—she couldn’t. Marsha Gregory was at Costco. And her father, Ray, was on a golf trip in Miami working on some potential new business venture. A trip that Marsha swore would be his last as a walking man if he didn’t return with a signed contract big enough to get them out of debt after his last “potential new business venture.”
There was only one place left to turn.
Kristen closed her bedroom door. Lowered her bamboo shades. Yanked her mother’s old yellow dishwashing gloves out from under her mattress and slid them on. Then she crouched beside David Beckham’s kitty litter box, dug in, and pulled out Dylan’s white hand-me-down MacBook. Tiny powder-scented rocks fell away to the sides and split like Demi Moore’s middle part. But the thick Saran Wrap coating kept the secret computer preserved and protected from feline waste. Not that it was necessary. David Beckham was fully potty trained and hadn’t used the box for years. Not even when he had had that bladder infection over Easter.
Under the dark cover of her blue and green polka-dot duvet, Kristen powered up the old laptop. It inhaled deeply, then whirred to life like an asthmatic. She unfastened a black code key from the tiny Velcro straps she’d secretly attached on the wall side of her bed. Then she flipped the face of her silver Guess Carousel watch over to its LCD screen side. As soon as the red flashes came, she inserted the code key into the computer’s USB port, then held up her wrist.
Beep, beep, beep.
Kristen pulled out the key and breathed a sigh of relief as the watch screen flashed. SIGNAL SENT.
Help was on the way.