Free Reunion by Meg Cabot

Dominic, who had ever guessed — then I knew perfectly well who it was.
    And it wasn’t Michael Meducci.

Chapter
Seven
     
     
    Not that Michael didn’t try.
    The next morning he was waiting for me in the parking lot as Gina, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, and I stumbled out of the Rambler and started making our way toward our various lines for assembly. Michael asked if he could carry my books. Telling myself that the RLS Angels could show up at any time and attempt to murder him again, I let him. Better to keep an eye on him, I thought, than to let him wander into God only knew what.
    Still, it wasn’t all that fun. Behind us, Dopey kept doing a very convincing imitation of someone throwing up.
    And later, at lunch, which I traditionally spend with Adam and CeeCee — though this particular day, since Gina was in our midst, we had been joined by her groupies, Sleepy, Dopey, and about a half dozen boys I didn’t know, each of whom was vying desperately for Gina’s attention — Michael asked if he could join us. Again, I had no choice but to say yes.
    And then when, strolling toward the Rambler after school, it was suggested that we use the next four or five hours of daylight to its best advantage by doing our homework at the beach, Michael must have been nearby. How else could he have known to show up at Carmel Beach, beach chair in tow, an hour later?
    “Oh, God,” Gina said from her beach towel. “Don’t look now, but your one true love approach-eth.”
    I looked. And stifled a groan. And rolled over to make room for him.
    “Are you mental?” CeeCee demanded, which was an interesting question coming from her, considering the fact that she was seated in the shade of a beach umbrella — no big deal, and perfectly understandable, considering the number of times she’d been taken to the hospital with sun poisoning.
    But she was also wearing a rain hat — the brim of which she’d pulled well down — long pants, and a long-sleeved T. Gina, stretched out in the sun beside her like a Nubian princess, had lifted a casual brow and inquired, “Who are you supposed to be? Gilligan?”
    “I mean it, Suze,” CeeCee said as Michael came nearer. “You better nip this one in the bud, and fast.”
    “I can’t,” I grumbled, shifting my textbooks over in the sand to make room for Michael and his beach chair.
    “What do you mean, you
can’t
?” CeeCee inquired. “You had no trouble telling Adam to get lost these past two months. Not,” she added, her gaze straying toward the waves where all the guys, including Adam, were surfing, “that I don’t appreciate it.”
    “It’s a long story,” I said.
    “I hope you aren’t doing it because you feel sorry for him about that whole thing with his sister,” CeeCee said grumpily. “Not to mention those dead kids.”
    “Shut up, will you,” I said. “He’s coming.”
    And then he was there, dropping his stuff all over the place, spilling cold soda on Gina’s back, and taking an inordinately long time to figure out how his beach chair worked. I bore it as well as I could, telling myself,
You are all that is keeping him from becoming a geek pancake.
    But I gotta tell you, it was sort of hard to believe, out there in the sun, that anything bad — like vengeance-minded ghosts — even existed. Everything was just so…right.
    At least until Adam, claiming he needed a break — but really, I noticed, taking the opportunity to plunge down into the sand next to us and show off his four or five chest hairs — threw down his board. Then Michael looked up from his calculus book — he was taking senior math and science classes — and said, “Mind if I borrow that?”
    Adam, the easiest-going of men, shrugged and said, “Be my guest. Wave face is kinda flat, but you might be able to pick off some clean ones. Water’s cold, though. Better take my suit.”
    Then, as Gina, CeeCee, and I watched with mild interest, Adam unzipped his wetsuit, stepped out of it and, dressed only in