the door and bend over, hands on my knees, taking a few deep breaths. That was weird. Doesn’t matter. I accept the truth: I have no wheels. Game over. I stand up straight and start walking back to Georgia, defeated, when I spot something across the tennis court. A beacon of hope.
GEORGIA, 10:01 P.M.
I check my phone; it’s been four minutes. One more and I walk away on principle alone.
I hear my name and turn around. Lauren and Matt are standing behind me.
“What are you doing out here alone?” Lauren asks.
I look up at the sky. “Checking out the stars. Just saw a shooting star crash into a still star. Very messy.”
They both look up, and just as they do, a golf cart with red-white-and-blue streamers hanging off the back comes sputtering around the corner and pulls up beside me. I duck under the plastic roof and smile at Pony. “Party in the USA?”
“Georgia, want to run away with me?”
I look back at Lo and Matt. They are staring at me. What are they going to think about me leaving with Pony? Word will get back to Mia within minutes. But golf carts are awesome. And Pony is interesting.
“Long story,” I say to Lauren, then hop into the cart. We take off slowly, en route to the woods behind Jake’s house. I put my feet up on the dashboard. “So, Thelma, where are we going?”
He frowns at me. “I’m more of a Louise.”
Pony is flooring the gas pedal, but we’re still moving at the pace of an elderly racewalker. We drive off the property and follow a paved path headed toward the lake. I’m nervous and excited about what’s next.
He follows the gravel road into the woods. It’s quiet. It’s too quiet. This is the perfect setup for an ax-murderer situation. Instead of freaking myself out, I pull up Spotify on my phone and start playing my Chill Out playlist. The familiar beats fill the muggy air.
Pony looks at me, concerned. “Is Jake going to have me arrested for taking this golf cart?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t press charges.”
Pony goes quiet. The wheels of the cart crunch over the fallen leaves as we pull up to the lake. The stars dance in the reflection of the dark blue water. Looks warm. Crickets and other bugs sing in the trees around our golf cart. The moon is half full and bright.
“This is White Rock Lake,” I say, acting incredibly knowledgeable.
We come to a stop about a foot from the water and stay in the cart. “Interesting fact about this lake, Pony—there are sharks in there. Lake sharks. Those are the worst kind of shark.”
“Georgia, what’s the deal with the stories?”
“Stories?” I ask, acting like I’m offended.
“I don’t know, the way you avoid any real conversation with your wild tales.”
I like that he thinks I’m wild. Everyone typically ignores my adorable evasions of the truth. Except Lauren, who falls for most of them (I love her). But no one confronts me about them. “I don’t know. It’s easier, I guess. Most of the time, the truth is boring.”
“You think you’re boring?”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
Pony laughs. “Georgia, I can’t think of a less boring person.”
He better stop being cute or I’m going to kiss him right now.
“Fine. Just for you, and tonight only, you can ask me questions and I’ll answer truthfully. But . . .”
“There’s always a but,” Pony says.
I continue, “BUT I get to ask you questions, too. And you better not lie.”
I stick my pinkie out to make him swear. He thinks the deal over for a second and wraps his pinkie around mine. Game on.
“And what do you call this game?” he asks.
“Truth or truth,” I say.
“Nice.” He unhooks his pinkie from mine. “I’m first. What’s your favorite movie?”
To seem worldly, I would normally rattle off some art house movie that I have never actually seen, but that’s not the game. I shrug and tell the stupid truth.
“Love Actually.”
“No, Georgia, no! Please lie to me! Anything but Love Actually,” he says.
“Come on, it’s romantic.”
He shakes his head. “Let’s just agree to disagree.”
“OK, my turn.” I’m determined to make him regret Love Actually shaming me. “Pony, are you a virgin?”
His cheeks get red, and he looks away. “Yes,” he says quietly.
“Now I know you’re telling the truth.”
“Are you a virgin?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “I’ve been with one guy.”
“Oh,” he says.
I can’t read what his oh means. “My turn! All your social media started about a year ago.