The Art of Falling in Love Read online

  I nod. “I might. I'm still trying to figure out how I feel.”

  There’s no point in trying to hide my feelings now that she’s dragged them out of me. She smiles, signaling her own victory.

  “The next time you two are together, tell him your parents want to meet him. Tell him it’s mandatory.” Satisfied, she claps her hands together.

  I, however, am not so confident. If I weren’t already nervous to see Foster after our close encounter, I am now.

  Nine

  When I invited Foster over in a temporary and painful moment of insanity forced on me by Mom, I didn’t expect him to agree. Similarly, when I brought home tall, gorgeous, and scruffy Foster, I didn’t expect my parents to act so normal, despite Mom’s earlier insistence on meeting him.

  “Claire won't tell us much about you, Foster, but we’ve noticed you two have been spending a lot of time together,” Mom crows from across the table.

  “We have been super busy working on our sculpting plans." I try to butt in quickly enough that Foster isn't obligated to say anything.

  He flashes his dimples, pulling Mom fully into his magnetism. “I’m really lucky she’s letting me work with her,” he says.

  She insisted Foster stay for dinner and even though I was making definite ‘no’ signs behind my mom’s back, he ignored me and accepted. I should feel betrayed, but it’s freaky how easily he fits in. Even Liv, who is quarantined at home after being caught parked down the street with her boyfriend, is being really nice to him. And I know Livvy well enough to tell when she’s making fun of someone instead of when she genuinely likes them. She’s actually smiling versus the fake-smiling she does when company comes over.

  Mom side-glances at Dad, who nods back at her. Color them impressed, I guess.

  "Thanks for keeping our Claire Bear company." Dad winks at me across the table. I sink into my chair, wishing there were a way to pull the entire tablecloth over my face without anyone noticing.

  Livvy coughs into her plate, buttered broccoli spewing in tiny pieces from her mouth onto the table. She grins from behind her hand, her shoulders bouncing in silent jolts of laughter.

  Meanwhile Foster pretends he's not trapped in a room full of circus performers. He chews bites of broccoli and grilled chicken carefully, takes a sip of water from his glass, and smiles at each of us. Like everything's just great.

  After dinner, Mom excuses herself and comes back two minutes later with a stack of board games. All of us, except for Foster, give her crazy eyes. She ignores us and asks Foster to pick the game. He picks Hungry Hungry Hippos, a game so old that I didn’t even remember we still owned it.

  “This game is for little kids,” Livvy complains. My sister is annoying, but I have to agree with her. I mean, I would, if it weren’t Foster’s game of choice.

  There are only four hippo heads, so Livvy gets to sit and watch. She pulls out her phone when Mom and Dad are focused on the game and sends her boyfriend a string of emojis that either mean she’s really hungry (not likely, right after dinner) or something else really gross. Foster gets this intense look and he squints his eyes so they’re only tiny slits. All of the sudden marbles are flying. Mom whips her hair around like a head banger as she tries to capture the most marbles in her hippo head. Dad and I just watch and shoot each other worried glances. Mom likes to win, and from the looks of it, Foster might give her a run for her money.

  We cut them off at five rounds. Liv rolls her eyes at the end of every round, which stops me from doing the same. No matter how weird a Hungry Hungry Hippo showdown between my mom and Foster is, I can't bring myself to be annoyed. Seeing everyone, minus Livvy, happy like this reminds me of Opa. He would have loved seeing us like this.

  It’s dark outside by the time my parents let Foster leave. Birds scream at each other to go to sleep and fireflies float past our heads as we wave to my parents. We drove over together, so I have a good excuse to leave with him. Mom makes sure to remind me that she and Dad will wait up for me to get home. In other words: make it quick.

  I stare straight ahead through the windshield as I pull out of the driveway. "Where should I drop you off?" It's weird to think that Foster exists anywhere outside of the beach, but he's got to live somewhere, I guess.

  He waits a beat before answering. "Just back to the beach is fine."

