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  “Mark Whitby,” said Whit, a bit bewildered. “And you’re . . . ?”

  “A friend of West’s.”

  Whit raised an eyebrow.

  I rolled my eyes. “He’s my detailing partner,” I explained. “We need to go.”

  “You just move here?” Whit asked, ignoring me.

  Silas nodded. “From Alaska.”

  “Awesome,” said Whit. “Then you won’t be a wuss when January hits. Do you sled?”

  “If you’ve got an extra snowmobile.”

  “I could find one.”

  What was happening here?

  “Do you know what classes you’re taking this fall?” Whit asked.

  “AP World History, Senior Lit, I don’t remember what else. All that was left for electives was Agriculture.”

  Whit snorted. “Don’t worry—you’ll get shoulder-length gloves before you have your way with the cow.”

  Silas’s eyes widened.

  “Okay,” I said. “Time to go.” I pinched a corner of Silas’s T-shirt and dragged him to the register, Whit laughing in our wake.

  “Nice to meet you, Silas. Let’s hang out,” he said.

  “Oh, we will,” answered Silas.

  The Green Lake beachfront is small, just a fifty-yard strip of sand with a tiny parking lot behind it and a picnic area and playground a little off to the south. I made sure we claimed a spot on the outskirts of the beach, as far as possible from the tall wooden lifeguard stand where Abby Kuiper, who was in my class at school, blew her whistle at kids in bright swimsuits. The sand burned beneath our feet, and the lake smelled strongly of fish and algae and the white clover that grew along the shoreline. I busied myself spreading out two giant beach towels while I chastised Silas. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just stay in the pickup like I said. Whit is Elliot’s best friend. And now he’s going to tell Elliot that I was hanging out with you, that we were going swimming—”

  Beside me, Silas pulled off his T-shirt—which starkly read “Unreliable Narrator”—without a thought.

  “—and . . . and . . .” Like the morning he’d walked shirtless into the sunroom, I was flustered. Only this time there was no Laurel as a buffer. “And I don’t want to give people the wrong idea about you and me because we’re only business partners . . . just business partners and friends and Green Lake is so small and we wouldn’t want people here to think something was going on with us, right?”

  Silas grinned at my rambling. “Right,” he said.

  “Right. Okay.”

  His chest and stomach—and arms, for that matter—had the perfect amount of muscle: not bulky and overbearing, but toned and fit. He had abs for days. He squinted at me in the sun. “Your turn.”

  “My turn? What? Oh.” My cheeks flared. “Give me a second.” I continued to spread out our towels—which were already perfectly spread out. Get it together, I admonished myself, then stood up. Silas stared at me, expectantly. “Well, turn around,” I said. “This isn’t a freakin’ striptease.”

  He pulled his lips together, still squinting, as if considering what I’d just said. Then, without a word, he turned around.

  I peeled off my shorts and T-shirt. “Okay, let’s swim.”

  Silas turned to face me. His eyes raked over my body. “I like your suit,” he said with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Thanks,” I said awkwardly, crossing my arms over my chest. It was just boy shorts and a halter top, but, compared to the T-shirts I wore while we detailed cars, I was practically naked. I glanced around the beach but felt his eyes on me. “So, are we gonna swim or what?”

  “Swim,” said Silas. “But first . . .” He held up the bottle of sunscreen.

  “SPF fifty?” I said. “What are you, a vampire?”

  “I am rather fond of my epidermis. And yours. Turn around.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Turn.”

  I obeyed and pulled my hair off my shoulders.

  “This is fun,” Silas said, tugging lightly at my halter top’s knot.

  “Don’t pull on that!” I said, panicked. “That keeps—”

  “Oh, I know what it does, West.”

  When I turned around, he raised his eyebrows and flashed an angelic grin. “What?” he asked, voice dripping with innocence. I punched him in the arm. He laughed, boyish and playful.

  “Watch yourself,” I warned him, but I couldn’t help but grin at the way he was giggling.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine! I’ll work around it.”

