CHAPTER 10
CASSIE
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Dad whispers the next morning.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing a disguise,” I respond in a normal speaking volume, for there is absolutely no reason for us to be whispering.
“I told you, Nia’s friend works at the bakery over there,” Dad protests, nodding toward a storefront on the other end of the strip mall. He glowers. “Chandra. One of the nosy PTA moms. I don’t want her to notice me.”
“Dad. You’re wearing a hot-pink adventure hat with a purple string. She is absolutely going to notice you. In fact, you had a better chance of her not caring what your face looks like without the hat. Now she’s going to want to see your face in order to understand what sort of person would ever choose to wear that hat.”
“All I’m hearing is, you love my hat.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
He just grins. We’re a few feet from the entrance of the pet store when he says, “The girls loved seeing you last night, by the way. They were going on and on over breakfast about that bedtime story you told them, the one about the purple dragon? You need to start writing some of those down, Cass. I bet if you compiled all the stories in one file, you could have an entire—”
I suddenly gasp.
“What? What is it?” he demands, looking around in a panic. “Have we been compromised?”
“Oh my God, no. Dad, the baker lady doesn’t give a shit about you.” I’m practically bouncing with glee. “But you just gave me the best idea for the girls’ birthday present. I can take one of the Kit ’n McKenna stories and create a children’s book for them. I’m sure I could find a place to print a hardcover version of it.” I pause. “I just wish I could draw. It would be cool to have illustrations to go with the story.”
My mind snaps into troubleshooting mode, scanning through every person I’ve ever met in my life while I try to recall if they possess any artistic talent.
Robb! I remember in triumph. Robb Sheffield was my stepbrother for five years during Mom’s marriage to his dad, Stuart. He was always doodling in his sketchpad when we watched TV together, mostly drawing fantasy-type stuff, like freaky-looking monsters and warriors with deadly weapons. He works in video-game design now, creating the kind of imagery that’s a lot grislier than a tale of a little girl and a purple dragon, but maybe he’d be willing to do me this favor.
“That’s a terrific idea,” Dad tells me. “The girls would love that. And if the final product turns out well, you should try to sell it.”
“What do you mean? Like, self-publish a children’s book?”
“Or submit it to a publishing house.”
My brow furrows. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not? Aren’t you majoring in literature?” he teases.
“Yes, but … I mean, I never really thought about going into a creative field. I only picked English Lit because I couldn’t think of anything better to major in.”
Truth be told, I have no clue what career path to take after graduation. So many people just know. They have that one skill, that one field they’ve always been passionate about. I’m not one of those people. I was hoping by the time graduation rolled around, I’d have landed on something, anything, but I’m going into my senior year and remain completely stumped as to what job I’ll end up in.
“Could I even make a career out of that?” I ask, chewing on my lip. “It’s just a bunch of silly bedtime stories for my sisters. It’s not like I’ve been writing forever.”
“Do you need to have been writing forever to start doing it now?”
“I guess not.” I glare at him. “Ugh. You’ve given me a bunch of stuff to think about now.”
“God forbid my daughter thinks!” Snorting, he reaches for the door handle. “Ready to turtle down?”
“Please don’t ever say that.”
When we enter the store, Dad pushes the pink hat off his head so it’s dangling at his back by its purple string. He looks like a lost adventurer who stopped to ask for directions. We find ourselves surrounded by rows and rows of tanks, each housing various aquatic creatures.
I approach a fish tank full of fat orange goldfish and raise a brow. “I had no idea goldfish could get this big. If you tried to flush one of these guys, you’d clog the toilet.”
“Welcome to AquaPets,” a bored voice says from behind us. “Can I help you find something? You looking for a goldfish?”
A teenager in a store uniform sidles up to us. His name tag reads JOEL, and he’s got shoulder-length black hair, acne-riddled skin, and he reeks of pot. The skunky odor practically radiates from his pores.
“We’re considering buying a turtle for my six-year-old daughters,” Dad explains. “But we’re hoping for some more information before we commit.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s cool,” Joel says. The kid is clearly stoned. “I can help you with that. I’ve got three loggerheads at home. Those little dudes are rad.”
“Loggerheads?” I echo.
“Loggerhead musk turtle,” he says briskly, and, stoned or not, we discover the kid knows his stuff. For the next twenty minutes, he dumps an obscene amount of information on us, ushering us from tank to tank while spitting out reptilian facts.
