and his band meant I had to pass up my usual summer job as a counselor at Camp Awahili with Owen.
“Sorry,” I tell him again because I don’t know what else to say. And I really do mean it. I hate letting Owen down. “Wanna give me a hint about what happened?” I ask, trying to appeal to one of his biggest weaknesses: dishing out spoilers. Owen loves being the one who spoils surprises. I think it makes him feel omniscient or something. But don’t ever try to do it back to him. He’ll rugby-style tackle you to the ground before you can even utter a single syllable. I made this mistake a while back when his copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows got lost in the mail and I was able to read it first.
“Did Olivia finally get it on with that death row inmate?”
Owen crosses his arms. “Nope. You’re not getting any spoilers from me.”
“C’mon. Just a little sneak peek. How about I say something and you blink twice if it’s—”
“Yellow light,” Owen interrupts, nodding to the stoplight ahead of us.
I look up, quickly gauging the distance to the intersection of Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation. My foot hesitates between the gas and the brake pedal. “I can make it.”
Owen shakes his head. “You’ll never make it.”
In a split decision, my foot plunges down on the accelerator. “Totally going to make it.”
We sail through the intersection just as the signal turns red and I’m momentarily blinded by the flashes of light that surround the car like paparazzi stalking a celebrity.
“Told you,” Owen says smugly.
“What was that?”
“Red light cameras.”
My chest hiccups. “You mean I’m going to get a ticket in the mail now?”
“Yup.”
“But I was already more than halfway through the intersection!”
“Apparently not.” His voice is light. Almost singsongy.
“Great,” I mumble. “Just what I need today.”
He nods toward the door where I stashed my fortune. “Maybe that’s what your true heart desires.”
“Yeah, my true heart desires to be grounded.”
He cringes. “Your true heart is kind of a masochist.”
They Call Me Mellow Yellow (Quite Rightly)
8:24 a.m.
Five minutes later, we pull into the school parking lot. I must have spent too long idling in Owen’s driveway griping about my fight with Tristan, because the only spots left are in the farthest row. It’s not until I open the car door and see a splotch of rain hit my cardigan that I remember I don’t have an umbrella.
“You don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?” I call to Owen. He’s already out of the car, tilting his head back to catch rainwater in his mouth.
“I thought you’d bring one,” he says without looking at me.
I groan. “I didn’t.”
“Ouch. And with school pictures today?”
Dang it. I’d already forgotten about that. To be honest, I’m more worried about seeing Tristan than I am about my picture. Drowned Rat is not exactly the look I was going for when I give my big apology speech.
Speech.
Crap! I have to give my election speech today, too. This day is so not turning out the way I’d hoped. So much for good vibrations.
I grab my schoolbag from the backseat and hold it up as a shield above my head. “You don’t seem too worried about your school picture.”
He shrugs. “I’m a dude. My hair always looks good.”
I hate to admit it, but it’s true. Owen could go through a car wash in a convertible and still come out the other end looking like he spent an hour in front of the mirror. Guys have it so much easier.
I lock the car and walk around to his side. Owen laughs at my makeshift umbrella. “Run for it?” he suggests.
I nod, and we take off into the rain.
8:42 a.m.
“Say ‘Two more years!’” the overly cheerful photographer chirps.
I give a weak smile and she takes the picture.
Why do people tell you to say stupid things when they’re taking your photo? I mean, beyond the age of three when you’re required to say “cheese” to ensure you’re not scowling or sticking out your tongue.
Does this woman seriously think I’m going to say “two more years” for my school photo? Does she not realize what the word “years” would do to my lips? It would make me look like I was sucking face with an octopus.
“Lovely,” she lies, and then calls, “Next!”
I scoot off the stool and walk to the other end of the cafeteria where the rest of Mr. Briggs’s chemistry class is waiting. Of course we would