Free Reunion by Meg Cabot Page B

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 Icould, 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 swim trunks, handed the black rubber thing to Michael, who promptly removed his glasses and stripped off his shirt.
    One of Gina’s hands whipped out and seized my wrist. Her fingernails bit into my skin.
    â€œOh my God,” she breathed.
    Even CeeCee, I noticed with a quick glance, was staring, completely transfixed, at Michael Meducci as he stepped into Adam’s wetsuit and zipped it up.
    â€œWould you,” he asked, dropping to one knee on the sand beside me, “hang onto these?”
    He slipped his glasses into my hands. I had a chance to look into his eyes, and noticed for the first time that they were a very deep, very bright blue.
    â€œSure thing,” I heard myself murmur.
    He smiled. Then he got back to his feet, picked up Adam’s board and, with a polite nod to us girls, trudged out into the waves.
    â€œOh my God,” Gina said again.
    Adam, who’d collapsed into the sand beside CeeCee, leaned up on an elbow and demanded, “What?”
    When Michael had joined Sleepy, Dopey, and their other friends in the surf, Gina turned her face slowly toward mine. “Did you see that?” she asked.
    I nodded dumbly.
    â€œBut that—that—” CeeCee stammered. “That defies all logic.”
    Adam sat up. “What are you guys talking about?” he wanted to know.
    But we could only shake our heads. Speech was impossible.
    Because it turned out that Michael Meducci, underneath his pocket protector, was totally and completely buff.
    â€œHe must,” CeeCee ventured, “work out like three hours a day.”
    â€œMore like five,” Gina murmured.
    â€œHe could bench press me ,” I said, and both CeeCee and Gina nodded in agreement.
    â€œAre you guys,” Adam demanded, “talking about Michael Meducci ?”
    We ignored him. How could we not? For we had just seen a god—pasty-skinned, it was true, but perfect in every other way.
    â€œAll he needs,” Gina breathed, “is to come out from behind that computer once in a while and get a little color.”
    â€œNo,” I said. I couldn’t bear the thought of that perfectly sculpted body marred by skin cancer. “He’s fine the way he is.”
    â€œJust a little color,” Gina said again. “I mean, SPF 15 and he’ll still get a little brown. That’s all he needs.”
    â€œNo,” I said again.
    â€œSuze is right,” CeeCee said. “He’s perfect the way he is.”
    â€œOh my God,” Adam said, flopping back disgustedly into the sand. “ Michael Meducci. I can’t believe you guys are talking that way about Michael Meducci. ”
    But how could we help it? He was perfection. Okay, so he wasn’t the best surfer. That, we realized, while we watched him