Until We Meet Again Page 2

“Thank you for bringing her back…” He reads the security guard’s name tag. “Jim. I certainly appreciate it. I can take it from here.”

  The guard grimaces. “I ought to bring her in. We take trespassing very seriously in these parts.”

  Frank nods. “As you should. And I can assure you, her mother and I will not let this go unpunished.”

  The guard’s frown deepens. “I don’t know…”

  Frank smiles warmly. “Tell you what, Jim. You turn her over to us, with the promise that she’ll be thoroughly taken to task, and in the morning, I’ll talk to Mike Anderson about getting you the weekend off. We can have Braden cover for you.”

  My throat tightens. This can either go very well or very, very bad.

  The guard analyzes Frank, silently weighing the pros and cons of his next move. But then, in seemingly slow motion, he nods and gives me a little push forward.

  “If it happens again—if anything like this happens again—she’s in for it.”

  I could explode from sheer relief.

  Frank gives the guard’s arm a friendly squeeze. “Much appreciated, Jim.”

  Smiling cheerfully, he escorts me into the house and shuts the door. The smile drops as he turns to me.

  “I can explain,” I rush to say.

  “Tomorrow. You can and will explain everything in the morning. Right now, I suggest you go put on some dry clothes and try to get some sleep.”

  My face burns with shame at how nice he’s being about all this. “Thanks, Frank.”

  He waves my words away with a half smile and shuffles back toward his room. I make my way to mine with a sinking feeling. Mom’s going to kill me when she finds out.

  • • •

  Phase One of my Punishment Reduction Plan involves Eddie. By the time I wake up, it’s past ten, and by now I know Frank has told Mom what went down last night. The relative quiet coming from downstairs is a bad sign. They’re talking about me, waiting for me to emerge. I need an adorable little boy to soften the blow.

  Creeping on tiptoe, I make my way to the playroom first. Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Not in his room either. That leaves only two other places: either he’s with Mom and Frank, or he’s watching cartoons in the den. Hoping for the latter, I slip downstairs.

  Low but tense voices drift in from the dining room. Still talking about me. Clenching my jaw, I edge my way to the den.

  Success.

  Eddie is sitting crossed-legged on the couch, watching his favorite cartoon about an orphaned robot alien and his robot puppy. He looks up as I come in. He’s unreasonably cute. It’s lucky, really. I had the typical preteen issues when Mom got remarried. Don’t get me wrong, for everyone’s sanity, it was the right thing for my parents to get divorced, but I definitely had my issues when Frank came into the picture. And then Eddie was born, and slowly I began to realize how we’d work as a family. So much so that I can’t imagine life if Frank hadn’t come along. Eddie is the glue that holds us all together. Smiling, I plop down at his side.

  “Hey, buddy. Can I watch your show with you?”

  Eddie points to his chest with a chubby toddler finger. “I be the robot. You be the puppy.”

  “Fair deal.” I nestle beside him, and he pets my hair.

  “Good puppy.”

  I make my best dog sound and sniff Eddie’s face, which smells distinctly of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

  “That tickles!” he says, laughing.

  I give his cheek a quick kiss and then lay my head next to his little shoulder. “Puppy is nervous. Puppy thinks Mommy Dog is mad at her.”

  Eddie pets my head again. “Don’t worry, Puppy. Mommy Dog is nice.”

  Ah, the safe, easy world of a kid. Almost makes me wish I could go back to being three again, when things were so simple.

  “You okay in there, buddy?”

  Mom’s voice makes me sit up, and a moment later, she steps into the doorway. When she sees me, her arms immediately cross over her chest. She’s calm but prepared. This isn’t going to go well for me.

  “So you’re up,” she says. “Have a good sleep?”

  I pull my arm around Eddie. “Yep. Just playing a little robot alien and puppy with my bro.”

  “Cassandra. Kindly make your way into the dining room. We’re going to have a talk.”

  “Why can’t we talk in here?” I know they won’t be as hard on me in front of Eddie.

  In response, Mom raises a single eyebrow in that “I mean business” way. Sighing, I slide from the couch.

