seat. “It’s been a long drive—”
“Still don’t know why we couldn’t have flown,” Brandon says, glancing into the rearview mirror.
“We have college to pay for,” Dad growls. “And medical bills.”
I feel myself hardening inside.
The Explorer finally slides into the resort parking lot, spraying white gravel everywhere. Brandon stomps the brake and we skid to a complete halt, directly in front of the main lodge. An enormous sign with a green, open-mouthed fish in the center announces we’ve officially arrived at Lake of the Woods fishing resort. Brandon slams the gearshift into park and pulls the keys from the ignition, completely killing the annoying strains of “Iron Man.”
“Bet nobody around here’s seen an entrance like that,” I mumble as he launches his skinny body out of the driver’s seat, then rushes to the back door of the SUV to check on his bass.
“Brandon, bud, we’re gonna need this car for deliveries when we get back,” Dad says gently. “It’s our business car, remember.”
Road-weary and worried about Annie, Brandon refuses to take the criticism well. He instantly starts shouting—“Did you want to get here tonight or not?”—and Mom chimes in with all that “We’re just tired and need something to eat” business.
I push my door open and step out. The bold block letters of the White Sugar logo shine in the moonlight, then disappear back into the darkness as I slam the door again.
I just stand there, absorbing it all: the midnight blue sky, the fringy black silhouettes of pine trees, the white full moon. The longer I stare, the more the trees look like a black lace formal, the moon like an opal pendant. When the breeze hits the pines, the black lace sways, as though the sky-woman’s dancing to the yodel of the distant loons.
Behind the loons—on the opposite side of the darkness, it seems—water crashes. There can’t be a tide here, but maybe it’s rapids running over rock? Hush, that rushing pulse urges. Hushsshhh …
I close my eyes and listen, no longer thinking about the hourglass that basketball has become, all the sand piled into a pyramid on the bottom. For the first time in months, my mind empties completely. I feel—calm. Of all things.
“Chelse!” Brandon shouts. “Come on. Before you grow roots.”
He and Mom are standing in the entrance of the lodge staring at me. Light skips across the tips of Brandon’s crazy hair and washes across their impatient frowns.
“Sorry,” I mumble, hurrying to follow them inside. As I cross the threshold, though, my phone goes off. Shocked, I scramble to fish it from the pocket of my shorts, the unripe-tomato glow of my screen washing out into the black of night.
The text is from Gabe: miss u already.
I start to go all caramel-goo inside. miss u crazy, I text right back, afraid the phone will quit working again if I take a single step forward or even lean in the wrong direction.
As soon as I send it, Gabe texts back, carlyle 23 days. It makes me feel a little scared—the same way I felt just before having to get up in front of my old speech class.
That’s a girl thing, I try to tell myself, Every girl feels self-conscious about losing her virginity.
“Enough of the drama, Keyes,” I scold myself.
When I step inside, my eyes rest on a pay phone attached to the wall of the lobby. At least there’s still one solid link to civilization, I catch myself thinking. I take a few steps forward to join my family, who have already clustered around the check-in counter.
A man who’s definitely playing the part of the stereotypical outdoorsman—khaki fishing vest, hat decorated with lures galore—shouts, “Earl here, owner of Lake of the Woods fishing resort. Welcome!”
Dad starts shaking the guy’s hand, saying, “Keyes.”
Earl’s eyes light. “Keyes!” he repeats. “Chelsea Keyes.”
My brain starts spinning. The egotistical part of me starts to wonder how it could be possible for Earl to have heard about my basketball legacy so far from my home. Maybe, I actually catch myself thinking, he remembers USA WEEKEND.
“You’re in luck—Clint’s still here,” Earl announces, darting out from behind the counter and slipping into what looks like a dimly lit dining room, full of rustic bentwood chairs and tables.
Clint? I wonder, squinting into the candlelight. It’s not about basketball at all. My legacy’s not even so much as a footnote. The reality stings. Again.
“Here he is,” Earl announces.
The man he ushers into the lobby? Good God.
Okay—here’s the deal. I am not a romance-novel kind of girl.