in a
magazine, furrowing her brows so she’d look like she was concentrating and must
not be disturbed. She catches him leering at her more than once, and she
shudders and prays he’d transfer to another seat soon. When she puts on her
headphones to drown out his voice, he asks, “What are you listening to? You
know, I used to be a musician. All the ladies loved me.” She turns the volume
up and doesn’t say anything.
An
hour before the plane lands in Los Angeles, Summer goes into the cramped
bathroom and inspects her reflection in the mirror. She looks exhausted and
frightened—her hair is greasy, her skin is dry and flaky, and there are
dark circles under her eyes—and no amount of powder or moisturizer or
concealer is going to fix it. She remembers looking into the mirror in Scott’s
place the first time he invited her in, back in junior year; she looked just as
exhausted and frightened then too, nervous at the thought of Scott on the other
side of the door.
Summer
goes back to her seat, and before she knows it, she is stepping out of the
arrivals gate in LAX , craning her neck to
see over the heads of the tall teenaged guys standing in front of her. She
walks slowly, unsure of where to go, her feet numb and her back aching and her
luggage in tow. She
recognizes the girl smiling at her from near the taxi bay, and she smiles back
and waves. Here goes nothing , she
thinks, as she grips her suitcase’s handle, takes a deep breath, and crosses
the street.
Chapter
11
Ashley Crosby is delighted to meet
Summer.
“I
can’t believe you’re finally here,” Ashley shrieks, throwing her skinny arms
around Summer. “We are going to have so, so much
fun!”
As
they push the loaded cart into the LAX parking
lot, Ashley fills Summer in on her home situation. “It’s super messy,” she
tells her. “Just warning you.” She appraises Summer from head to toe and back
again, like she is measuring just how much space she’ll be taking up. “But you
and your stuff will definitely fit,” she says. “It’ll be like an extended
sleepover! I’m so, so excited!”
When
they get to Ashley’s apartment after a twenty-minute drive, Summer realizes she
wasn’t exaggerating: It was super
messy. There were clothes and accessories strewn all over the floor, dirty
dishes piled high in the sink, a pizza box containing discarded bell peppers
and a single uneaten slice on the coffee table, empty juice bottles on top of
the TV , a soiled towel thrown
over the couch, and something that looked suspiciously like mold growing from a
half-full bag of Cheetos lying next to the shoe rack.
But
cheap housing was cheap housing, so Summer turns to her and says, “I love your
place! It’s so… full of life.” She meant this literally, because she can almost
swear she saw a striped sock inch its way towards the door.
“I
know, right?” Ashley says. “Make yourself comfortable. You want something to
drink?” She walks to the refrigerator and shoves her head in. She gives Summer
a muffled inventory: “I have orange juice, apple juice, chocolate
milk—but I’ve had this in here for two weeks, so maybe not that. There’s
beer, there’s iced coffee, and there’s Diet Dr. Pepper. Oh, and a cucumber
smoothie. And water.”
“Just
water, please,” Summer says. “Thanks.” Ashley is being so nice to her, and
Summer knows she should be grateful but all she feels is a definite unease; it
was the kind of niceness she wasn’t used to, the kind of niceness that made her
nervous. It was the same kind of niceness she heard in Meg’s voice last week.
“I
know you miss Scott,” Meg said over the phone. “And I might have the solution.”
Summer was suspicious. What was the solution, and why
would Meg, of all people, have it? “I don’t want you to do anything that
involves Roxanne,” she said.
“Don’t
be silly,” Meg said. “Roxanne is totally out of the picture. This is just about
you and Scott.” It felt
magazine, furrowing her brows so she’d look like she was concentrating and must
not be disturbed. She catches him leering at her more than once, and she
shudders and prays he’d transfer to another seat soon. When she puts on her
headphones to drown out his voice, he asks, “What are you listening to? You
know, I used to be a musician. All the ladies loved me.” She turns the volume
up and doesn’t say anything.
An
hour before the plane lands in Los Angeles, Summer goes into the cramped
bathroom and inspects her reflection in the mirror. She looks exhausted and
frightened—her hair is greasy, her skin is dry and flaky, and there are
dark circles under her eyes—and no amount of powder or moisturizer or
concealer is going to fix it. She remembers looking into the mirror in Scott’s
place the first time he invited her in, back in junior year; she looked just as
exhausted and frightened then too, nervous at the thought of Scott on the other
side of the door.
Summer
goes back to her seat, and before she knows it, she is stepping out of the
arrivals gate in LAX , craning her neck to
see over the heads of the tall teenaged guys standing in front of her. She
walks slowly, unsure of where to go, her feet numb and her back aching and her
luggage in tow. She
recognizes the girl smiling at her from near the taxi bay, and she smiles back
and waves. Here goes nothing , she
thinks, as she grips her suitcase’s handle, takes a deep breath, and crosses
the street.
Chapter
11
Ashley Crosby is delighted to meet
Summer.
“I
can’t believe you’re finally here,” Ashley shrieks, throwing her skinny arms
around Summer. “We are going to have so, so much
fun!”
As
they push the loaded cart into the LAX parking
lot, Ashley fills Summer in on her home situation. “It’s super messy,” she
tells her. “Just warning you.” She appraises Summer from head to toe and back
again, like she is measuring just how much space she’ll be taking up. “But you
and your stuff will definitely fit,” she says. “It’ll be like an extended
sleepover! I’m so, so excited!”
When
they get to Ashley’s apartment after a twenty-minute drive, Summer realizes she
wasn’t exaggerating: It was super
messy. There were clothes and accessories strewn all over the floor, dirty
dishes piled high in the sink, a pizza box containing discarded bell peppers
and a single uneaten slice on the coffee table, empty juice bottles on top of
the TV , a soiled towel thrown
over the couch, and something that looked suspiciously like mold growing from a
half-full bag of Cheetos lying next to the shoe rack.
But
cheap housing was cheap housing, so Summer turns to her and says, “I love your
place! It’s so… full of life.” She meant this literally, because she can almost
swear she saw a striped sock inch its way towards the door.
“I
know, right?” Ashley says. “Make yourself comfortable. You want something to
drink?” She walks to the refrigerator and shoves her head in. She gives Summer
a muffled inventory: “I have orange juice, apple juice, chocolate
milk—but I’ve had this in here for two weeks, so maybe not that. There’s
beer, there’s iced coffee, and there’s Diet Dr. Pepper. Oh, and a cucumber
smoothie. And water.”
“Just
water, please,” Summer says. “Thanks.” Ashley is being so nice to her, and
Summer knows she should be grateful but all she feels is a definite unease; it
was the kind of niceness she wasn’t used to, the kind of niceness that made her
nervous. It was the same kind of niceness she heard in Meg’s voice last week.
“I
know you miss Scott,” Meg said over the phone. “And I might have the solution.”
Summer was suspicious. What was the solution, and why
would Meg, of all people, have it? “I don’t want you to do anything that
involves Roxanne,” she said.
“Don’t
be silly,” Meg said. “Roxanne is totally out of the picture. This is just about
you and Scott.” It felt
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