  “Say good-bye to your sister, Eddie,” I mutter. “Remember me as I was.”

  “Move it, Cass,” Mom says.

  I march into the dining room, my head held high like a martyr being walked to the chopping block.

  Frank sips coffee at the table. He casts me a look as I pull up a chair. A look of sympathy? Apology? It’s too subtle to tell. As Mom sits down across from me, I brace myself for the full gamut of parental clichés:

  “What on earth were you thinking?” (I wasn’t thinking. Clearly.)

  “Didn’t I raise you better than this?” (Apparently not.)

  “This is about me not letting you stay the summer with your father, isn’t it?” (Nope. Way off.)

  “You’re going to be grounded for a very long time, young lady.” (And that’s different from the status quo…how?)

  However, Mom says nothing. Only the ticking of the French-chef clock on the wall invades the silence. Each moment puts me more on guard. Then finally, she releases a slow sigh. Okay, here it comes.

  “What’s going on, Cassandra?” Mom asks, her voice alarmingly gentle. “What’s happened to you this summer?”

  I shift in my chair, choosing to pick at a small fleck of dried milk on the table rather than look at her. She goes on, relentless.

  “You seem lost. And it’s hard to watch. You’re so smart and talented. You could have the whole world at your fingertips if you focus. But you’re spinning your wheels. You say you want to be a filmmaker, so I send you to directing camp. When was the last time you made a film, Cass? Then there were acting lessons.

  “Then you told me you wanted to paint. I gave you private art instructions for six months, and I haven’t seen you so much as pick up a brush all summer. And I suppose I wouldn’t mind if you’d been off making new friends and having fun. But you haven’t done anything this summer. Nothing but become angry and reckless. What’s happening to you, Cass?”

  Heat pulses to my face. I dig harder at the fleck on the table.

  “You need to find yourself, young lady. You’re going to be a senior in the fall. It’s time to learn who you are and what you want out of life.”

  Frank sets a hand on my arm. “We’re here for you, kiddo. We just want to help.”

  I don’t look up. Can’t look up. I feel exposed. Yelling, punishments—those I can handle. But this? It needs to end right now.

  I sit back in my chair with a “ho-hum” shrug. “What can I say, Mom? I guess I’m going through an adolescent phase. Puberty. Hormones. That kind of thing. “

  “Cassandra.”

  “I know,” I say, holding up my hands as I stand. “I know. I’m grounded.”

  “Cassandra.”

  I back toward the door, to my room. To safety. “Grounded for life. Got it. I guess it’s time to take up harmonica and start scratching a tally of days on my bedpost.”

  Mom calls my name again sharply, but I’ve turned for the hallway. I run up to my room and slam the door.

  • • •

  The Battle of the Dining Room Table isn’t over. Both sides have merely regrouped at their respective camps. Mom’s next offensive comes via Frank, shortly after dinner. He knocks on my door to cheerfully inform me that Mom says I’m allowed to go to the party tonight.

  “Allowed to go.” Clever wording, since s
he knows that being barred in my room all night would be infinitely more enjoyable than going to that party. Getting all dressed up in a white eyelet-lace dress and floral scarf. Playing the role of pretty daughter for the guests. Nodding and smiling my way through a dozen dull conversations. Well played, Mother. Well played.

  • • •

  Slumped in the wicker deck chair that night, I glare at Mom as she chats with the other guests. Another mind-numbing party. Rich, middle-aged people grasping desperately at the final threads of youth, blabbing, and drinking cabernet sauvignon.

  Frank pulls the cork off another bottle, laughing at what was most certainly a lame joke. With as much money as these people have, they’re shockingly dull. The only person I care to spend any time with is Travis, but his parents are here with him, and even though he got off scot-free last night, their piercing glares warn me not to move any closer.

  So I stay in my chair, drinking a Sprite and watching a moth swirl around the white Chinese lanterns that have been strung out over the deck.

  At ten o’clock, Mom gives me a nod. My time has been served. I contemplate going inside to my room, but since I’ll be cooped up there for the next few days while I’m grounded, I decide to stay outside.

