Page 9 of Paper Hearts

Then comes Brenna—who’s eighteen this summer—and full of piss and vinegar. She and Dad are so much alike they clash. Hardheaded and demands to be the center of attention, she’s given the same curfew at sixteen, but because she can never get home on time, my parents moved it to eleven.

Becca, who’s seventeen, her curfew is eleven. She’s more like Hazel so the curfew sticks. For now. There’s a lot she gets away with that my dad doesn’t know about. Like sneaking her boyfriend into her room and having sex with him while my mom is grocery shopping and Dad’s at work. But you didn’t hear that from me.

Then there’s Harper, quite possibly the worst child ever. She’s fifteen. Last week our parents informed us curfew would be ten. All because of Harper. She once ran away when she was four and got so far that she had to take a bus to get back. And she only came back because she realized nobody would feed her if she didn’t.

By the time I’m sixteen, I have a feeling my curfew is going to be seven at the rate Harper is abusing it.

“This place is huge,” I note when we pull up to the cream-colored house situated above the lake.

“Bigger than her house in Florida.” Harper digs through her bag. I don’t know what she packed that she’s desperately trying to find, but it must be important because she’s been searching for a while. It’s probably her cell phone she told Dad she couldn’t find last week when he wanted to take it away from her for missing curfew. Harper stares at the house and then me. “At least she got something in the divorce.”

My aunt Leslie recently divorced and bought a house on the lake as her parting gift from her husband. At only thirty-one, it’s hard to believe she’s already divorced, but she always called Uncle Trevor her practice husband. Apparently their trial period was up.

“How many bedrooms does it have?” I ask, still staring out the window, calculating my odds of getting my own room.

“Four,” my mom notes, crushing my dreams. Eight people in a house, two rooms occupied by my parents and Aunt Leslie, that would mean I’m sharing with at least two of my sisters. The idea of spending all summer cooped up in a house with our entire family isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.

As I step from the car, I yank my shorts from my sweating ass and keep one hand on my notebook and pens I brought with me. I eye my sisters, wondering which one I can drown in the lake to get my own room. Harper is crying about her leg being asleep and not being able to get a hold of her boyfriend, Hazel is arguing with her now fiancé on the phone, and Becca is reading a book and trying to walk—something she’s not good at—and runs right into the back of me.

“Put down your stupid book.” I push Becca off me and slide my eyes to Brenna, who hits my shoulder.

She points to the lake where a group of boys are water skiing. “I wonder how old they are?”

Nobody answers her. I eye the boys, but I can’t tell.

Becca shoves my shoulder and knocks my journal out of my hand as she walks by. Have I mentioned I don’t like Becca? I don’t. I can’t explain my distaste for her, but it’s strong.

When my parents start arguing about who will share what room, I grab a popsicle from the freezer, already stocked full of food, and head for the lake to pick out a spot to drown Becca. I’ve already decided it’s going to be her.

Peeling back the paper wrapper, I take a bite from the tip of my strawberry popsicle and a few steps onto the dock. It squeaks, my attention drawn up to the sound of a boat slapping against the water. It’s hot today. So hot that the instant you step outside, you’re covered in a sheen of sweat. It’s a good thing we’re spending the summer at the lake because we don’t have a pool back home and it’s the worst.

I notice a boy on the dock. Same one Brenna pointed to earlier. He’s dressed in a pair of black-and-white board shorts, standing at the end of the dock next door, staring at the water, his hands on his hips, watching. Without a second glance, he dives in, swimming toward a pair of Jet Skis floating in the water about ten feet away.

There are sounds all around me—summer noises—boats, creaking docks, laughing. When I look around, another boy is flying toward me on a Jet Ski, his expression amused like he’s trying to scare me a little. He swerves away before he hits the dock, the wake rocking me from side to side. Spreading my legs apart, I balance and smile. We make eye contact, and he grins, dark hair falling into his eyes.

My popsicle is melting, strawberry sugar coating my fingers. My lips are cold, and my tongue numb, but I can’t stop watching the boys in the water, fascinated by their fearlessness. I smile and squint into the sun.

“Hey, move back,” a girl yells, waving her hands around. “He’ll intentionally try to hit you. He’s an idiot.”

“Okay.” I move two steps back. I glance at my feet, steading myself on the dock and then meet her eyes. “Thanks.”

The girl’s standing barefoot on the dock next to Aunt Leslie’s, only about thirty feet away, with her hand on her hip

The girl looks at me, a quick glance, before opening the cooler to retrieve a Pepsi. She watches me again, kind of, but I think she’s looking at what I’m wearing. She holds the soda up in the air. “Want one?”

I nod and make my way from our dock over to hers, across the narrow dirt path where the water meets the land covered in thick red clay and overgrown grass.

The dock rocks as I make my way over to her. “Hi,” she says, smiling and handing me the soda. I take the Pepsi and return the smile, hoping maybe she will look away from my worn clothes. Obviously nothing I own is brand-new. This year, for my birthday, my parents got me a pair of Roxy sandals and they’re literally all I wear.

“Oh, I like your sandals,” she notes, taking a drink of her Pepsi. “Is this your first summer here?” she asks, adjusting her towel so it’s laid in the sun on the dock.

Nodding, I move closer to her and take a seat, letting my legs dip into the warm water, glancing over at their house behind us. It’s nicer than Aunt Leslie’s, probably brand-new.

“I didn’t know Leslie had kids.”

“She doesn’t.” I shrug and crack the top of the Pepsi. “She’s my aunt.”

“That’s cool. I’m Arya James. I live right there,” she tells me, pointing behind her at the massive home next to Aunt Leslie’s. Arya James, she’s beautiful and has a fierceness in her blue eyes I find fascinating. Her eyes offset her hair in the sun. With a closer look, I see her hair is actually brown, rich like the color of the dark mud with softer, almost blonde highlights. I’m not allowed to dye my hair, but looking at her Ed Hardy bathing suit, I assume her parents have no problems with her spending money to get her hair dyed.

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