30 Guys in 30 Days (21 page)

Would he?

“What time do you have?” I asked cap-boy wearily.

“Five forty-five.”

I froze. I knew that voice.

Slowly, I looked up. My gaze panned first across a scuffed pair of Adidas, and then over a worn pair of deep chocolate cords. Then the corners of a flannel shirt, and over that, a nubby wool sweater.

Topped off, of course, with my favorite blue-green eyes. Which were, finally, looking straight into my own. And twinkling. “I’m such a loser. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

He reached out a hand and helped me to my feet. Now we were standing face-to-face. “Why
were
you late?” I asked. I tried to sound stern, but the smile that stretched across my cheeks was giving me away.

“I had to get some stuff together for you.” He dug into his messenger bag. “First this.”

I looked at it. It was a CD. He’d made a colorful, graffiti-style label for it: MAD SALAD, LIVE AT THE TIN ROOM.

My smile threatened to slide right off my face and wrap itself around him.

“Oh!” I said, realizing. “I’m going to have to delete some stuff off of my iPod. It’s full. Don’t worry,” I joked. “The Backstreet Boys can go. You’re amazing.” I pulled back from him suddenly, self-conscious.
“Why
are you so amazing now?”

He shrugged. “I talked to my ‘sister.’” At my confusion, he clarified. “Kyra. She explained everything. Like, especially how I was being a moron.”

It’s possible that Kyra has her good points, then.

He handed me a deck of cards. And another box, this one wrapped in newspaper, which I hastily ripped off. “A Nerf dart-board?” I asked, puzzled.

“For ‘target practice,’ Claud.”

I shoved him. “You’re ridiculous,” I said. But I was laughing.

“I
am
ridiculous. I was ridiculous the other day. I totally overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I was thinking you could come by my place and we could set
the dartboard up, stay in, and play games all weekend.”

It sounded perfect, except for one thing.

“I’m done playing games, Gabe,” I said softly, reaching up and running my fingers across his face.

He circled one arm around me and buried the other deep in my hair. “Does that mean you finished? Thirty guys?”

I paused for a moment, contemplating. Then I remembered: baseball-cap boy. “As a matter of fact, yes. Just before you got here,” I said.

“Perfect timing,” he said, eyes gleaming with emotion.

I offered him a small, self-satisfied grin. “And here I was going to ask what took you so long.”

Gabe’s response was to lean forward and kiss me, deep and full on the lips. I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent, running my fingers through his hair, down his neck, across his back, taking in all of him against me. I’d always imagined that kissing Gabe would be electric; I’d had no idea that I’d feel it in my fingertips, toes, the pit of my stomach…. I could barely stand.

I guess he had the same reaction, because we pulled apart simultaneously, each of us struggling to catch our breath and our balance once again. “Wow,” Gabe said, reaching out to brush my hair from my eyes.

I grinned and grabbed at the front of his sweater, pulling him back to me and kissing him softly again. I traced my way up the side of his face gently, until I’d reached his ear. I stood on tiptoe and whispered to him just one word:

“Bull’s-eye.”

11/16, 7:52 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: All’s well that ends well

Hi there, ladies:

Just back from my pop culture midterm. Thank god Gabe and I made up in time to study together because favorite class or no, it wasn’t easy. But it’s definite: I’m going to be a media studies major! I just can’t resist the thought ‘Of watching movies for credit. Bio, child psych, and women’s history are fine, and believe it or not, I think I’m pulling a B-in comp sci.

Ellen: Charlie was initiated last night. She came home wearing a balloon animal crown and a mustache that, near as we can tell was drawn on in Sharpie. So we’re still working on removing that. But she’s thrilled enough that I don’t think she even minds looking like Groucho Marx for a few more days.

Meanwhile she has settled in enough with Troy that she has finally stopped dragging me to the gym with her. Either they go together, or she skips it entirely. I’m very impressed. She even mentioned possibly paying him a visit over Thanksgiving break ‘cause they live kind of nearby. Staggering, what love will do to you.

Thanksgiving. Is it really next week? Gabe’s going back to Highland Park, of course, which is a little bit too far for me to just “stop by.” And even though he invited me, I told him I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable spending the holiday weekend with his family. Which, of course, he understood. Kyra promised me she’d save me a piece of pie, which I think was her way of reminding me that she’ll always have history with him. But I don’t care. After all she was the one who ultimately brought us together.

Okay, maybe I care a little bit. I’m only human, after all. BUT SO IS SHE, it turns out!!!

What with the freak snowstorm that hit this week, we’ve all basically been snowed in. Thank god for the games Gabe brought. I’ve been practicing on the Nerf dartboard every day. I’m an ace now, no joke. Bull’s-eye every time. Gabe says it’s a shame I’m retired from “target practice” ‘cause I’m a real ringer. He says my talents are wasted.

But I say I’ve already won first prize.

—xx

Micol Ostow is an editor and writer of books for children, tweens, and teens. She lives and works in New York City. When she’s not writing, she enjoys running, reading, eating chocolate, and watching bad television (in no particular order and sometimes even all at once). She has never played “target practice.” But she thinks it would be fun. Contact Micol at: [email protected].

LOL at this sneak peek of My Summer as a Giant Beaver

By Jamie Ponti

A new Romantic Comedy from Simon Pulse

This is so not right.

It’s the first day of summer vacation and I’m already up at six thirty in the morning. Officially, I’ve sworn off overpriced coffee until I’ve paid for the car. But this is an emergency, so I break my Starbucks rule and get a venti cappuccino.

By the time I reach Magic Waters, the caffeine has done its trick and I’m nearly coherent. I need to find my supervisor before orientation starts so I can beg for a different job. (Mermaid show or no mermaid show, I still owe my parents $1,250.)