  We pull up to a red light. The streets are empty except for the shadows cast from the looming streetlights. Without the radio on, we can hear cicadas chirping into the night like an unwelcome chorus. I turn in my seat, facing him as much as I can within the constraints of my seatbelt.

  "It's ten-thirty."

  His shoulders straighten. "I've got some stuff to do still. I haven't collected yet today."

  I shake my head. "It's too late for that, isn't it? Don't you ever sleep? Your parents must be super chill."

  The light changes, and he doesn't respond. When I pull into the beach parking lot, he unbuckles, his jaw twitching.

  "Thanks for the ride. And tell your parents I said thanks again. It was cool."

  I run a hand along the curve of my steering wheel, the worn leather familiar under my grip. "I'll tell them. Thanks for putting up with my family today. I could tell they all liked you."

  His eyes cloud over, and his fingers flex and freeze on the door handle, the tattoo on the back of his wrist visible. It's a midnight-black infinity symbol, smaller than a penny. Inside one of the loops, the letter s is inked in cursive writing. I bite my lip. S, whoever they are, is very lucky.

  He lifts his head. "I like them too."

  I smile across the car, my cheeks pushing up into my eyes. Something stretches and tingles inside me, like a new rubber band testing its limits for the first time.

  "I'll see you Monday morning, right?"

  "Yep. See you Monday, Claire Bear."

  He opens the door and walks away into the dark. I swear the ghost of a smirk is visible from the back of his head. Then he's swallowed up in the black blur of the sand and the water.

  Ten

  "I can't do this."

  I drop the yellow bucket and let it tumble onto the sand at my feet. Water splashes back at me, sending drips down my face. I flick my tongue across my lips and taste salt.

  It's not my first temper tantrum of the day, and I doubt it'll be my last. My original sand cat was bad. My attempts so far today have been pathetic. Abysmal. A complete joke. Kind of like my dreams of being an artist. Foster clicks his tongue but doesn't look at me. He's otherwise absorbed in his own practice sculpture. He crouches over a row of three uniformly filled buckets, his hands sliding over the tops to smooth away excess sand. I lean back onto the warm, white beach as he releases the sand from each bucket and adds them to the top of a structure he's already completed: a rectangular base with dual levels of cones and cylinders. A basic but structurally perfect sandcastle.

  I pick up my bucket and scoop it full again. Foster stands behind me, watching silently. More like silently judging. I ignore him and slam my hands into the sand to make sure it's packed. Then I tip the bucket over in front of me, ready to prove I can make a stupid sandcastle too. Except nothing happens. The contents of the bucket stay put, hugging the sides like concrete, no matter how many times I rap my knuckles on the bottom. I squeeze the bucket and shake it furiously until half of the sand oozes into a sludgy pile. The other half sticks stubbornly to the inside of the bucket.

  "Argh!"

  I rear my foot back and launch it into the bucket, but instead of the stubborn bucket flying toward the ocean, it skids only a few inches. Awesome. I can't even beat up a sand bucket correctly. And now my foot's throbbing.

  Foster's eyes follow me as I back away toward the pier behind us, my bag slung over a shoulder.

  "I need a break," I say. Like, a permanent break.

  He crouches to pick up his things and walks after me, because apparently he can't take a hint. We walk to the pier in silence, me breathing fire and collecting pools of warm sweat as I march as fast a
s I can manage. I drop down onto it, sling my legs over the side, and slump. He sits down a few inches away and bobs his head toward the white-and-black checked notebook peeking from the bag tucked next to me.

  "When are you going to let me look at your sketchbook?"

  Heat rises along my ears and neck at the thought of showing him my work. I shake my head. "Maybe later."

  "You've seen my stuff." His chin juts forward. If I didn't know better, I'd say I’d hurt his feelings.

  "That's different," I quip. I'm not sure how, exactly. But my sketches feel more personal than his sculptures. His art is made for people to look at and try their best to interpret. It's supposed to be put on show.

  My drawings are each individual beat of my heart inked onto paper, my most private thoughts splashed across the page. They exist only for me.

