Starstruck by Cyn Balog Page A

with his son, so my mom finally agreed to move back.”
    I raise my eyebrows. His dad is former military, so he’s kind of strict and I can’t remember ever seeing him smile. He constantly used to get on Wish for the smallest things: his posture, his haircut, the fact that he’d much rather hang out with me than do a hundred push-ups a day. When his parents split up, I knew right away who he’d choose.
    “It’s not much, but it’s good for carrying surfboards,” he explains. Then he lowers his voice an octave: “Makes me feel like a manly man.”
    I can’t help it: I burst out laughing. “You can climb mountainsides. Haul lumber.”
    “Go to my local NRA meeting. Yeah, all that stuff.” He grins, then helps me into the cab of the truck.
    If I was in danger of becoming relaxed with him, it doesn’t last long. He spends nearly five full minutes adjusting the rearview and side mirrors, and by the time he pulls out of the school parking lot, an uncomfortable silence has already settled in. He fiddles with the controls on his satellite radio, first landing on some hip-hop, then moving to classic rock, then finally stopping on a cheesy pop song. I know he hates that stuff and is just doing it for me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I haven’t listened to that kind of stuff since middle school.
    I rack my brain, trying to think of something to say, as we cross the bridge over Cellar Bay. Finally, something comes. “How was your first day back?”
    He shrugs. “Everything’s just about the same.”
    I nearly choke on the breath I’ve been holding. The same? I knew that some Hollywood stars were out of touch with reality, but I didn’t realize that applied to the entire state of California. “Except your girlfriend,” I mumble.
    “Huh?”
    “It’s just … Did you ever tell those guys that you were going out with me?”
    “Sure. They all know.”
    “I heard Erica and Terra talking yesterday and they said they thought you were single. They all kind of hate me. So I just feel weird.”
    “That’s because the two of them have a combined IQ of ten. And they don’t hate you. They just don’t know you. You’re quiet. You keep to yourself. You just need me to break the ice, and they’ll all love you. Trust me.”
    “Okay,” I say, doubtful, and that’s when I notice he’s blinking. The sun is bouncing off one of the mirrors, hitting him directly in the eyes. That’s got to hurt. I reach over and push his sun visor down. “Better?”
    He quickly pushes it back into place, looking alarmed for the first time. For someone as laid-back as Wish, it’s weird, and he must sense that, too, because he laughs nervously afterward. “No. I mean, I like the sun. I can see better with it like this, anyway.”
    “Oh,” I say, wondering how that’s possible. Maybe the California sun has fried his eyeballs, which would explain why he hasn’t noticed how much I’ve changed. We’re pulling up to the bakery, anyway. In another few minutes, I can escape. As soon as he stops at the curb, I push open the door and scoot my backside off the seat. I’m far enough away that even if he was thinking about kissing me, which I know is highly unlikely, it would be completely out of the question.
    “Hey,” he says, his voice bright. “You up for a walk on the beach? Haven’t seen the Atlantic in ages.”
    I just stare at him. He really wants to spend more time with me? On the beach?
    “We can play Gone with the Wind. There’s a great breeze. I can whip your butt.”
    I can’t help smiling. So he remembers. When we were little and ignorant, and before we knew who Scarlett O’Hara was, we invented a game called Gone with the Wind. Basically, the only objective of it was to run around as if being lifted up by the breeze, arms out, floating like leaves. Then we would tackle each other, laughing like mad, completely oblivious to everyone staring at us from their beach towels like we had two heads. We’d kick up