  So he did. His hands felt ginormous on my shoulders and back. “You’re so tense,” he said, pressing his fingers into the knots in my neck. It felt amazing, and I gave an involuntary and embarrassing little moan. I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment. “But why are you so tense?” he whispered teasingly in my ear, his breath on my neck.

  “Okay, all done,” I said, moving away from him. “Your turn. You’re gonna need to sit down or I won’t be able to reach.”

  He obliged, and I got on my knees behind him, squeezing some sunscreen into my hands and rubbing them together. It smelled like coconut oil, sweet and exotic.

  I hesitated.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, craning his head to see me.

  “Yeah, of course. Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I barked. “Now turn around.”

  “Always so bossy,” he said, still grinning.

  I took a deep breath and touched him, moving my hands softly over his shoulders and back, feeling the warm skin and lean muscle beneath my greasy palms. The ridge of his spine. His lower back. Silas was lightly tanned and a tiny bit burned near his neck, his skin so much fairer than Elliot’s. Where Elliot’s shoulders were thick and corded, Silas’s were lithe and angled with his sharp shoulder blades. Silas had three freckles on his right shoulder to match the one on his cheek.

  If I were his girlfriend, I would press my lips to that little constellation, I thought for a moment, then berated myself: Why are you even thinking that?!

  Silas suddenly jerked when I touched his side. “Ticklish?” I asked.

  He turned around, smiling. “A little.”

  I reached for his side again, but he said, “Oh no you don’t!” and then stood and picked me up, over his shoulder like a fireman’s lift, and carried me laughing and screaming into the lake and tossed me in.

  I popped up out of the water, feeling my wet hair plastered across my face. “You’re so dead, Hart!” I shouted, throwing my arms around his neck and trying to pull him down into the water. But he was so much stronger than me that he didn’t budge—only put his hands around my waist, pulled me against his bare chest, and took me under once again, this time with him.

  We both came up laughing. I held out my hands to ward him off. He interlinked his fingers with mine as we struggled against each other. “I give up!” I said. “I give up. But one day, when I grow up to be a six-foot-three freak of nature like you, you’re going down.”

  “Freak of nature, huh?” he goaded me, still with that same giant smile, still with our palms together.

  “You heard me,” I taunted.

  “Your knot’s coming untied,” he said, and I gasped and reached behind my head . . . where my halter ties were still in their tight knot.

  “You wish, Hart.”

  “You wish I wish, Beck.”

  We moved into deeper water and faced one another as we treaded the rolling waves.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Silas asked.

  “Don’t know. What’d you have in mind?”

  “This. Again. Or have a bonfire. Or go on a walk. Or make cookies.”

  “Hmmm . . . oatmeal chocolate chip?”

  “Durr.”

  I laughed. “Okay.” Then—“No, no, not okay,” I backtracked.

  Silas—whose grin had just gone from Cheshire cat to nonexistent—asked, “Why not?”

  “I have a date. With Elliot.”
>
  “Oh.”

  “He’s picking me up at six thirty for the drive-in movie triple-header in Enger Mills. We . . . we’ve had it planned for a little while now.” I let out a small, disappointed breath, then checked myself: Isn’t that exactly what I wanted—to spend time with my boyfriend this summer? My priorities had gone haywire.

  “Another night,” I told Silas.

  “Another night,” he agreed.

  Elliot brought flowers the following evening—a beautiful bouquet of violets—and when he lifted me off my feet in a giant hug, the orange transistor radio fell out of my sweatshirt pocket. Silas was its unofficial warden, but somehow I’d ended up with it.

  “What is that?” Elliot asked.

  “An old radio,” I said, picking it up, then joked, “It’s how I’ve been dating Sullivan Knox this summer.”

  “You should bring it over to my house and listen with me this week.”

  “While you complain?” I teased.

  “I won’t.”

  “Right,” I said sarcastically. “Wait here, okay? I’m just going to put this”—I held up the radio—“inside and get these”—the violets—“in some water.”

  As I stepped back onto the porch, Mark Whitby pulled up and parked in the church lot next to my house. “Hey, you two!” he said, walking over to us with his arms full: a set of giant speakers and a paper bag I suspected held liquor. “We’re taking the van, right? Might as well all pack in.”