  "Okay." He stretches out the word like it's five syllables instead of one.

  My head whips toward him. "It is different. Your art is made for public consumption. Mine isn't."

  "But it could be, if you wanted."

  My eyes roll back, and I dig my fingernails into my palms, a personal warning not to lose my temper again.

  "But I don't want to." Clipped. Tight. Furious.

  He holds up his hand. "Okay. Whoa. Sorry."

  His eyes focus on mine, sending involuntarily tingles across my arms. "But it's not really fair of you to take it out on me when you're just mad about the contest."

  I break eye contact as shame washes over me like a cold shower in the middle of January.

  I exhale and run a hand over the sand-smoothed wood on the pier. It's just earthy and solid enough to calm my frazzled head.

  "My Opa and I were going to go on a trip this summer to all the art museums around. It was supposed to help me figure out where I belong in the art world, what I'm good at."

  I shrug and suck in an unsteady breath. "We didn't go on the trip, and now I'm more confused than ever. But I'm pretty sure I don't need any museums to know I suck at this sand thing."

  "Was the Little Art Park on your list?" He's got this wistful, wide-eyed look that makes him look like a little boy.

  I nod. "Yeah. Have you been?"

  He smiles at the shoreline past me. "I've always wanted to go back. My mom took me for my birthday when I was ten. I loved it."

  I've never heard him talk about his mom. Or his childhood. This place must have affected him big time. "Maybe I'll make it there someday," I say. Opa did put it near the top of our list, so I probably owe it to him.

  "You should. Let's go now." He hops to his feet, extending a hand to pull me up with him.

  I stay where I am, my nose wrinkling against the sun in my eyes. "What?"

  "Yeah. Why not?" He pushes his offered hand closer, like he's suggesting we start walking to the museum this second.

  I grab onto his hand and stand, and then I plant my hands on my hips. Heat from where his fingers touched mine sticks to my palms and makes them sweaty.

  "I can think of two very good reasons, and their names are Mom and Dad. They'd never let me go on a trip like this. No offense, but especially not with you.

  Foster shrugs, a smile forming around the corners of his mouth. "You'll never know if you don't ask."

  "Anybody home? Mooom? Livvy?" I swing the front door open and yell into the house.

  "Livvy's at a friend's house," Mom calls.

  I arch an eyebrow as I meet her near the oven, where's she's staring intently at the blue cartoony whale timer on the counter.

  "Don't you mean stuffing her tongue down Evan's throat?"

  She snaps her head toward me, mouth pinched. Then she sighs, sending a tiny curl on her forehead flying upward. "I guess it's possible, but she promised she wasn't going to see him every day this summer, and her girl friend did come by..."

  Great. Now I've incited fresh panic when I'm supposed to be putting Mom in a good mood.

  "I'm just joking. She wouldn't lie to you after she just got ungrounded."

  Mom bites her lip. "I hope not," she says. "How was your day at the beach? Get some good tanning in?"

  My teeth find the skin on my inner cheek. How can she so casually ask about the beach when I've told her repeatedly how much practice I'm putting in? Does she still not realize how much this means to me?

  I guess to her it's still just play, like the rest of my art projects. Just a fun side project, but never impressive enough to be taken seriously.

  "Sure. But there's something I wanted to ask you about, okay? Please listen first before you say no."

  I twist my hands in front of me. This is my second chance at the summer that was supposed to be.

  "What if Foster and I drive to some of the places on mine and Opa's list? Some of them are pretty close by, and it wouldn't take more than a day or two. I think Opa would want me to go still."

  My heart pounds in my ears while Mom listens.

  "A road trip?" Mom's forehead wrinkles and she tilts her head to one side like maybe she didn't hear me correctly.

  I squint, one hand running along the curly baby hairs sticking up along my forehead. "If it helps, you could think of it as a commemorative drive?"

  I guess it doesn't help, because the long sigh she lets loose doesn't exude confidence.

  "I know you and Foster are good friends, but the kind of trip you're talking about would require you to stay somewhere overnight..."

