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Chapter Twenty-One
Seb
It’sanoverloadtothe senses when you first walk in to Scoopies: everything is teal, gold, or white marble. Way too fancy for an ice cream shop. But the other two less-bougie ice cream joints in town close for the season after Labor Day. So, it’s Scoopies or nothing.
I convince Caroline to let me order. Not like it’s a hard thing to do; she’s been pretty skittish this whole evening. Funny, since she’s such a hardass when she’s annoyed or anytime we’re talking over texts or whatever. I think it’s just around people from SH Prep. Like possibly whoever those assholes are who made fun of her really did a number on her, and now she’s just nervous around everyone from school. Which is too bad, because this girl is one of the most interesting people I’ve hung out with. You literally have no idea what’s going to come out of her mouth at any moment. And the shit she knows? It’s wild. I get bored easily, and I doubt I could ever get bored around Caroline Heinz.
Once I’ve got our order, I place the tray on our table and slide into the seat across from her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I tell her, as she eyes the contents of the tray dubiously. “But give me three minutes, and I swear your mind will be blown.”
I remove everything from the tray, then start breaking up the four different waffle cones into chip-size pieces, which I spread out around the edges of the tray. Then I spoon the four flavors of ice cream from their individual bowls and pile them into the middle of the tray. After that, I scatter the various candies I ordered over the entire tray. And finally, I drizzle caramel and chocolate sauce over the entire concoction.
“Check it.” I spread my arms. “Ice cream nachos!” I grin as her own lips lift into a smile.
“Wow. That’s awesome. Where did you even hear about that?”
“I invented it when I was a kid.” I scoop a large mound of ice cream onto a wafer chip. “Looks like you’re not the only genius in this town, huh?” I wink at her as I take my first bite.
And she laughs again. She looks different when she laughs. Like she isn’t guarded and judgey, or worried someone’s gonna talk shit about her every other second. It’s too bad she doesn’t laugh more.
Maybe I’ll make that my new goal. To make Caroline Heinz laugh more.
That, and pass all my classes.
And not get kicked off the football team.
And get out of the meeting Dale made for me with the shrink.
We spend the next hour eating ice cream nachos and talking. Laughing a bunch, too. She even sneaks in some review stuff for civics and history, until I call her out on it. I don’t mind too much, though. She makes a lot of school stuff way more interesting than most of the teachers at SH Prep.
By the time I’ve dropped her back home, Scarr’s calling me again for like the fifth time tonight. I pick up just as I’m pulling out of Caro’s driveway.
“What’s up, girl?”
“Can you meet up right now?”
The clock on the dash shows it’s only eight forty. “Sure. Everything ok?”
“I’m craving a Hooks shake.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you kidding me right now? That’s why you’ve been texting and calling me nonstop for the past two hours?”
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “It was maybe two texts and two calls.”
“For a milkshake.”
“Forget it. I’ll go on my own.”
I laugh. “Don’t go getting your knickers all in a twist. I’ll pick you up in five.”
When I turn onto Scarlett’s Street, there are about ten news vans parked alongside her house, and I’m freaking out—because what the hell? And why didn’t Scarr say something about this when she called? You know, besides telling me she was all hot and bothered for a Hooks chocolate-mint shake.
As I pull up, I realize it isn’t her house the reporters are swarming, it’s her neighbors’, The Brauns, who are best friends with Scarr’s family. I breathe a little easier. I’m still kind of weirded out, though. Then Scarlett appears at her front door and jogs down the wide steps toward the circular driveway where I’m parked. A couple of reporters spot her and start scrambling toward her so I jump out and lead her to my Jeep, shielding her body with mine and sticking my hand out at the cameras, forcing them to keep their distance.
This whole thing is weird as hell.
I start the engine as soon as we’re both in the car and speed off, not slowing until we reach Ocean Drive. Once we’re going the speed limit, Scarr explains that the reporters are there about her neighbor and his son. And then I remember the huge story that broke about a month ago, that I’d kind of forgotten about. Which is funny, because it’s honest to God the craziest thing to ever happen in this town. Other than the time some woman shot Silas Carmichael’s parents in their home seven years ago. But that was in Allerston Lake, about forty-five miles from here.
