Our Demented Play Date Read online

  Our Demented Play Date

  Kat Fletcher

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Fletcher

  Copyright © 2015 by Kat Fletcher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Special thanks to my beta readers: Michele Rivera and Kelly Rossmoyer.

  Edited by Jersey Devil Editing: www.jerseydevilediting.com

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  “Cape Cod.” I sigh at the iPad and lie back in my bed. The screen is divided evenly between my two best friends. Justin is on the top half, sitting at his laptop, and Sierra’s on the bottom, her picture jerking around, as usual. She vids on her phone and she can never hold it still. You get used to it.

  “Two weeks.” I moan at the tablet. “Two weeks at the beach. Two weeks of sun and fun. Oh, who am I kidding? Two boring weeks stuck in a house alone with my mom and dad on boring, boring, boring Cape Cod.”

  I know I’m being a complete bitch about the vacation. Usually, I get along well with my parents, but this trip is working my last nerve. Four years ago, they had dragged me to the Cape. I was thirteen and spent the week absolutely bored out of my mind.

  It’s the beginning of August and there’s only a month left before school starts. It feels like such a waste to spend half of what’s left of my summer vacation away from my friends. I’d begged my parents to let me stay home alone or at Sierra’s, but they nixed it, saying I was too young to be alone for two weeks and it was too long to impose on Sierra’s parents.

  “God, Sarah.” Justin is being so over the top, rolling his eyes so that I can see them even in the small window on the screen, “It’s Cape Cod. It’s not as if your parents are missionaries dragging you to treat Ebola patients in West Africa. Besides,” he cocks a naughty smile and drops his voice, “P-Town’s there. Could be fun. I hear there are lots of hot guys.”

  I tilt my head and frown at the screen. “Lots of hot guys who have no interest in me or any other girl. That’s your fantasy vacation, not mine.” Justin had come out of the closet a few months ago, just before prom. Mentioning Provincetown was his way of injecting “being gay” into the conversation, which he does way too often. He is my best friend though, and annoying or not, I put up with it. Even if it seems like he mentions it every single time we talk.

  Yes, now you ask, I have a gay best friend. I know it’s a total cliché but maybe sometimes seeking refuge in stereotypes isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s not as if he’s the classic “gay best friend” out of Clueless or something. He cannot dress for his life and he couldn’t set a dance floor on fire with a gallon of gasoline and a box of matches. In fact, he’s nerdy enough that becoming the “gay guy” at school is probably kind of a promotion in social status.

  “Sarah. It’s a beach. It can’t be that bad,” Sierra says from the bottom of the screen, sounding a bit annoyed at me. “It’s not like there’s a lot of excitement here either,” she continues. “You’ll find other kids to play with.”

  Ouch, but I guess I deserved that one. I’ve been complaining about the trip for the last week.

  “I mean, there has to be somewhere cool to hang out. It’s a big place.” I can tell she’s trying to be nice—well other than the snark—but her tone isn’t exactly making me think she’s jealous of my trip.

  Sierra and I have been besties since first grade. What can I say about her? Well, to start, she is most certainly not gay. She’s all about the boys. A couple of dozen guys have come and gone, wrapped quickly around her finger, and let go a few weeks later just as easily. My dad calls it “catch and release.”

  Most of what I know about dating comes from her long dialogs about the boy du jour—mostly her talking and me listening. In the past few months, she’s toned that back. She’d never admit it, but I think Justin’s constant reminders he’s gay seem to have reminded her that one’s love life isn’t as interesting to your friends as it is to you. Not that I ever really minded.

  So those are my two best friends: the gay guy and the boy-crazy girl. Me? I’m the “other” and do not fit into any convenient stereotype in our little Breakfast Club. I’m not the genius, though I get my share of A’s. I have friends, but I’m not the popular girl. I think I’m pretty enough, at least I hope I do, but I don’t date—we’ll cover that subject in depth later. I’m not a nerd, but I’m sort of a Doctor Who fangirl. I don’t dress in all black, listen to weird electronic music, or have a Deviant Art account, so leave me out of the goth or emo clubs. I’m definitely not the sporty type. If this were a teen movie, I’d have two lines and nobody would remember my name. To be honest, I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s easier not to be noticed.

  Sierra is still babbling about how the Cape won’t be as bad as I think, when there’s a quick, sharp knock at the door and my mother opens it before I can respond. I toss the iPad under the covers. I’m still wearing my pajamas, and despite Justin’s complete disinterest in anyone of the female persuasion, my mother disapproves of me video chatting with a “boy” as she puts it, when I’m “not dressed.”

  There is no way she didn’t see the tablet, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she has other things to complain about. “Sarah. Are you not up? You know we are leaving in an hour. We don’t want to get caught in traffic.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I manage to sound as disgusted by the notion as I am.

  She stands over the bed “Pouting is not attractive. Shower and finish packing. It won’t be like last time. You can take the car and you’ll have Rachel to do things with, so you won’t be stuck with us.”