“These guys? Smallest species of turtle you’re allowed to keep in captivity. So if you got limited space, this is your dude. And they’re so cute, man. Like, look.” Leaning closer to the glass, he proceeds to make cooing noises at the spotted turtle. “You doing okay in there, Marshall? I named him Marshall. After Eminem.”
I press my lips together. “Cool.”
“The problem is, Marshall can’t swim too good. See? That’s why his water isn’t very deep. And let’s be honest—he’s kind of a dick. The spotted ones get cranky sometimes. You want a social one, I’ll show you my man Jay-Z. He’s what we call a Reeve’s turtle. Come. You’ll love him.”
Dad and I exchange a look that loosely translates to why is this happening to us?
But we’re committed now, so we follow Joel the Turtle Whisperer to see his man Jay-Z.
“Best thing about this breed is they like being stroked,” he tells us, so animated I’m having a hard time reconciling him with the pothead who greeted us at the door. “Most turtles don’t enjoy being handled. It’s stressful for them, you know? But if you’re patient with him, Jay-Z might let you hold him sometimes.”
He stares longingly at the tank. “The downside is,” he says, and his expression collapses, “they’ve got a shorter life expectancy. Fifteen years, maybe twenty? If you’re looking for a little dude who’ll live longer, I’d go with the common musk. We’re talking a ripe old age of fifty years. Just don’t handle them roughly. They’re feisty, man. If they feel threatened, they skunk you out.”
“Skunk you out?” Dad echoes blankly. He looks as overwhelmed as I feel. Who knew turtle ownership was so intensive?
“Yeah, like, they release a foul odor. It stinks.” Joel guffaws. “We call ’em stinkpots.”
I don’t ask who we is, but I’m definitely curious.
“They’re not strong swimmers either,” he adds. “But they’ve got pretty basic care requirements compared to other breeds.”
“Wow,” I say. “This is a lot of information.”
So much, in fact, that eventually Dad and I beg off and tell Joel we need to think about it. Then we make our escape and step outside, breathing in the non-marijuana-infused air.
Dad sags against the concrete wall separating AquaPets from the pool equipment shop next door. He heaves a massive sigh of relief. “That was…”
“Intense,” I supply.
“Very.” He pulls his glasses off and cleans them with the hem of his T-shirt before popping them back on his face. “Thoughts?”
I join him at the wall, shoving my hands in the pockets of my denim shorts. “That Keanu Reeves turtle sounded promising.”
Dad snickers. “Really? I’m leaning toward the musk.”
“But Keanu Reeves has a shorter life expectancy,” I argue. “Do you seriously want a pet that lives for fifty years?”
“What do I care? I’ll probably be dead.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Come on, there’s no way I’ll be alive to experience that turtle’s entire life.”
“But the musks don’t like it when you touch them. They lose their shit and skunk you out, remember? Meanwhile, we were told on the good authority of Joel the Pothead that Keanu Reeves enjoys being stroked.”
“Ahem.”
Dad and I jump in surprise. Our heads swivel in the direction of the throat clearing, and at this point I’m not even surprised when I lay eyes on Tate. Since I arrived in Avalon Bay, it seems like everywhere I go, Tate Bartlett is there.
“Hi,” he says in amusement, giving a nonchalant wave.
“You know,” I say solemnly, “I long for the days of yore when I turned my head and didn’t always find you standing there in front of me.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it then occurs to me that after last night’s mortifying exchange, he might think I’m being serious. So I quickly add, “Kidding. But really, why are you here?”
He gestures toward a storefront on the other side of the parking lot. “I work at the boat dealership. Saw you from the window and came over to say hi—a decision I deeply regret because I’m not sure I want to know why you’re discussing Keanu Reeves’s love of handjobs and how you stumbled upon that information.”
I can’t stop the laugh that pops out. “You know what, not even going to explain it. I’m going to let it haunt you forever.” I notice my father sporting a questioning expression, and gesture toward Tate. “Dad, this is Tate. He’s housesitting the place next door to Grandma’s.”
Tate extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tanner.”
Dad blanches.
“Oh no, no,” I hastily intervene. “He’s not a Tanner. My mom’s side is the Tanners.”
“Clayton Soul,” Dad corrects, stepping forward to shake Tate’s hand.
“Soul?” Tate turns to me in surprise. “Your name is Cassie Soul?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “Is that bad?”
“Bad? Try bad-ass. That’s a solid name.”
“I guess? I never really thought that much about it. It’s just my name.”
