Fifteenth Summer

o n e

June

When you're stuck in the backseat of your parents' car— on hour 25 of the drive from Los Angeles to Bluepointe, Michigan— the last thing you're thinking about is love.

But somehow that's what my two sisters were discussing. They chatted over my head as if I was no more than an armrest between them.

Actually, it's a stretch to say they were talking about love. They were really talking about boys. The boys of Bluepointe. Two of them in particular.

"Robin," Regina breathed. She propped her feet on the hump in the middle of the backseat, even though that was clearly my personal space. "That was my guys name, remember? We saw him at the beach at least four times, and the last two, he definitely noticed me. Now which one was yours?"

"You know," Ruby said impatiently. She did most things impatiently. "The guy who worked at the market. That boy could shelve."

I snorted while Regina said, "Well, did you ever talk to him? Was he interested? What was his name?"

Regina always liked to have her facts straight.

"Liam," Ruby answered, nodding firmly as she stared out the car window. Then she frowned and clicked one of her short, unpainted fingernails against her front teeth. "Or...Luke? It was defintely Liam or Luke or ... Landon? Ugh, I can't remember."

"If you were a boy," my dad chimed in from the front seat, where he had the car on cruise control at exactly sixty-five miles per hour, "we were going to name you Horatio. No one ever forgets the name Horatio."

My dad thinks he's hilarious. And because he works from home, doing other peoples taxes, he's around a lot to subject us to all his one-liners. My mom is the only one who doesn't roll her eyes at every joke. She even laughs at some of them. Dad always says that's why they're still married. That and the fact that my mom is super-practical with money, which is very romantic to an accountant. All it meant is that I have to babysit to earn every paltry dollar of my spending money.

I sighed and glanced at the novel in my lap. That book-the latest dystopian bestseller- was torturing me. I was dying to read it, but every time I did, I got carsick. I was still feeling a little green after reading two irresistible pages (two words; "prison break") twenty minutes earlier.

Texting with my best friend Belle, mad me feel slightly less queasy.

Me: Ugh. Today is the shortest drive of our trip but it's the most soul-killing. I feel like it will NEVER. END. And why do I always get the middle seat?

Belle: Because you're the youngest. Be glad they didn't put you in the trunk.

Don't gloat cuz you're an only child.

...

Are you texting with Bobby right now?!?

How'd you know?

I can tell you're palms are sweaty. Plus there are the long delays.

ha-ha. you know ballerinas don't sweat.

uh-huh. even when they're sending mash notes to their boyfriends?