Something Like Fate

  Erin seems so hopeful. Like when she comes back, everything will be exactly the same way she left it.

  Like nothing will change while she’s gone.

  21

  “How does it always know?” Blake marvels.

  “Exactly!” I yell. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

  Blake is so hooked on our weekly horoscopes. We’ve even established a new ritual for the summer. Blake comes over every Monday and we read each other our horoscopes. They can be a little tricky without school as a frame of reference, though.

  Around here, you could totally avoid everyone all summer if you wanted to. It can be really desolate unless you make an effort to get together with people. The only people I’ll probably see all summer are my parents, Blake, Danielle, and everyone at my summer job. I quit swimming class when school ended. I had a minor meltdown in my last class and made an executive decision to give up. So I’ve been pretty isolated. Which is a good thing.

  We live in farm country. Not that we live on actual farms or anything. Well, a few kids from school have parents who are farmers, but they live in regular houses. It’s just that New Jersey is called the Garden State because of all its farms. We have a lot of roadside markets selling fruit and vegetables. There are places open to the public that grow berries and pumpkins. I work part-time at Bear Creek Berry Patch over on Dark Moon Road. They grow all different types of raspberries. I didn’t even know there was more than one kind of raspberry before I started working there last summer. My job is to help customers who come to pick their own berries. I also do some berry picking for the owners. It’s cool because I can ride my bike there. Driving is something I only do when I have to. I hate contaminating the atmosphere with more pollution, plus wasting all that nonrenewable fuel makes me want to cry.

  “This horoscope thing must be magic,” Blake says.

  “Or fate.”

  “As in, it’s fate that they always know what to write?”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  “Hmm.” Blake scoots over to the other side of the couch. That area is closer to the ceiling fan, so it’s like half a degree cooler over there. As usual, our central air is more like a random trickle of air that’s not nearly cold enough.

  I go, “How are we supposed to play now?”

  “I can still reach.”

  Some people might think I’m a loser for hiding in my living room, playing 500 on a gorgeous summer day. That is just not true. It’s actually a smart way to pass the time. This way, I’m not tempted to do other things. Other things that are potentially harmful.

  Blake goes, “How’s the berry business so far?”

  “Oh, you know. Booming as usual.”

  “What’s my favorite kind of raspberry that’s—”

  “Taylor.”

  “Yes! When are you bringing me some of those?”

  “We don’t pick them until August.”

  “That’s just wrong.”

  “When are you bringing me your first professional creation?”

  “Patience, my dear, patience.” Blake got a summer internship at a glassblowers’ studio. He got into glassblowing a few months ago. He saw these amazing glasses in a gift shop in town and asked where they came from. It turns out they were made a few towns over, by real glassblowers. Blake is psyched to be learning from them, but his dad is less than thrilled. He’d rather see Blake get a paying job and start earning his own money. They had a huge fight about it. I really thought Blake’s dad was going to force him to work at Big Guy Burger. Somehow, Blake convinced his dad to let him take the internship. It makes me sad that his dad had to be convinced.

  “Is your dad still in a huffufle about it?” I ask.

  “Oh, he’s huffufled, all right. Imagine if he knew I’m gay on top of making zero bank? The horror.”

  I wish there was a way for Blake to tell his dad who he really is. Things shouldn’t be like this.

  After Blake wins, I shuffle the deck to play again.

  He’s like, “So are you hiding in here all summer or what?”

  “I go out. I go to work, don’t I?”

  “What about going out for fun?”

  “I’m having fun with you.”

  “You’re avoiding him.”

  “Who?”

  Blake leans back on the couch. He watches the fan whir.

  “You know who.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Let’s see. He’s about five nine, light-brown hair, green-blue eyes, is a lifeguard, is cute, rhymes with mason.”

  “You think I’m avoiding Jason?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “Because I’m not.”

  “Of course not. You’re just . . . hanging out. Here. With me. Because it’s so fun and all.”

  “You know I love hanging out with you.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re in love with him?”

  I stop shuffling. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. It’s your life. You should stop fighting your feelings.”

  “What would be the point of that? He’s my best friend’s boyfriend, remember?”

  “Yeah, but since when can we control who we love?”

  He has a point. We can’t help who we love. Blake knows that better than anyone. Love isn’t logical, or even our choice.

  Love chooses us.

  After dinner, I help Mom wash the dishes. Dad’s snoring on the couch. A crossword-puzzle book is splayed out over his chest.

  “Mom?” I go.

  “Is that dish towel too wet? There’s another one—”

  “No, it’s fine. I wanted to ask you something about Dad.”

  She rinses a plate. “What is it?”

  “Did you ever think . . . I mean, did you ever think that you were too different? You know, for things to work out?”

  “Interesting question.”

  She’s probably wondering where it came from. Of course, I could never tell her. What am I supposed to say? That I have way more in common with Jason than Erin does so I should be with him instead? Or since they don’t have as much in common, why are they together?

