Summer on the Short Bus Read online

  “Intense is a bit of an understatement,” I say, watching him cautiously.

  “Yeah, maybe sometimes. But you seem to be handling it pretty well, now that you’ve recovered from your world-class hangover, that is.”

  “Okay, there it is,” I say with a groan. “You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?”

  “To say what?” he says playfully.

  “To tell me I’m a shitty drunk.”

  Beneath the rays of intermittent moonlight I see him grin. “You’re a shitty drunk.”

  “I know,” I say, burying my face in my hands. “I have no idea what happened. One minute I’m fine and the next . . .”

  “Don’t remind me,” he says. “I’m trying to erase the memory from my mind as we speak. I’m still not sure how you pulled that off, though. I’ve never seen one beer mess somebody up that bad. I guess it’s safe to assume you don’t drink very often, huh?”

  “Oh no,” I say. “I drink all the time at home.” He crosses his arms over his chest, raising a skeptical brow. “Okay, maybe I don’t drink that often . . . but still, I don’t know how that could have happened. It must be all this fresh air getting to me. Don’t forget, I’m a city girl.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that.” He motions toward my Twilight-covered knee. “But that’s actually sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “My inability to hold booze?”

  “Well, no. Although we’ll probably have to work on that in the future. I wanted to talk to you about your life back in Chicago—your dad, to be more specific.”

  “My dad?”

  “Yeah. When we told you about your dad’s involvement with the camp you seemed a little . . .”

  “Annoyed? Yeah, that’s ’cause I already told you guys, he’s involved with tons of charities. It’s really not a big deal that he didn’t tell me about this one.”

  “Okay, okay”—he steps forward, one hand raised in defense—“I’m not trying to get you all worked up. What your dad does or doesn’t tell you is none of my business, or anyone else’s—”

  “You know, Quinn, if you wanted to talk to me about my dad’s business arrangements, you didn’t have to drag me out here in the middle of the night. You could’ve just asked me at breakfast.”

  “No,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not why I brought you out here. That’s not what I meant to say.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks flustered. “I guess I wanted to tell you that it doesn’t matter to me that your dad is the person who signs my paychecks.” Recognizing the confusion on my face, he immediately adds, “Last night you said you’ve been burned by people who just want to hang out with you ’cause you’re rich.”

  Damn, drunk mouth!

  “I just want you to know that I’m not one of those people. Whether your dad has money or not won’t change the way I feel about you.”

  My eyes widen. “How you feel about me?”

  “Yeah,” he says, taking another step toward me. “I like you, not your money.”

  Considering how many people have liked me for the wrong reasons, Quinn’s sweet confession shouldn’t be lost on me. But tonight it is. I can’t focus on anything but those three little words he just said.

  “You like me?”

  The slight nod of his head is enough to answer my question, but it’s the grin breaking across his face that sets my heart racing.

  “I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”

  I shrug, still dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events.

  “Well, I do.” He takes another step closer. “A lot.”

  He’s less than a foot away from me now, and despite the sudden lack of oxygen in my lungs, I manage to rattle off a question I can’t believe I’m asking. “What exactly do you like about me?”

  He seems amused, but still cocks his head as if he’s carefully considering his response. “Well . . .” He shuffles forward, eliminating all the space that separates us. “I like that you say what’s on your mind.”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

  He nods. “And the way you stress out about your makeup getting messed up at the pool.” His gaze deviates momentarily to my mouth. “I like the way the dirty window screen imprint looks right here.” He reaches forward and gently grazes my forehead with his thumb. “And how you looked in my T-shirt last night.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I manage to say. “I woke up this morning and had no idea what was going on, and then I saw your shirt. It took me a minute to figure out it was yours—”

  “And I really like the way you babble when you’re nervous.”

  Before I have the wherewithal to shut up on my own, I feel his lips cover mine and the taste of cinnamon floods my mouth.

  I lace my fingers around his neck and pull him closer. He knots his hand in my hair, a confirmation that he’s been wanting this as much as I have.

  I lose myself in his touch, in the way his breath feels against my skin, and momentarily forget that my world outside his arms still contains handicapped signs and slurred speech. I could seriously stay here forever. Which is why when he asks, “Would you be willing to risk another trip out here again sometime?” I don’t hesitate in my response.

  “Definitely,” I say, breathing a contented sigh. “Most definitely.”

  TWELVE

  I am so screwed it’s not even funny.

  Up until the kiss I wanted nothing more than to escape this freak farm. But now everything is just so damned complicated.

  The past two nights, Quinn and I have spent countless hours getting to know each other while the rest of Camp Kill Me Now snoozes in their rickety beds. Fantine is convinced that we’re just rounding the bases beneath the trees, but believe it or not, our midnight adventures actually involve a lot more talking than kissing. Which is exactly why my dad’s return four days from now is starting to stress me out.

