Free SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) by D.J. MacHale Page A

say next.
    “You know this song?” I asked. “It’s from an old movie.
Back to the Future.
My parents make me watch it once a year whether I want to or not.”
    Tori didn’t react. She wasn’t being obnoxious; it was more like her mind had traveled somewhere else. She stood there leaning on the parking meter with her arms crossed.
    “Ever see it?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Oh,” was all I could think of saying. I waited a few seconds then said, “Good movie.”
    It felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees but there was no way I was going to skulk off like some loser.
    “A lot more people here than last year,” I said, lamely.
    Tori didn’t look at me when she said, “I hate this.”
    “What?” I asked. “The song? The band? The festival?”
    “Yes.”
    Yikes.
    “Tucker!” Quinn exclaimed as he jogged up, thank God. “I just parked the DeLorean, Future-Boy!”
    Tori didn’t react.
    “You know,
Back to fhe Future
,” Quinn said to her, hoping for a reaction.
    “She’s never seen it,” I offered.
    “Seriously?” Quinn asked, sounding shocked. “I’ve got the DVD. How ’bout if we all go over to my house tonight and watch it?”
    Tori continued her non-reacting.
    “I’ve got Junior Mints!” he added temptingly.
    I had to laugh.
    Quinn sniffed the air and said, “Hmm…who smells so lemony fresh?”
    Tori finally showed life. Her back went stiff, she jammed her hands into her pockets, and she hurried off.
    “See ya,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.
    Quinn and I watched for a second, then I punched him in the arm.
    “Ow!” he wailed. “What was that for?”
    “Idiot. We worked on a lobster boat all summer. What did they tell us to use to get rid of the fishy smell on our hands and clothes?”
    Quinn thought for a second, then winced when the realization hit him.
    “Lemon juice.”
    “Her dad is a lobsterman.”
    “Ooh. I guess that wasn’t cool. But at least you finally talked to her.”
    “Probably for the last time, thanks to you.”
    “Sorry, man. I’ll apologize.”
    He started to follow her but I grabbed his arm to stop him.
    “Don’t make it worse. Let’s just go watch the end of the race.”
    As we made our way through the crowd, I thought about Tori’s sudden, embarrassed reaction. After having worked on a lobster boat all summer, I understood that it was not a glamorous job. At the end of the day, you were tired and cold and yes, you smelled like fish. Quinn and I did it for extra summer cash. But Tori was a pro. That one brief moment had given me a little peek into her odd personality. She didn’t seem like a happy person, especially with the comment about hating everything. She may have been confident, but she was also self-conscious. It made her seem less odd, and a bit more human.
    “C’mon,” Quinn called as we pushed through the crowd, headed for the town pier. “The boats are coming in.”
    The Lobster Pot Regatta was the centerpiece event of the festival. It’s a sailboat race that’s open to year-round residents only—no weekend sailors with more money than skill. The one-mile course looped around Arbortown harbor, beginning and ending in front of the town pier. The winner got bragging rights for the year and his or her name engraved on a battered old lobster pot. It’s kind of like the Stanley Cup, but rather than drinking champagne out of it, the winners drank warm beer.
    The race was singlehanded, which means only one racer per boat. There were all different classes and types of boats in contention but most were over thirty feet, which meant there weren’t any amateurs. Still, it wasn’t exactly an officially sanctioned event. I think most of the guys drank too much beforehand, but they’re all expert sailors so there were never any problems, except for the occasional puking over the side. Those who hurl might have actually gotten style points, but I can’t confirm that.
    Quinn and I pushed our way through the