as wel .”
I shake my head, mentioning that Chad was out last I checked, wondering why she can‟t just spil it about what‟s going on—why she needs an audience. Still, I clean up the remainder of our picnic, and we go back inside the cottage to find Drea and Amber.
They‟re in our room. Drea is applying some creamy orange stuff to Amber‟s face
—only Amber‟s eyes, nostrils, and lips are visible.
“In less than ten tiny minutes,” Drea explains to me,
“Amber wil have skin as soft as a baby‟s butt. It‟s al natural; you can practical y eat the stuff.”
“I‟ll pass,” I say.
“Your loss.” Drea looks up from the jar to eye my skin, probably noting the blotchiness—a blending of paleness and sunburn.
“Clara wants to talk to us,” I say, ignoring the thorough inspection.
“What for?” Amber scowls through the orange mask.
I shrug and wait for them to follow me out, Amber with her arms folded and her lips tightened into a frown. We all take a seat at the kitchen table.
“So what‟s with al the drama?” Amber asks.
“You’re asking us about drama?” PJ says. “What‟s with the ghoulish goo on your face?”
“It‟s a mud mask,” she corrects.
“Are you sure you used mud and not pig snot?”
“ You’re one to talk, with those white-ass lips. It looks like you were sucking face with Ronald McDonald,” Amber retorts.
“It‟s cal ed sunblock,” PJ explains. “SPF 65—”
“In case you haven‟t noticed, the sun doesn‟t exactly blaze past 5 PM.”
“I‟m sorry to bother you guys,” Clara says, interrupting them. “It‟s just—” But she can‟t continue. She takes a couple big breaths to calm herself, but she‟s completely distraught—her eyes watering up, her hands doing that weird fluttering thing in front of her eyes.
“Al ow me, my little damsel.” PJ kisses the crown of her head, a few strands of her hair sticking to his sunblocked lips. “Picture it,” he says. “Exterior—day. Sunny; beach setting; hoards of people, sunning and funning it up in the background. Two exceptionally good-looking beach babes, a boy and a girl, trot their way down a long beach strip seasoned with summer cottages.”
“Time out,” Amber says, waving a hand in the air. “Who are the exceptional y good-looking beach babes in this scenario?”
PJ‟s mouth snarls open. “If you aren‟t going to play nice, my thorny little bush, I think you should return to the dirty playground that you crawled from.”
“Okay,” I say in an effort to speed things up. “Obviously the good-looking people are Clara and PJ.”
“Wel , at least we have one bright little match who drank her carrot juice today.” PJ shines me an approving smile, and I have to choke back my frustration. That or he‟l be tel ing this story until wel after midnight.
Jacob glances at his watch. “So what happened?”
“Happened?” PJ starts up again. “We were walking down the strip, minding our own biz-wiz, when we see this completely outlandish tentacle-man who dares to ask Clara-bear here if she can pose for some photo thing tomorrow afternoon.”
“Wait,” Drea says. “Why are we cal ing him a tentacle-man?” PJ rol s his eyes in frustration. “Um, because he had tentacles.”
“ Seriously?” Drea glances at Jacob and holds back her laugh.
“Not tentacles,” Clara says. “Just an obnoxious mustache with rol ed ends.”
“Wait,” I say, “is this that guy who lives next door, the one with the giant back porch?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You know him?”
“Wel , I kind of met him,” I say. “Earlier, when I was looking for you.” Clara seems somewhat surprised; she cocks her head for just a second before continuing: “The guy seems, like, a total creepy creep. I‟ve seen him on his back porch, taking pictures of girls on the beach—without them knowing. And I overheard some girl at the Clam Stripper saying how he‟s supposedly some bril iant photographer who does
I shake my head, mentioning that Chad was out last I checked, wondering why she can‟t just spil it about what‟s going on—why she needs an audience. Still, I clean up the remainder of our picnic, and we go back inside the cottage to find Drea and Amber.
They‟re in our room. Drea is applying some creamy orange stuff to Amber‟s face
—only Amber‟s eyes, nostrils, and lips are visible.
“In less than ten tiny minutes,” Drea explains to me,
“Amber wil have skin as soft as a baby‟s butt. It‟s al natural; you can practical y eat the stuff.”
“I‟ll pass,” I say.
“Your loss.” Drea looks up from the jar to eye my skin, probably noting the blotchiness—a blending of paleness and sunburn.
“Clara wants to talk to us,” I say, ignoring the thorough inspection.
“What for?” Amber scowls through the orange mask.
I shrug and wait for them to follow me out, Amber with her arms folded and her lips tightened into a frown. We all take a seat at the kitchen table.
“So what‟s with al the drama?” Amber asks.
“You’re asking us about drama?” PJ says. “What‟s with the ghoulish goo on your face?”
“It‟s a mud mask,” she corrects.
“Are you sure you used mud and not pig snot?”
“ You’re one to talk, with those white-ass lips. It looks like you were sucking face with Ronald McDonald,” Amber retorts.
“It‟s cal ed sunblock,” PJ explains. “SPF 65—”
“In case you haven‟t noticed, the sun doesn‟t exactly blaze past 5 PM.”
“I‟m sorry to bother you guys,” Clara says, interrupting them. “It‟s just—” But she can‟t continue. She takes a couple big breaths to calm herself, but she‟s completely distraught—her eyes watering up, her hands doing that weird fluttering thing in front of her eyes.
“Al ow me, my little damsel.” PJ kisses the crown of her head, a few strands of her hair sticking to his sunblocked lips. “Picture it,” he says. “Exterior—day. Sunny; beach setting; hoards of people, sunning and funning it up in the background. Two exceptionally good-looking beach babes, a boy and a girl, trot their way down a long beach strip seasoned with summer cottages.”
“Time out,” Amber says, waving a hand in the air. “Who are the exceptional y good-looking beach babes in this scenario?”
PJ‟s mouth snarls open. “If you aren‟t going to play nice, my thorny little bush, I think you should return to the dirty playground that you crawled from.”
“Okay,” I say in an effort to speed things up. “Obviously the good-looking people are Clara and PJ.”
“Wel , at least we have one bright little match who drank her carrot juice today.” PJ shines me an approving smile, and I have to choke back my frustration. That or he‟l be tel ing this story until wel after midnight.
Jacob glances at his watch. “So what happened?”
“Happened?” PJ starts up again. “We were walking down the strip, minding our own biz-wiz, when we see this completely outlandish tentacle-man who dares to ask Clara-bear here if she can pose for some photo thing tomorrow afternoon.”
“Wait,” Drea says. “Why are we cal ing him a tentacle-man?” PJ rol s his eyes in frustration. “Um, because he had tentacles.”
“ Seriously?” Drea glances at Jacob and holds back her laugh.
“Not tentacles,” Clara says. “Just an obnoxious mustache with rol ed ends.”
“Wait,” I say, “is this that guy who lives next door, the one with the giant back porch?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You know him?”
“Wel , I kind of met him,” I say. “Earlier, when I was looking for you.” Clara seems somewhat surprised; she cocks her head for just a second before continuing: “The guy seems, like, a total creepy creep. I‟ve seen him on his back porch, taking pictures of girls on the beach—without them knowing. And I overheard some girl at the Clam Stripper saying how he‟s supposedly some bril iant photographer who does
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