Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“It’s not for you, Jenou. I heard someone say, I don’t know who, some wise man, or some snake oil salesman, whoever, anyway . . . I heard somewhere that you make a choice in life between tragedy and comedy.”

“It’s a choice?”

“Well, you can’t choose what happens. You can’t even really choose how you’re going to feel about it, I guess. But you can choose how to cope with it.”

Jenou nods her head. “You’re becoming deep, Rio.”

“Am I?”

“Very deep.”

Rio raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It just seems that way because I’ve always been so shallow.”

“Nonsense. I’m the shallow one. I insist that I am more shallow than you.”

“Rachel was not shallow. She was always different, not like me. Rachel had ambition and goals and . . . ideas.” She shrugs again. “She was so definite. Do you know what I mean? I feel . . . I mean, I never had to think about—”

She’s interrupted by the loud crash of a dropped glass behind the counter. Strand looks up at the sound, sees Rio, and smiles.

“Never had to think about what?” Jenou prompts.

“Oh, I don’t know. About the future. Life. You know. I mean, who am I, anyway? I’m just some silly girl. I was Rachel’s little sister, and your less-pretty friend. But—”

“You are not less pretty,” Jenou says, reaching over to pat her hand. “You’re just less sexy.” She whispers the last word, earning one of Rio’s slow-build grins, which in turn causes Jenou to giggle, which causes the boys to turn around, their eyes and bodies all eagerness and energy.

“See? That was a sexy giggle,” Jenou says. “Shall I teach it to you?”

Rio throws a small french fry at Jenou.

Thank God for Jenou.

“I guess if I was ever to enlist it would be in the army,” Jenou says. There’s a false note to her nonchalance that pricks Rio’s interest.

“You enlist? They’ll have to draft you, Jen, and then hunt you down with a net.”

Jenou does not immediately laugh. Rio sets down her burger and leans forward. “Jen?”

“Did I mention that this town is really boring?”

“Jenou Castain, what are you thinking?”

“Well, everyone knows sooner or later this war goes to France, which means Paris. Haven’t you always wanted to see Paris? City of lights? City of love? City of lovers? City of my rich and handsome future husband? You know, I come from French stock.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it a hundred times, but, Jen, are you serious?” Jenou has always craved travel, especially to romantic France. She has always—well, since age twelve anyway—insisted on the French pronunciation of her name. Not a solid American j sound like jump, but a soft zh. Zhenou. Or Zhen for short. Jenou.

Jenou looks up from her burger with the slyly defiant expression Rio has seen on many occasions, most often occasions that end with Jenou on the wrong end of a stern lecture from parents or from the pastor or even, on one occasion, from the chief of police.

“You haven’t thought of it?” Jenou asks.

“Me? I’ve got months before I’m of legal age and—”

“Oh, do you really think you couldn’t get around that?” Jenou puts on her most worldly-wise face. “Where there’s a will there’s an eraser and a typewriter. Easiest thing in the world.”

“My mother would lock me in the barn with her cows.” Rio makes a joke of it, forcing an unsteady laugh. But she doesn’t shut the conversation down. She feels like a trout must feel after realizing there’s a hook inside that tasty worm.

But then Strand looks over at her, and it’s more than an arguably accidental glance this time—it’s a look. Which Rio returns as boldly as she is able.

“I guess she would,” Jenou allows. “But your little cutie-pie Strand?”