Lullabye (Rockstar #6) by Anne Mercier Page A

the house, the girl, Penelope—Pen— whatever, is in her own little world. She has a black Discman on her hip and earphones in her ears. With a melody of her own, the new girl next door bobs her head back and forth, oblivious to her parents. Her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses with circular green lenses. At first I think she’s mouthing the words to whatever song she’s listening to, but then she blows the biggest bubblegum bubble I’ve ever seen.
    My heart does a weird jump-skip-bounce thing.
    Pink gum pops, covering her nose and chin. One swipe of her tongue is all it takes to clean up her face. She continues to chew, nod, and ignore.
    “Dillon,” Herb whines. “Let’s go, dude.”
    I look back at my friends, not as interested in riding bikes all over the town like I was this morning … like I have the last three months. Kyle’s face flushes pink, and Herbert’s forehead glistens as sweat rolls down his temples. They wait, but impatiently.
    “It’s the last day of summer,” Kyle adds.
    I turn toward the new people. Toward Pen.
    “It’s just a girl,” Herbert teases.
    Penelope pops another bubble. Her mom walks past her, shoving the key into the doorknob herself. The man with the box, whom I assume is her dad, places the cardboard package at his daughter’s feet. Her name is written across the side of it in black marker: Pen/ Fragile.
    She finally understands and pulls the earphones from her ears. As she stands, wiping dust from her bottom, the girl with the green glasses spots me staring.
    I’m greeted with another bubble.
    My cheeks scorch red, embarrassed because I’ve been caught gawking. Instead of burning rubber down the street, I lean forward and rest my arms on my handlebars. The object of my weird fascination kneels and lifts the box. She disappears into the house just as her mom comes back outside.
    “Dillon, come on,” Herb pleads. “Are you sweet for the girl, or what?”
    “Shut up,” I say, rolling my bike onto the street. “Let’s just go.”
    “Talk to her,” Kyle teases daringly. His dark blonde hair falls in his eyes, covering the gash on his brow from the fall he took earlier today.
    I shake my head, trying not to smile. The itch to look back to see if Penelope’s come out of her house is stronger than my urge to run Kyle over with my bicycle for messing with me. I don’t do either.
    “ You talk to her,” I say.
    Herb rides onto the sidewalk and jumps off the curb. He lands on his front tire, bouncing twice before setting the rear wheel down and pedaling in circles around me. “Why? You’re the one who wants to kiss her.”
    “I don’t wanna kiss her,” I say. The sound of the moving truck’s doors opening and closing tips my curiosity.
    Are they leaving? Is she leaving? Did she forget her gum in the U-Haul?
    “Whatever you say,” Kyle jokes.
    I stay back while my friends race down the road, kicking off our last long ride before the sun sets and the streetlights come on, ending summer vacation. It’s been a good one—exploring the woods, building jumps, and swimming in the ocean. Herb, Kyle, and I drove our mothers crazy and gave our street neighborhood a run for its money. We spent every day together, wreaking havoc and causing a ruckus. I’m not ready for it to end, but I want to know more about the girl who showed up out of nowhere.
    But I’d rather hide curiosity than deal with crap from my buddies. I press on my neon orange bike pedals, rotating the greasy silver chain, spinning the treaded tires, and push myself forward. Right away my heartbeat quickens, gearing up for the rush I get from using muscles that are beyond tired from riding as fast as I do. The right side of my mouth curves before the left, and the warm wind stings my eyes.
    This is where I belong.
    Before I get too far, I give in to curiosity and look over my shoulder. Penelope steps out of the house onto the porch in front of a stack of five or six boxes. Instead of picking one up, the girl