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Authors: Claire LaZebnik
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is all over Harry Cartwright, flirting with him every chance she gets.
And I also know that Julia is doing the exact same thing. I’m not sure why she thinks she has more of a right to flirt with him than Marie does, except I guess that she was in his cast first , and legitimately.
As far as I can tell, Harry doesn’t prefer either Marie or Julia or any of the other girls who fawn over him. He just flirts with whoever’s nearest at any given moment.
And then probably goes off to study himself in the mirror—spending time with the one person he truly loves.
“Thank God she’s not going to the beach on Sunday,” Julia says. The students get Sundays off, and the directors have arranged transportation and a picnic for anyone who wants to go to the beach on the Sunday that’s coming up.
“Did you sign up for the bus yet?” Alex asks her.
“Not yet, but I’m going to.”
“Why isn’t Marie going?” I ask.
“Her boyfriend’s taking her somewhere.” Julia smirks. “I made sure Harry knew that. Are you coming, Franny? It’ll be fun.”
I hesitate. Now that the directors have all settled on what they want for costumes, Amelia and I have a ton of work to do. She’s expecting me back in the Sweatshop right now to get in a couple of hours before heading home to her apartment and has made it clear to me that she expects us to work all through the weekend.
Alex says, “You’ve got to come with us, Franny. It won’t be as much fun without you.”
And I nod, thinking, Hell, yeah, I’m going—just try to stop me. And then, less happily: Why, oh why, didn’t I buy a new bathing suit before coming here?
Somehow I talk Amelia into letting me go. She complains and grumbles and says, “With everyone gone, we could get so much work done,” and I say, “But it’s Sunday and everyone else is going,” and we go on like that for a while, her making objections and my saying “It’s Sunday ,” and finally she says, “Fine, go, but know you’re going to have to make up for the lost day of work—no more lingering at meals half the day.” Of course I say yes. I’d promise anything at this point to go to the beach with Alex.
scene six
S unday morning I put on the only bathing suit I brought with me, throw a pair of shorts over it, and run over to the campus with a beach bag. Lawrence is climbing onto the bus just when I get there, so we grab a seat together. I try not to let it bother me that Alex is sitting with Isabella a few rows in front of us and that they were holding hands when I walked by them. I mean, I’m going to the beach with my friends. It’s all good, right?
Right. Except . . .
Guess who gets a piece of glass in her foot within minutes of arriving at the beach?
Not Isabella, who has belted a long white linen tunic over a brown-and-blue bikini and looks like she stepped out of an editorial spread in Vogue .
Not Julia, who’s very leggy and lean in Daisy Dukes and a bikini top.
Not Vanessa, who has artfully paired boyish board shorts with a red bandeau.
Not any of the guys—all of whom, by virtue of their gender, didn’t have to think twice about what to wear to thebeach or whether they’d look good in it, just slapped on longish swimming trunks and T-shirts and called themselves dressed.
No, the honor of stepping on a sharp piece of glass is reserved for the brown-eyed girl with the ponytail who’s wearing a pair of denim shorts over a practical one-piece Speedo (bought by her mother for actual swimming, not for posing on the beach) and who thought it would be a good idea to slip off her flip-flops and really sink her feet into the rough sand near the road as the group walked toward the water.
A few steps later, foot meets shard of glass.
Girl yelps in pain.
Soon everyone is clustered around me, staring down at the ball of my right foot, which I’m cradling in my hand as I lean on Julia so I can inspect it.
“I once had a splinter of glass in my foot so small no one could
And I also know that Julia is doing the exact same thing. I’m not sure why she thinks she has more of a right to flirt with him than Marie does, except I guess that she was in his cast first , and legitimately.
As far as I can tell, Harry doesn’t prefer either Marie or Julia or any of the other girls who fawn over him. He just flirts with whoever’s nearest at any given moment.
And then probably goes off to study himself in the mirror—spending time with the one person he truly loves.
“Thank God she’s not going to the beach on Sunday,” Julia says. The students get Sundays off, and the directors have arranged transportation and a picnic for anyone who wants to go to the beach on the Sunday that’s coming up.
“Did you sign up for the bus yet?” Alex asks her.
“Not yet, but I’m going to.”
“Why isn’t Marie going?” I ask.
“Her boyfriend’s taking her somewhere.” Julia smirks. “I made sure Harry knew that. Are you coming, Franny? It’ll be fun.”
I hesitate. Now that the directors have all settled on what they want for costumes, Amelia and I have a ton of work to do. She’s expecting me back in the Sweatshop right now to get in a couple of hours before heading home to her apartment and has made it clear to me that she expects us to work all through the weekend.
Alex says, “You’ve got to come with us, Franny. It won’t be as much fun without you.”
And I nod, thinking, Hell, yeah, I’m going—just try to stop me. And then, less happily: Why, oh why, didn’t I buy a new bathing suit before coming here?
Somehow I talk Amelia into letting me go. She complains and grumbles and says, “With everyone gone, we could get so much work done,” and I say, “But it’s Sunday and everyone else is going,” and we go on like that for a while, her making objections and my saying “It’s Sunday ,” and finally she says, “Fine, go, but know you’re going to have to make up for the lost day of work—no more lingering at meals half the day.” Of course I say yes. I’d promise anything at this point to go to the beach with Alex.
scene six
S unday morning I put on the only bathing suit I brought with me, throw a pair of shorts over it, and run over to the campus with a beach bag. Lawrence is climbing onto the bus just when I get there, so we grab a seat together. I try not to let it bother me that Alex is sitting with Isabella a few rows in front of us and that they were holding hands when I walked by them. I mean, I’m going to the beach with my friends. It’s all good, right?
Right. Except . . .
Guess who gets a piece of glass in her foot within minutes of arriving at the beach?
Not Isabella, who has belted a long white linen tunic over a brown-and-blue bikini and looks like she stepped out of an editorial spread in Vogue .
Not Julia, who’s very leggy and lean in Daisy Dukes and a bikini top.
Not Vanessa, who has artfully paired boyish board shorts with a red bandeau.
Not any of the guys—all of whom, by virtue of their gender, didn’t have to think twice about what to wear to thebeach or whether they’d look good in it, just slapped on longish swimming trunks and T-shirts and called themselves dressed.
No, the honor of stepping on a sharp piece of glass is reserved for the brown-eyed girl with the ponytail who’s wearing a pair of denim shorts over a practical one-piece Speedo (bought by her mother for actual swimming, not for posing on the beach) and who thought it would be a good idea to slip off her flip-flops and really sink her feet into the rough sand near the road as the group walked toward the water.
A few steps later, foot meets shard of glass.
Girl yelps in pain.
Soon everyone is clustered around me, staring down at the ball of my right foot, which I’m cradling in my hand as I lean on Julia so I can inspect it.
“I once had a splinter of glass in my foot so small no one could
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