reached up to paint a new section of the wall. The movement made her tank top ride up. Her skin was tan under the hem of her white shirt. I could see her belly button. She’d drawn a star around it with a purple marker. I wondered how it felt to touch her there.
“Actually, never mind.” Lori handed me her paintbrush. “I’m going to go see if they need help outside.”
“See you later, Lori,” Christa called after her.
“Yeah, see you.”
I leaned down to dip Lori’s brush into the pan, making sure to tap off the extra paint. When I glanced up, Christa was watching me. I looked away so she wouldn’t see me getting flustered.
After a minute, I stood back up and we painted in silence. I snuck glances at Christa every so often. The third time I looked her way, she was watching me, too.
“I thought you’d be wearing another vintage T-shirt today,” she said, nodding at my outfit.
“Oh, yeah. Well, actually the shirt I had on yesterday was from his 2014 tour so it isn’t vintage, it’s...” I trailed off before I said something totally nerdy. “But anyway, I don’t have any of my other clothes here. They lost my suitcase on one of the planes.”
“Oh, that sucks.” Christa made a sympathetic face, her lips turned down. Once again, I wanted to touch her. “Let me know if you need to borrow anything. I mean, you’re about two feet taller than me so my stuff probably wouldn’t fit you, but still.”
I imagined putting on Christa’s sweatpants. My skin, right where hers had been.
I needed to change the subject before I had a total meltdown.
“That’s a great beret,” I told her.
“Thanks.” She touched it, spreading the white paint farther along the side of the hat. “They said we should bring a hat, since we’d be painting, so I went to the thrift store. I thought this one was hilarious. I wear a lot of funky stuff, but I never heard of a bright pink beret before.”
“Well, it’s a raspberry beret,” I said.
Christa blinked at me.
“You know,” I said. “The Prince song?”
“Oh.” Her smile faded. “Do you mean the singer Prince? The guy from back in the eighties or whenever?”
All right. Okay, so she wasn’t a fan after all.
Well, most people our age weren’t weirdo Prince obsessives like me. This didn’t have to be a bad sign.
I recalibrated.
“Yeah.” I tried desperately to think of something new to ask her. “So, um, did your parents make you come on this trip? Or did you beg them to let you? It seems like everyone’s either one or the other.”
Christa gave me a sudden sharp look. At first I thought I’d said something wrong, but then her face softened. “I guess it was my parents’ idea. Pretty much whenever there’s a church trip anywhere, whether it’s counting cans at the food bank or painting walls in Mexico, they sign me on without even asking me about it first. All they care about is church.”
“I hear you. My family’s pretty hardcore about church, too.”
“Yeah, I’d guess, with your dad being a youth minister and all.”
“It’s annoying. Some days I think I’d rather just be a heathen, you know?”
For a second Christa got that sharp look again, but then she laughed. “Most of my life consists of trying not to let my parents know about my heathen ways.”
For some reason, that sounded really sexy. I flushed and looked away.
“How did they react when you got your nose ring?” I asked.
“They flipped. They tried to order me to get rid of it, but I refused, so they grounded me for two months. They thought I’d change my mind and take it out, but it was nothing I didn’t expect. I mean, if I’m totally honest, the main reason I got it in the first place was to piss them off.”
“Wow. You went through all that just to annoy them?”
“Well, at first. But now I think it’s legitimately awesome.” Christa turned so I could see the ring glint in the light from the window. It was really simple, only a little silver hoop, but it made her look amazing. Rebellious. Hot, too.
Okay, she probably would’ve looked hot anyway.
Crap, I was getting flustered again. I had to distract her so she wouldn’t see what a fail I was.
“Are you allowed to get paint on it?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. Probably not?”
“Then look out!”
I reached up with my paintbrush like I was aiming for her nose. She squealed and jerked back, reaching out to steady herself, so I tapped her bare elbow with the tip of my paintbrush. “Got you!”
“Hey!” she pulled her arm away, laughing. “What, are polka-dotted elbows the new trend?”
“Sorry! It was an accident.” I held up my hands in fake shock/apology. “Besides, I mean, you’re into art, right? Consider it an artistic statement. An accidental one, I mean.”
As soon as I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want to remind Christa about the art thing. The guilt from my lie the night before rose up in my throat.
“Well, I suppose accidents do happen...” She lunged toward me with a cackle and painted a streak across my bare wrist. It looked like I’d been slashed by a snowman.
“That was so not an accident!” I tapped her cheek with my brush, leaving a tiny white dot. Behind it, she was blushing.
“Hey!” She shrieked and bopped her brush onto my nose.
“What are you guys doing over here?” We both turned, hiding our brushes behind our backs. My brother stood behind us, holding a dirt-caked shovel over his shoulder. He chortled when he saw me. “Sis, you look like a shrink-wrapped Rudolph.”
I rolled my eyes at Drew and bit back a snappy reply. I was trying to be slightly less snarky to him than usual, which was hard.
Drew and I had always been close, especially when we were younger. But things changed when he left the private school we’d both gone to since kindergarten and transferred to the public high school. He liked going to school with more people, he said, and getting a chance to play on a bigger basketball team. He was always bringing his new friends home.
After I didn’t get into MHSA, I asked my parents if I could transfer to Drew’s school instead. They said no. Dad thought I wouldn’t like it as much as Drew did, but I never knew how he was so sure about that. It wasn’t as though Dad had gone there.
Drew’s life in high school, as far as I could tell, was basically perfect. When he got to college, though, things changed. I hadn’t realized how much until the day before in the Tijuana airport.
When we’d landed in Mexico and gone to pick up our bags, everyone had grabbed their suitcases off the turnstile right away except for me. The bags kept going around in their loop, and mine kept not showing up. Dad went ahead with the others and told Drew to wait with me until my suitcase showed up.
For a while my brother and I talked about the usual stuff. Dumb TV shows. Basketball. How annoying Dad had been on the plane with the way he kept trying to read out important geographical facts about whatever we were flying over—The Gulf of Mexico didn’t even exist until the Late Triassic period! Did you know that, kids?
Then out of nowhere, Drew said, “Okay. Listen. I’ve got to tell you something.”
I looked away. I was certain this would be more of the same.
After