  Ripping off the floral scarf and leaving it on a bush in a weak sign of rebellion, I wander onto the grounds. This house is too fancy for a backyard. It has grounds. For the millionth time, I wonder what possessed my mom to come here. Yes, it’s a gorgeous old home in a gorgeous location, but we don’t belong. And we never will. No matter how much money Frank has. We are Middle American, live-in-the-suburbs people. We don’t have soirees out on the veranda. We have barbecues in the backyard, where the men drink too much beer and the kids play truth or dare in the den.

  Illuminated by an orb of lantern light on the deck beyond me, the party group is laughing and talking about empty things. The obnoxious truth jabs at me. I always smugly assured myself that I didn’t belong in Ohio, that I was meant for greater things. Now here I am, and I still feel like I don’t belong. Maybe I’m just a hopeless snob who will be unhappy everywhere I go.

  The impulse to do something stupid once again prickles through me. A small act of harmless vandalism, perhaps. Maybe I’ll rip off my clothes and stroll back into the party, naked as the day I was born.

  I kick a rock near my foot, sending it skidding over the path. What am I, twelve? Am I secretly trying to get Mommy’s attention because I’m worried she loves her new husband more than me? Properly shamed, I try to jam my hands into my pockets until I remember I’m wearing a dress and don’t have pockets.

  I find myself wandering past the lit water feature, past the rosebush-adorned gazebo, over a brick-colored path of flagstones, and across the meticulously maintained back lawn. By default, I head to the estate’s private beach. It’s not a great swimming beach—too rocky—and I don’t expect anyone from the party to have wandered out there.

  At the edge of the grass, a row of high, trimmed bushes acts like a natural wall. Walking along the edge, I find my secret shortcut to the water. I happened across it a few weeks ago. At one point, perhaps someone had intended for it to be a paved path to the beach, but that never materialized. Now the lawn crew lets the branches grow just enough to hide the gap but maintain the access.

  The soft pound of surf reaches me before I see the water. The tang of salt is thick on the air. Growing up in Ohio, I didn’t get much exposure to the ocean. The community pool was the extent of my experience with water. Maybe because of that, something about the size and constant motion of the sea both intrigues and terrifies me.

  A few more strides through the thick bushes, and I see the water ahead. It’s black and vast and in what seems to be in perpetual motion. The white tips of breaking waves roll onto the beach, lapping the gleaming sand. It’s a surprisingly long stretch of beach. A cove, really. Perfectly enclosed by brush to the back and rocky points to either side. Big rocks are scattered in the water and along the shore, but there’s enough sand to sit. It’s quiet and rugged and starkly beautiful. I draw in a breath of night ocean smell and immediately decide that I should have taken my brooding here from the start. This place is clearly much better suited for the job than some stuffy party.

  I flop on a sandy patch near a crop of rocks and stare out at the gently crashing waves. A salty breeze feathers my hair across my face. I decide not to move it. I bet I look more pensive this way. What I’m pensive about, I don’t really know. How pathetic is that? I don’t even know why I’m angsty and sad. I just am.

  I pull out my phone. Maybe I’ll send another text to Jade.

  Hey. I’m at a lame party. Bored. I hope you’re bored too.

  She won’t reply until sometime tomorrow. If at all. She’s certainly not bored. She’s too busy in Paris, “sucking the marrow out of life.” Relishing the challenge and excitement of the art museum internship that I clearly would have applied for if I’d known about it. Probably. I push my fingers into the cool sand, grimacing.

  I don’t know why it annoys me that Jade seems to have her five-year plan all worked out. I mean, can’t an artist just love to create art? Why do we suddenly have to make a job out of it? Part of me wishes things were simple. Like they were three years ago, when Jade and I were stoked to be going to high school. Then Jade wouldn’t have gone to Paris, and I wouldn’t have come here with Mom and Frank. We would have stayed with my dad, had slumber parties, and talked about boys, and we wouldn’t have cared about anything.