  “Well,” Mom says, “some differences are important in a relationship. I don’t think it’s healthy for two people to spend all of their time together. That said, you definitely need to share some common interests. It’s the things you have in common that connect you.”

  “But don’t you guys have way more differences than similarities?”

  “Maybe. But a few big similarities are more important than lots of little differences. You have to think about what’s most important to you. If those things are most important to the person you’re with, then you have the basis for a strong relationship. The small things don’t matter as much.” Mom looks over at Dad, snoring away on the couch. “I know it doesn’t always seem like we’re on the same page, but you have nothing to worry about. Your dad and I still love each other.”

  “Uh, that’s—”

  “Nothing’s going to change.”

  It’s like Mom thinks I’m asking because I’m scared they’re going to get divorced or something. If I had the energy, I might explain that I’m not asking about them. But then she’d want to know why I’m asking, and then what would I say?

  I don’t know if Erin and Jason have enough important things connecting them. All I know is, Jason and I connect on so many different levels that it’s like a whole new plane of existence. We have the kind of connection my parents can’t even imagine. Or maybe they can, they just never found it.

  If the psychic was right, I’ll have more than one great love in my lifetime. Which means I’ll get another chance. But is that any reason to throw my first chance away?

  22

  Here’s the number-one reason why my summer job rules: I’m a berry freak. I have love for them in this order: raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries. I get these crazy cravings for them in the winter. Sometimes I even have these drea
ms where I’m right here at the berry patch, picking basket after basket like a fruit-starved maniac.

  I’ve been helping a little girl pick raspberries for half an hour. She came with her older sister, but her older sister found something she liked more than berries. His name is Greg. Because of course Greg works here. He hates every minute of it, though. It’s obvious that this is the only job he could find, the way he’s constantly complaining about working outside in the broiling heat. I avoid the negative stressball that is Greg as much as possible.

  “Try not to pick any soggy berries,” I advise the girl. “Or ones with leaves.”

  When I get into the Berry Picking Zone, I kind of space out. I think about other things, working on automatic. I’ve been trying to avoid the Berry Picking Zone this summer. Especially today. Jason is all I try not to think about. Danielle invited me to this picnic at Green Pond, but I didn’t go. I know Jason’s a lifeguard there. I could probably find out what days he works and avoid going on those days. Or I could just not go there for the whole summer.

  But What If? What if I’m doing the wrong thing? Is it really our fate to be apart?

  After the sisters leave, I walk out deep into the field, away from everyone else. Right here, in the middle of everything, with the sweet summer breeze rustling through the leaves, I make a wish. I wish for the Energy to reveal my fate. To give me a sign if my fate is to be with Jason. And I promise myself that if I get a sign, I won’t avoid the truth anymore.

  23

  Being lazy in the summer rules. It’s awesome how everything slows down so you don’t have to rush anywhere. It’s like there’s this unwritten agreement among everyone that it’s okay to do nothing. The most strenuous activity I did today was making watermelon juice with Mom. Okay, she did most of the work. She got the watermelons at the green market and lugged them home and cut them up. But I was in charge of blending and straining. The taste of watermelon changes when you put it in the juicer, so we never do that. We also made watermelon, honeydew, and cantaloupe popsicles. Those are the best on scorching days like today.

  It is such a major relief to not have any homework for the next two months. What would we do without summer vacay? Revolt, probably. It feels so decadent to have the entire summer ahead of me, a whole two months of staying up late and doing whatever I want. Like today, how I’m lazing in the hammock out in the backyard, reading the glossy magazines I love and drinking fresh watermelon juice. I should be totally blissed out.

  There’s just one problem.

  I miss Jason.

  It’s been five days since I wished for my sign. Nothing’s happened yet. Maybe nothing will. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It just feels like something’s missing. Like there’s more to life that I haven’t found yet.

  “Transatlanticism” plays on my iPod for the third time.

  I need you so much closer . . .

  I need you so much closer . . .

  The porch door slides closed, snapping me out of my day-dreams. Mom wants me to get some things at the supermarket. Dad’s not home, so I can’t take his car. Which means I have to take the ancient stick shift.

  I hate driving stick.

  Dad’s a patient guy. But when he was teaching me how to drive, there was this one time when he almost lost it. I was still learning how to shift without stalling in the middle of the street. Merging was completely hopeless. I’m terrified of merging. Merging is for people who can go out into the world and take charge. Merging is for people who laugh at fear. Merging is not for people who truly believe a truck will ram into them and flatten their car right when they get on the highway.

  The day Dad almost lost it, I was creeping up on the road that feeds out onto the highway. He was like, “Get some speed going here.”

  I reluctantly pressed down on the gas pedal. I wished really hard that I was at home instead, but I was still in the car.

  Then it was time to merge. My heart rattled.

  “Get ready to merge,” Dad went. Like it was nothing. Like he was saying, “Get ready for school.” I wondered why he didn’t know how traumatic merging was for me.

  My arms and legs were shaking. My pulse raced.