  “Mom. I don’t care if her mom works with Dad. She’s not my friend. I’m not a little kid. You can’t put us in a room together and give us Barbies to play with.”

  “Pack,” she orders and leaves me alone.

  That’s the other thing setting me off about the vacation. My family will not be alone. Dad’s a lawyer and the new partner is going to be in the same little cottage colony, along with her family. It’s supposed to be a whole family-bonding thing. My dad will work a few hours a day with Ms. Gill, the families will get to know each other, and their daughter and I will hang out. I have never even met her, but she’s apparently my age, and we’re supposed to make nice. Oh boy, aren’t we the lucky ones?

  Chapter 2

  While we’re loading everything into the car, I go through the ritual of asking to drive and being refused, then retreat into the back seat and zone out listening to music on my phone. The drive is the drive. The internet tells us it’s about two and a half hours from our central Massachusetts town of Sumner to Cape Cod, but the internet doesn’t know about summer traffic and we spend almost a half hour backed up at the bridge.

  Going over the canal makes me perk up a little despite myself, and I look out of the window. The bridge arches high over the water a
nd the view is incredible. All these little boats are making their way through the water. It’s dizzying; they’re so far down it’s like looking at airplanes in the sky. You can barely see the boats, just their wake in the water.

  As we roll off the bridge, I can hear my dad over my music as he swears at the rotary traffic. Despite his agitation, we make it through alive and he points the car down another road, then onto a highway. Less than an hour later, we finally reach Eastham. He turns off the main road, gets lost twice, then pulls the SUV into the rental office parking lot and picks up the keys.

  Our place for the next two weeks is in a little colony of cottages along a curved road hugging a cove. Our little house is about halfway down the gravel road and even I have to admit it’s pretty sweet. You can see the beach from the driveway and as soon as I open the door to the SUV, I can hear the waves and smell the salt water.

  For the first time since they brought it up, I think maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

  My bedroom is the entire upper floor. Okay, it’s just a cottage, so it’s not a big deal. It’ll be nice to have some kind of privacy. I even have my own bathroom. There’s a second bed and I put my bags on it and don’t bother to unpack. I never get the whole “put your stuff in a dresser when you’re only going to be there a week” thing. Well, okay, two weeks. Still.

  The house is what you’d expect from a Cape Cod cottage, but perhaps a little more up to date. It’s a little old fashioned, but there are no ships in bottles or anything stupid like that. My room even has a stereo with a connection for an iPhone (why bother when they come with earbuds?) and a huge TV with cable. Well, big for a bedroom. I sit down on the bed, testing to see how comfortable or not it is, flick on my tablet, and hold my breath until three bars appear. Score! Not having internet was my worst nightmare.

  I spend most of the afternoon kicking around the house and exploring the yard. Off the living room, there’s a patio with colored wooden Adirondack chairs. You can sit and watch the waves. A little path at the end of the grass leads down a set of wooden stairs to the beach itself.

  I go back inside and my mom and dad are in the kitchen putting away food. “We’re going to go for a drive and stop at the store on the way back to pick up some food for tonight and some coffee for tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?”

  She sounds so hopeful, but going to the grocery store hasn’t been exciting since I stopped riding on the end of the cart. “Can I stay here?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too pathetic.

  She nods and smiles at me and I feel terribly guilty for what I’ve put her through for the last week. “I’m sorry for being so whiny about the Cape,” I apologize. “The house is great.”

  She nods, seeming pleased, which is good. I’m still not excited, but fighting with my ‘rents for two weeks would make it worse.

  * * *

  They’ve been gone for about an hour when I hear a knock at the door. I recognize Ms. Gill, my father’s law partner. I’ve never met her, but I remember her stopping at the house to drop off some documents. As I step out of the door, I snark to myself that she’s wearing the female version of the polo shirt and chino combination my father had on. Business casual.

  Her husband is not business anything. His hair is long and he’s got a scraggly beard. He looks like a well-dressed hippie. My dad said something about him being a stay-at-home parent and I guess he’s trying to live up to the stereotype.

  “Sorry, my parents went to the store,” I say. “They’ve been gone almost an hour, so they should be back soon.” I pause and correct myself. “Wait. Sorry, they said they were going for a drive, so I guess don’t know when they’ll be back. They’re buying stuff for us to eat, so I guess before dinner.”

  I sound like a complete idiot. Great.

  “That’s fine,” she says. “He wasn’t expecting us until tomorrow, but we got an early start, and I thought I would check in. This is my husband…”

  He steps forward with a smile and reaches out a hand, but I don’t even notice at first. My eyes are locked on their daughter. I try to remember what my parents said her name was. Rachel. That’s it. She’s standing a few feet behind them, impatiently kicking at the dust with a red Chuck Taylor sneaker. My mind is completely occupied with checking her out and I barely notice when Mr. Gill grabs my hand and shakes it.

