Then 13 & 14

"Hey," he says, climbing over the rocks and slipping his way down the muddy embankment. "Your mom said you were down here. Everything okay?"

"Of course." The stone by her left foot looks perfect, and she bends down to trail her fingers across the smooth surface.

It's still warm enough that she's already shed her shoes and socks, piling them on the bank as she picks her ways around the creek bed. The mud feels weird between her toes, but good weird. It's cool and smooth and don't women pay tons of money for this? To be slathered in mud? It's down by the creek for free.

Her collection of stones is growing too.

"You weren't at practice."

Someday she might be ready to admit the little thrill that shimmies through her veins at his words. It's like the pop of a firework on the fourth of July, or the first rush of sugar when she bites into a slice of triple chocolate peanut butter birthday cake. The proof that he notices her presence, or its lack. That he thinks about her, even while at the rink.

"Did I make you mad?" He slips off his shoes too, leaving them scattered next to hers.

One battered sneaker is on its side, facing away from the water, the other is upside down. An absolutely jumbled mess of footwear compared to her shoes sitting perfectly side by side. She tries not to read into the fact that he still put his blue new balances right next to her pink vans. That has to mean something. Right?

"No." She drops her rock on top of her collection and keeps her eyes down to search for more.

"You're doing that thing where your words say one thing, but the rest of you says the exact opposite." That makes her laugh. Her dad says the same thing to her mom almost once a week.

"Sorry," she shakes her head, wiping her hands on her shorts as she smiles at him. "Tryouts for the musical are next week and I want to get a jumpstart on my audition."

She's only been planning on her eighth grade musical debut since she was in kindergarten. Okay, maybe not kindergarten, but at least since they moved, and she learned the musical was a thing.

"What is it this year?" Robbie tips his head to the side. "I could help you prep."

"Robbie," she plants her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes because the sunlight is practically blinding her the way it shines off the ends of his dark hair.

This is the first year he hasn't cut it for the start of school, leaving the edges long enough to curl under the bottom of his Buffalo hat. It flops into his eyes too, pin straight, but thick and wild and softer than the silk pillowcases her mom uses.

The last time she touched it was after he got that concussion at the end of last season. He'd nestled his head against her thigh while an animated kids' movie played in the background, and closed his eye as she ran shaky fingers through the strands. She'd seen him take the nasty hit—too hard, too close to the boards—watched him crumple onto the ice and take his time standing up. Watching him get hurt had been the single worst experience of her life.

"Your singing voice makes Mrs. Jensen's French bulldog sound like a Broadway star."

Sheriff Neil had responded to the Jensen's house on more than one occasion, expecting to find someone grievously injured. Only to be greeted by Angela, the beige colored bulldog, who couldn't weigh over twenty-five pounds. The dog hadn't even been upset. She was just spending the afternoon singing for all to hear. Literally, for all.

"Ice cold, Vera." He shakes his head, but he's smiling at her, and the warmth inside her tummy grows, stretching out into every nook and cranny. "I'll have you know I was a real asset last year."

"Yeah." She smirks. "The best tree KMS has ever seen."

"Thank you," he bows. "So what's the show?"

"Honk." When he laughs, she adds, "It's the story of the ugly duckling. I'm hoping for the lead."

Robbie drops himself down onto the large boulder. His legs are so long he has a foot on either side of her body and the boulder looks more like a small stone. She remembers when they used to bake mud pies on the flat top.

"That's unfortunate." He wiggles his toes, and she looks down at them even though feet gross her out. Have his legs always been this hairy? She glances down at her own bare shins, then up at his face. He doesn't have the mustache that Vic is trying to grow, but does he still have to shave? His jaw looks darker than she remembers, like someone took the side of a pencil and shaded it in.

"No, it's cute." The eighth grade never did any of the well-known shows. They were too close to the city and to Broadway, and recognizable names were saved for the high school. She couldn't wait to audition for one of those roles. This year, Schuyler Regional was doing The Wiz and Vera already knew what song she'd use to audition. If she were a freshman.

Robbie shakes his head. "That's unfortunate. You're too pretty to play an ugly duckling."

It takes two hands to shove him off the rock.

"What the—" he hits the water with a splash. "V, it was a damn compliment. Jeez." He gets to his feet, his shorts dripping creek water down his pale calves. Vera grabs his hat before it can float away.

In hindsight, she knew it was. Even his teasing is good natured. The twins would have told her she was perfect for the role. Because she was ugly. But in the present, she'd panicked and pushing him into the creek was the perfect way to shut him up.

