Мэг Кэбот: Pants on Fire

“I’min here,” I said to my brother, who, just this past summer, grew six inches in three months and now towers over me, even though at five seven, I am three inches taller than Sidney, and, in fact, one of the taller girls in my class. Especially when my hair is doing what it’s supposed to, and fluffing up.

“Iknow that,” Liam said sarcastically. “I need to—”

“Then use the downstairs bathroom,” I said, and started to close the door.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Liam said, putting a hand to the door so I couldn’t close it. “If you’d quit yakking on the phone long enough to listen. Who is that, anyway? Sidney?”

“Hold on, Sid,” I said into the phone. Then I turned off the hot water — I’m not sure how long it takes to sterilize toilet germs off a plastic comb, but I don’t want to waste water, either — and said to Liam, in an impatient voice, “What?”

“Who is that?” Sidney wanted to know. “Liam?”

“Yeah,” I said into the phone. To Liam, I repeated,“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Liam said with a shrug. “It’s just that I saw someone you know tonight down at Duckpin Lanes.”

“That’s thrilling,” I said to him. “Now go away.”

“Okay, fine,” Liam said, turning to continue down the hall to his room. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Who?” Sidney chirped in my ear. “Who did he see? Oh my God, ask him if it was Rick. If it was Rick, and he was with Beth Ridley, I’ll die. Martha said she heard Rick and Beth hooked up at Hannah Lebowitz’s Fourth of July barbecue—”

“Liam,” I said. I didn’t say it loud, because I didn’t want to wake up Mom and Dad, who were downstairs in the master bedroom they added on off the laundry room two years ago, so they could be away from us kids. “Who was it? Was it Rick Stamford?”

“You wish,” Liam said with a snort.

“What do you mean,you wish?” I demanded.

“I mean, youwish it was Rick Stamford, and not who I’m about to tell you it was. Because when I tell you, you’re going to freak.”

“Was it Rick?” Sidney wanted to know. “What did he say? I can’t hear him. Your phone gets the worst reception….”

“It wasn’t Rick,” I said into the phone while Sidney, on the other end, shrieked, “It must have been a celebrity, then! Was it Matt Fox? I’ve heard he’s buying a summer place over in Westport. Was it Matt Fox? Ask him if it was Matt Fox!”

“It was Tommy Sullivan,” Liam said flatly.

At that, I did drop my cell phone. Fortunately, however, not into the toilet. Instead, it landed on the floor.

Where it broke into three pieces.

As it was falling, I could hear Sidney going, “Wait, I didn’t hear him, what did he—”

Then — smash.

Then…silence.

Liam looked at the pieces of my cell phone and laughed.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” he said. “Tommy Sullivan’s back in town.”

Okay, why?

That’s all I want to know.

Why did Tommy Sullivan have to come backnow, just when everything was going perfectly, to mess it all up?

The summer before your senior year is the last summer when you can actually have a good time. No stresses yet about college apps and transcripts. No freaking out about extracurriculars or chemistry.

And this has been the most outstanding summer of my life so far: People have finally started to realize that even though I’m the class brain, I can still be fun to party with. I’ve got a job I love, where I make good enough money to have (almost) fully paid for the camera I really want to buy. I’ve got a fantastic boyfriend, and an even hotter guy to mack with behind the emergency generator when that boyfriend isn’t around….

So why does Tommy Sullivan have to come back to town NOW, and ruin it all?

Liam wouldn’t give me any details last night after he dropped his little bombshell, because he was mad I wouldn’t get off the phone with Sidney to listen to him. Liam’s fourteen and starting his freshman year at Eastport High, and his new height totally attracted the attention of Coach Hayes, who spied Liam towering over everyone at freshman orientation, and asked him if he was trying out for the Quahogs.

Since Liam — like every other guy in Eastport — practically lives for Quahog football, this totally went to his head. He’s been impossible to live with ever since. And tryouts aren’t even until Friday.

But I knew from experience that I’d wear him down eventually, and get him to spill the details of his Tommy Sullivan stunner. Liam can’t keep a secret to save his life.

Which is why, when I saw what time it was when I woke up the next morning, I said my best swear word, rolled out of bed and, without even showering first, threw on my clothes (and, okay, a tiny bit of makeup, because a girl running for Quahog Princess really shouldn’t be seen in public without her mascara on), hopped on my bike, and pedaled over to the Y, where Liam’s been going every day to lift weights in the hope of bulking up for Quahog tryouts on Friday.

Oh, yeah. I’m, like, the only seventeen-year-old in Eastport who doesn’t have a car. I’m not one of those vegan environmentalist types who hang out with Morgan Castle over at the Oaken Bucket or anything. I totally love meat. I just think if you live in a small town — and Eastport’s only got 25,000 full-time residents (though May through August, the population rises to 35,000, on account of the Summer People) — you should ride a bike around, and not drive. It’s better for the environment, and better for you physically as well.

Sidney thinks it’s weird I’m saving my money for a camera and not a car, like everyone else we know (although, to be truthful, everyone else we know got a car for their sixteenth birthday. I asked for — and received — a Power Mac G5, along with a full-color printer so I could print my own photos — although I still take my film in to Eastport Old Towne Photo if I want something really professional-looking), but there’s nowhere I need to go that isn’t within biking distance (except the city, but I can take public transportation there), so why waste fossil fuels when I can just use pedal power?

And, unlike Sidney, I don’t have to spend hours in the gym every week, since I get all my exercise from biking around.

Oh, fine. Okay, true confession time: I get carsick. In fact, I get everything sick — carsick, seasick, air sick, train sick, even raft sick (from floating on a raft in a pool) and swing sick (from swinging on a swing set).

The only time I don’t feel sick? When I’m walking. Or riding a bike.

My mom blames it on all the inner ear infections I had as a kid. My dad — who has never been sick a day in his life, and won’t let any of us forget it — thinks it’s all psychosomatic, and that as soon as I fall for a cute enough guy, I won’t get sick at all when he’s driving me around, and I’ll even want to get a license. For instance, so I can drive with the guy in a Ferrari through the Alps. Because, Dad says, no one can function as an adult without a driver’s license.

But as I’ve informed Dad numerous times, there is no guy in the world cute enough for this to happen.

And besides, there’s a place where it’s totally possible to function as an adult without a driver’s license: It’s called New York City, where all the great photographers in America live and work.

And guess what? They have bike paths there, too.

Anyway, I locked up my bike outside the Y, and went inside to find my brother lying on a padded bench, pulling on these cords that caused some weights behind him to raise up a few inches. Not unusually, there was a cluster of fourteen-year-old girls gathered around him, giggling excitedly. Since word got out that Coach Hayes himself had approached Liam about trying out for the Quahogs, every fourteen-year-old girl in town has been calling the house at all hours of the day, asking if Liam’s there.