You’re Invited Too (22 page)

And then it goes dark.

Not eyes-softly-closed-because-I'm-being-kissed-for-the-very-first-time dark. Nope. It goes pitch-black-dead-of-night-because-a-hurricane-just-knocked-out-the-power dark. I guess I must have been leaning forward, because I bump into his chest. His arms come around me and hug me. Whoa again.

Some red emergency lighting comes on overhead, and I wait until my eyes adjust some before leaning back a little to look up at Philippe. His arms stay around me, though, and it would be
très
romantic if we weren't in the middle of, y'know, a hurricane. Whatever. It's still
très
romantic.

“I really like you, Becca. You are so sweet and nice to everyone, and you make Sandpiper Beach feel a leetle more like home for me,” Philippe whispers into the darkness.

“I do? But I've barely talked to you. And I have braces!” Ack! Why did I say that? Awkward alert!

Philippe laughs. “So what? Every time I see you, you are so happy and bubbly and you always have a smile for me. Well, until you got braces, zat eez. Can I tell you a secret?”

I nod. But then I don't know if he can see that, so I clear my throat and say, “Yes.” It comes out sounding all hoarse and weird.

“I zink braces are cute. On you, at least.”

I snort before I realize that is sooo not ladylike or romantic. Whoops. “Oh, puh-leaze. They are not cute. And they still hurt a tiny bit. Well, not much. But
sometimes
. And there are all these foods I can't eat and they don't match any of my outfits and no one will ever want to kiss me now and—”

Oh. My. Gosh.

I did NOT just mention kissing in front of Philippe. I did not. Except I totally did. I would definitely be okay with Principal Carney showing up right now and giving me detention for life for being in the hallway outside her office. Technically, I'm not in her office or even doing anything wrong, but I wouldn't even plead my case. Nope. Not one bit.

“
I
would want to kiss you,” Philippe says. “I mean, I
do
want to kiss you.” He is studying the floor to avoid looking at me when he says it, but his fingers find mine and lace through them. His palm is warm. It feels right.

“You . . . you do?” I ask. I think I might more squeak it than ask it.

Philippe nods. I don't know what to say, so I just squeeze his fingers. I guess this is the right thing to do, because he turns to look at me again, and by now my eyes have adjusted enough that I can see his. (It helps that our faces are
thisclose
.)

“Um, okay,” I say.

And then he does. He tilts his head a little, and somehow I just know that I'm supposed to do the same thing in the opposite direction, and then his lips are on mine and I barely have time to register before it's all over and I just HAD MY FIRST KISS.

And it was perfect!!!!

Now what? Are we supposed to do it again?

“Becca?” A beam of flashlight sweeps down the hall, and Vi's voice calls my name. Philippe scrambles to his feet, then holds out his hand for me again and pulls me up. He squeezes my fingers softly once more before Vi reaches us. Right away her flashlight aims at our hands, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she asks, “Are you okay? We didn't know if the lights in the hallway were connected to the generator.”

“Oh, um, they're not,” I answer.

Vi laughs out loud at that. “Well, yeah. Since I'm standing in the hallway now, I can see that!”

“Right.” I'm so totally flustered and I kind of want to be all alone to process my first kiss but I also kind of want to be alone with my best friend so I can tell her all about it and then I also
also
kind of want to be alone with Philippe so maybe he will kiss me again. And possibly I want to do a happy dance or possibly I want to collapse on my bed—I mean, cot—and fall into a deep sleep because this kissing stuff is
beaucoup
confusing and does this mean Philippe is my boyfriend now or what?

“The generator didn't come on right away,” Vi says. “My dad had to go out and fix it. Like, out in the storm. It was kind of amazing, actually.” She smiles for a second, like she's imagining Mr. Husky as the Superhero of the Hurricane. Which he prob is. “But it's running now. And the radio is hooked up to the generator too, and there was just a report that the storm is weakening and turning a little. People are saying the worst is gonna miss us!”

Philippe squeezes my fingers again, and I turn to face him. He's staring at me with this big goofy grin on his face, and it makes my insides go all melted buttery.

Oh.

This is gonna be just fine.

Everything
is gonna be just fine.

SIMPLE CINNAMON ROLLS

Ingredients:

1 cup nondairy, unsweetened milk (e.g., almond milk)

¹
/
₂
cup butter, divided

1 packet of instant yeast

¹
/
₄
tsp salt

¹
/
₄
cup and 1 tbsp sugar, divided

3 cups all purpose flour

³
/
₄
tbsp cinnamon

canola oil (to coat mixing bowl)

1 can of cream-cheese frosting

Pour the milk and 3 tbsp of butter into a microwave-safe bowl and heat in the microwave in 30-second increments until the butter is warm and melted (not boiling). Let it cool a little before you sprinkle on the yeast. Let this sit for 10 minutes (to activate the yeast), and then add 1 tbsp of sugar and the
¹
/
₄
tsp of salt. Stir the mixture. Add in
¹
/
₂
cup of flour at a time, while stirring. When the dough is sticky and becomes too thick to stir, take it from the bowl and put it on a lightly floured surface. Knead the dough for a minute or two and form it into a loose ball. Rinse the mixing bowl, coat it with canola oil, and put the dough back in. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set it on the countertop to rise for about 1 hour. The dough will double in size. Next, on a lightly floured surface roll the dough out into a thin rectangle. Melt 3 tbsp of butter in the microwave and brush the melted butter onto the dough. Top it with
¹
/
₄
cup of sugar and
³
/
₄
tbsp of cinnamon. Roll the dough tightly, starting at one end. Then turn it so the “seam” is facing down. Cut the roll into sections that are about 1
¹
/
₂
to 2 inches wide (a knife works, but you might find that dental floss works better!). Put the rolls into a buttered 8" x 8" square pan or an 8" round pan. Melt the remaining butter and brush it onto the tops of the rolls. Cover with plastic wrap and set on top of the oven (to rise again), and preheat the oven to 350°. When the oven is preheated, bake the rolls for 25–30 minutes (or until golden brown). After the rolls cool, you can frost them with cream-cheese frosting.