  Even that isn’t enough to get my attention. At first, I take in the total package. My father said Rachel was seventeen, but it’s next to impossible to believe we’re the same age. She’s just so…polished. Everything absolutely on point. She’s about an inch taller than I am, lithe, almost boyish, but utterly female in all the best ways. Her whole look is so different from my friends and so put-together that I feel like a little kid in comparison. She’s got this amazing, desperately short, razor-cut blue-black hair, skinny jeans that hug her body like skin, and a red T-shirt asking the metaphysical question: “What Would Joan Jett Do?” It’s a joke that I’m proud to say I actually get.

  Then I move to the details. The hair has to be dyed. Her skin is too fair for hair that black. She has these deep gray-blue eyes surrounded by a tight thin circle of eyeliner. Her lips are a bit narrow and tinted with a vague hint of purple lip gloss. She’s a cool girl in a way I am most certainly not, that I could never hope to be.

  I vaguely hear my dad’s law partner introducing her, “And this is our daughter Rachel.”

  She walks up with this air of confidence and extends her hand. Her fingers are long and thin with short unpolished nails that are nevertheless perfect. I take it and a nervous flush goes through my whole body the moment we touch. I shake her hand stiffly and mumble something I don’t remember even as I’m saying it. It’s probably something stupid that makes me seem even more awkward than I am, but I’m feeling so outclassed by her.

  My parents should figure out another plan because I cannot believe this girl is going to do anything but ditch me as soon as possible.

  So I’m standing there like an idiot and looking at her, lost in the gray depths of her eyes, until a glint of the reflecting sun draws my eye to the silver chain choker around her neck. The pendant is a double-Venus symbol. I have to think to myself for a moment about whether or not it could possibly have some other meaning, but I’m being ridiculous. It’s a lesbian symbol. There’s no other interpretation and she doesn’t look too stupid to know what it means.

  “Mind if I have it back?” she asks and I realize I’m still holding her hand limply as I stare at the necklace and her and her eyes and well, you get it.

  “Oh sure. Sorry,” I say, yanking my hand away.

  I try to stop staring, but every time I turn my eyes away, I find them darting back. I notice the laces on her Chuck’s are rainbow colored, as is the tiny stud in her nose. She gives me a weird look and I work out that she thinks I’m being rude, which is the last thing I want to be.

  Her mom speaks and breaks the trance I’m in. “Well, tell your dad we stopped by. We’re four houses down. Number Six. The modern design one.”

  “Sure,” I mumble as they turn and walk back down the driveway. Rachel gives me a little wave, which I’m pretty sure is her making fun of me. I stand there, staring at them like I have something wrong mentally. Great Sarah, after only two short minutes I’ve probably managed to offend the Gills and assure their daughter that I’m a total loser.

  Mostly though, I’m standing there just so I can look at her. At the confident way she strides a few steps behind her parents. The little swagger in her steps. How do those jeans make her ass look so sexy? Then she turns for a second, looks back at me again, and I rush inside like a scared squirrel, which is exactly what I am.

  Now we arrive at the portion of our program covering the uncomfortable subject of why I’m looking at her ass, which is the same reason for my earlier observation about why I don’t date. It’s not like I’m not aware I’m gay. I’d pieced it together from a lot of little clues. Liking girls was kind of one of the big ones. You’d think, right?<
br />
  Sierra was the biggest hint though. No, not what you’re thinking. I don’t like Sierra. Well, I love Sierra, but thank God or whatever, I’ve never thought of her that way because it would be way too messed up. She’s my best friend, not someone I want to go out with.

  No, how she helped me figure myself out is that she is so boy crazy and I’m not. A few of those long besties’ heart-to-hearts with her talking about this or that boy and it was obvious I was not on the same train. Somehow, I didn’t see guys the way she did. She’d tell me someone was hot and I’d agree and I could tell they were, but I clearly wasn’t getting something.

  One look at Rachel? I get it now. Do I ever get it now.

  And no, Sierra doesn’t know about me being gay. Nobody knows. I’ve ignored it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not stupid. I know it’s not going to go away, but I have a whole life ahead of me to deal with it when I’m ready. Right now, it’s easier to be the “other girl” and not be noticed rather than be the “lesbian” and have everyone talking about me in when I walk by their lockers.

  I was sort of thinking college. Move to school. Meet someone. Come out. Move on with life. College or sometime that wasn’t while I was walking the halls of Sumner High School. The thing is, there’s nobody at Sumner High anything like Rachel, and suddenly college seems like an awfully long time away.

  Chapter 3

  Our first morning on Cape Cod and my dad is busy with work. I absolutely do not get the point of doing work when you’re on vacation. Why would you ever want to be stuffed in a room with your laptop when you’re supposed to be having fun? Makes more sense to stay late the night before you leave and get it done, as if you’re cramming for a test. Dad didn’t ask me though, so while he’s locked up with Rachel’s mom and their legal papers, my mom and I spend the morning driving around looking at different things.