A & L Do Summer (7 page)

There's my cue. I slide the omelet from the pan onto his plate. Even though I know what's inside, it looks so delicious that my mouth waters.

“So what was that story you told Mom about ‘feeling obligated' to attend the senior party?” I indulge my rising anger and grip the handle of the skillet more firmly. I can't bash in Manny's head, but fantasizing about it makes me feel better.

“Man, that smells great,” Manny says. “Where's Mom, anyway?”

“Dad's setting up the ‘in case of rain' tent. She's supervising.” Anticipation is making my palms sweat.

“Poor Dad.” Manny pokes the edge of the omelet with his fork.

Eat it already!

“Yeah. She's had both of us working like dogs. So where were you last night?”

“A party at some farmhouse. At least half the senior class was there.” He cuts off a small piece, forks it into his mouth, and chews. “This tastes great! Just what the doctor ordered.”

You don't know the half of it.

“So how come you're not eating?” he asks.

“Mom, Dad, and I ate together hours ago,” I lie. “Mom wanted to let you sleep so you'd be rested for your party.”

“She's the best.” Manny takes another bite. He has this weird habit of eating all the edges before he cuts into the center. All the more for him to hurl. “I need to do something nice for her, maybe a belated Mother's Day card.”

“I don't think Hallmark has come up with those yet.”

The back door opens and Dad heads straight to the coffee pot. The remains of his hair look like a helicopter landing zone. He fills his #1 DAD mug to the brim and gulps. “Ah! The fluid of life!”

I channel my mental powers into sending Dad back outdoors. “What smells so good?” He zeros in on Manny's omelet. “Hey, where did that come from?”

“Mom made it for him—with the last three eggs.”

Dad thinks that over, probably trying to figure out when Mom quit nagging him long enough to throw an omelet together. Then he shrugs and pulls out the chair beside Manny. “How about splitting your breakfast with the old man?”

Manny shovels another bite into his mouth. “Aspen said you guys already ate.”

Dad cocks his head at me, no doubt wondering about the breakfast we didn't eat together. Since I don't know the signal for, “I'm playing a practical joke on Manny so don't mess me up,” I just nod and smile.

“So what?” Dad finally says. “It won't kill you to spare a few bites, seeing as how I've been busting my hump getting things ready for you.”

“Okay,” Manny says with a pained sigh. “After I take a couple more bites you can have the rest.” He digs his fork into the center of the omelet, chops off about half of it, and crams the huge chunk into his mouth.

How could I have doubted my brother's greed?

As Manny begins to chew, my fingers tiptoe across the table to my cell phone. My first snap captures the moment when his eyes bug at the first hit of Pepto and Tabasco. And there's the stomach-clutching and gagging that might or might not have come from the minty taste of Tums. Of course, I don't miss the “I'll kill you” glare in his eyes just before he dashes to the downstairs bathroom. I consider trying for a bathroom shot, but that might be taking it too far.

Dad laces his fingers across his stomach and studies Manny's half-empty plate. “So I probably shouldn't eat the rest of that omelet?”

“I wouldn't recommend it.”

He shakes his head. “That's too bad. I was really hungry for one.”

“I'll make you one next Saturday.”

“Same ingredients?” he asks.

“Not exactly.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dad goes to the coffeepot and refills his mug. “You'll clean up the kitchen before your mother comes in?”

“Spic and span.”

“That's one of the reasons you're my favorite daughter.”

“And you're my favorite dad.”

We both stop to listen to Manny retching in the bathroom.

Dad nods in that direction. “Senior parties are rough on the stomach. Might have to clean that up, too.”

I smile. “That's okay.”

Dad smiles back. “Well, once more into the breach.” With a resigned sigh, he closes the door behind him.

As I dump the remains of Manny's omelet into the disposal, I catch myself humming.

The afternoon weather is nauseatingly perfect—blue sky, gentle breeze, birds singing in three-part harmony. Any minute I'm expecting a carload of A-list celebrities to cruise by and decide to stop in for refreshments. That's the kind of luck Manny has.

