Kristen. Part 1

Kristen.

by Lisi Harrison.

For you

THE BAXTERS' SUMMER RENTAL WESTCHESTER, NY.

Friday, July 17 11:43 A.M.

"Rate me."

"No."

"Come on, Ms. Gregory. Rate meeee."

"No."

"Kris-ten! Come on, pleeeease. You always rate Ma.s.sie."

"That's different!"

"Just say a number."

"Fine. Nine Nine."

"Ehmagawd! I'm a nine!" Ripple Baxter hugged the sh.e.l.l-framed mirror on the living room wall of her father's sea-inspired Westchester summer rental. "I knew this pink snakeskin headband was a must." She petted her deep-fried blond hair.

"Correction." Kristen Gregory sat on the wood-plank floor, then placed her over-sweetened lemonade on the nicked surfboard coffee table. "It's not your score. It's your age age. You're nine nine. You have to be twelve or older to qualify for a rating." Kristen leered at Ripple from across the musty furnished-by-garage-sale cottage. "Speaking of nine, did you know it's the square root of eighty-one?"

Ignoring her, Ripple turned sideways and examined her new outfit. A long, pale pink hoodie, meant to cover the hips, practically swallowed the top two thirds of her short, muscular frame. Her knees could have easily been mistaken for extremely saggy b.o.o.bs, had her purple rhinestonecovered flip-flops not been so close.

"Ripple, your dad is paying me to teach you math and if you don't-"

"Ms. Gregory, he does not, not, not not care about care about math math." Ripple fluffed the dark lashes around her light brown eyes. "All he cares about are waves. He just wants someone to look after me so he can drive out to Long Island and surf. You're more like a tutor-sitter. Heavy on the 'sitter.'"

Funny. Lately Kristen felt heavy heavy on everything. How could she not? While she was sweating in a six-week summer school program, Ma.s.sie was in Southampton, Alicia was in Spain, and Dylan was in Hawaii. Even Claire had left town. True, she'd gone back to Orland- on everything. How could she not? While she was sweating in a six-week summer school program, Ma.s.sie was in Southampton, Alicia was in Spain, and Dylan was in Hawaii. Even Claire had left town. True, she'd gone back to Orland-ew, but it was better than tutor-sitting a bratty nine-year-old for eighth-grade wardrobe money. When would it be her her turn to make memories? And when would Ripple stop calling her- turn to make memories? And when would Ripple stop calling her- "Ms. Gregory!" Ripple flipped up her pink hood and checked her reflection in the mirror again. "The only thing you can teach me is how to be be Ma.s.sie Block." Ma.s.sie Block."

"You could start by lowering that hood," Kristen blurted, then immediately hate-pinched her own leg for encouraging the little wannabe.

Ripple did as she was told, then reached into her Coach Heritage Stripe Swingpack knockoff and pulled out ten plastic purple bangles. Glued around them was a white price tag that said 5 FOR FOR $2. "Left or right?" She lifted her wrists. "WWMD?" $2. "Left or right?" She lifted her wrists. "WWMD?"

Kristen stood and shuffled across the uneven wood floor in Steve Madden cork wedges, her pleated Diesel denim mini swaying below her tight yellow Lacoste halter. "Ma.s.sie wouldn't do either either!" She grabbed Ripple's soon-to-be-bangled wrists and pulled her back to the coffee table. "They're H&M H&M!"

"Well, then, what would would she do?" Ripple widened her light brown eyes in antic.i.p.ation and propped her elbows on the surfboard table. she do?" Ripple widened her light brown eyes in antic.i.p.ation and propped her elbows on the surfboard table.

Kristen squeezed the gold Coach locket Ma.s.sie had sent her for her birthday-complete with a group photo of the Pretty Committee inside-and thought, What What would would Ma.s.sie do? Ma.s.sie do? But not being an alpha, Kristen wasn't completely sure. But not being an alpha, Kristen wasn't completely sure.

