Free Reunion by Meg Cabot Page A

of what she said after that bit about you being a mediator. You were in shock. Oh, look. Here comes that…cat.”
    Gina avoided, I noticed, supplying any descriptives for Spike, who climbed in through the open window, then stalked over to his food bowl and cried to be fed. Apparently, the memory of what had happened the last time she’d called the cat a name—the thing with the fingernail polish—was still fresh in Gina’s mind. As fresh, apparently, as what that psychic had said all those years ago.
    One love that would last until the end of time.
    I realized, as I picked up Spike’s bag of food, that my palms had broken out into a cold sweat.
    â€œWouldn’t you die,” Gina asked, “if it turned out your one true love was Michael Meducci?”
    â€œTotally,” I replied, automatically.
    But it wasn’t. If it was true—and I had no reason to doubt it, since Madame Zara had been right about the mediator thing, the only person in the world with the exception of Father 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 spendwith 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?
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œAre 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 brimof 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?”
    â€œI mean it, Suze,” CeeCee said as Michael came nearer. “You better nip this one in the bud, and fast.”
    â€œI can’t,” I grumbled, shifting my textbooks over in the sand to make room for Michael and his beach chair.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œIt’s a long story,” I said.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œShut up, will you,” I