Free Finding Mr. Brightside by Jay Clark Page B

mind, let’s just do states,” I say. “Virginia.”
    He shakes his head like everything’s under control and says, “Oslo?”
    I’d be as shocked as the Norwegians if I didn’t already know Abram’s been sandbagging his potential around me. Which is why I put his big pile of unopened mail in my bag last night, after he fell asleep. Maybe I am that thing. The girl-thing who’s going to turn him into college material after all.

 
    19
    ABRAM
    I DEFEATED J ULIETTE in one out of the many capital games we played—thank you, Lithuania!—but we’re not allowed to talk about it until she’s had enough time to figure out what’s gone wrong with the world.
    Good thing we’re almost to our destination, just crossed over the bridge and onto the island. Forgot how much friendlier people are down south—perfect example being the personable woman with the bright-red lipstick at the toll booth back there, who seems to be having one of her best days in years. I open the windows and slide back the sunroof, in case there’s an element in the air we can get in on. (There’s definitely some NaCl, Mr. Kerns, so does that make up for me skipping Chemistry today, tomorrow, and possibly Tuesday?)
    “It’s nice here,” Juliette says. Then she coughs a couple of times and closes her eyes, enjoying the wind in her immovable bun. The relaxation lasts a minute or so before she’s removing one of her two jackets and turning her heated seat down from High to Low … and then back up to Medium. Sitting up straighter, she cranes her neck around toward her open window, trying to see as much of the ocean as possible. Makes me feel like we’ve made the right irresponsible decision.
    We stop at the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few groceries, and I only oink three or four times while we’re there. Juliette oinks once in the frozen-foods section, but softly enough to keep her dignity. Twenty minutes later, I’m creeping the car through the gates of our private neighborhood, holding up my permit to the Kindle-reading security guard, who grins and points to his device like he’s got a real page-turner in his hands. I glance in the direction of the country club as I roll the car over a speed bump, past the tennis courts where my father and I used to hit for hours. Clay was his favorite surface to play on. And mine. I catch Juliette making a mental note of my interest in the courts, but then she turns away before I can take notes with her.
    Our house is the last on the street. Looks a lot like the others—picturesque, manicured, surrounded by palm trees. On the front side, the sound of palm fronds rustling in the breeze is pretty much a constant. The back of the house sits up against the beach, protected from the tide by a sand dune. Juliette’s staring at her arm, and for a second I wish we could ride around town for the next four days instead of going inside—that way, I could guarantee we wouldn’t find some sort of immediate setback left behind by our parents. But suppose we did drive away from any potential difficulties inside … then what? We’d still be the same people regardless of our surroundings, and eventually our pasts would catch up and be like, Hey, guys, remember how shitty we were?
    “C’mon,” I say to Juliette, “let’s go have some fun.”
    “Even if it kills us?”
    “Nope.” I turn off the car and jiggle my keys. “The alive-only kind.”
    Juliette
    T HE M ORGANS’ TWO-STORY beach house might be considered charming by someone with an easily charmed outlook on life. To me, it looks overwhelming. Also, keeping Ian Morgan’s “travel lightly” text to my mother in mind, I definitely overpacked. The veins are popping on Abram’s arm as he carries my suitcase toward the door.
    “You should just roll it, yes?” My third time telling him this, but who’s counting?
    “Nope, not a problem,” he says, adjusting his grip between breaths. He hoists my problem up the stairs of the wraparound deck and through