  I couldn’t do it.

  “What are you doing?” Dad yelled. “Merge!”

  “I can’t merge!” I yelled back. Cars honked behind us. We were next in line to merge. I just couldn’t move into all of that speeding traffic.

  “What the—? Pull over up here,” Dad instructed. When we were pulled over, he went ballistic, saying how I could get myself killed if I’m too tentative. I’ve never seen him lose his temper that bad.

  All the streets to the supermarket are tame, so my stress level remains tolerable. Even though it’s an easy drive, I still manage to stall twice. At least no one’s around to witness my lacking stick skills.

  Mom’s grocery list is all last-minute barbecue stuff. We have a party every summer for our neighbors. I usually hang out with this girl who lives up the street. We’re not really friends. Everyone else who comes is either way older or way younger. It’s not exactly a rager.

  Most of the vegetables we’re using for the salad and for grilling are from our garden. But there are a few things Mom doesn’t grow, like cucumbers. So I’m inspecting the cucumbers for ones that are firm and medium green.

  Someone comes over and picks up a cucumber. He taps it against the one I’m holding. This flash of annoyance cuts through me. I hate when guys bother me in random places. Especially creepy ones.

  Then I realize that the cucumber tapper is Jason.

  “Is this a good one?” he says. “I can never tell with these things.”

  “Cucumbers can be tricky.”

  “Is that what these are? I’m in the wrong place then.”

  “You got lost in the supermarket?”

  “Must have taken a wrong turn around the Pop-Tarts. I was looking for raspberries.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard of raspberries? They’re awesome. How could you not know about them?”

  “I know about them.”

  I must look totally freaked out. It’s just so weird for him to say raspberries out of all the possible things he could have said. When I was just standing in the middle of all those raspberries a few days ago, wishing that my fate would reveal itself.

  Obviously, it just did.

  Jason’s like, “Are you okay?”

  I nod. There are no words.

  “You sure?”

  I nod some more.

  “So . . . I have news,” Jason goes.

  “Is it good news or bad news?”

  “Um, I’d say it’s relative.”

  “How is it relative to me?”

  “Hopefully, good news.”

  “Then I’m ready.” I put the cucumber I was squeezing into my cart. I never knew being this nervous was possible.

  “Okay, well . . . have you heard from Erin lately?”

  “Yeah.” I’m trying to remember when I got her letter. She’s been gone for less than two weeks and I’ve only gotten one letter so far. I’ve sent her two already. “I got a letter from her three days ago.”

  “So she didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Jason’s eyes go dark green. “We broke up.”

  “Oh.”

  “So . . . yeah.”

  I want to ask things like who broke up with whom and why and when and how.

  I ask none of these things.

  Is he telling me this because he wants to go out with me? Doesn’t he know that’s impossible?

  “Anyway,” Jason says, “I just thought you should know.”

  I nod some more.

  “We should hang out sometime.”

  “Yeah.” I really want to. “Definitely.” I really, really want to. But what would I tell Erin? In her letter she said I should hang out with Jason since she knows how you can get so isolated around here, but now everything’s different. There’s no way
she would have written that now.

  “Hey, so, can you explain about these cucumbers?” Jason says. “How do you know which ones are good?”

  “Just don’t pick any squishy ones and you’ll be fine.”

  “Wow. I never knew it was that simple.”

  I check my list. “I have to get mayonnaise,” I inform my shopping cart.

  “I can watch your stuff if you want.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I leave my cart with Jason and go hunt down the mayonnaise. He must want to talk some more. Why else would he stay with my cart like that, when I could just wheel it over here myself?

  The Energy is definitely bringing us together. Even when I was getting dressed this morning, it was strategizing. I live in these little sundresses all summer. I wear either a dress or shorts and a tank top pretty much every day. Today, I didn’t reach for just any dress like I usually do. Something told me to put on my cutest one, which I hardly ever wear.

  When I get back, Jason holds up a cucumber. “I found the best one.” He looks extremely proud of himself.

  I test the cucumber. “You’re right. It is the best one. I better get it.” I drop it in my cart. “Well . . . I should—”

  “No, I have to go, too. It’s not like I can stand around selecting produce all day.”

  I bite my lip.

  “Jase, can you give me a hand?” his mom says, wheeling her cart over. I remember her from when we went to Jason’s to make certificates after mentoring. “Oh, hi Lani. How are you?”

  “Good,” I say. I can’t believe she remembers my name. I’ve only seen her that one time.

  “One sec, Mom,” Jason goes. Then he says to me, “So . . . I’ll see you around?”

  “Okay.”

  I lurch the car home in a daze. I unpack the groceries in a daze. I’m half unpacking, half staring out the window. Dad’s in the backyard trying to figure out how the new environmentally friendlier barbecue works.

  When I lift the cucumbers out of the bag, a piece of paper falls on the counter. I have no idea what it is.

  After I unfold it, everything is clear.

  Intelligence. Many issues sunshine sometimes. Yellow orange underneath.