  Elliot looked at me. “Did you . . . invite Whit?” he asked quietly.

  I let out a tiny laugh at the suggestion. “On our date? No.”

  The two boys greeted each other warmly in my driveway. “Whit, what are you doing here, man?” Elliot asked.

  “Bailing on Sloane’s party. Brought a little party with me though,” he added, nodding toward the things in his hands.

  Elliot and I looked at each other again, baffled.

  “Bailing on Sloane’s party . . . ,” I repeated.

  “You should be grateful!” Whit said to me, moving over to the minivan. “I know you hate it when I go out there.” He opened the side door of the van and stashed the liquor beneath a seat and the speakers behind it.

  Just then, another car pulled up and parked beside Whit’s, our school friends Bridget and Marcy honking and waving from inside. The girls made their way over to where we stood, dragging lawn chairs behind them.

  “Wait, what’s going on?” Elliot asked. “What’s everyone doing here?”

  “Silas stopped by the mini-mart last night and told me this was the plan,” Whit said.

  “Silas?” I choked out.

  As if on cue, Silas pulled his grandpa’s pickup into my driveway. In true Silas fashion, he rolled down his window and flashed the most disarming smile. Laurel leaned over him and waved.

  “Hey,” Silas said to me.

  “Hey,” I whispered back, glad to see him but so confused. Beside me, Whit was gawking—presumably at Laurel.

  Marcy coughed.

  “Guys, this is Silas and Laurel.” Pointing to each, I listed, “Whit, Bridget, Marcy . . . and Elliot.” Elliot put his arm around my waist.

  “Great to finally meet everyone. Ready to roll?” Silas asked.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Elliot said. “Hold on just a minute.” His face was flushed. He rarely lost his temper, but—only because I knew him so well—I could tell he was about to come unglued.

  I put a hand on his arm and turned my back on the others. “It’s okay,” I said to Elliot so no one else could hear.

  He looked hard at me, his eyebrows pulled together. “Okay? That little shit—”

  “Everyone’s already here. And we haven’t all hung out yet this summer. And it’ll keep Whit away from Simon’s place, at least for tonight.” It was only the last statement that seemed to sway Elliot.

  He closed his eyes, let out a frustrated breath, then said to the group, “Okay. Everyone pile into the van. Hart, you can drive yourself. Know where Enger Mills is?”

  “I’m sure I can find it,” said Silas coolly.

  “Why doesn’t West just come with us?” piped Laurel from beside him. “Then we won’t get lost.”

  Everyone paused and looked at Elliot, whose jaw was set and nostrils flared.

  “Fine,” he said, his voice flat and dangerous. Everyone—including me—started moving toward the vehicles, but Elliot grabbed my arm, pulled me to him, and kissed me long and hard on the mouth. “We’ll see you there,” he said, then tossed one last scowl at Silas—who looked a little stunned—before getting into the minivan.

  I climbed into the pickup cab between Silas and his sister. He put the truck into gear and we headed out, following the minivan. “He’s a sloppy kisser,” Silas remarked.

  “I happen to like his kissing just fine, thank-you-very-much,” I said, feeling my face flare.

  “‘Just fine’ isn’t how you should be kissed,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You think you know how I should be kissed?” I challenged.

  Silas shrugged and adjusted the shifter. “Sure.”

  “I think Elliot’s hot, West,” said Laurel.

  “And pissed,” I added. “Silas, you know tonight was supposed to be a date.”

  “It was?” Silas asked.

  “I told you that yesterday.”

  “I must have misunderstood,” he said. “Do you forgive me?” He flashed me a penitent pout. I rolled my eyes and looked away, no idea whether to be angry or not. I’d been looking forward to time with Elliot. Then again, I’d still get to be with him—only not alone.

  I felt the tiniest pinprick of relief. Then guilt.

  Laurel asked, “Who’s the blond? With the longish surfer hair?”

  “His name is Mark Whitby, but everyone calls him Whit,” I said.

  “Whit,” she repeated thoughtfully, as if she were christening him.