You could have kissed him , her brain unhelpfully supplies, but she couldn't have. Not really. That's the kind of move that the main characters in romance books and rom com movies make, not eighth graders with a teensy tiny little crush. The fear of rejection, of ruining everything, is too great. This isn't the Lizzie McGuire movie. She isn't going to kiss her best friend and ride off into the sunset, avoiding any sort of consequences for an unsupervised trip through a foreign country.

This is Robbie Oakes. Her best friend. They've been glued at the hip for almost half her life. If she says something…

Well, her mom was kind of right—even if she'll die before she ever admits it—it is pretty obvious when a boy likes someone. Unfortunately, her mom never went over the differences between liking someone just as friends and liking them more . Jenni said boys are mean when they like someone, but she just can't see Robbie being mean to anyone. Not unless they deserve it.

She rolls her eyes. "I was being serious, Robbie."

He shakes the water off like a dog and she shrieks as the cold droplets hit her skin. "So was I. My shorts are all wet now, Vera."

The grumble is half-hearted, said through the curve of his smile, and she's teasing him back, not thinking about her words until they hang in the air between them.

"Don't whine. You could just take them off."

Her blush is fast and hot, staining her cheeks crimson as she darts her eyes away from his. She doesn't know what would be worse, if he laughs about it—aka at her—or if he's grossed out about it. She's known about sex, at least the bare mechanics of it, since fifth grade health class. Some of the finer details were filled in over the last few years, thanks to an assortment of discreetly covered books.

But as much as she might talk a big game with other girls and might laugh at the dirty jokes she isn't sure she fully understands, she really didn't mean any sort of innuendo. She's spent many summers stripping down to her tank top and undies to splash in this creek with Robbie, Vic, and Erik. It never bothered her, or them. Why would it when underwear arguably covered more than the bathing suit she'd talked her mom into buying? The teal two-piece with the sequins?

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the blush to fade. She's pretty sure she's stuck, her burning cheeks getting hotter and hotter the more she thinks about how easy she is to fluster. Robbie says nothing, and she's afraid to look at him, afraid she gave herself away, afraid she's overreacting. This is the reason crushes are stupid, and why her mom told her dating could wait. Her brain has completely left the building, checked out and boarded a one-way, red-eye flight the hell out of here. The CIA should recruit her for the way she reads into and decodes every word, every look, every move Robbie makes.

It would be embarrassing if it wasn't Robbie. God, someday she'll either get over him and will laugh at the idiot she made of herself once upon a time, or she'll marry him. Maybe in the little grove down beyond the cow pond. With the mushroom rings her mom used to always point out.

"Stay on the path, Vera. If you step in a circle, the fairy folk will come to take you away."

Vera would never admit that she'd stepped both feet right inside the biggest one last fall. She even gave the fairies a good thirty seconds, but no one showed up to take her away. She still had to go home and do her science homework.

It's the plop that gets her attention. It's the same sound the wet towels make when she drops them on her bathroom floor. She peeks out of the corner of her eye and there is Robbie, stripping his soggy shirt over his head and dropping it on top of his wet shorts.

There's hair.

On his chest.

And a small line dipping into the waist of his palm-tree printed boxers.

Her throat is so dry it takes three tries to swallow, and even then it's almost painful as the muscles contract. Painful and hot. The heat is simmering in the base of her belly too, right at the dip below her navel. She presses her hand there, against the waistband of her shorts, feeling the sweat break out along her arms and down the back of her neck.

It's only the end of September. When did she last see him shirtless? Didn't they go to the water park just last month? Had he looked like that? With the hair? Then? Or had she spent most of the day sneaking looks from under her lashes because she'd rather throw herself off the top of the slingshot water slide than get caught ogling her best friend?

"So if you get the role, will you have to skip more games?" He ducks his chin, his smile sheepish. "Because I'll help you. You're going to get it—no question—but I like when you come watch me play."

She doesn't have the heart to tell him his new coach had been pretty adamant about her not attending practices this season. Not if she wants Robbie's focus on the ice and on his game. And she wants that, she does. His dream is the NHL, and the only way to get there is to by being one of the best. To be the best. Her presence at the rink has never seemed to throw Robbie off his play, but what would she know? The three hellions taught her every hockey fact she knows against her will.

She rolls her eyes. "I'll still come watch you play. Honest." But maybe just games. With her parents.

"They're finalizing the starting line this week. Cross your fingers for me?"

He won't need luck. She might have missed practice this morning, but he and the twins are unstoppable. Only an idiot would separate them, especially in the travel leagues. Those kids and coaches do not mess around.

"Always." She crosses her middle fingers over her pointers, then works her ring fingers over her pinkies before crossing her arms like a giant letter X. "See? Everything's crossed for all the luck."

"This is why you're my favorite." He grins.

Her heart feels like it might explode like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Combusting into tiny particles that blow away on the wind.