"She would do her homework, okay okay?" Kristen lied, flipping open Ripple's crisp, unused math textbook. "Now, if a carton of eggs was one-fifty yesterday and is fifty percent off today, how much are the eggs? A, a dollar; B, two twenty-five; or C, seventy-five cents?"

Ripple plopped down on the green and blue Hawaiian printcovered futon, annoyed. "Why won't you help help me?" me?"

"Because it's illegal to help a stalker." Kristen ran her hand along her stubbly calf, thinking that the best part of her pathetic day might be the leg-shave bath she had scheduled before bed.

"I am not, not, not not a stalker!" Ripple whipped the purple bangles across the room. They bounced twice before settling into a cheap plastic heap. a stalker!" Ripple whipped the purple bangles across the room. They bounced twice before settling into a cheap plastic heap.

"Then focus and answer the question!" Kristen shouted, grateful that they were the only ones home.

"Wait, I have a better question." Ripple sniffled. "If your three-week crush told you surf chicks were 'cute 'n' all'"-she air-quoted-"but that some sophisticated older girl named Ma.s.sie Block was super hot, what would you you do?" She stood and paced. "Would you A, want to figure out the price of eggs; B, stay true to your surfer roots; or C, ask your dad to hire you the summer math tutor who just happens to be Ma.s.sie's BFF?" do?" She stood and paced. "Would you A, want to figure out the price of eggs; B, stay true to your surfer roots; or C, ask your dad to hire you the summer math tutor who just happens to be Ma.s.sie's BFF?"

Kristen's stomach lurched. "You're using me for Ma.s.sie info?"

Ripple smeared glittery pink drugstore gloss on her droopy bottom lip. "It's not using if you're paying."

Kristen felt dizzy. In that very instant, her entire world had just been turned upside down and dumped like a giant handbag. Yes, she was getting paid, but that was supposed to be for her alpha mind, nawt her alpha friend. So what made her her special now? Once again, being Ma.s.sie's BFF was her only claim to fame. Her intelligence was meaningless. special now? Once again, being Ma.s.sie's BFF was her only claim to fame. Her intelligence was meaningless. Gawd! Gawd! If the game Rock, Paper, Scissors were real life, it would be called Brains, Beauty, Brawn. And Beauty would beat Brains and Brawn every time. If the game Rock, Paper, Scissors were real life, it would be called Brains, Beauty, Brawn. And Beauty would beat Brains and Brawn every time.

Someone kicked the front door open. "h.e.l.lo? Anyone home?" A thick beam of sunlight seeped inside the dark cabin. There stood a s.h.i.+rtless boy. It was as if he'd been summoned by G.o.d and delivered by angels.

"Dune?" Ripple ran to greet her brother. "What're ya doin' home?"

The thirteen-year-old surf star dropped his salty backpack and took off his white straw fedora. Blond hair the color of Baked Lays swung above his shoulders as he lovingly hugged his sister back.

Awwww.

"Coach kicked me off the team." He shrugged like someone who cared but didn't want anyone to know.

"Why?"

"Last night, the Atlantic was all lit up with phosph.o.r.escence. It was past curfew, but I had to paddle out and-"

"In the dark dark?" Ripple gasped, finally sounding like a nine-year-old.

"It was totally worth it." He rubbed his bare chest. "I caught a six-foot left and the water was glowing all green and everyone came out to watch and-" He stepped down the single step that led to the sunken living room and plucked a plastic McIntosh from a bowl of fake fruit on the rickety end table. "Who's this?" He tossed the red apple in the air and caught it.

Kristen's skin stung the way it had when Princ.i.p.al Burns announced, to the entire school, that she had been named captain of the soccer team. He looked right at her, and she blushed as though there were a hundred of him.

"Hey, I'm-"

"Oh, this is Ms. Gregory, my tutor." Ripple flirt-knocked the apple out of Dune's hand and giggled when it rolled across the floor.

"Stop calling me that!" Kristen reddened again, this time from rage. She was nawt going to be used and humiliated by a nine nine-year-old. As soon as their father came home, she was going to quit. Westchester was packed with mathtards. She'd find someone new to tutor by sundown-someone with air-conditioning and decent snacks.

