Summer
There’s a moment in the party where it’s so crowded and loud that I retreat down the back hall, away from the people and music for a bit of quiet and air. I bump into Isabel in the hallway across from my mom’s office. She barely gives me a second look. I walk into the kitchen and see Pete rummaging through the refrigerator.
I pause when I see him, still rattled from the information earlier in the day. I’d been convinced Pete was leaving me the notes and flowers, but there was no way he was sending the postcards.
“Hey,” he says when his head lifts from behind the refrigerator door. He steps back with a Mountain Dew in his hand. Anita ordered Coke and Sprite but Pete’s a Pepsi guy.
“Hi,” I say, feeling my hesitation but trying hard to push through. Whatever’s going on, tonight is not the night to confront it.
“Everything seems to be going great. Your mom is totally in her element.”
“She’s great with the fans,” I agree. “Even the die-hards like Avery or the not-so-interesteds like Jessica and Isabel.”
“Yeah, Isabel was just snooping around back here. I told her to scram.”
I raise an eyebrow. “She wasn’t back here flirting with you?”
“Me?” he shakes his head and a dark curl flops in his eyes. “It’s well-known Isabel is interested in one guy: Whit. She’s been following him around for years.” He looks me up and down. “But even if she was, you know I’ve only got eyes for one girl.”
It’s hard for me not to go to him. I trust Pete, but…
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“You spaced out for a minute.”
This is dumb. I should just ask him. If Pete’s sending me creepy letters, what bette
r place to confront him than here with a bunch of people around? “Something is bugging me, actually.”
He frowns. “What’s that?”
“Something weird happened at the trailer today. I was with Shay and there was this yellow flower—”
“Shit. Did it happen again? I’m so sorry, babe, I meant to come back and fix that screen in the bathroom and totally forgot. Juggling the internship and marina got me all screwed up.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“The tear in your bathroom window screen? I came by the other day and saw something had torn the screen and left a mess on your bed. A shredded flower or something. I cleaned it up and tossed it.”
“So you didn’t leave the flowers?”
“No.”
“Or a note?”
“What note?”
With a hammering heart, I walk across the room and pull a piece of paper off a pad on the counter. I hand him the paper and a pen. In a falsely even voice I say, “Do me a favor. Write ‘good luck tonight’ on that.”
He gives me a crazy look but does as I ask. His lettering is actually pretty legible, not the scrawl from the note on my door or the ones left on my bed. “Like that?”
I take the paper, and the fears and worries come rushing back. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Summer, what’s going on?” he asks, but I’ve already left the kitchen, walking back to the party to keep an eye on my mom.
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