Free Picture Perfect by Catherine Clark Page B

back on my elbows.
    “Yours. Totally yours,” Spencer said. “And if I have to sit near you at any point during fresh-person orientation, I will disavow any and all knowledge of this trip.”
    “Oh, me too. It’ll be like we never met,” I said.
    Are we flirting? I wondered. I think we’re flirting. Why isn’t Heather here to tell me? Or, better yet, to STOP me?
    I’d never told her about how I’d pined for Spencer that last trip, how I was convinced we were meant for each other.
    Thank goodness only two of us had to be embarrassed for me on that account: me and Spencer. This was almost the first time we’d been alone so far this trip (not counting ourbalcony argument), and I was expecting it to be dreadfully awkward. But so far, it wasn’t bad.
    We sat and watched the water for a minute. In the distance I could see a large freighter that appeared to be moving at a snail’s pace. I watched as the waves rolled onto the sand, the water bubbles foaming and then popping. “Why is being near the ocean so relaxing? I could sit here all day,” I mused. “Tide coming in—”
    “Actually, it’s going out,” Spencer said. “See how the dark line where the water ends is going down?”
    “Oh. Well, whatever,” I said. He always had to be right.
    “So, do you spend a lot of time at the ocean? I mean, did you, um, go anywhere on spring break this year?”
    “No, my parents didn’t want me to,” I said.
    “You’ve been sheltered. Overprotective ’rents.”
    “Exactly. I think we’ve already established that.”
    “You should have gone to New Orleans,” Spencer went on.
    What did he mean? With him? To see him?
    “Because,” he continued, “the area could use more volunteers. But most people our age are too busy watching TV—”
    “I volunteer plenty,” I said. “I teach beginning dance and stretching classes for seniors at a retirement home. I organized a dance marathon at school that raised money for Special Olympics. Plus, I’m in a troupe that performs for hospital fund-raisers. So don’t assume so much about other people, okay?”
    “Okay.” Spencer looked momentarily at a loss for words. “Sorry, Mother Teresa.”
    I jumped up as Adam and Heather returned, carrying the long, skinny bat and white plastic ball.
    “I want Mother Teresa on my side,” Heather said as Adam started to create a diamond, using clumps of dried seaweed for the bases. “Girls versus boys.”
    “Really?” Spencer asked. “Don’t you think…um…”
    “No, I don’t. Really, I want to be on Emily’steam. She kicked your butt in volleyball, didn’t she?” Heather reminded him.
    “Did I mention I haven’t played Wiffle Ball in about three years?” I said as I took position at home plate, the bat resting on my shoulder. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
    Adam lobbed the first pitch to me, and I took a swing at it and missed. I tossed the ball back toward him, but it only made it halfway. “You sure you want to play?” I asked as we went through the same routine three more times.
    “Come on, you’ll get it this time,” Heather said. “Don’t give up.”
    I concentrated as hard as I could, took a big swing, and knocked the ball over to the left, past Adam, just as Heather’s cell rang and she answered it. I was so shocked by the fact I’d gotten a hit that I stood there for a second without moving. Then I bolted for first base. I hit the seaweed base and turned to keep going, but my foot sank into the sand at a weird angle, and I yelped. It felt like I’d twisted myankle. I hopped up and down while Spencer ran over to tag me out.
    “I know you don’t know much about baseball, but you’re supposed to keep going,” he said. “What dance is that?” he asked.
    “The leave me alone hop,” I grunted. “This kills.”
    “Spencer, help her already!” Heather cried. She was talking on her cell phone.
    “I think I sprained my ankle,” I told him as he put his arm around my waist to steady me, and