**SO yummy!!!

**Lots of fun to make at a sleepover. You can make them the night before and then eat them all up for breakfast in the morning!

P
sst, kiddo. Wake up.” Dad's voice rumbles softly into my dream about playing soccer in a huge hurricane. I've just kicked the ball, but the storm has picked it up and is pulling it higher and higher into the sky. Linney's on the sidelines cheering for the hurricane while Lance laughs his head off.

Basically, not such a great dream.

So I crack an eye open to see Dad squatting alongside my cot. He's already dressed in old jeans and a flannel shirt, Tar Heels cap squarely in place. Exact same thing he wore yesterday. I blink and sit up. “Did you go to sleep at all?”

He shakes his head. “Needed to make sure that generator kept going all night. Couldn't leave all these folks in the dark.”

I look around the gym, which is dim in the emergency lighting. Almost everyone is still asleep. I cover a yawn that can't help escaping. “What time is it?”

“Early. About five. Sorry I woke you up, but I need your help.”

I nod and reach over to pull on a sweatshirt. If Dad's been up all night, the least I can do is get up a little early to help him out. I slip on my shoes quietly so I don't wake up my friends. Lauren's buried under her covers, Becca's snuggled up with her old stuffed dog, Mr. Bobo, and Sadie is frowning in her sleep, probably working out how we're going to deal with Miss Worthington.

“That's my girl,” he says, beaming. He leads the way through the maze of cots and snoring people. Honestly, it's weird having a giant sleepover with everyone in town. Even though I've done this a few times before, I learn something new every time. Like, I never knew that Mrs. O'Malley slept in dog-printed pajamas and that Mrs. Travis used a sleep-apnea machine. We scoot around Lance and a bunch of guys from soccer, zonked out near the front of the room. That's pretty weird too.

I follow Dad out the gym door and down to the cafeteria. Then we go back behind where we all line up for lunch on normal days, to the kitchen area. Now, this is extra strange, because I never in a million years thought I'd be in the school-cafeteria kitchen. I bet the secrets of that weird “meat loaf” they serve every other week are buried back here somewhere.

We pass a few other adults cutting up food and cracking eggs into giant bowls, and then Dad stops in front of a big coffee machine. “I know you can make a killer pot of coffee at home. Think you can do it for a thousand people?”

“Sure.” I mean, there's not much to making coffee. Just adding the right amount of grounds and water.

Dad shows me the huge carafes that'll transport the coffee from the cafeteria back to the gym—the same ones we set up yesterday. So, basically, I have to make about a hundred pots of coffee. Or something. Dad moves to take a look at one of the ovens that Ms. Sanders, our next-door neighbor, insists isn't heating up fast enough when I have the best idea.

“Hey, Dad? While the coffee's brewing, can I make a bunch of cinnamon rolls for everyone?”

He smiles. “You bet, sunshine. I think people would love that.” And then he's across the room, tool belt on, listening to Ms. Sanders go on and on about how she needs the oven to heat faster than it is.

I've got about ten pots of coffee done and have rolled out dough for a few batches of cinnamon rolls when Ms. Sanders says—really loudly—“I knew you could fix it! Thanks, David!” She throws her arms around Dad in a hug, everyone else starts clapping, and his face flushes redder than I ever thought possible. I get it, though. All this attention is So Not Dad.

“Well, um, glad it's fixed,” he finally says.

Mr. Gilbert slaps him on the back. “Hiring you was probably the best money the school board ever spent,” he says. “Between the generator yesterday and this oven, and the way you've kept the school up this fall. We all thought the board was going to have to shell out for a new scoreboard in the gym, until you came along and got it working again.”

Dad goes even more red, and my heart swells just a little, seeing everyone appreciate his hard work.

“I love the work, and helping the kids,” he finally manages to say. “So . . . well, if we're all set, then, Vi? Let's get that coffee moving.” Dad backs toward me. I'm pretty sure he just wants to get out of the spotlight.

“These are full.” I gesture at two of the big carafes.

“If I carry them, can you open the doors?” he asks as he hefts the enormous jugs of coffee off the floor and into his arms. They're so big, he can barely even see over the tops of them.

I quickly start yet another pot of coffee and drape some plastic wrap over the batches of half-made cinnamon rolls to let them rise, and then I dart ahead of him to hold the kitchen door.

When we get to the gym, Dad carries the coffee to the same tables it was set up on yesterday. A few people spot it and actually clap. I guess near-miss hurricanes call for coffee first thing in the morning.

Dad goes beet red again as he sets the carafes down on the table. Immediately, people swarm the cups still sitting out from yesterday and go to fill them with piping-hot coffee. Dad steps back next to me, and together we watch the first few people sample their cups. No one makes a face, so I guess I didn't mess up too badly.

“You did good, Vi,” Dad says to me, arm around my shoulder.

“So did you.” I grin up at him. “I have to finish those cinnamon rolls, though.”

“Then let's get at it. I need to go survey the damage outside.”

Back in the kitchen, I make more and more pots of coffee and, with help from Ms. Sanders and Mrs. Fenimore (how weird is it to bake with your science teacher?), enough cinnamon rolls to feed the crowd in the gym. I put the last batch into the (now functioning) oven just as the first hungry townspeople make their way into the cafeteria. Dad comes back in from outside and talks to Mr. Travis and some of the other adults while I grab us both plates of food. We eat a quick breakfast standing in a corner of the kitchen.