There’s a long beat during which we both start fidgeting with random sections of our clothing. I toy with the hem of my tank top. Tate pretends to pick at some lint on his shirt sleeve. Damn it. Things are awkward between us now. I knew this would happen.
“Turtles!” I blurt out.
Tate startles. “What?”
“Um, my sisters demanded a pet turtle for their birthday. That’s why we’re here. Doing some research. But it sounds like turtles are kind of jerks.”
“Nah,” he disagrees. “They’re the easiest of pets. I had one when I was a kid and all it did was laze around in his tank all day. They pretty much entertain themselves.” He shrugs. “My dogs, on the other hand … needy as fuck. Dogs require attention pretty much twenty-four-seven.”
Dad chuckles. “You’re making a good case for turtles.”
“I’m telling you, they’re great.”
Another silence falls.
Tate fiddles with his other sleeve. I play with a frayed thread on my shorts. It’s unbearable. This is what rejection does to people.
“Bye!” I blurt out.
Tate blinks at the sudden dismissal. “Oh. All right. Bye.”
“I mean, we have to go now,” I amend lamely. “So, ah, goodbye. See you around.”
“Sure.” His forehead creases. “See you around.”
I practically drag Dad to the car, where I hurl myself into the passenger seat and pretend not to see Tate walking past the windshield on his way back to work.
“So,” Dad says cheerfully, “do we have a crush on that boy, or is this how you interact with all your peers? Because I remember you used to be a lot less … weird.”
“That was weird, wasn’t it?” I moan. “Do you think he noticed?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it.” My face is on fire, and I refuse to look in the side mirror because I’m certain I’m redder than a lobster. “He and I are just friends.” I pause. “I think.” Pause again. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” Dad suddenly jolts in his seat before reaching into his pocket to retrieve his buzzing phone. He checks the screen and balks. “Son of a bitch.”
“What is it?” I ask immediately, concern washing over me.
Without a word, he hands over the phone to show me the text from Nia.
Nia: Chandra said she just saw you at a pet store. Explain yourself!
My eyebrows greet my hairline. “Wow. Fuckin’ Chandra did us dirty.”
“Did I not tell you?” Dad grumbles. Sighing, he starts the engine and puts the car in drive. “Time to go home and face the music.”
Later that night, I walk up to my window just as a familiar figure enters my line of vision. It’s becoming routine now. Grabbing something from my room? Tate’s doing the same. Getting ready for bed? Tate’s doing the same. This time, we’re both reaching to close the curtains, almost in perfect sync. We stop, look at each other, then start to laugh. He disappears for a moment and returns holding his phone.
A message pops up on mine.
Tate: Are we good?
I stifle a sigh. I guess I knew that was coming. I meet his eyes briefly, then type a response.
Me: Yeah, we’re fine.
Tate: You sure? Because you were babbling more than usual when I saw you this morning.
I don’t have an excuse for that, so I just repeat myself.
Me: We’re fine.
Tate: I know last night was kind of awkward and I’m sorry about that. I really didn’t want to embarrass you or anything. But I do think we’re better as friends.
Me: OMG you’re embarrassing me NOW by talking about it. We’re cool, I promise. And we are friends, okay?
Tate: Yeah?
Me: Yeah.
Tate: Good.
Rather than end the conversation there, he remains at the window, still typing, and I do my best not to stare at his bare chest. His abs look like they were chiseled out of stone and his pecs are stupidly defined and—damn it. I’m failing at not staring. I swear, would it kill him to throw on a shirt? He rarely wears shirts when he’s inside the house. Doesn’t he ever get cold? Here, we’ve always got the AC blasting. I’m wearing a sweater right now, for Pete’s sake.
Tate: I’m still waiting for deets on that Keanu Reeves handjob …
I grin at the phone. Really? That’s what took him so long to type? I wonder how many messages he deleted before he settled on that one.
Me: I’m taking it to the grave.
Tate: You’re a cruel woman, ginger.
Me: Copper!
Tate: It’s really cute you actually believe that. What are you up to this weekend?
Me: I’m spending the day at the club tomorrow with Joy. We’re going guy shopping.
Tate: You realize if any man said something like that he’d be labeled as the biggest douchebag in the Bay?
Me: Double standards, you gotta love them!
Tate: Sure don’t!
Me: What are your plans this weekend?
Tate: Working, working, and working. Tomorrow I’m at the club too. Teaching a beginner dinghies class for kids. If I run into you, I’ll make sure to say hi. You know, just to make it awkward again.
Me: Perfect. I’ll pencil you in.
At least we can joke about it.