Starry Eyes(20)

“Yeah, I just got a text.”

Huh? Wait just one stinking second.

Backpack advice. Camping in Death Valley. Spotted hanging out with Brett . . .

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.

This is not Brett’s new bromance. This is not the “guy” who’s leading us to a secret off-trail waterfall in the Sierras. It can’t be! Reagan knows I avoid him. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she should have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? There must be some mistake.

Panic fires through my limbs as a dark blue SUV whips into the parking lot. Lennon casually jumps from the hood of his car, landing lightly on his feet. He bends to pick up something out of sight, near the front wheel. When he stands back up, he’s pulling a red backpack onto one shoulder. The top outer pocket is covered with vintage punk-rock buttons and retro national parks patches. A foam bedroll is neatly secured to its bottom.

Holy hell.

Blaring electronic dance music, the blue SUV skids as it brakes between us, and then Reagan’s light brown head pops up from the driver’s door. “Glamping time, bitches!” she shouts merrily over the stereo. “Packs go up top in the cargo container. Let’s hustle.”

My mind can’t form a coherent thought. I know I’m staring stupidly as Brett lurches out of the SUV to clap Lennon soundly on the shoulder. “Lennon, my boy,” he says, voice full of joy. “That shirt is sick! I love it. Come on, I’ll help you get the cargo box open. The latch is screwed up.” Brett notices me for the first time.

My stomach flips over.

You know how people say they are blinded by love? That’s what happens to me when I see Brett. He looks like a celebrity, all tanned legs and sandy brown curls, a face too perfect for a mortal high school boy. And don’t get me started on his teeth. They are insanely perfect. I never knew teeth could be so attractive.

He flashes me those million-dollar teeth in a dazzling grin. “Zorie. Still rocking that sexy scientist vibe,” he says, pointing finger guns at my glasses while making a zinging noise. Then he waves me closer for a hug. “Bring it on in, girl. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

Oh, wow. I’m overwhelmed by the spicy scent of aftershave. He smells a little like my dad, which is a weird thing to think. Shut up, brain! This is all Lennon’s fault for surprising me. His presence is throwing me off my game. And now Brett lets me go, so I wasted the entire two-second hug with the boy of my dreams thinking about (A) my dad and (B) the boy of my nightmares. Terrific.

“What you been up to this summer?” Brett asks lightly.

Say something. Do not blow this. “You know, working.”

Working? That’s the best I could come up with? I work twice a week at the clinic for a few hours, so why am I making it sound like I’m slaving over a paycheck at a real job? I want a do-over, but Brett’s attention has shifted to the task of opening the big plastic cargo carrier attached to the SUV’s roof rack. Meanwhile, Lennon is looking back at me—nay, full-on staring—and I can’t tell what he’s thinking because of those stupid sunglasses, but it feels judgmental.

Is this really happening? Lennon is coming with us?

Brett pops open the cargo carrier and helps Lennon lift his pack inside, nestling it in among several others. Lennon gestures silently with one hand and a tilt of his head, offering to help me lift my pack. I try to do it myself, and end up having to let Lennon and Brett boost it up. Which is humiliating.

“Hey,” I say in greeting to Kendrick Taylor, closing the door as I get settled in my seat.

Kendrick’s family owns a successful winery that’s lauded in the press for being one of the best vineyards in Sonoma County. Since he goes to private school in Melita, I’ve only met him once, when Reagan hauled me to a party.

“Zorie, right?” he says, squinting one eye closed. In a chambray button-down and khaki shorts that contrast pleasantly with his dark brown skin, he’s better-looking than I remembered, and has a friendly, confident demeanor.

A tall girl with long, sun-streaked hair leans around the front passenger seat. Summer Valentino. If you crave gossip about anyone in school, she knows it. And even though her grades were so bad that technically she should have had to repeat eleventh grade, she’s on the yearbook committee and the online school newspaper—which apparently saved her.

“Zorie’s into astrology,” Summer tells Kendrick.

“Astronomy,” I correct.

“D’oh!” she says, smiling. “I always get those mixed up. Which one is the horoscopes?”

“Astrology,” Kendrick enunciates, pretending to give her a slap on the head, which she ducks with a silly grin.

Brett speaks up from behind me and introduces Kendrick to Lennon.

“This is my boy,” Brett tells Kendrick, roughly shaking Lennon’s shoulder. “This kid is wild. Right, John Lennon?”

Lennon’s sitting behind Kendrick, so I can see him better than Brett. “If you say so,” Lennon deadpans.

“Is that really your name?” Kendrick asks.

“Minus the John,” Lennon says. “But Brett never lets that stop him.”

If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if this is a jab. But Brett just laughs as if it’s the funniest joke in the world.

Um, okay. What is going on here?

“Lennon’s father is Adam Ahmed from Orphans of the State,” Summer supplies. “They opened for Green Day a million years ago. His dad was that Egyptian-American drummer dude.”