Summer of the Geek (14 page)

“Suit yourself,” Dex said. “But if you stick with me, I can teach you how to do this.”

Dex suddenly dove forward. A moment later, his large feet stuck up out of the water as he performed an underwater handstand. Amelia seemed to forget her shyness for a moment while she watched Dex. He finally resurfaced. “Ta-da!”

“Ta-da?” I snorted. “Anyone can do that.”

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try,” Dex said.

“Okay,” I said. I took a deep breath and plunged into the water, landing hands first in a handstand. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, I popped back up, dipping my head back to keep my hair out of my face. Dex applauded, and Amelia almost smiled.

“Do you want to try?” Dex asked her.

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said.

“I’ll bet you an ice-cream cone that I can teach you how to do a handstand in one day,” Dex said.

“No way,” Amelia said.

Dex nodded solemnly. “I’ll pinkie swear on it,” he said, holding up one hand, pinkie crooked.

“Nobody pinkie swears anymore,” Amelia said. A faint smile appeared on her face.

Dex looked at me for confirmation.

I nodded. “She’s right. No one pinkie swears.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll just shake hands, then.” Dex stuck out his hand. After a long hesitation, Amelia shook it.

I spent the next half hour watching Dex give Amelia her first official swimming lesson. His first goal was to get her comfortable in the water. He had her practice putting her face down and blowing bubbles in the water and then bobbing up and down like a cork, sinking down to the bottom of the pool and then pushing off the bottom to buoy herself back up. Once she was comfortable being immersed in the water, he kept his word and taught her how to jump forward and place both hands on the bottom of the pool. It took Amelia a few tries—she kept panicking and resurfacing right away—but finally, she managed one, wobbly handstand before bobbing back up.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, beaming happily.

Dex raised his hand, and she gave him a high five.

“Excellent work. You owe me an ice-cream cone,” he told her.

Amelia giggled. “I thought you owed me an ice cream,” she said.

“No way. I bet that I could teach you, and I did. Do you want to try again tomorrow?”

Amelia looked at me. I nodded at her. “That would be great,” I said. “If you have the time.”

“How about tomorrow at eleven?” Dex said. He glanced up at the clock. “My break’s just about over. I have to get back up on the chair.”

Dex patted me on the arm, and I smiled at him.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It was fun,” Dex said. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Okay?”

I nodded and then turned back to Amelia, who was looking much more comfortable floating on her noodle.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Your mom said there were grapes and cheese sticks in the fridge for a snack.”

“Can we stay for just a few more minutes?” Amelia asked. “I want to practice floating on my back.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling at her. “A few more minutes.”

A
s I biked home that afternoon, I was feeling very smug from the success of the swimming lesson. Dex had been amazing with Amelia, and—miracle of miracles—she’d actually had fun. She’d been so bright-eyed and animated after our outing that she hardly seemed like the same kid.

My dad was pulling into the driveway just as I reached the beach house.

He rolled down the window. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “How was work?”

“Great!” I said, still bubbling with enthusiasm over the breakthrough I’d had with Amelia.

“Do you want to go practice your driving?” he asked.

“Really?”

“Isn’t your driving test coming up?”

This quickly grounded me, and my stomach gave an unpleasant shift. “Yes,” I admitted. “But there’s no way I’m going to pass. I’m terrible.”

“You just need some practice,” Dad said. “Come on, climb in. We’ll take a few laps around the neighborhood before dinner.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

My dad got out and walked around the car to the passenger side. I got in the driver side and adjusted the seat and mirrors.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dad said.

“Okay.” I inhaled deeply, put the car in reverse—thankfully, Dad’s car had an automatic transmission, so I didn’t have to worry about a clutch—and gently put my foot on the gas pedal. Too gently, as it turned out.

“You have to push down a bit harder on the gas pedal if you want the car to move,” Dad suggested.

So, taking another deep breath, I pushed my foot firmly against the gas pedal. Several things happened at once: The car lurched backward, its wheels spinning in the gravel. My dad yelled something indistinct. And, finally, there was a loud, sickening thud from the back of the car.

I slammed my foot down on the brake pedal. The car stopped abruptly, throwing Dad and me back in our seats. There was a long moment of stunned silence.

“What happened?” I finally asked.

Dad turned to look first dazedly at me and then back over his shoulder. “I think you hit the mailbox.”

“I did?”

“Put the car in park,” Dad said.

We both got out and walked around to the rear of the car. The back passenger-side wheel was firmly planted in the small decorative bed of petunias that ringed the mailbox. Or, I should say, that
used
to ring the mailbox. The mailbox itself was no longer there. It was sitting in the middle of the street, black paint dented and the red flag hanging off. Only the post was left, now bent at an awkward angle.

At the same time, Dad and I turned to look at the back of his car. There was a large dent there that corresponded with the general size and height of the mailbox.

“Oops,” I said.

“Oops?” Dad repeated.

“I’m so, so sorry.
So
sorry,” I gabbled. “I didn’t mean to run over the mailbox. Or dent your car.”

Dad sighed. “I know you didn’t mean to, honey. I’m just not sure why you decided to reverse the car at fifty miles per hour.”

“You told me to step down on the gas pedal,” I reminded him.

“What I meant was for you to put enough pressure on it to actually make the car move. I didn’t mean you should floor it.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the dent miserably. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

My dad glanced at me and sighed. “It’s okay,” he said. “And it’s not
that
noticeable. You can really only see it if you stare at it straight on.”

