Lovestruck Summer by Melissa Walker (the best motivational books TXT) 📗

5 time she visited she had just fi nished her fresh- man year, and she went on and on about how she spends hours in the library studying—even during the summer. In other words, she is the perfect person for me to live with. She’ll never be around to keep tabs on me. And let’s just say that since Austin is the live-music capital of the world and I am going to be a valued intern at one of the coolest independent music labels in the country, I might have some late nights. I pull off my headphones as a sign of respect because I can tell that Mom and Dad are near- ing the end of the Rules talk. “. . . and Priscilla, remember to call us at least once a week,”fi nishes Mom. Did I not mention that my real name is Priscilla? I go by Quinn, my middle name, because . . . well . . . it’s obvious. Priscilla is a frilly old lady with heirloom jewelry and silk scarves and a dyed-blond beehive. I am an eighteen-year-old hipster in jeans and soft tees, who uses multiple dyes to get just the right shade of messed-up blue in my blunt boy-length hair, which, if I left it alone, would be naturally blond. But who wants that? Only my mom gets

6 away with “Priscilla”because it was my grand- mother’s name and she died before I was born, so I get why it’s important. But to the rest of the world, it’s Quinn. “I will, Mom,”I say, smiling and batting my brown eyes to show her what a great daughter I am. “And don’t fall in love,”adds Dad, picking up his plate to carry it into the kitchen. “Those Texas boys are trouble.”“Don’t worry,”I say. I avoid telling my dad that I already have a pseudo crush on whoever answered the phone at Amalgam Records, and that my real summer goal—besides listening to tons of live music and enjoying life without parental supervision—is to snag the perfect indie-music-loving boyfriend. Raina is calling him “The Supreme”because she has to have a title for everything. All through high school, I’ve been longing for a boyfriend who could appreciate the poetry of the Pixies instead of the latest radio countdown hit, but my school is full of future frat boys. My Austin guy will be so different. I can already picture him—piecey dark hair,

7 sharp-angled glasses, intense eyes, and lips that part slightly in awed admiration as he watches his favorite bands onstage. He’ll be able to recite all the Walters lyrics by heart, he’ll wear Converse sneakers (unless we’re dressing up, in which case he might wear Campers), and he may even be an early Weezer fan who still reads Rivers Cuomo’s blog. Who knows? What I do know is that he is in Austin, and I cannot wait for my summer to start.

8 Chapter 2 When Penny picks me up at the airport, I’m shocked. It’s not just one thing, although if I were splitting hairs I might mention my cousin’s per- fectly blown-out dark brown locks or her shiny, possibly newly whitened smile, or the extra- large logo-covered Louis Vuitton purse she’s holding. But really, it’s the big picture that over- whelms me: Penny has gone Texas. She screams as she runs up to hug me at baggage claim, knocking my arm with her giant pocketbook, and leaving a bright mark on my cheek with her impossibly red lipstick. “Hey!”she says, taking a step back to look at me. “Quinn, you are such a little alterna-girl right now.”I cringe. I know she’s just saying that

9 because my hair is dyed. Or maybe it’s because I’m just wearing Tom’s of Maine deodorant and not a hundred sprays of the latest fl oral scent from Macy’s. I smile at my cousin and resist the urge to wave her perfume cloud away. “Hey,”I say with less twang and more non- chalance than she has. “We are gonna have so much fun this summer!”Penny squeals, reaching into her purse for her car keys. I notice the BMW key chain and follow her cautiously as her yellow kitten heels click-click on the cold airport fl oor. When the doors open to the parking deck, something almost knocks me down. “Good Lord!”I shout, dropping my giant duffel bag in protest. “It is freaking hot out here!”The air around me feels almost solid, and I immediately start to sweat. Penny, how- ever, is clip-clopping her way to the car without a pause. “Keep up, Quinny!”she singsong shouts. “It’s only June. Wait till August.”Then she fl ashes me a blinding smile and puts her key into the trunk of a bright red BMW. “Graduation present,”she purrs, noticing

10 that my eyes are widening. “You’re a junior,”I say. “Rising senior,”she corrects. “And Dad knows I did really well this semester.”Is this really the Penny who spends all her time in the library? I think as I load my heavy bag into the trunk. I guess it’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen her, but still. I slide into the front—pale leather—seat as she raises one bubble-gum-pink manicured hand to press the button that opens the sun- roof. When she starts the car, my ears are fl ooded with a hip-hop ballad that, while unde- niably catchy, is also intolerable. She cranks it up and starts to sing. And I start to worry. Can I survive a whole summer with this girl? By the time we get to Penny’s condo, I realize that my cousin really is not who I thought she was. Yes, she’s majoring in International Politics, and yes, she’s related to me. That hasn’t changed. The new factoids I’ve discovered are disturbing to say the least. For example: 1) Penny spends no less than one hour in the bathroom each morning, blowing out her shiny mane of movie-star hair.

11 2) Penny sleeps in her bra so her