Island Girls (and Boys)

ISLAND GIRLS (AND BOYS)

Andrei Dizon ©

Chapter 1

You’re going to take an unexpected journey.

My horoscope for the day. Totally inaccurate. I was taking a journey all right, but it was one I’d been planning for 

months. I was exactly where I expected to be: crammed in the backseat of Amy’s tiny car. Boxes were pressed 

against my side, a heavy sack of groceries rested on my knees, and assorted smaller items had been wedged 

around my feet, which were now numb.

This summer—the last before I started college—was going to be the absolute best of my life. I was embarking on 

my first summer of total independence, of saying good-bye to high school, good-bye to friends. The last—saying 

good-bye to friends—would be the most difficult, but I planned to spend three months doing it, saying farewell to 

the best of the best: Chelsea Franklin and Amy Riley.

We were going to be together the entire summer—just the three of us. Working, living, playing. Saving up our 

memories for the days, weeks, and months ahead when only phone calls and an occasional weekend spent 

together would strengthen our bonds of friendship.

“How long before we’re officially island girls?” Chelsea asked.

She was sitting in the front passenger seat with no more room than me. This was our third—and final—trip for 

the day. When we got to the island, we were staying for the summer.

“I think Jen and I already look like island girls,” Amy said.

And we did. We were wearing shorts, tank tops, sneakers, and baseball caps. Amy’s dark hair was held in place 

with a clip, and she’d pulled the long strands through the opening in the back of her cap. I’d done the same with 

my blond hair. Chelsea was also in shorts and a tank, but—

“Are you saying that I don’t look like an island girl?” Chelsea asked.

“You’re too put together,” Amy said.

Chelsea’s black hair was cut short and fluffed out at various angles. She had deep blue eyes that were almost 

violet. She was tall, slender, and already totally tan, thanks to a gift certificate to a tanning salon that she’d 

received as a graduation present.

“This is called the ocean breeze look,” Chelsea said indignantly. “I spent three hours working on it.”

“That’s my point,” Amy said. “I don’t think island girls spend a lot of time primping. They’re more relaxed with 

their looks.”

“And they’re way more tan than us,” I said. My skin was almost too pale to believe, almost as pale as my hair. I 

had to use X-Men-strength sunscreen, while Amy and Chelsea seldom worried if they forgot to use any at all. 

Two minutes in the sun and I was like a boiled lobster.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Amy said.

It had been my scathingly brilliant idea: getting jobs on the island, staying at my grandparents’ beach house over