Free Star Shack by Lila Castle

Vanessa, finally mustering the courage to answer when she calls the next morning. “No need for volleyball. I’m out in the world. I’m on the beach—listen, you can hear the waves.” I hold up my cell phone toward the ocean to convince her. It’s still sunny, truly a miracle for Gingerbread.
    â€œGood,” she says. “You have to be out for at least an hour.”
    â€œWhy?” I whine. All I want is to crawl back under my comforter.
    â€œFor your mental health,” she says firmly. “There was an article in the Times a few months ago about how exercise creates endorphins, which fight depression—”
    â€œVanessa, I’m sorry, but I really don’t feel like hearing about the Times right now. Besides, it’s going to take more than endolphins to keep me happy.”
    â€œEndorphins,” she corrects, like I really care. “It’s day three, Annabelle. There are no excuses on day three.”
    â€œOkay, a half hour,” I promise. I close my phone and tuck it into the pocket of my sweat pants. I almost didn’t bring these sweats since they are baggy and totally unflattering, but now I consider my last-minute decision to stuff them in my suitcase one of the best I’ve made in years. They are as close to pj’s as clothing can get. The best part is that I can wear them right to bed when I get back.
    I walk along the beach, my sneakers sinking slightly into the wet sand. So much for the sun…it’s already clouding over. Within minutes, a few droplets turn to a steady drizzle. It feels cool on my cheeks. Maybe Vanessa is right. It does feel good to be out of bed. I trudge near the boardwalk and see the scarlet letters advertising Fred’s Fabulous Funnel Cakes, and I realize I am in desperate need of deep-fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar.
    I’m taking my first bite when I see her. She’s wearing a pair of jean capris so snug that they must make it hard for her blood to circulate and a blue halter top that shows off the tattoo on her shoulder. A huge black umbrella protects her from the rain that is running down my face and making my hair a puffball.
    Suddenly the dough is like a ball of wet newspaper in my mouth, and all I want is to be hiding back in my room. Maybe she won’t notice me and I can race home. I try to dash across the boardwalk to the steps that lead toward the beach, but it’s too late.
    â€œWell, hello,” Sarah says as she steps carefully around a puddle. “Aren’t you Pete’s little friend?”
    It’s true: my five feet and two inches are no match for her heels and natural giraffe-like build.
    â€œYes, I’m Pete’s good friend,” I say, trying to make it sound mysterious. But the words fall flat on my own ears. Is that even true anymore?
    The right side of her mouth curls up. “Right. Then maybe we’ll see you at the party tonight. We’re going to dinner first, though.”
    I can’t believe this girl. Really? I feel like asking her. She’s like a bad reality TV show come to life. And she’s so smug she might as well just say, “He’s mine now, so suck it.” If Pete sees something in her…then yes, boys really are jerks.
    â€œPete is so thoughtful,” she says. “Maybe it’s being from a small town, but I’ve never been with a guy who brought me flowers on the first date.”
    Flowers? First date? The words echo in my ears, each bringing a new pang of anger and sadness. Sometime during my comatose solitude, Pete has managed to buy flowers and go on a date. With her . Why is she rubbing my face in this? He thinks she’s hot; I get it, so let’s move on. He has no feelings. He is a coldhearted—
    â€œHe’s already checked the bus schedule from Vermont to New York so we can see each other in the fall.”
    Kill me now, please.
    â€œThat pastry you have looks good,” she says,