Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink by Stephanie Kate Strohm Page B

breaths.” He took several. “There you go! Good job.”
    â€œI did a good job. For once, I did a good job,” he said sadly.
    â€œGo to your happy place, Dev. Kelly Clarkson. Happy place. Kelly Clarkson.”
    â€œOh, no, I do not hook up, up, I go slow,” he sang softly.
    â€œThere you go!” I encouraged him. “Now, whenever you get scared, just sing that song and think of me, and it’s like I’m right there with you.”
    Dev had dubbed Kelly Clarkson’s “I Do Not Hook Up” the “Official Libby Kelting Anthem.” He took especial delight in singing this whenever we were at parties or dances, as a warning to potential suitors. So maybe I’m a little picky. Sue me. I don’t think that’s the worst thing in the world.
    â€œLibby,” he whispered, “I’m scared.”
    Click. The line went dead. Yikes. An international publishing conglomerate might have just taken a hit out on my best friend. I tried to call him back several times, but to no avail. Garrett wasn’t on the boat, so I paced and thought about Dev until the sun set and it was time for the Showdown. A loud whistle pierced the air. I leaned over the side of the boat; Cam was waiting down on shore, looking up at me. He whistled again. I scurried down the gangplank.
    â€œDamn,” Cam said as I hit solid ground. “You look . . .” He was at a loss for words.
    â€œLike a prostitute? I know,” I moaned.
    â€œHot.” He shook his head. “I was gonna say hot.” He put his arm around me and started steering me toward the boathouse.
    â€œThey’re making me. The museum. I swear to God, I did not pick this outfit. Roger thinks pirates are ‘fun’ and wants to put pirate pictures in the
Camden Crier.
He thinks it’ll make more people come to the museum.”
    â€œIt’d certainly make me come.” He smirked.
    â€œSo where are we going?” I changed topics quickly, blushing. If I was gonna keep hanging out with Cam, I needed to stop embarrassing so easily.
    â€œThe beach. Not the town beach, the museum beach. It’s that smallish strip of sand next to the boathouse. There, you see? Where the bonfire is.”
    I did. It was glowing in the distance, shooting orange sparks into the darkening dusk. As night fell, the sky deepened to a shade of blue that was almost navy, dark enough to see the first stars of evening twinkling above.
    The boathouse was a large wooden structure on the dock, with three walls and one side open to the beach. We walked down the length of the dock and entered the boathouse from the side, through propped-open double doors that looked like they fell off the side of a barn. Directly inside, there was a pirate at a desk with a series of lists.
    â€œAhoy.” The pirate waved. “Be ye checkin’ in and competin’ in the Showdown, arrgggh?”
    â€œYou look like a tool.” Cam chuckled.
    â€œDude, shut up,” the pirate said. “They forced me to wear this.”
    â€œThis” was a cobbled-together pirate outfit clearly meant to channel Jack Sparrow, except the sashes around his head and waist were a Barbie hot pink. The black dread-locked wig and beard he had on were threatening to consume his head altogether. He was drowning in a sea of nylon dreadlocks. I assumed the pirate had applied his own eyeliner, or else a six-year-old had sloppily drawn circles around his eyes with a black crayon. He looked like a mangy panda’s piratical cousin.
    â€œI feel your pain,” I sympathized.
    â€œWell, you look hot,” the pirate grumped. “I look like a tool.”
    â€œYou look very . . . distinguished,” I offered.
    â€œBe ye singing, wench?” he asked, waving around a ballpoint pen with a giant feathery plume taped to it.
    â€œHells no,” I said firmly. I would prance around all tarted up, but that was the extent of the