Page 7 of Dropping In

When I finish, the sun has set completely. I want to go out again, just to float, but I know that’s stupid, even if it’s appealing. Mom says I walk the balance between stupid and adventurous pretty well, and I guess she’s right. Ignoring the pull of the waves, I head back to shore, and the small outcropping of rocks where I left my bag.

Halfway across the sand, I stop, arm tightening on my board when I make out the long, lean figure sitting next to my stuff.

“You’re a little young to be out in the dark by yourself.”

The voice is familiar, one I hear even when he’s not near me, and my shoulders relax, even when the butterflies begin to dance in my tummy. With those butterflies comes the straightening of my shoulders, though, because as always, Malcolm has mentioned my age. I hate when he does that—like he has to remind me I’m barely thirteen. Jerk.

“Says the creeper who’s skulking around in the dark.”

Those butterflies go crazy when his small chuckle washes over me, the sound adding goosebumps to my already-chilled skin. Finishing my walk to the rocks, I drop my board into the sand and reach for my towel. Mal already has it in his hand, holding it out to me.

“And you went through my bag?Totalcreeper.” Another chuckle, and I wonder if a sound can be addicting, like caffeine or alcohol. I sure feel like it.

“Figured you would need this ASAP, since the wind is freezing to me and I’m not soaking wet.”

“It’s not bad,” I lie. In a second, my teeth might chatter, but I take my time rubbing the towel over my face, leaving my legs exposed in the new bikini bottoms I just bought—teal, with three straps at the hip instead of a full band. Then, I drop the towel and cross my arms in front of me, stripping off my wet rash guard and letting it fall on top of my board.

A sneaked look at Malcolm shows he’s staring at the water, his jaw tight. I want to reach out a hand and run it over the square line, to feel his skin and ease some of the tension he always seems to carry there. I’m about to, have my hand out and stretching up from my side, and then Malcolm’s eyes cut hard to me, and before I can ask why he looks so mad, I see it, the black and red shading that mars his eye. Even with the brim of his black cap pulled low and the darkness, I can see the swelling.

“What happened?” I still reach for him, and he flinches back. Feeling stupid, I curl my fingers into my palm, glad when he turns to the water again.

“You’re going to freeze to death if you don’t put some clothes on.”

Thoroughly embarrassed, I dig around in my backpack, numb fingers fumbling with my Roxy hoodie a couple of times before I finally manage to get it out and on. The zipper takes me another good while, and eventually, Malcolm groans and his fingers replace mine, yanking the metal tab up to my throat.

“Christ, your hands are like ice.”

I don’t say anything, because the hand he brushed with his is now scalding. It’s stupid, this crush I have on him. He’s a freshman in high school—I’m a lame middle schooler. It’s not like he notices me the way I notice him, even in my new, barely-there bikini. I’m flat chested and narrow hipped. My hair is a crazy combination of curls and waves, nothing like the straight, shiny hair and big boobs of the girls he and Brooks and Hunter hang around with at the beach.

I flinch when he groans, and then he’s yanking his sweatshirt over his head, throwing it at me. “You’re shivering,” he says in response to my stare.

Muttering, “Thanks,” I slip my arms in tugging the cotton over my head, inhaling quickly so he doesn’t see.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, reaching for my bag again.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that pasta thing in your bag.”

This makes me scowl. “Of course I’m going to eat it. And it’s not a thing; it’s dinner.”

“It’s fruit and noodles. How the hell does that even go together?”

I shrug, opening the container and grabbing one of the strawberries, popping it in my mouth before leaning my head back and dropping some pasta in after it.

“Jesus, that can’t be good.”

“Never know until you try,” I taunt, holding the container out.

He rolls his eyes, but eventually, he grabs some noodles and follows my lead, grimacing only a little when he swallows it all back. I offer my water bottle and he chugs gratefully. “That’s disgusting, like pasta salad gone wrong.”

I shrug, scooping more nuts and berries, and chasing them with noodles. “I had the pasta and there was nothing else to put on it.”

“Butter and meat?”

I laugh, swallowing another bite. “Please, my mother won’t even buy milk—says we don’t need meat or protein from other mammals, just things provided by the land.”

The look on his face is a mixture between horror and shock, and I laugh, more settled when he shakes his head and lets out a laugh of his own. “Your mom sounds like a whack job.”

I shrug. “She has her moments. But she means well.”

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