She’s cool about it when I explain my problem and she even arranges for me to stay in the entertainment department. This is great because entertainment pays almost
a dollar an hour more than any other department. The job, though, is with the zoo crew. This is not great.

The zoo crew is what they call the costumed characters who roam around the park and dance in the parade. A job like that might be cool at a place like Disney World, where the costumes are well made and the characters are beloved. But at Magic Waters, it’s like a completely lame school play.

I get assigned to play Eager Beaver.

I’m not joking. That’s really his name. Or her name. No one really knows if Eager Beaver is a boy or a girl. They only know that Eager Beaver likes to dance around the Rapid River Log Flume—“The Rootin’ Tootinest ride in the Wild Wild West.”

Next, I go to the wardrobe warehouse, which could not be freakier. When I open the door, I run smack into the disembodied head of Ollie Otter. All the character heads are stored on posts right by the front door. When you’re not expecting it, it looks like you’ve stumbled into some bizarro cartoon headhunter ceremony.

I report to the costume counter, which is manned by a woman who I swear is the
actual Mrs. Claus. She’s got rosy red cheeks, granny glasses, and a sewing apron.

“Good morning,” she says in a manner way too jolly for this time of day. “Who are you?”

“Jane,” I answer. “Jane Quincy.”

She gives a disapproving look and points her finger at me in a way that makes me want to snap it off.

“You may be Jane Quincy out there.” She motions to the door. “But once you pass through these portals you become one of our magical characters.”

I think this is going to take more than just one venti.

“So let’s try again. Who are you?”

“Eager Beaver,” I mumble, still trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes, hoping this is all a dream.

“Well you don’t sound so eager to me,” she says with a laugh. “But we can work on that.”

She disappears into a back room and returns with my costume. It’s hideous. She hands me a fur bodysuit that weighs a ton, a pair of four-fingered gloves, and huge black boots that will completely ruin my
feet. Then she goes over to the giant rack o’ heads (God, that freaks me out) and pulls off Eager Beaver’s noggin. I don’t know why he’s so happy, but he’s got the biggest bucktoothed smile you ever saw.

I seriously consider running out the door.

Mrs. Claus misreads my state of shock as a case of magical wonder and awe.

She smiles warmly. “Don’t worry, dear. You’re perfect for Eager Beaver.” She says this as though it’s a good thing.

“Why is that?” I want to know. But I’m more than a little scared of what the answer might be.

“Because you’re so flat-chested,” she replies. “The costume won’t bind in the bust.”

At this point, I want to kill Mrs. Claus. But I’m pretty sure that will cost me my job and ultimately my car. So instead, I just smile. “Lucky me.”

“Why don’t you go try it on,” she adds.

The costume, me, and my flat chest all head into the locker room, which reeks of a strange brew of polyester, sweat, and fiberglass. Despite the assurances of Mrs. Claus, the costume could not be more uncomfortable.

The fur body (think bad shag carpet) is about eight million degrees. Right from the start it makes my skin itch. The fiberglass head has only two teensy eye slits, which make it impossible to see. The head also weighs so much that if I lean just a little too much one way or another, I lose my balance.

The worst part, though, is the tail. Eager Beaver has a gigantic tail. It’s even gigantic by cartoon standards. It pulls down on my butt so much, I feel like my pants are falling down.

I spend the next few minutes walking around the locker room trying to develop my “beaver legs.” In short order, I trip over my tail, knock down a potted plant, trip over my tail again, smack into a Coke machine, and slam headfirst into the wall of lockers. (Altogether, not unlike the night Becca and I mixed rum and Diet Coke under the mistaken belief that they were to be blended in equal portions.)

Orientation turns out to be a lot like the first day of school. By the time I figure out where the bathroom is, everyone else has already broken up into little groups. It doesn’t take long to see that there’s a pecking order at
Magic Waters, just like there is at Ruby Beach High. The mermaids sit alone at the top of the food chain.

They’re the stars. (They even wear matching baby blue warm-ups with their names stitched just above their oh-so-perfect left: breasts.) The Zoo Crew is somewhere in the middle, just above food service and the janitorial staff.

After an initial welcome speech, everyone goes off into smaller groups with their departments.

While Crystal and the mer-chicks pose for their lobby photos, I learn the beaver dance from a” choreographer” whose name is pronounced “Chris” but spelled “Krys.” The dance is pretty much just me hopping around and shaking my tail. Krys, of course, is not satisfied.

“You’re a beaver, not a bunny,” he says, clapping his hands to the beat.

I have no idea what he means, but I act like I do and just keep hopping and shaking. Luckily I am rescued by Platypus Rex, who informs Krys that Ollie Otter is having big trouble mastering the parade march.

When Kris rushes over to help Ollie,
Rex hustles me out a side door to a patio.

“You looked like you needed a break,” he says as he takes off his platypus head and plops down on a bench.

“Thank you,” I tell him as I ditch my giant beaver head. “My name’s Jane.”

“Grayson.” We sort of shake hands, which is no easy task in our bulky costumes.

I try to get a good image of him, but it’s hard. His hair is all stuffed into a bandana and his face is flushed from wearing the costume. I can only imagine how bad I look right now.

It turns out that Grayson’s a senior at Fletcher—our rival high school. He’s in his third summer as Platypus Rex. Unlike Krys and Mrs. Claus, he doesn’t seem to take it so seriously.

He tells me the various 200 crew rules, which are plentiful. Characters are not allowed to talk (because it breaks the magic) and you can only sign autographs after special training to make sure you do it right. (I’m not kidding.)

You’re never allowed to take off your head when you’re in a guest area because it really freaks kids out. (After my first encounter
with the rack o’ heads, I can relate.)