  If I follow through with my original plan, I run the risk of losing Quinn (which is exactly why I’m staying tight-lipped about my failed drunken escape). The flip side is that I’m not entirely confident his gentle lips are enough to see me through the duration of my sentence. And as much as I love spending time with him, I’m not sure I can hang with the heavy, handicapped price tag he comes with.

  “Is everything okay? You’re abnormally quiet tonight.”

  Wrapped in Quinn’s arms beneath a sea of stars, and nearly a mile between me and the nearest wheelchair, I shouldn’t have a care in the world. But I do—a big one. I quickly come up with an excuse for my atypical behavior. Much to my surprise, it’s actually legitimate.

  “I was just thinking about my dad. We’ve never gone this long without talking before.”

  “I’m sure he wants to talk to you,” he says. “It’s probably just the time difference or issues with his cell. They don’t all work internationally, you know.”

  I nod because his efforts to console me are sweet, not because I agree with him. My dad has access to the best technology out there. If he wanted to get a hold of me, he could.

  “You should take a trip up the hill tomorrow. Maybe the timing will work out and you’ll catch him between meetings or something.”

  Truth is, I’d already planned to tackle cell phone hill after tomorrow afternoon’s hike, but I wouldn’t want Quinn to think I don’t appreciate his advice.

  “That’s a good idea,” I say. “Plus Carolyn’s probably left me a message by now. It would be nice to hear her voice.”

  “Who’s Carolyn?”

  “She’s our housekeeper,” I say, feeling somewhat weird that our home lives haven’t really come up yet. Not that I’ve minded. “And the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mom.” Considering I’ve never said those words aloud, the conviction in my voice surprises me.

  “Oh,” he says, his expression softening. “Wow. I guess you two have been through a lot together then, huh?”

&
nbsp; I nod. “She was the one who took care of my mom when she was sick. But of course I don’t remember any of that.”

  He offers a sincere smile, before allowing his gaze to drift away from me and to the silhouettes of the moonlit trees surrounding us.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but you’re probably better off. Watching someone die isn’t easy. Those memories will stay with you forever.”

  “You watched someone die?”

  “My older brother,” he says. “About four years ago.”

  My eyes fall shut. Losing a mom you never knew sucks, but losing a brother you shared memories with is just brutal.

  “I’m so sorry, Quinn,” I say, repositioning myself so I can nuzzle my head into that little corner of space between his chin and his chest. “Life is just so unfair sometimes.”

  I feel him nod against my head, but he doesn’t actually speak again for a long time. And when he finally does, I’m surprised by his response. “You know what, I’m glad life is unfair sometimes.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, think about it. If life was always fair, you never would have ended up coming here and then I never would have met you. In this case, I think the unfairness of life worked in my favor.”

  “Is that a line from some Efron movie I haven’t seen?”

  “Pfff, whatever,” he says, waving away my question. “I don’t need Efron to make me look good. I look good on my own, baby. I’m the smoothest-talking cat in town.”

  “Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed for him. “You did not just say that.”

  “Hell yeah, I did,” he says, continuing with his goofy act. “Everybody’s talking about it. They’re like, ‘There goes Quinn. He’s so smooth, just look at him. Efron wishes he was half as cool as Quinn. . . .’”

  My laughter cuts him off only seconds before his own.

  “You’re a freak,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, it takes one to know one,” he says. “But actually, there must be some truth to my smooth-talking skills. Rainbow asked if I wanted to emcee the show. I told her I was in, but wanted to make sure you were cool with it first. Seeing how you’re the boss and all.”

  Why did he have to derail our conversation by bringing her up?

  “Uh-oh. What’d I say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on,” he prods, jabbing a finger into that very ticklish spot just above my waist. “What’s wrong? Did you want to emcee?”

  “God no.” I swat his hand away before he can tickle me again. “I’m just not that interested in talking about Rainbow, that’s all.”

  “Why? Did something happen between you two?”

  “If by something you mean, does she creep me out? Then yes.”

  The confused look on his face slowly gives way to one that borders more on the side of amusement. “Rainbow creeps you out?”

  “Yes,” I say, very aware of the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Like American Horror Story creepy or Nicki Minaj creepy?”

  “Quinn,” I say, smacking his chest. “I’m being serious.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be serious. What does she do that creeps you out?”

  “She stares at me.”

  His eyes narrow. “She . . . stares at you?”

  “Yes, a lot. But it’s not like she’s just casually watching me; it’s like she’s observing me. Like she’s taking mental notes about every little thing I do so she can write a book about me or something.”

  “Why would she want to write a book about you?”

  “Because she thinks I’m a spoiled brat.”

  “What?”

  Now I have his attention.

  “It’s true. She thinks I’m a spoiled brat. She told me herself.”

  “Are you serious? When?”

  “The first day I was here. Right before I took off running up the hill, she told me I was an insolent, spoiled brat and that if I didn’t get with the program I needed to leave.”

  He reels his head back. “That doesn’t seem like something she’d say.”

  “Yeah, well, people aren’t always what they seem.”

