My Almost Epic Summer by Adele Griffin

relief is audible in her exhale. “That sounds great. And we might go to Smokes after. I’ll be late, so please don’t call the police to find out about road accidents.”
    “I won’t.”
    “And put yourself to bed at a reasonable hour. Hey, and honey?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Thanks for thinking of me, okay?”
    “Sure.” After I hang up, I skip the grilled cheese and eat an all-asparagus dinner as I read my book. Even inside her insane asylum madness, Nicole Diver’s beautiful hair makes my fingers itch. Where-where-where is that notebook? It has to be in my room.
    Has to be.
    I jump up from the table, full of renewed searching vigor.
    In my room, I paw though boxes, toss things from my closet, yank the folders out of my hanging file. I look in ridiculous places, too—my Paul Pelicano envelope and in my underwear drawer and behind my shoe tree. Every second that I can’t find it, it’s harder for me to stay calm.
    When I’m all out of places, I stand there in the middle of my ransacked room, my hands gripping my head, my face and armpits sweaty and angry.
    Then a sudden, prickly apprehension hits me with such force that I can’t move.
    Somebody is outside.
    My feet are glued to my rug. Without moving my head, I switch my gaze to my window, into the purplish twilight darkness that soon will be black. Now I can just make out the yew hedge that divides our house from the Binkley property. I stare, paralyzed and unblinking. My eyes adjust to pick out the boxy edge of the Binkleys’ station wagon and their rooster weather vane with the broken-off rooster beak.
    There, a car is parked out at the edge of our lawn.
    Slowly, I sink to all fours and crawl, inch by inch, to the wall light switch. I reach up and snap off my bedroom light. In the dark, I squat on my haunches. My nose itches but I don’t dare to scratch. There’s no sound except for the steady chirrup of crickets.
    Then, from the kitchen door, a knock. My heart leaps. But burglars wouldn’t knock first, would they? In a plunge of reckless bravery, I race to the kitchen, and through the window I see the shadowy outline of Drew Fuller. He is standing on the steps outside the kitchen door. He knocks again. I duck again. Oh my God. How can I let him see me like this, so damp and flustered?
    “One second!” I yell. Quickly, I scurry to the bathroom, where I click on Mom’s makeup mirror. I splash cold water on my cheeks, then find a tube of crusty mascara and apply a coat. I work some Vaseline over my lips, and I fluff out my hopelessly non-heroine hair.
    Then I stroll to the kitchen door, breezily snapping on lights. When he sees me through the window, Drew smiles and mouths, “Hi.”
    I open the door. “Hey, what’s up?”
    He holds up a copy of On the Road . “You’ll blast through this,” he says. “One of those ‘seize the day’ kinda books? Makes you feel like you can do anything. Me, anyway.” He’s wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His tan looks extra dark, his hair extra shiny in the kitchen light. I hope my blasé expression is working as I take the book.
    “Thanks.”
    “Since I was driving through the neighborhood already and the book was already in the car, I thought I’d see if I remembered where you live, and then, if I passed the test and got the house right, I’d say hey and give it to you. To keep. Actually, I’ve got to go pick up my brother Jake at work. He’s older, we share the car so that I’m Tuesday and Thursday, he’s the other days, and I only have a junior license anyhow, so he gets to drive more, and I’m kinda running late as it is.” Drew is speaking fast and slightly out of breath. “It was an impulse thing,” he finishes.
    “Oh.” I step aside to let him in. “Do you want anything? Like, water or—I have apple tart. Gourmet.” I regret the offer immediately, it seems desperate, like I’m trying to seduce Drew Fuller with my private stash of high-end food.
    “No, thanks. Jake’s not so chill