  After a pause, I continued the introductions. “Marcy—the one with dark hair?—she’s always liked Elliot, so she’s not exactly my biggest fan. Bridget, the redhead, is Marcy’s best friend. Trudy and I hang out a lot with them during the school year, but there’s a pretty distinct divide, two and two, to be honest.”

  “Nice friends,” Silas commented sarcastically.

  “Well, what about you?” I asked. “You never talk about anyone from Alaska.”

  I realized too late that I didn’t really want him to talk about anyone from Alaska.

  “You want to know about Beth? Is that what you’re asking?” he said, looking straight at me. “What do you want to know?” He darted a stern look at his sister, then began. “Beth is gorgeous,” he said with emphasis. “Her mom is Yupik, and her dad’s a Swede, so she has this dark skin and almond-shaped eyes, only they’re blue. And she’s this unbelievable math whiz. I swear she is going to prove the Riemann hypothesis before she’s even a college graduate.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “And she wears really short skirts,” Silas added, ignoring my question.

  “Well, what about you?” I asked Laurel. “Have someone on the line back in Juneau?” It bothered me to hear Silas talk about Beth, though I knew it shouldn’t.

  “Fairbanks,” corrected Silas. I knew it was Fairbanks; I had said Juneau to punish him.

  I kept my back to him and looked at Laurel. “Nah,” she said.

  “Nah?” Silas asked with incredulity. “She only had like a thousand guys hanging on her every word.” He grinned at her over my head.

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “Like you can talk.” The knot in my stomach tightened. “No one,” Laurel said. “I’m way too strange.”

  “Quit saying that,” I chided. “Besides, you seem fine tonight.”

  She shrugged and looked out the window. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”

  thirteen

  The drive-in screen was in the middle of a field. We arrived early for the triple-header, and the three boys in our group tossed a football around with a couple of guys from Eng
er Mills, our sworn enemies on the football field but our teammates on the consolidated track team. Everyone was watching Silas and Laurel, these two beautiful and exotic specimens who had shaken up our same-old-same-old world like a snow globe.

  “Please be friendly,” I’d whispered to Elliot as he’d taken the football out of the van. “He’s my friend and business partner. I’d like you two to get along.”

  “He hijacked our date!” Elliot said back. “And what does that stupid-ass shirt mean anyway?”

  I glanced at Silas’s chest, which declared, “HOLDEN CAULFIELD THINKS YOU’RE A PHONY.” I sighed. “Never mind. Be nice.”

  My heart raced. I didn’t know how to manage the tension between Elliot and Silas.

  Elliot eyed Silas with suspicion and tossed these impossible-to-catch long bombs that Silas somehow still managed to catch because he was so fast. It was irritating Elliot. He was bigger than Silas—thicker, more muscular—but Silas was taller.

  For his part, Whit—hat on backward, his dirty blond hair curling out from underneath his cap—was torn between football with the guys and an obvious curiosity in Laurel.

  “Hey!” she finally shouted at Whit, and he jogged over toward us, looking enthused. “I wanted to say hi,” she said, “so . . . hi, I guess. Did you know the name Mark means ‘warlike’?”

  My gosh, she’s flirting, I realized in horror.

  Whit, buzzed from whatever was in the paper bag, staunchly shouted, “Ihr seid verfluchte Hunde!” from that scene in Gladiator.

  “Oh dear Lord,” muttered Marcy.

  Silas had wandered close enough to hear the whole exchange and stopped to whisper to me, “Yeahhhh, she doesn’t get out much,” to which I replied, “We try not to let Whit either.”

  We chuckled till Elliot barked, “Hart, heads up!” Silas whipped around and caught the football before it clocked him.

  “Nice,” he muttered.

  I gave him a tiny smile and a tinier shrug.

  While the sun fell lower and lower in the sky, the smell of buttered popcorn drifted over from the concession stand, mixing with the dry scent of dust and alfalfa in the rows of vehicles. Whit knew how to wire the giant speakers he’d brought so that the sound came through them, and we could all sit outside in the warm June air during the movies instead of huddling inside two vehicles. In addition to the lawn chairs, we’d taken out the seat from Elliot’s minivan to create a makeshift couch.