Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

I’ve told these girls in the past—my first period, my first kiss, my first Father’s Day rage cry, my first “oh my God, I am helplessly in love with this boy.”

Telling them something has always been what makes it real.

Maybe I’m not ready for that yet.

No, not maybe—I am definitely not ready for that.

“There’ll be more,” I say to assure them and myself, letting the sun warm my skin. “Don’t worry, you’ll have to hear about each and every one.”

The other girls boo, and Kiki splashes much less delicately in my direction. And I smile.

Monday at lunch, though, boys are anything but the topic of discussion. At some point over the weekend—between movie dates, lounging at the pool, and another morning spent drawing bad leaves in lattes—college fever swept the entire town of Stratford. It might be because early decision deadlines are nearing, or because Homecoming is the other thing on everyone’s mind and people are about to return from all over, anxious to tell us how much they looooove their schools and prying like mad about where we’re going, but whatever it is, Shannon, Kiki, and Gia have come armed to our centrally located table today.

“Obviously I’m still applying to Columbia,” says Shannon, “but I can’t not consider the Sorbonne, especially after spending the summer in Paris. I’ll apply to Brown too, but I mean, Providence? Really?”

Kiki rolls her eyes into her Coke. She drinks like seven cups of it a day, even after our science lab where we watched it take the rust off a nail. “Brown’s a great school, Shan. I would apply there if they had a forensic science program, or a journalism major.”

“Are you sure you want to center your early decision around something you might not even want to do in a couple of years? What if you change your mind and you’re stuck at a third-rate school because it has the best forensics program?” Shannon says “forensics” as if it means Kiki wants to study toe fungus.

Kiki sighs. “Not every school that isn’t an Ivy or in Paris is a third-rate school, for your information, and yes, I’m sure. But if I change my mind, I can always transfer. And anyway, how do you know you’ll always want to study art history? What if you decide you don’t wanna be a museum curator or gallery owner?”

I watch Shannon and Kiki volley back and forth with fascination. They have nothing in common except that they’ve both known what they want to do forever, and so they take each other more seriously than anyone else can possibly take either of them. Even watching them clash over it, I know they’re playing devil’s advocate with each other, making the other one sure she’s firm in her choice, because this is just how they do things.

We’re a weird crew and we know it: Shannon and her perfect hair and oodles of money, who never misses a party but is still such a mom, into finer things like art and French culture but also totally our group caretaker; Kiki with her mystery obsessions and gothic fashion sense, not to mention total disinterest in dating (despite the rest of us being boy-crazy), who is always the one to remember the little details that matter and gives the most thoughtful gifts as a result; Gia with her narrow interests of Tommy, cheerleading, and making memories, but whose loyalty and focus make her utterly indispensable; and me, who’s always up for trying anything and soaking in everybody else, happy to be the guinea pig or test audience for everything from Shannon’s glittery eyeliner to Gia’s newest choreography.

If we hadn’t gone to school together our entire lives and made friends back when we had everything in common because our entire lives were My Little Pony, Dead Man’s Float competitions in Kiki’s pool, and getting our parents to take us out for ice cream, we might not have anything to do with each other. But we’ve kept at it and made it work, and now we are a scary and awesome force of mutual support, and I love that about us.

Even in their bitchiest moments, they’ve never genuinely torn me down for anything. Would that stay true if they knew about Jasmine? Would they look at me differently? Treat me differently?

And was Jasmine serious about coming to the Clementine Walker event? I’m not sure I can handle knowing she’s in the room if Clementine reads one of her more … risqué scenes. Maybe I should bring Chase, share one of my interests with him, given how many football games I’ve attended. Maybe those scenes will work on him just as well.

Anyway, it’s not like Jasmine would’ve ever touched her books before I recommended them, and she ended up reading four. They’re good. Maybe Chase will give one a shot. He’s not the kind of guy who’s, like, “Ew, romance novels are for girls.” At least, I don’t think he is, though I can’t imagine him adding reading on top of schoolwork and football and college applications. It was different with Jasmine. We were free during the summer, and she was already reading at least a book a week, if not more.

It was different with Jasmine, for sure.

Chapter Ten

THEN

“Okay, not that I’m creeping on your reading choices or anything, but I’m pretty sure every single book I’ve seen you read this summer that wasn’t one of my recommendations has been by that woman.”

I look up from Make Me a Catch to Jasmine standing over my hammock, her long waves swept into a ponytail. It’s been three days since we made out, and we haven’t talked about it once—we just got up the next morning and proceeded to the next shoot as if nothing had happened, then spent the afternoon at the beach with Keisha, Carter, and the others. I haven’t seen her since breakfast this morning. She’d disappeared into her room immediately to do some photo-editing work, and I hadn’t expected to see