Chapter 4

June 2003

I do go back to the beach the next day. After an afternoon of hanging with Ash, but thinking about Fred, it feels like I don't have a choice. Like my legs would've taken me there even if I was trying to go somewhere else. It's a crush, I think, but I'm okay with that. I haven't had a proper crush in years, not since I moved to an all-girls school in ninth grade that let me have the afternoons off to play tennis.

This time, I leave Ash behind with an excuse about having to run an errand that I'm not sure she believes, and I bring enough money to rent a deck chair and an umbrella—a twenty I stole from my father's wallet because I don't get my first paycheck until next week.

I'm nervous as I chain my old ten-speed to a wooden fence post, then scramble over the dunes. I don't know how to do this—talk to a boy—and now I'm regretting not bringing Ash along to do the talking for me. She can be a lot sometimes, but that's probably what's needed.

But Ash isn't here, so I pull the belt on my beach coverup tighter and gather up my courage. Under the coverup is a tankini two-piece in a light blue color that makes my tan pop and emphasizes my strength in a good way.

I pull my hair back into a ponytail, then walk to the umbrella station. Fred's standing with the other guys, the ones who used to torture me in middle school. They're horsing around the way guys do, slapping asses and punching shoulders.

I stand there, frozen, a lump in my throat. I should go, I think. He hasn't seen me yet.

Then Fred looks up and gives me that slow smile I remember from yesterday, and my nerves travel from my stomach to my fingertips. I try hard not to stare at him, but I want to memorize his face so when I'm thinking about him before I go to sleep, I get the details right. Last night, I wasn't sure I remembered the freckles properly, or the exact color of his eyes. But now I see them, plain as day—six freckles in a straight line across his nose, and his eyes really are the same color as the ocean.

He takes a couple of quick steps toward me. "Hey, Local. You came back."

"I did." I jut out my hip in a way I've seen Ash do, and something pops. Ouch. "I even brought some money this time."

"I can't be bought."

My throat is dry. "I …"

"I'm just teasing. You want a chair or an umbrella or …?"

"Can I get both for twenty?"

He smiles again, right at me, and even though my knees are weak and there's a small possibility I'm going to pass out, I'm proud of myself for coming here. I can do this. I can talk to a boy.

"Doesn't it hurt to stand like that?" Fred asks with an eyebrow arched.

"Oh, um …" I pull my hip back into place. My cheeks are burning. "Yeah, it kind of does."

"Looks funny too."

"Gee, thanks."

"I didn't mean …"

"No, it's fine. I'll take that lounger?"

Now he has the beginning of a blush creeping up his neck. We stare at each other for a moment, then Fred grabs a lounger and an umbrella, tucking one under each arm. "Where do you want to sit?"

"Where do you recommend?"

"Well, those people over there"—he motions his chin toward a family where the mother is reading a novel and two cute kids are playing in the sand with plastic shovels. The dad is on his back, fast asleep, his belly alarmingly red. "They usually have a big screaming match right around lunchtime."

"Not near them, then." I scan the beach. There's a couple sitting on two chairs, chatting. "What about over there?"

"How do you feel about older men checking you out in your bathing suit?"

"Ugh, no."

"Didn't think so. Come on, I've got the perfect spot." Fred walks between the chairs until he gets to an open area that's far enough away from the other umbrellas that I won't have to listen to someone else's conversation.

"I can't believe this space is still free."

Fred puts the gear down and opens the lounger. "I saved it for you."

"You did?"

He tucks his chin down, concentrating on driving the umbrella into the sand. "I thought you might be back." He opens the umbrella, and it casts the perfect circle of shade. Then he looks up at me, shy. "I hoped you would, Olivia."

"Oh, I …"

"Don't worry, I don't bite."

I laugh and the tension breaks. "Are girls usually worried you're going to bite them?"

"Not that I've heard."

"That's good then."

He holds out his hand. "Towel?"

I take my backpack off and pull out the towel I brought from home. It's dark blue with red lobsters on it. "You don't have to lay it out. I can do it."

"All part of the service." He takes it and smooths it out over the lounger, tucking the corners down into small clips that I wouldn't have known were there. "Voila."

"That looks great."

"Trick of the trade."

"But now I know your trick, so I don't need you anymore." I can't believe it. I'm flirting.

He looks up at me, his perfectly arched eyebrows raised. "I have others."

My heart thumps. He's flirting too. "Such as?"

"You'll have to come back to find out." He steps toward me and takes the twenty out of my hand. He does it in a way that tangles our fingers for a moment, and a warmth spreads from that skin on skin to my chest. Then his fingers are gone, and it feels like I might've imagined it. Only the blush on his neck has crept to his cheeks.

He clicks the end of his pen. "Olivia Taylor, right?"

"That's right. And you're Fred …"

"Webb. Rental is good till four."

"I'll have it back to you before then. Thanks again for saving this spot."

"No worries." He puts his hand on my shoulder and lets it rest there. "If you need anything, just holler."

That heat starts to build again, making my throat tight. I don't know how to handle it, so I duck away, pulling my book out and laying it down on the towel. It's The Amber Spyglass, the third novel in the His Dark Materials series.

"It would be so cool to have a daemon," he says.

I check his face to see if he's teasing. He isn't. "You've read them?"

"Of course."

"They're my favorite books."

"Mine too." He reaches down and picks up the novel, thumbing through the pages. "What would your daemon be?" He's referring to the animal spirit that each character has.

"I've always loved foxes."

"You're joking."

"No. Why?"

"Only because that's my daemon." He hands the book back and our fingers brush again. All of this casual contact is making me feel dizzy. "Team Will or Team Roger?"

"For Lyra? Will, of course."

"So we don't agree on everything."

We grin at each other. "I can't believe there aren't going to be any more books," I say.

"Agreed."

One of the Dougs or Daves whistles from across the beach. Fred turns and puts his hands up in a what? gesture. The guy motions for him to come back.

"I've got to get back, or Dave will have a fit."

"Is that Dave Dale?"

"You know him?"

I nod. "Keep him away from peanuts."

"Is he allergic?"

"Nah, he just gets super hyper when he eats them. Or at least he did when we were kids."

He taps my breastbone lightly. His touch feels like it will leave a mark. "Right, local knowledge."

I clear my throat. "That's me."

"Come say goodbye before you leave?"

"I have to bring back the chair, don't I?"

He raises his shoulders. "Most people just abandon them."

"Most people suck, then."

"Nah, it's the job. Enjoy the read."

I smile. "Reread."

"Ha! Later, Local."

I think he might touch me again—I want him to—but instead, he gives me a small wave, then turns on his heel and skims back over the sand to where Dave is waiting.

Dave gives him the requisite punch in the arm while looking at me. I'm sure he's placed me by now and is telling Fred all about my most embarrassing fifth-grade moments.

And in that moment I wish I was Lyra, that the spirit part of me was something detached that I could send after those who might do me harm or protect me like a charm.