Reunion by Meg Cabot Page A

Michael Meducci didn’t just have a crush on me. Oh, no. It was much, much worse than that:
    Michael Meducci thinks I have a crush on him.
    Michael Meducci thinks I more than just have a crush on him. Michael Meducci thinks I’m in love with him.
    I had just one thing to say, and since I couldn’t say it out loud, I said it in my head:
    EEEEW!
    I mean, he might have looked good in a bathing suit and all, but Michael Meducci stillwasn’t exactly…
    Well, Jesse.
    And that , I thought with a sigh, is pretty much how my love life is going to go from now on, isn’t it?

Chapter
Nine
    Carefully, I tried to pull my hand out from under Michael’s.
    â€œOh,” he said, lifting his hand off mine so he could grip the wheel. “It’s coming up. Where the accident happened, I mean.”
    Hideously relieved, I glanced to my right. We were moving along Highway 1 at quite a little clip. The sands of Carmel Beach had turned into the majestic cliffs of Big Sur. A few more miles down the coast, and we’d hit redwood groves and Point Sur Lighthouse. Big Sur was a haven for hikers and campers, and just about anybody who liked magnificent views and breathtaking natural beauty. Me, I’ll take the views, but nature leavesme cold…especially after a little poison oak incident that had occurred a week or two after I’d arrived in California.
    And don’t even get me started on ticks.
    Big Sur—or at least the pretty much one-lane road that winds along it—also hosts quite a few hairpin curves. Michael eased around a completely blind one just as a Winnebago, coming from the other direction, came thundering around the other side of this massive cliff. There wasn’t exactly room for both vehicles, and considering that all that was separating us from the sheer drop-off to the sea was a metal guardrail, it was a bit disconcerting. Michael, however, backed up—we hadn’t been going that fast—and then pulled over, allowing the Winnebago to ease by with only a foot or so of room to spare.
    â€œJeez,” I said, glancing back at the huge RV. “That’s kind of dangerous, huh?”
    Michael shrugged. “You’re supposed to honk,” he said, “as you round that corner. To let anyone behind that rock thing know you’re there. That guy didn’t know, obviously, because he’s a tourist.” Michael cleared his throat. “That’s what happened, um, on Saturday night.”
    I sat up straighter in my seat.
    â€œThis—” I swallowed. “—is where it happened?”
    â€œYeah,” Michael said. There was no change in the inflection of his voice at all. “This is it.”
    And indeed it was. Now that I knew to look for them, I could plainly see the black skid marks the wheels of Josh’s car had left as he’d tried to keep from going over. A large section of the guardrail had already been replaced, the metal shiny and new just where the skid marks ended.
    I asked, in a quiet voice, “Can we stop?”
    â€œSure,” Michael said.
    There was a scenic overlook around the corner, not a hundred yards away from where the cars had narrowly missed each other. Michael pulled into it and turned off the engine.
    â€œObservation point,” he said, pointing to the wooden sign in front of us that said, OBSERVATION POINT. NO LITTERING . “A lot of kids come here on Saturday night.” Michael cleared his throat and looked at me meaningfully. “And park.”
    I have to say, up until that moment I really had no idea I was capable of moving as fast as I did getting out of that car. But I was unbuckled and out of that seat quicker than you could say ectoplasm.
    The sun had almost completely set now, and it was already growing chilly. I hugged myself as I stood on tiptoe to look over the edge of the cliff,my hair whipping my face in the wind off the sea, which was much wilder and cooler up here than it