  Light catches my gaze. There, at the black-on-black line of the ocean’s horizon, is a wide, glowing band. It takes a moment for me to realize what it is. The beginning of the moon’s rise. I pull up the Farmers’ Almanac on my phone. Apparently the moon will be full tonight.

  I look back to the shimmering light. It’s magical and eerie at the same time. Hugging my knees, I nestle to watch. The first golden line of the moon emerges, huge and trembling in the residual summer heat, out of the dark water. And then, something inexplicable happens.

  A flash of light. A brilliant pulse of white emanates from the rising moon and soars across the ocean, touching the shore like a kiss.

  I sit up with a start, eyes wide. It was so fast—faster than a blink. So fast that I’m almost not sure if I saw it. Maybe it’s my eyes. Flashes of light are early indications of retinal tearing. Or is it glaucoma? Jade’s dad is an optometrist, and she’s always worrying about some intense eye problem that could happen to her. But before I can grab my phone to call her, I notice a shape.

  There’s a figure on the beach. Standing over near the shoreline. How did I not see him come out onto the beach? Was I too busy staring at the moon?

  I squint against the darkness. The figure is definitely male. And young. Even from this distance, I can tell that. I watch him, not moving. I probably should be nervous, alone on a beach with a stranger, especially a stranger who is possibly a ninja. Mom gave me a handy travel-size canister of pepper spray to carry on my key chain for just such an occasion. I always thought she was a touch paranoid. She’d probably be furious with me for not running at the first sight of this guy.

  But I think I’m safe. Studying him, I deduce that he’s a party guest. The slacks and dress shirt give that away. He’s even wearing a tailored jacket. A little overdressed. Trying too hard. I can’t tell for sure from this far away, but I’d peg this guy at about my age—seventeen—maybe a year or two older. I don’t remember seeing anyone my age at the party, other than Travis and Brandon. More compelling evidence that he’s a ninja.

  Not noticing me, the stranger steps down to the shoreline. Tucking his jacket behind him, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and gazes out at the ocean. I feel the impulse to make him aware of my presence, but something stops me.

  Maybe it’s his oddly fancy clothes. Or something about the way he’s standing there. Maybe it’s because he looks as lonely as I feel.

 
He walks a step into the water, kicking a rock. He’s tall and lean, and even his walk is pensive. What’s he thinking about so intently? Maybe tragic, impossible, first love? I hope so.

  He bends to pick up the rock and throws it into the ocean. I should stop staring. When he notices me, it’s going to be pretty awkward to explain why I didn’t make my presence known. I should sneak out while his back is turned.

  Or maybe I could watch him a little longer…

  It’s almost as if I’m waiting for him to pull out a notebook and start to write exquisitely sad poetry. Is it pathetic how quickly I assign a persona to a complete stranger and then start imagining what it would be like to fall in love with him? In real life, he’s probably a snotty rich kid, obsessed with his souped-up Camaro or getting laid in the backseat of said souped-up Camaro, or both.

  I sigh. A little too loudly. Ninja Boy whips his head around and looks right at me.

  My spine straightens. I contemplate running. Or perhaps feigning blindness. Anything’s got to be better than owning up to the fact that I’ve been creepily watching him for the past five minutes.

  Great. He’s walking over.

  “Sorry,” he calls out. “I didn’t see you there.”

  I open my mouth to sputter some fumbling apology, but then a stab of rebellion cuts through me. What’s the point? I don’t owe this guy an apology for sitting on my own property. So what if he thinks I’m weird or psycho? After this summer, I’m never coming back to Crest Harbor, which means I’ll never see this guy again.

  My pulse speeds up in spite of my resolve, but I stand my ground.

  “Don’t mind me,” I say. “There’s plenty of room on this beach for all brooding loners.”

  A half smile pulls at his lips. “That so? Well, is there a required distance between brooders or can I take this spot here?”

  He’s pointing to the sand right beside me. Without waiting for a reply, he sits down and smiles. It’s a pretty fantastic smile. Add to that sandy-blond hair that’s been slicked back and deep brown eyes, and it’s settled. He’s too gorgeous to be anything but a rich jerk looking to get laid.