We both leaned to the right to stare at it from an angle. The dent was still pretty obvious. Flakes of black paint from the mailbox had transferred to the back corner of the car.

“I’ll take it to my mechanic tomorrow,” Dad said, sounding resigned. “He should be able to hammer out the dent.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I said quickly. “Out of the money I’ve been making babysitting Amelia. It was my fault.”

“No, that’s okay. You save your money.”

I shook my head. “No, this is the point where you’re supposed to punish me. Ground me, or make me clean up my room. If you let this slide, I may end up becoming a drug addict or going to jail.”

“Really?” Dad asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. You’re supposed to crack down on teenagers. It’s the only way we learn not to be reckless.”

My dad put his arm around me. “Something tells me that you’ll turn out just fine, even if I don’t ground you forever. But do me a favor, kiddo?”

“What’s that?”

“Next time you’re backing up, look in the rearview mirror first, okay?”

“Guess what,” Hannah said, bursting into my room without knocking.

“You ran over the mailbox, too?” I asked. I was lying on my stomach, rereading my driver’s manual. I hoped that if I read it often enough, the information might actually stick. It was the only hope I had of passing my driver’s test.

Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “You ran over the mailbox?” she asked. “Does Mom know?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you heard any high-pitched screeching yet?”

“No,” Hannah said. “But you never know with my mom. She only yells when she’s just normally mad. When she’s really, really,
really
angry, she goes silent. It’s actually a lot scarier when she does that.”

“Good to know,” I said, closing the manual with a sigh.

“Anyway, I set the whole thing up,” Hannah said proudly.

I blinked at her, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “What whole thing?”

“Marriage therapy for my mom and your dad,” Hannah said.

“You
what
?”

“Just what I said,” Hannah said impatiently. “I made an appointment for Richard and my mom to go see a marriage therapist. Tiff’s and Brit’s mom gave me the referral.”

“Do they know about this?” I asked.

“Who? Tiff and Brit?”

“No,” I said. It was my turn to struggle for patience. “My dad and your mom.”

“No, not yet. I was going to tell them tonight at dinner. Although if they’re still mad about the mailbox, maybe I should wait,”

Hannah said. She frowned at me. “You know, this wasn’t the best time for you to knock it over.”

“Sorry. Had I only known that you were going to set up a counseling session for them without their permission, I would have waited to have my minor traffic accident,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Hannah said, missing the sarcasm altogether. “I’ll see what kind of mood everyone’s in. If I have to, I’ll wait until the morning to tell them. I can’t wait too long, though. Their appointment is Thursday afternoon.”

“That soon?” I asked, wondering how my dad and Peyton were going to take to this interference.

“They need the help now,” Hannah said. “It can’t wait. Besides, I have my first modeling job next week. I need to be well rested and destressed before then.”

“You got a modeling job?”

“Well, the job’s not mine yet. It’s just a casting call,” Hannah amended. “But still, it’s a start, right?”

She glanced at me, brushing her hair back from her face and holding it back in a ponytail.

“Absolutely! That’s great news!” I said.

“Thanks,” Hannah said. She smiled and let go of her hair. It fell back around her face with a silky swish. “Won’t it be amazing if I got the job? Just imagine—getting paid to have my hair and makeup done, and wear nice clothes!”

“Hmm,” I said, realizing just what a stark difference this was to my summer job of spending long days trying to coax a moody girl away from her piano. Still, I thought, with modeling, you don’t get the sort of job satisfaction I’d had today. Or, at least, probably not. Then again, maybe all of the money and glamour made up for the lack of social relevance.

“Hey, what was Dex doing at the mall today with Wendy Erickson?” Hannah asked, jarring me out of my contemplation.

“What?”
I stared at Hannah, as cold horror mixed with a sense of unreality hit me square in the stomach.
Dex
. . . was with
Wendy Erickson
. . . at the
mall?
Why? When? When we had left the pool, Dex had told me his shift was ending at three. Had he gone straight to the mall? He hadn’t said anything about it to me. Had he arranged to meet her ahead of time? It would be bad enough if he’d just run into her and they decided to hang out together. But if they arranged it ahead of time . . .

“What were they doing there?” I croaked.

“I don’t know,” Hannah said. She had drifted over to admire her reflection in the mirror that hung over my dresser. “I didn’t really talk to them.”

“What does that mean? How do you not really talk to someone?” I asked. I realized that my teeth were clenched together, my teeth grinding down.

“I saw them in the food court, and I just sort of waved at them, and they waved back at me,” Hannah said. “I think Dex said hi. Does that count as talking?”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably.

Hannah, finally hearing the anguish in my voice, turned to look at me. “I don’t think they were together,” she said. “I mean, they were sitting at the same table, but it didn’t look at all romantic.”

“How can you tell?”

Hannah shrugged. “I just can. Body language, stuff like that. You know what probably happened? Dex was probably there buying T-shirts at the Gap or something, and got hungry. And then Wendy was probably passing by when she saw him at the food court, and she ended up sitting down at his table for a minute. And then I just happened to pass by at that exact moment,” Hannah said. She smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure that’s all it is. Don’t worry. Dex really likes you. I can tell. I’m sure he’s not interested in Wendy anymore.”

“Maybe he is. She’s really pretty,” I said.

“So? You’re pretty, too,” Hannah said.

I managed a smile. It was one of the nicer things Hannah had ever said to me.