"Hey." He snicker-waved, unsure what to call her. "I'm Dune."

Kristen remembered seeing him at Briarwood's wave pool dedication ceremony last spring, but she'd been so distracted by her then-crush Griffin Hastings, she hadn't noticed what a perfect hang-ten Dune was.

Ehmagawd! Kristen swallowed hard. Did she actually just think that? Whenever she had super-cheesy thoughts like "a perfect hang-ten," she was entering crush mode. "You can call me-" Kristen swallowed hard. Did she actually just think that? Whenever she had super-cheesy thoughts like "a perfect hang-ten," she was entering crush mode. "You can call me-"

"Ripple!" Dune suddenly noticed his sister's pink headband, matching sweats.h.i.+rt, and purple rhinestone flip-flops. "What are you getting tutored in? Looking like an OCDiva?"

Kristen gasped silently. Was that what the surf guys called the girls from Octavian Country Day School.

"Trying," Ripple admitted shamelessly. "And please, from now on, call me Ra.s.sie. Like Ma.s.sie Ma.s.sie, but with an R R."

Dune hiked up his slouching gold and brown board shorts. "It makes more sense if you lose the R R."

Ripple whipped a stuffed starfish at his defined shoulders. For the first time in her life, Kristen envied a beige pillow.

"New York sucks." Dune tugged at the shark tooth necklace hanging around his neck, his mood s.h.i.+fting faster than the tides. "I can't believe I'm gonna be landlocked in Westchester all summer."

Just then a large, fit older man padded through the open door, his bare, callused feet slapping against the dark floors like tap shoes. He clapped Dune on the shoulder. "Whose fault is that, son?"

"Dad!" Their s.h.i.+rtless chests slapped as they came together for a hug.

Brice Baxter smiled and ruffled his son's long straight hair. He wore camouflage trunks and a faded yellow DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY baseball cap. "Now go grab your boards. We're going barge surfing." baseball cap. "Now go grab your boards. We're going barge surfing."

"But I just styled my hair!" Ripple whined, petting her scalp.

Her father chuckled, never suspecting that his tomboy daughter could have been serious.

"So you're not mad I'm back?" Dune said to the fallen apple on the floor. "Because I sure am."

"Nah." Brice pulled his cap lower. "Your mother will be mad. But that's why we got divorced. That woman cannot go with the flow. I would have been mad if you pa.s.sed up phosph.o.r.escent surf. Besides, the Tavarua trip is coming up. Enjoy the break while you can."

"I guess." Dune's sad brown eyes beamed respect and love for his father.

"You surf, Kristen?" Brice asked, the crispy corners of his hazel eyes scrunching with genuine hospitality. "Because I've been teaching for eighteen years, and I can have you standing by-"

"Um, no. I'm more of a soccer person," she blurted, making it perfectly clear that she was far from an OCDiva.

"Then tell your parents you won't be home for dinner." He rested his arm on her sunburned shoulder. "The Baxters are gonna teach you how to surf."

Without hesitation, Kristen texted her parents, then followed the Baxters out to their blue Chevy Avalanche. Maybe she could give her job one more chance . . . for poor Ripple, of course.

LONG ISLAND SOUND.

WATERWAY MARINA.

Friday, July 17 1:28 P.M.

"Okay, kiddos, see that barge over there?" Brice called from the helm of Old Man Old Man, his buddy's twelve-foot floater. He pointed to the east, the top of his tanned shoulder creasing like a worn leather flat.

Kristen lifted the brim on her moss green and white Chanel bucket hat and searched the middle of the Long Island Sound. Could the floating garbage truck three hundred meters away possibly possibly be the barge he was referring to? Even its slow-churning wake looked stinky. be the barge he was referring to? Even its slow-churning wake looked stinky.

She quickly added a third coat of Clarins SPF 30. The first two were to protect her fair skin from the sun's harmful rays. The last one was to keep the poll-ew-tion out.

