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

Amalgam closet make-out ses- sion, I didn’t picture myself with Sebastian. I shake my head to clear my weird thoughts.

130 Sebastian is exactly the guy I am looking for this summer. Then I refocus on Jade. “Bright side?”I ask. “Please,”she says. “Your mascara is streaked in this really great way that makes you look like a hardcore eighties album-cover girl,”I say. Jade sticks out her tongue and gives me the hard-rock hand sign. “Thanks, Quinn,”she says. “Anytime,”I say. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?”“Yeah,”she says. “But you stay—I know you want to meet up with Sebastian after his set. I can take the bus or something.”“It’s okay,”I say. “I kind of feel like going home myself.”When I get back to the condo, I call Raina but she doesn’t pick up. Penny’s not around, which would normally be a good thing, but I kind of feel like talking to someone right now. I walk out onto the back deck to get some air, and I smell a delicious burger cooking. I look over at Russ and Chrissy’s deck, which is

131 connected to ours, and see that someone has the grill going. Then Russ walks outside with a spatula in his hand. He’s wearing a bright blue polo shirt that makes his eyes look even more unreal than usual. Of course, he has on khaki cargo shorts too. The guy is a walking frat stereotype. So why can’t I stop thinking about him? “What’s up, Priscilla?”He smiles at me and cocks his head. “Date end early?”“I was just out,”I say. “It wasn’t really a date or anything.”Not that this is any of his business. “Want a burger?”he asks. Yes. “Isn’t it a weird time to be grilling?”I ask. “It’s, like, midnight.”“I got hungry,”he says. “And I have American cheese, which I know you can’t resist.”He points to the Velveeta slices on his picnic table. “Come on over.”We’re divided by a small wooden barrier, so I walk down the three short steps off of Penny’s deck and up the steps to his. The siren song of burgers with American cheese is too much for

132 my weak carnivorous self to resist. I sit down on the wooden bench and stare at the condiment tray Russ has brought out—it has ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, dill pickles, sliced onions, lettuce, and tomatoes. “You’re a regular outdoor caféover here,”I say. “I like grilling,”says Russ. “And then I really like loading up a burger and eating.”I tuck my hair, which is slowly growing out and getting practically girl-length, behind my ears. “So how come you aren’t out?”I ask. “I felt like taking it easy tonight,”he says. “I was watching Rocky on TV, but then I got hungry, so . . .”“Here we are,”I say. “Here we are,”he says. He’s looking at me and suddenly the grill starts shooting fl ames. A black cloud of smoke spits up, and Russ yells, “Dang! I hope you like ’em well done!”He’s standing back from the grill and trying to use the long spatula to rescue the sad little burger that has just been charred to a crisp. I clap my hand over my mouth, trying so

133 hard to hold in my laughter that I feel tears come to my eyes. Russ takes off his fl ip-fl op and starts waving it around to clear the smoke. It only makes me laugh more. “If you keep laughing, I’m gonna make you eat that one,”says Russ, fi nally nabbing the burn-victim burger. “I’m sorry,”I say, still unable to hide my amusement. “You seemed like you were really good at all this until a minute ago.”“Yeah, well, you distracted me,”says Russ, pretending to be huffy. He puts another two patties on the grill. “Let’s try this again.”“Medium rare,”I say. “Yes, Queen Priscilla.”He bows. “So is Russ your real name?”I ask him, trying to turn the tables on this whole Priscilla thing. “Yup,”he says. “Russ Jay Barnes. Not Russell or Rusty or Russert. Just Russ. My par- ents are one-syllable folks.”“Oh,”I say. “Then maybe you should under- stand that I’m a one-syllable girl, too. Quinn. Can you say it? Quiiiinnn.”“Why do you fi ght your real name?”asks

134 Russ. “It fi ts you so perfectly.”“It does not!”I say. “It’s old-fashioned, for one. And it’s just so prissy. It even sounds like the word prissy. I am so not a Priscilla.”“That’s where you’re wrong,”says Russ, turning back to the grill. “Priscilla is the rock- ingest name in the book.”He turns around with his lip curled up. “Come on, ’Cilla,”he says. I fi ght to keep from laughing again. “Is that the best Elvis you can do?”I deadpan. “Wiiiise men say . . . only fools rush in . . .”He starts singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,”which I now have about four versions of on my iPod. Then he comes around to my side of the picnic table and reaches for my hand. And before I can fi gure out how to deter him, we’re dancing on this silly condo deck at midnight to the sound of Russ’s bad Elvis impersonation. I spin around a few times, trying to keep my head turned to the side, trying to fi gure out what it is that I’m feeling right now as my fi ngers lightly brush the back of his cotton polo shirt. What am I doing? This guy is a jock-y goofball

135 with big muscles and a taste for country music. “The burgers are gonna burn,”I say after a minute. Russ backs away from me and smiles. “You’re right, ’Cilla,”he says, still doing Elvis. “We got a hunka hunka burning meat to attend to.”“Gross,”I say. I sit back down at the table. I try not to look up at him as I get my sesame- seed bun ready with condiments and toppings. I don’t want him to think that I like him, or that he has a shot or whatever. He doesn’t. When I dig into the burger Russ cooked, I soften a little and smile. It’s