Speaking of which, he looks way too good for a guy who was blowing his intestines into the john three hours ago. Just before the party, he corners me in the upstairs hall. “That omelet was kick-ass. It knocked the alcohol out of my system in three minutes flat,” he says. “I've never felt this good after a night of drinking.”

“Naturally. It's the number-one hangover cure on the Internet,” I bluff, keeping my arms crossed over my midsection. Experience has taught me never to leave my diaphragm unprotected. “I knew you'd want to feel good for your graduation party.”

“Is that so?” Manny straightens the collar of his favorite golf shirt. “I didn't realize you were looking out for my health, Sis. Then it's only fair for me to do something for you, too.” The creepy serial killer cadence of his voice makes my earlobes prickle. “I'm going to make sure you get lots and lots of healthful exercise by keeping you out of my car. For the entire summer.”

I have to cover my mouth to keep from spitting on the back of his neck as he saunters away.

I'M LURKING ON A FOLDING CHAIR IN THE CORNER OF THE
totally unnecessary tent Dad spent two hours setting up and wishing Laurel would hurry up and get here. Our house and lawn are swarming with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. I've wiped enough old-lady lipstick off my cheek to paint a mural. On the plus side, finals are over, Manny's graduation ceremony wasn't as torturous as I thought it would be, and I'm a free woman for the next eleven weeks.

Golden boy Manny is working the crowd, spreading rays of sunshine to one and all. His party has barely started, but he's doled out enough hugs, kisses, and handshakes to be elected president. I'd be cheery, too, if an overflowing basket of graduation cards filled with money was waiting for me at the end of the day. But I notice Manny is doing frequent visual sweeps of our yard so he doesn't miss the arrival of any of the dozens of girls he invited. I wonder how Cynthia likes sharing him with all those female friends.

“Aspen, there you are! I've been looking everywhere.” Mom's face is damp with sweat, and the peach-colored dress she bought especially for today is already wilting. “I need your help in the kitchen.”

I should have waited for Laurel behind the garage. “You look stressed, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Your Aunt Sharon is driving me to the brink of insanity!” Mom dabs her forehead with a napkin. “Count your lucky stars that you have a brother instead of a sister.”

“I was just offering up a prayer of gratitude.”

But Mom is too frazzled to appreciate my wit. “If I hear one more time about how gifted her precious Jeremy is, I'll pull her tongue out by the roots.”

And I thought that side of Mom's personality was saved for me.

“And if that weren't enough—” Her sentence ends in a yelp. “My stars! Why are the police here?”

Mom grabs my wrist and jerks. My left foot catches on the brace of the folding chair. It collapses around my ankle and sends me reeling into Mom. I snatch at the edge of the closest table for support, but it tips on the uneven lawn. And just that fast, Mom and I are sprawled on the grass, with lawn furniture piled on top of us.

I lie there, listening to my heartbeat, wriggling my fingers and toes to make sure they're still working. My head is on Mom's shoulder, and I hear her breathing. I wonder if she and I are thinking the same thing—it wouldn't be so bad to hang out under here until this party thing blows over.

Before I have a chance to ask if we should have Dad throw a tablecloth over us, the table is tipped aside and someone pulls the chair off my ankle. I keep my eyes closed in accordance with the law of “If I Can't See You, You Can't See Me.”

“Miss, are you all right?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Will I hurt you if I help you stand up?”

Only my self-esteem.

“I'm okay,” I mumble, “but I think I squashed my mother.” When two pairs of hands take my upper arms, I have no choice but to open my eyes. Holding my left arm is a short, black-haired cop with a thickset torso and a mustache. Holding my left arm is—

Oh, crap!

“Aspen, are you sure you're okay?” Clay asks, his blue eyes narrowed with concern. “That looked like a nasty fall.”

Beside me, Dad and the cop are helping Mom up. She's a little wobbly, but she says she's all right.

“Excellent! That's exactly what Mom and I were going for.” I reach up and smooth my hair. “The party was dragging, so we thought we'd throw in a little excitement.”

Clay smiles and squeezes my arm, which he's still holding. “It's great the way you take everything in stride. My mom's like that, too.”

Goody. There's nothing like having a cute guy compare me to his mother.

Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “Aspen, honey, are you hurt?” When I tell him I'm in one piece, he says, “That's my girl.” He nods at the cop standing beside him. “This is Miguel Sierra, the newest addition to Cottonwood Creek's police force.”

“Nice to meet you, Aspen,” Officer Sierra says, shaking my hand. “For a moment I thought I'd have to call on my CPR training. I'm glad it didn't come to that.”

“Me, too,” I say, distracted because Clay has let go of my arm.

Officer Sierra smiles, showing two rows of white teeth. “When I saw the crowd, I decided to stop and introduce myself.”

“That's a relief.” Mom brushes some grass trimmings out of her hair. “I thought we were being raided.”

Officer Sierra sees my uncle and grandparents, who are hurrying over to find out what's wrong. “Well, you might keep an eye on that bunch. They look like they could get rowdy.” He holds out his hand to Clay. “You must be Aspen's brother.”

“No!” I say too loudly. “This is my brother's friend, Clay …” I realize I don't know his last name.

“Clay Mason. I have a farm just north of town.”

“I don't know the area all that well yet,” Officer Sierra says. “Do you live out on Whitetail Road?”

“Aspen,” Mom hisses in my ear, “go tell everyone why Officer Sierra is here before any rumors get started.”

I'm trying to hear what Clay is saying. “But—”

“Now!” She gives me a shove that's not exactly gentle.

I stalk off to do her bidding. It would serve her right if I told Aunt Sharon that Mom's being arrested for prostitution.

While I spread the word among my relatives that we're not being hauled off to the slammer, I keep an eye on Clay. After helping Dad set up the table, he wanders over to where Manny is treating a group of girls to his charm and half-wit. Manny's girlfriend, Cynthia, however, is not among the lucky few. I wonder what that's about.

Why am I worrying about Cynthia? Clay has stumbled into an all-you-can-eat buffet of horny girls, and my traitorous brother is introducing him to all of them. Okay, so I haven't told Manny I'm interested in Clay. A good brother would know. Tessa and Wynter slink up to their little group, and my blood heads for the boiling point. Why did Manny have to invite those two man-eaters?

“Aspen, there's a cop car parked in front of your house!” Laurel shrieks, tackling me from behind. “Did they find out?”

“Relax.” I push Laurel off without registering what she's saying. My whole being is focused on Wynter, who's rubbing her elevated boobs on Clay's arm. He looks around as if he's not sure what to do. I close my eyes, channeling all of my mental energy toward him.

Wynter repels you. You want Aspen. Wynter repels you. You want Aspen.

When I open my eyes, Wynter has her hand on the back of Clay's neck while she whispers in his ear. I am
this close
to losing faith in my psychic abilities.

Laurel shakes me like a rag doll. “Aspen, stop daydreaming and listen! Some cop has your father cornered by the back door. I think he's being interrogated!”

I look over her shoulder. “No, he's not. Everything's fine.” Except that from here, it looks like the school slut is polishing Clay's right ear with her tongue.

“What is wrong with you?” Laurel grabs both sides of my head and pulls me down to her eye level. Neck strain is one disadvantage of having a best friend who's six inches shorter than I am. “What will our parents do if we get busted for the pig thing?”

“Excuse me, Aspen.” Officer Sierra materializes at my elbow. “I'm leaving now. Still feeling okay?”

Laurel's eyes swell like hard-boiled eggs, and her body jerks like she's been tasered.

“I-I'm fine, Officer Sierra. Th-Thanks for asking.” My heart hits three beats in quick succession and stops dead. How much of Laurel's rant did he hear?

“Good deal.” There's no time to channel my mental energy before he asks, “And who's your friend?”

“Laura Mae Hamsenburger,” Laurel blurts. “From Australia. I'm visiting for the weekend.”

Officer Sierra strokes his mustache. “You traveled all the way from Australia just to spend the weekend?”

“She's such a kidder!” I throw my arm around Laurel's neck and pull her against my side. “This is my friend Laurel Piedmont. And she lives in Cottonwood Creek—not Australia.”

“Well, Laurel, you've got quite a sense of humor,” Officer Sierra says, but I'd feel better if he was smiling. “So did I hear you say something about a pig?”