Мэг Кэбот - Pants on Fire

“Totally,” I said into the phone, trying to sound like someone suffering from a bacillus in their blood. “I don’t want you to catch it from me.”

Except of coursee. coli can only be contracted through contaminated food or water. But Seth isn’t exactly in AP Bio, like I am. Which isn’t to say he’s dumb. His talents just lie in regions other than the academic.

“So let’s just take a raincheck on tonight,” I said. I was crouched behind the soda station, so Kevin, the assistant manager — who, in the way of all assistant managers, was an even bigger tyrant than Peggy, the actual manager — wouldn’t catch me on the phone while not on break. “I’ll probably be better tomorrow.”

“Really?” Seth sounded a bit happier. “I thoughte. coli was, like, super serious. I thought you had to go to the hospital for it, and stuff.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not the twenty-four-hour kind.”

Okay, so whatever. I’m not the only liar in town. But I am definitely the biggest. Seriously, has there ever been a bigger liar than me, in the history of Eastport?

Still, at least I feel bad about it. I detected no hint of remorse in Tommy for lying to Jill that he goes to Eastport High. Whereas, I really do always feel terrible every time I lie to Seth.

Fifteen minutes after I punched out from the Gulp, I pulled up to the marina on my bike, and looked out at the near-empty parking lot, with the boat masts sticking up out of the water beyond it. I stood there in the still evening, looking at the moths who flew up, attracted by the white light from my bike lamp, and listening to the lap of the water. It was hard to figure out which car was Tommy’s. I could only see a few beat-up trucks — but those seemed to belong to the old men clustered with their fishing poles below the bridge, beneath which striped bass were rumored to congregate at night.

There was one red Jeep Wrangler, but that seemed like way too cool of a car for Tommy Sullivan. It had to belong to some Summer People who’d docked their yacht in the bight for repairs or barnacle-scraping or something.

But when I pedaled toward the pier, I didn’t see any yachts, just the usual cluster of working boats, belonging to actual local fisher- and lobster-men. My dad’s twin-engine speedboat, with its brown sunscreen — which Dad had been meaning to replace for years, and was now a bit on the tattered, faded side — was bobbing up and down at the far end of the pier.

And there was, I could see by the combined light from the half-full moon and the lamps along the dock, someone lying casually across the bow.

Someone who was most definitely not my dad.

I felt something when I saw him. I don’t even know what it was. It was like a fireball of emotions shooting through me, including, but not limited to, rage, remorse, guilt, and indignation.

Most of the rage was directed at myself. Because as I pedaled closer to the boat — bikes aren’t allowed on the pier, but whatever, there was no one around to stop me — and saw how comfortable Tommy had gone ahead and made himself, lying there on his back, looking up at the stars, I couldn’t help thinking how incredibly good he looked in that snug-fitting black tee, and those faded jeans that seemed to hug every contour of his lean body.

And those are not the kind of thoughts any girl with a boyfriend should have about another guy. Let alone a girl withtwo boyfriends.

Let alone thoughts she should be having aboutTommy Sullivan.

Oh, yeah. I was inserious trouble.

“Hey,” Tommy said when he finally noticed me on the pier, looking down at him. He leaned up on his elbows. “Come aboard.”

“No way,” I said.

He laughed. Not in a mean way, though. But like he found something genuinely funny.

“Right,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs down off the bow, so they were dangling in front of the door to the cabin below. “I forgot how much you hate boats. Even ones that are docked. Still get seasick?”

“Just tell me what you want,” I said, clutching the handlebars to my bike and trying to keep my voice steady. “So I can leave already.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “Take one of those pills you always have with you and climb in.” Even in the moonlight, I could tell his smile was bitter. “You’re not getting out of thisthat easily.”

I felt a burst of rage so pure and intense, it nearly knocked me off my bike and into the water below. Which I actually wouldn’t have minded. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that Tommy Sullivan was hot now.

Which I couldn’t believe I was thinking about. I mean, this guy was practically blackmailing me into associating with him, and Istill thought he was hot?

There’s something wrong with me. Seriously.

At least I wasn’t the only one that there was something wrong with.

Because there has to be something wrong with someone who remembered such a mundane fact that I never go anywhere without Dramamine (non-drowsy formula) somewhere on my person.

And, true, it’s tough to live in a seaside town when you suffer from chronic seasickness. I can’t even set foot on theRun Aground — a boat so tightly lashed to the pier that it barely moves, and a seaside breakfast spot that’s incredibly popular with people like my mother, who love anything cute and nautical-themed — without thinking I might hurl.

But how had Tommy Sullivan managed to remember this, after all these years?

Scowling, I climbed down from my bike, lowered the kickstand, pulled off my bicycle helmet, and reached into my backpack — into which I’d crammed my still-wet swimsuit from The Point and my makeup and stuff — and pulled out one of the little yellow pills I’ve carried around habitually since the age of twelve. I tossed it back without even thinking about reaching for the water bottle I also had in my bag. When you’ve taken as many motion-sickness pills as I have, you don’t need liquid to swallow them anymore.

Then, still scowling, I swung myself onto my dad’s boat — years of long practice (everyone in Eastport has a dad who fishes) had made me an expert at climbing in and out of boats — and felt my stomach lurch, as it always did, when the floor rolled a little beneath my feet. It takes a while for the Dramamine to kick in.

“All right,” I said, dropping my bag and bike helmet to the boat’s floor, then lowering myself onto the padded bench across from where Tommy was sitting. I was trying to maintain a very businesslike demeanor. Because that’s all this was. A business meeting. Tommy Sullivan wanted something. And I was going to do my best to provide whatever it was, so that he didn’t rat me out to my boyfriend about my other boyfriend. “I’m here. Now what do you want?”

“I told you,” Tommy said, looking down at me from his perch on the bow. “I just want to talk.”

“Talk,” I echoed doubtfully.

“Talk,” he repeated. “You do remember, don’t you, that we used to talk quite a bit?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. I found that it wasn’t very easy to meet his gaze — even though that is an important part of maintaining a businesslike demeanor. I know because I occasionally browse through my parents’ favorite trade publication,Realtor Magazine, and it said so.

ButRealtor Magazine had never had any articles on how the heck you’re supposed to maintain eye contact with a guy whose irises change colors in different lights, and who furthermore looks so good in a pair of jeans that all thoughts of your boyfriend(s) fled at the sight of him.

Seth Turner, I said firmly to myself.You are the girlfriend of Seth Turner, the most popular guy in all of Eastport, besides his big brother. Seth Turner, the guy you had such a crush on all through middle school, and who you were so happy to snag the summer before your freshman year, when he finally looked your way. And okay, maybe he DID turn out to be a sort of boring conversationalist, but you don’t want to break up with him, because what would people think? It is bad enough you are cheating on him with Eric Fluteley. Do not make things even worse.