The Girl On The Half Shell by Susan Ward

rapidly to annoyance. “I am really, really famous.”
    I make a nod. “Good.”
    Even though it is dark, the way only lit by moonlight, I trot down the wood steps built into the cliff, the pattern of unevenness known to me and not the least bit intimidating. I’m sitting in the sand, UGGs already off, by the time Alan joins me.
    He stares down at me and holds out his hand. “Now what?”
    “We just walk, until we find somewhere we want to cop a squat where the tide isn’t too high.”
    “Do you do this often?”
    “Only when I’m home.”
    He rolls his eyes. “Talking to you is like playing Ping-Pong. Are you always so cheeky?”
    I laugh. “Cheeky? Alan, that is a first for me and what did you mean by ‘this’?”
    “I didn’t mean anything bad. You know, kidnap musicians you find at your dad’s house, make a fool of them, then take them for moonlight walks on the beach.”
    “You followed willingly.”
    “Thank you for not saying I willingly made a fool. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you involved with someone?”
    Whoa! My heart turns over. Where did that question come from? “Why do you want to know?”
    “You’re very confusing and definitely a challenge to talk to.”
    Me? Confusing? For a moment I wonder if he’s making fun of me. I kick the sand with my feet. “Nope. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
    “That surprises me. Something in that nope tells me you used to and the story is not good.”
    “Nope. Not good. Not bad, just sort of nope.” I tilt my face to look up at him and I can see that he’s waiting for me to explain that answer. For a fraction of a second he looks really interested, though I can’t imagine why any guy would be interested in my dating history. Maybe he’s just making small talk. “I don’t date that much. I just can’t seem to connect with the right kind of guy. I met someone I sort of like tonight but he is what I call my classic type A jerk so I won’t be seeing him again. Just to let you know there are four types of jerks who usually try to date me: Type A, type B, type C, type D.”
    He nods, his eyes bright with amusement again. “Very organized. A good system. What’s a type A jerk?”
    “Guys who pretend to be interested in me because of Jack. Usually musicians with a band they’ve failed to tell me about or just a really big fan.”
    The teasing glint vanishes in Alan’s eyes and there is a sympathetic heaviness to his gaze. His mood shifts so suddenly it catches me off guard, and then I realize that this is something about me that Alan Manzone would get without even an effort.
    “What was really disappointing about this guy was that he slipped right under my radar. I’m usually really good at spotting A through D.”
    “So what are the other types of jerks?”
    “B’s are guys who date me because of money. C’s are guys who date me because of how I look. And D’s are guys who assume because of who my dad is that I’ll party and be wild. Wild as in sexually easy. My last boyfriend was a type D jerk. I should have dumped him instead of waiting for him to dump me.”
    “You need to rearrange your list. C’s should be money. Cash. And the B’s for how you look. Beautiful. More logical. But the D is appropriate. Just plain dumb.”
    “So, that’s the whole story of me and why I don’t have a boyfriend and why the answer is just nope. I can only find A through D jerks. I’m hoping if I get into Juilliard it will be better in New York.”
    “Don’t count on it. I live in New York. Lots of jerks. Lots of guys like me.”
    I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. What kind of jerk are you? I don’t think you fit in A through D. Is there a new type jerk in New York?”
    He ignores the question.
    “Do you like living in New York? I’ve spent hardly any time there,” I say.
    “I do. I don’t know how it will work for you. Very different from California. And certainly different from Santa Barbara.”
    “There is that.”
    “You seem pensive