“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s our treat,” Peregrine cuts me off. “We won’t take no for an answer. Consider it a happy birthday and welcome-back-to-town gift.”
Before I can reply, the Dolls are already walking away. Arelia casts me a dirty look over her shoulder, and then they turn the corner and are gone.
When I look back at Liv, she’s staring at me suspiciously. “You’re friends with them?”
“My mom was friends with their moms,” I try to explain.
“That doesn’t answer why they seem to think you’re their new BFF.”
“I know,” I say helplessly. “I don’t understand it either.”
“Right,” she says. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” As she walks away, I know a wall has gone up between us. I wonder if the Dolls have done something cruel to Liv, and suddenly, I feel guilty. But even though all the logic in me tells me I should steer clear, I’m feeling more and more drawn to them by the day. It’s like they hold the key to who I was once was—and who I’m supposed to be.
Everyone else is roaring out of the parking lot in their expensive cars, but Aunt Bea left a voice mail saying that she’s tied up with something at the bakery and can’t reach Boniface to ask him to get me, so I’m stuck walking home. I don’t mind, actually. I used to walk all the time in New York; it was a chance to be alone with my thoughts, even in a sea of people.
But fifteen minutes later, the sun disappears completely, the humidity becomes oppressive, and the clouds turns black. I quicken by pace, but I’m only halfway around the cemetery when there’s a deep, earthshaking rumble and the skies open up.
I curse and begin running toward my house, but the rain is coming down in driving torrents, soaking me to the core, and the road is getting muddier by the second. Lightning is flashing everywhere, sending electricity crackling through the air. The wind is holding me back, and I look up nervously at all the arching oak and cypress trees over the road; any of them could be a lightning rod in a storm. It would be just my luck to have survived my first day of school only to get electrocuted on the way home.
As I trip and fall over a branch in the road, sending mud splattering all over my uniform, I notice a black Jeep Cherokee with a faded surfboard strapped to the top pulling up on my left.
“Get in!” yells the driver through the open window. It takes me a moment of wiping the rain out of my eyes to realize it’s Caleb. I scramble ungracefully to my feet, slosh through a puddle, yank the door open, and tumble inside.
“Sorry about your seat,” I say as my drenched skirt squishes loudly against the vinyl.
“It’ll dry,” Caleb replies. As soon as I shut the door behind me, he guns the engine and continues up the road without another word.
“Thanks for stopping,” I say. I smooth my hair a little but suspect it doesn’t help. “So you live out in this direction too?” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the roar of the downpour.
He nods, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s not going to answer. Then he says, “Other side of the cemetery from your place.”
“How do you know where I live?”
“Eveny, everyone knows. Your family is as legendary in this town as Chloe’s and Peregrine’s.” He doesn’t elaborate, nor does he look at me.
“So,” I say, bridging the silence. “I heard you aced your PSATs.” And then, because I apparently have some sort of disease that makes me blurt out idiotic things in front of handsome, enigmatic guys, I hear myself add, “Rock on.”
I can see him hiding a smile. “No big deal,” he says gruffly. But then he adds, “Does that mean you’ve been checking up on me?”
“What? No. Of course not.” I can feel my cheeks turning red. “But I did notice that you surf.” Outside, there’s a huge roll of thunder, and lightning crackles across the sky.
“How do you know that?”
I point upward. “There’s a board strapped to the roof.”
He laughs. “Right. Yeah, I take my board out whenever I get a chance. Or I used to, anyhow. I won’t be going much anymore.” A muscle in his jaw twitches as his expression hardens.
He probably wants me to shut up, but it’s not every day you meet a hot surfer who also happens to be a mysterious PSAT-acing genius, and I’m desperate to know more about him. “So, surfing, huh? I thought we were pretty landlocked here,” I say.
“We are.” For the first time since I’ve met him, his face relaxes a little. “I actually drive to a beach in the Florida panhandle called Sailfish Island, which is about four and a half hours away.” A faraway look crosses his eyes for a moment as he adds, “You wouldn’t believe the way the sunrise looks over the Gulf from the east side of the island.”