Bobby stood there, his face a mask of concentration as he read a recipe in a cookbook.He wore one of those wonderful sweatshirts right now (Portland State), the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.One well-developed forearm held a mixing bowl close to his chest.In his other hand, he held a wooden spoon.
Listen, I know Bobby and I are just friends.I’m not under any delusions.But I’m also not made of stone.I mean, the man was standing in a kitchen.He was wearing an apron printed with a Sasquatch silhouette.He had flour smudged across the bridge of his nose.I’m not saying I spontaneously got pregnant, standing there and staring at him.But it was a close thing.
Bobby, of course, was still Bobby.
“Keme ate your cookies,” he told me.“So, Indira offered to show me how to make them.”
I stood there and stared.
“Maybe don’t say anything to Keme,” Bobby said.“If you could.He’s had a rough day.”
He had flour on his forearms.And more on his hands.It dusted his knuckles.
“Dash?”
I actually had to swallow before I could say, “Uh huh.”
The door to the servants’ dining room opened, and Indira stepped into the kitchen.She took one look at me, and I got the feeling she was trying not to cover her eyes and shake her head.
“I have to go upstairs now,” I said and backed out of the kitchen.
As the door swung shut, Bobby’s voice carried out to me.“Is he all right?Maybe I should check on him.”
“Bobby, dear,” Indira said in a voice exhausted of patience.“Trust me: that would only make it worse.”
2
The plan was to have a nice, quiet, and most importantlypeople-freeevening at home.In my room.Alone.With nothing but a Kindle loaded with Robert Crais.I was deep in the world of 1990s Los Angeles when the sound of voices penetrated my reading haze.I tried to stay focused on the book, but the hub of conversation grew louder.And then even louder.Finally, I dropped the Kindle and followed the noise out of my room.
When I got downstairs, I discovered that Hemlock House was full of people.
And not ordinary people.
Surfers.
I mean, it wasn’t exactly a rigorous process of deduction, and I’d spent enough time with Bobby and Keme now to know the type.They were all tan and fit, their hair still wet, smelling like the sea.The dudes were uniformly in board shorts (and most of them wore nothing else).The dudettes wore bikini tops and what I would have called, for funsies, Daisy Dukes.I was wearing my joggers, hoodie, and favoriteFinal Fantasytee (it was ancient, and the design was flaking off, but it showed the Black Mage—obviously the best character), and I had the disorienting sense that somehow I was the one out of place.All around me, the surfer bros and, uh, bro-ettes were laughing.They were talking.They were all holding a drink of choice.And they were also tracking a lot of sand into my Class V haunted mansion.
Millie drifted past, and I caught her arm.“What is going on?”
“OH MY GOD, DASH!”She beamed at me.“ISN’T THIS PARTY AMAZING?”
“What party?”
“THIS ONE!”
“No, I meant—”
But she spotted someone in the crowd, gave an excited squeal, and darted off.
Keme, I thought.Keme was responsible for this.He had to be.In a sense, it was inevitable.Keme was a teenager.More importantly, he was a teenage boy.And he’d grown up a lot faster than most kids because of his rough home life.We—the Last Picks and I—had adopted him, more or less, and although none of us had directly addressed the situation, I was pretty sure Keme was living full-time at Hemlock House.So, it probably shouldn’t have been a surprise that the boy who thought he was an adult and acted like an adult would want to do other things like an adult—like invite all his surfer friends back for a rager.
Did people still say rager?
I knew it would drive Keme crazy if I asked.
When I found him, he was perched on the back of the chesterfield, knees drawn up to his chest.He had a red plastic cup, which set off my (admittedly weak) parental alarms.And he was listening to a bare-chested surfer bro with artfully tangled blond hair.
“There it was, this tentacle thing wrapped around my leg,” the guy was saying.And then, with a wry grin.“Seaweed.Again.”