  Even though it’s dark, I’m still able to recognize the disappointment on his face. It sucks to be the bearer of bad news. “No,” he finally says. “I guess they’re not.”

  We sit quietly for a moment, before he says, “Well, if it makes any difference, I don’t think you’re a brat.”

  “That’s just because I let you kiss me.”

  “Well, there is that. But besides the obvious physical benefits of hanging out with you, I really don’t think you’re a brat.”

  “Thank you,” I say, peeking over my shoulder at him. “But you didn’t say I wasn’t spoiled.”

  “Well, I think we both know that you’ve got it pretty good.”

  “Excuse me?” I whip my head over my shoulder and look him dead in the eye. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Whoa. Yours, of course. But you didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that being spoiled isn’t your fault. Your dad has you living in a bubble, Crick. Private schools, personal drivers, ritzy vacations . . . Can’t you see how someone might label that as being spoiled?”

  On instinct, I open my mouth to retaliate against his words. But as they roll around in my head, I realize there might be some truth to them. I do sort of live in a bubble. A very posh, fancy bubble, but a bubble nonetheless.

  “That still doesn’t justify her calling you a brat, though,” he continues, his voice carrying a cautious tone. “And now that she’s gotten to know you, I’m sure her opinion’s changed anyway.”

  “Why would her opinion have changed?”

  “Because you’re kicking ass with the kids. Now that she’s seen you in action, there’s no way she can still feel that way.”

  Kicking ass with the kids. . . . Oh, man. I am totally going to hell.

  THIRTEEN

  The next afternoon I claw my way up cell phone hill in search of a little Windy City pick-me-up. As I feared, my dad hasn’t left any messages, but I am grateful to find a voice mail from Carolyn. Other than informing me that Mr. Katz has gone schizo and is barking at his own tail, there’s nothing particularly informative about her call. I still manage to get a little choked up, though. Her accent never sounded so beautiful.

  I’m halfway through the second play-through of the message, when the beeping in my ear alerts me that someone is calling me right now. I glance down at the screen and see Katie’s picture pop up.

  “Oh my God! Katie?”

  “Cricket? Hello?”

  “I can hardly hear you!” I shout into the phone, staggering around like a drunk in search of a stronger signal.

  “Can you hear me now?” she says, finally coming in loud and clear.

  “Yes. Thank God.” I settle onto a large, moss-covered rock on the far side of the hill and heave a sigh of relief. It’s so good to hear her voice. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the beach with some people I met a couple of days ago. There’s this guy, Shane—oh my God, Crick, he’s so hot and totally into me. I’m having so much fun!”

  “That’s great,” I say, eager for my own turn at boy talk. “What’s he like?”

  “Not sure really. He’s super cute and drives an H2. That’s as far as we’ve gotten. So what’s the deal there? Are the retards still driving you crazy?”

  I hear a chorus of laughter in the background, and by the muffling sound against the phone, can tell Katie’s joining in with them. I suddenly feel very alone.

  “They’re not completely retarded,” I say. “They can actually feed themselves and even know how to use the toilet.” She returns to our conversation with a hearty laugh. “Of course you still have to get over the whole smashed-in, dog-faced look, but I suppose life would be boring if we were all gorgeous and desirable.”

  “I suppose,” she says, and in my mind I can see her dark eyes rolling. “I still can’t
believe your dad did this to you. I mean, what the hell? Sentencing you to work at a ’tard farm. That’s so unfair. Have you talked to him yet?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. I told you he was really pissed. I’m sure I’ll hear from him when he gets home in a few days.”

  “But you’re surviving, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely gotten better since the last time we talked.”

  “Oh my God, that’s right! What’s up with the hottie? Don’t tell me you’re swapping spit with some one-legged freak.”

  “He’s got two legs,” I say. “But yeah, he’s totally hot. In fact, he looks just like Zac Efron if you can believe that.”

  “No shit? Shane and I just watched that cheesy Nicholas Sparks movie he was in. Totally predictable but he was still smokin’. So what’s the deal? Is he loaded? What kind of car does he drive?”

  “Uh . . .” I find myself stalling for time, as I grow surprisingly uncomfortable with her line of questioning. “He doesn’t come from money, and he hasn’t mentioned anything about a car. But he’s super smart and really funn—”

  “I’m coming!” She cuts me off to yell to someone in the background. “He sounds great, Crick, but I gotta run. Call me when you get home.”

  The call goes dead before I even have a chance to say good-bye, and I’m left to wonder whether or not Katie is actually the person I want to get a matching tattoo with next year.

  “Cricket?”

  I turn my head, transforming into my usual mess of giggles and warm, happy fuzzies when I discover Quinn standing just a few feet behind me.

  “How do you always manage to sneak up on me?” I ask, rising to greet him. “I swear I must be going deaf. Is it dinnertime already?”

  His distant look sends a chill down my spine.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is that really what you think?”

  “What?” I ask, walking slowly toward him. “What is it?”

  “Who were you talking to?”