"Should I cross all my fingers for you, too?" His brows pinch together as he frowns down at his hands. "I'm not sure mine move like yours, though."

Probably not. He's broken and sprained a few of them during games and practice. She doubts they're as flexible as they used to be. That's a thing, right?

"Don't worry," she tells him, "I don't need your fingers. I have these."

She stoops down to scoop up a handful of her flat stones. They're heavy in her hand, smooth against her palm, and warm from the sun. Robbie frowns, his head tilting to the side.

"Rocks?"

She nods. "Yup. I'm going to let the universe tell me if I should go out for the lead or leave the spotlight to Marci Anders and Britt O'Neil. I could try for the Cat, or a tree, or something."

She looks up at him from under her lashes, waiting for him to tell her she's definitely lead star material. Her mom tells her not to fish for compliments, but it feels really, really nice when he says pretty things about her. Why wouldn't she hand him extra opportunities?

"The universe?"

"Yep. If the decision is fate, or destiny, or the universe, then I don't need to be devastated if I'm not Ugly."

"You're never ugly." Robbie props his hands on his hips and she ducks her eyes away. He's still in his underwear. For almost two seconds, she forgot to be flustered.

"The main character is named Ugly."

"Right. And the rocks fit in how?" He plucks a stone from her hand and tosses is into the air, catching it easily in his palm.

"I'm going to skip them. If it works, then I'll try out for the part. If not, the universe is telling me no. Nicely."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Robbie shakes his head, and Vera ducks hers.

Yes, it's dumb. And childish. And yes, she knows things don't actually work like this, but she's always played these little games with herself. Find a ladybug on the mailbox? That math test will be a piece of cake. Double rainbow after a sun shower? A sign she's going to ace the next dance comp. A lucky quarter on the ground? The boys will win the big game. She knows it's not real, but sometimes pretend is more fun. Sometimes, pretend is exactly what everyone needs.

But if Robbie's compliments light her up like a shaken glow stick, his judgments knock her flat. Her throat aches as she swallows, and her nose itches.

"You can't skip rocks here, Vera," Robbie gestures to the water. "The creek has a current. You can see little whitecaps. None of those rocks are going to bounce."

Her head snaps up, but he isn't looking at her. He's glaring out at the rushing creek like her dad surveying their lawn after he mows those little lines into the grass. Robbie isn't wrong. The water is high, rushing fast and strong over the silty bottom. Even the stepping stones everyone uses to cross to the far bank are half submerged today. Probably from those two massive thunderstorms Kimmelwick got in the last week.

"You can't let this be your sign, Vera," Robbie turns to her, cheeks red and eyes flashing. "Even a coin toss would be better."

She blinks once, blinks again, watches him spin in a circle as he searches the creek bed.

"How many rocks do you have? Maybe if we can find a certain number, that can be the sign instead." He looks from her hands to the pile of rocks she's been steadily collecting. "Twenty? Is that too much? Twenty flat rocks that could easily skip if the water conditions were right?"

"Robbie." He keeps spinning, finally crouching down to pull one small, round rock free from the sand and mud. "Here. What number is this?"

It's really a horrible rock. Too small, too thick, no obvious flat surfaces. It would take extreme skill to skip this one even on a glass lake. Maybe one skim before plunging to the bottom in spectacular fashion. He wipes it clean on the back of his forearm, leaving a streak of dirt and mud behind before he holds it out for her to take.

"Robbie," she says his name quietly, her voice almost lost to the rush of the water.

"Vera." He goes back to searching for another. "Try out for the lead. Please."

"Robbie."

He shoves another rock into her palm.

"I know you like these signs, symbols, messages from beyond or whatnot, but don't sabotage yourself, please. I can be your sign. Try out for the duck. Blow everyone's socks off, and someday I can brag about knowing you way back when." He smiles. "Let that be your universe message."

He has it backwards. Someday, she's going to be telling everyone that she knew him. She'll hear his name read out during the draft and turn to the person next to her.

"I knew him ," she'll say. " That's my Robbie ." And they might smile and nod, thinking it's a cool piece of information, or maybe they'll roll their eyes because why would she know him, but it won't change the fact that she did. She does.

"Robbie." He finally stops. Really looks at her. "I'm just collecting today. I'm going to take them down to the reservoir." Where she could do thirteen skips on a good day with a good rock. Aka not the rock Robbie had found. But the bubbles still fizzed through her veins.

"Right." He slaps a hand to the back of his neck. "So a misunderstood swan that thinks it's a duck. If anyone can pull it off, it's you, V. I'm going to go for a dip."

He wades into the creek, letting the water swirl around his ankles as he shivers once. He's too cute. Passionate but quiet, that's what her mom said.

"That might be a dig at my freckles," she calls after him, "but I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."

"Always, Vera. Always."