"Once that baby's close enough, you kids can ride her waves all the way back to Westchester."

"Aiyyyyyyyyyeeeeeee!" Dune yelled, tying his blond hair back with a putty-colored rubber band.

"I told you, I am not, not, not not going in there!" Ripple cried, dumping three bottles of O.P.I. nail polish out of her peach Wet Seal tote and onto her blue striped towel. "Ma.s.sie would never touch the same water as a gah-ross rat-raft . . . going in there!" Ripple cried, dumping three bottles of O.P.I. nail polish out of her peach Wet Seal tote and onto her blue striped towel. "Ma.s.sie would never touch the same water as a gah-ross rat-raft . . . would would she?" Her wide eyes filled with hope as they met Kristen's, as if praying for Ma.s.sie to have a secret love of barge surfing or a fondness for wading in estuaries. she?" Her wide eyes filled with hope as they met Kristen's, as if praying for Ma.s.sie to have a secret love of barge surfing or a fondness for wading in estuaries.

Puh-lease!

Kristen delighted in shaking her head no.

Ripple gazed out at the navy blue water and sighed. "Didn't think so."

"Suit yourself," Dune said, waxing his pomegranate red Channel Islands surfboard. "Catch!" He threw a faded black wet suit to Kristen. "I hope it's to your liking," he added with a smirk, nodding at the CC logo on her hat and the alligator on her yellow halter, as if mocking and daring her at the same time.

Ehmagawd! Kristen wanted to shout. Kristen wanted to shout. I ne-ver buy Chanel. I can't afford it. Ma.s.sie gave me this hat because she said my straw Club Monaco was more like a Club Monac-oh-no-you-dizn't. And I have to wear something on my head or I'll get fried. And this halter isn't even real! I bought a pudding-stained Lacoste polo at the Salvation Army, unst.i.tched the alligator, and sewed it on this J. Crew tank. I do that all the time!!! I'm really poor and down-to-earth, like you. I ne-ver buy Chanel. I can't afford it. Ma.s.sie gave me this hat because she said my straw Club Monaco was more like a Club Monac-oh-no-you-dizn't. And I have to wear something on my head or I'll get fried. And this halter isn't even real! I bought a pudding-stained Lacoste polo at the Salvation Army, unst.i.tched the alligator, and sewed it on this J. Crew tank. I do that all the time!!! I'm really poor and down-to-earth, like you.

But instead she caught the stiff black jumper and tried not to gag on the salty rubber smell.

"Thanks." She smiled proudly, hoping he'd noticed her stellar hand-eye coordination.

His wink showed that he had.

All Kristen could do to hide her blus.h.i.+ng cheeks and silence her pounding heart was hurry behind the flapping sails and squeeze into the tight neoprene casing.

"You guys are so un un," Ripple sighed from her towel. She slid a pair of blush pink knockoff Diors over her heavily shadowed eyes and leaned back on her elbows.

"Un-what?" Dune stood over his sister, intentionally casting a buff shadow over her ivory linencovered body.

"Uneverything that's cool." Ripple sat up and jammed a blue foam toe separator between her jagged toenails, then shook a bottle of coral polish.

Dune gave his father a mischievous smile. Brice nodded once, then quickly dropped the anchor into the water with a plop. He raced toward his daughter and, without a single word, grabbed Ripple's legs while Dune gripped her underarms.

"What are you doooooo-"

They carried her toward the edge of the boat while she kicked and flailed like a hooked fish.

"Noooooooo," she pleaded. "I just got this beach cover-up!"

Kristen covered her open mouth-hiding her amus.e.m.e.nt from Ripple and her shock from Dune.

They swung her once and her gla.s.ses fell overboard. Twice and her hair band was gone. The third time they let her go.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Ripple sailed over the rope railings, her blue foam toe separators still intact.

Brice high-fived his son while Kristen finished zipping up her wet suit and hurried to the boat's edge, careful not to get too close to them, just in case she was next.