  Her eyes widen, and the crisp silence fills in the rest. Dot dot dot. Fade to black. Etcetera.

  It's not like the overnight-slash-possible-hotel scenario hasn't crossed my mind. The idea that something could happen between us without all of the distractions of the contest and our families—it's definitely occurred to me. But Foster and I are friends. Period. I might have a stupid, insignificant crush on him because I'm lucky enough to see him with his shirt off a few times per week while we sculpt, but at the end of the day, we're partners in the most unromantic way possible.

  "No, Mom. It's not like that."

  Her lips purse, whitish against her annual cherry-red sunburn.

  "I swear. This is about Opa."

  Her eyes catch on my wobbly lower lip. I swear she has crying detection superpowers. "I know you miss him."

  I nod, but I have to pull away to catch my breath and stop the tidal wave of nostalgia threatening to overtake me.

  "And we do like Foster..."

  My lips clamp shut to hide my growing grin. I've got a real shot here.

  She turns from me to slip a mermaid-shaped aqua oven mitt onto her hand. Pulling the oven door open wide, she says, "I'll talk to your dad and let you know in the morning, okay?"

  I inhale the aroma of brown sugar and melted chocolate and sigh against the warm gust of cookie-infused air. This trip might actually happen. Even without Opa, this summer could turn out like it is supposed to.

  "Thanks, Mom. I promise you won't regret this."

  Eleven

  Foster gets to the house exactly at eight A.M., just like we planned. I'm already on the front steps waiting for him because my plan is to intercept him before my parents can. Under no circumstances would it be safe for him to talk to them unsupervised. Who knows what kind of cringe-worthy things will come out of their mouths.

  I figured his parents would drop him off or something, but as usual, he's alone, and this time he's riding a bike. One of those basic black ones that old guys ride around town, hogging up the entire turn lane by going approximately two miles per hour. Once he reaches the driveway, he slows, slings one leg over the side, and hops off. Then he leans the bike along the side of the house.

  "Hey," I say, finally standing.

  "Hey. Is it okay if I leave this here while we're gone?"

  I nod. "Is it yours?" This is the first time I've seen him with a bike.

  "I borrowed it from a friend," he says. His hair hangs just past his chin in sun-streaked strands, and it's half-wet.

  He catches me staring and shakes his head.

  "I woke
up late and had to ride over as soon as I got out of the shower." He flips the front part of his hair back just as the front door whooshes open and my parents storm onto the scene.

  Dad steps forward quickly to grab Foster's hand and give it a shake. I think I see a hint of pity in his eyes as he glances between Foster and Mom. She's bouncing on her toes while waiting for her turn, ready to pounce.

  The smell of flowers mixed with strong soap pummels into me as Mom steers me away and slides in between us.

  "So good to see you again. And it's been so nice for Claire to have someone to help her with her little art project this summer. And now this trip."

  She's smiling so widely that her eyes disappear into her cheeks. Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. It's his way of apologizing for any damage Mom might do in her helicopter parent efforts. I sigh into his arm and watch the train wreck happen.

  Mom's stage whispering now. "Make sure she's driving the speed limit and make sure she stops to drink water and use the restroom."

  Foster doesn't move his eyes from her face. He's nodding along, as if everything she's saying is perfectly normal and not one of the most embarrassing pep talks a mother has ever delivered on behalf of her almost-legal teenage daughter. If he did glance over at me, I'm almost positive I would actually die right there on the spot.

  "Now, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but when you two stop to sleep, you'll need to get two hotel rooms. That's something Claire's father and I insist on."

  Foster's lips twitch like he might say something (please, no), or maybe just finally let the impending smirk loose, and Mom stops him with a wagging finger.

  "Don't worry about the money. We will absolutely take care of it. We just need you to promise to be careful with our daughter." Her lips make a tight line, and her eyes manage to stay wide and unblinking for far too long.

  Foster's head moves up and down, his damp hair sliding along with it, as he nods fervently. “Yes. I promise we'll be careful. I'll have her back tomorrow afternoon at the latest."