“Well, she sounds okay,” says Ari.
I reach for the ledge of a table and use it to pull myself up. As soon as I’m on my feet, a wave of dizziness passes over me. I steady myself on the table, squeezing my eyes shut.
My free hand feels around the back of my head. There’s a lump, but at least I’m not bleeding.
“Prudence,” says Quint, still hovering too close. “This could be serious.”
I round on him so fast that stars flicker in and out of my vision, cutting off my hasty response. “Oh, now you decide to take something seriously?” I say as the stars begin to dissipate.
He takes a step back, deflates, then rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why do I bother?”
“Why do you bother? I don’t need your help.”
His expression hardens and he lifts his hands in surrender. “Clearly,” he says. Rather than turn away, though, he reaches past me, suddenly so close that I press my hip against the edge of the table with a rush of panic. Quint grabs the stack of napkins left behind by those jerks and turns away without acknowledging, or perhaps even noticing, my reaction. He throws the napkins onto the spilled drink that I slipped on and starts sopping it up, pushing the soggy paper around with the toe of his sneaker.
“Pru?” Ari touches my elbow. “Really, should we call for an ambulance? Or I could drive you to the hospital?”
I sigh. “Please, don’t. I’m not discombobulated or anything. My head hurts a little, but that’s all. I just need a Tylenol.”
“If she can correctly use words like discombobulated, she’s probably okay,” says Trish, and I can tell she’s trying to be helpful. “You thirsty, sweetheart?”
She holds the water toward me, but I shake my head. “No. Thanks. I think I’m going to head home, though.” I turn to Ari. “My bike is outside, but…”
“I’ll give you a ride,” she says, without letting me finish. She ducks back into our booth, gathering our things.
“Thanks,” I murmur. I feel like I should say something, do something. Carlos and Trish, Quint and Morgan, are all still standing there, watching me. Well, Quint is throwing the wet napkins in a wastebasket and avoiding meeting my eye, but the rest of them are staring, expectant. Am I supposed to give them hugs or something?
Carlos saves me by dropping a hand onto my shoulder. “Will you call me tomorrow, or drop by after school or something? Let me know you’re all right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “Um … the karaoke thing…” I look past him to Trish. “It’s actually kind of a cool idea. I hope you keep doing it.”
“Every Tuesday at six,” says Trish. “That’s the plan, at least.”
I follow Ari toward the back door. I make a point of keeping my eyes away from Quint, but I sense him there all the same. The twinge in my stomach feels something like guilt. He’d just been trying to help. I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him.
But he had all year to help. Too little, too late.
Ari pushes open the back door, landing us in the gravel parking lot behind Encanto. The sun has just set and there’s a refreshing breeze coming in off the ocean, full of salt and familiarity. I feel instantly revived, despite the dull ache at the back of my skull.
Ari drives a turquoise-blue station wagon from the sixties—a beast of a car that was a gift from her parents on her sixteenth birthday. She tries not to make a big deal out of it, but her family has money. Her mom is one of the most successful realtors in the county and has made a small fortune selling fancy vacation homes to very wealthy people. So when Ari starts swooning over something like a completely impractical vintage car, it’s not a huge surprise that one shows up in their driveway. Which might be enough to make some teenagers act entitled, but her abuela, who lives with them, seems to keep tight reins on that. She’d be the first to knock Ari off her pedestal if she ever started acting spoiled, though with Ari, I don’t think there’s any cause for concern. She’s pretty much the kindest, most generous person I know.
I try to help Ari load my bike into the back of the car, but she urges me to get in and take it easy. The headache has started to get bad again, so I don’t argue. I slump into the passenger seat and lean back against the headrest.
Sometimes I think Ari is intentionally trying to live her life like she’s in a period documentary film. She wears mostly vintage clothes, like the mustard-yellow romper she’s wearing now, drives a vintage car, and even plays a vintage guitar. Though she knows way more about contemporary music than I do, her true passion lies with the singer-songwriter heyday of the 1970s.
With my bike secured, Ari drops into the driver’s seat. I buckle my seat belt while she goes through the carefully orchestrated procedure of checking her mirrors, even though they couldn’t possibly have moved from when she drove it here a few hours ago.
She’s still getting used to driving a stick shift, and she only kills the engine once before pulling out onto the main thoroughfare. It’s a vast improvement from when she first got the car and popped the clutch about fifty times in a row before she could get it to move. “Are you sure you’re okay? I could take you to the hospital? Call your parents? Call Jude?”
“No, I just want to go home.”
She bites her lower lip. “I was so worried, Pru. You actually passed out.”
“Just for a second, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
I put my hand on hers and say, solemnly, “I’m okay. I promise.”
Her face relents before her words do. After a second, she nods. I sigh and stare out the window. We pass by ice cream parlors and boutique shops that are as familiar as my own bedroom. I hadn’t realized how late it was. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, and Main Street is lit up like a movie set, the palm trees wrapped with small white lights, the pastel-painted businesses glowing under the old-fashioned streetlamps. In another week, this town will be full of tourists on vacation, bringing something akin to a nightlife with them. But for now, the street feels almost abandoned.
We turn away from Main Street, into the suburbs. The first couple of blocks are the mansions—mostly second homes for people who can afford almost-but-not-quite beachfront property. But soon it’s just another neighborhood. A hodgepodge of Mission style and French Colonial. Tiled roofs, stucco walls, brightly painted shutters, window boxes overflowing with petunias and geraniums.
“So, don’t be mad,” Ari says, and I immediately bristle with the expectation of being mad, “but I thought Quint seemed okay.”
I relax, realizing that for some reason I’d been bracing for an insult. But Ari is too sweet to criticize anyone. Even, evidently, Quint Erickson. I snort. “Everyone thinks Quint seems okay, until they have to work with him.” I pause, considering. “It’s not that I think he’s a bad guy. He’s not a jerk or a bully or anything like that. But he’s just so … so…” I flex my fingers, grasping for the right word.
“Cute?”
I cast her an icy stare. “You can do better.”
She laughs. “I’m not interested.”
There’s something in the way she says it, like she’s leaving something unsaid. She’s not interested, but …