The Worst Day Best Week of my Life

  SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS

  Feel-Good Romance

  © 2013 The Best Week of my Life by Suzanne D. Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Recommended for ages 12-16 and anyone young at heart.

  CHAPTER 1

  All it took was a major face plant to make Carter Pruitt look my way. I’m talking a head-rattling, chin-jarring, sand-in-my-teeth plow into the sun-warmed concrete. I’d like to say I planned it, that I knew what would happen, but that’d be taking credit for something the heavens above must’ve ordained.

  Of course, he laughed, and it’s sobering to have the guy you like laugh at you. But it’s so much worse to peel yourself off the ground and find your best pants ripped at the knee, your skin shredded, and blood running down your leg. Then top that off with the buttons of your shirt popped off right across your breasts and your bra hanging out like, “Hello, see me?”

  Yeah, he saw. He wasn’t blind. And I was so embarrassed.

  This was actually the second time I’d embarrassed myself in front of Carter. The other time was in English. The teacher asked what our most humiliating moment ever was, and I wasn’t about to tell mine because what am I, stupid? Carter Pruitt’s sitting right there. But then she called on me, made me stand up at my seat, and he’s looking at me and I’m wanting to make something up instead of telling the truth.

  It was one of those please-God-have-a-hole-open-up-and-swallow-me moments.

  But it wasn’t in me to lie. I’d eaten too many bars of soap at my mother’s hands to do that. So I gulped down the bullfrog leaping around in my gullet and launched into the tale. Come the end of it, he was laughing, the class was laughing, I was laughing, but mine was more out of pain.

  Pain almost as bad as face-planting at his feet.

  Weird thing was, we weren’t in school. We weren’t even in the same town, for that matter. And it’s not like my family schmoozed with his family and planned some vacation together. Honest Abe I was simply carrying my things from the car to our rental apartment, my thoughts on sporting my new bikini down at the Gulf and not so much on the height of the curb. Next thing I know, I’m eating concrete and there he is.

  “Daphne Merrill, what are you doing here?” Carter asked.

  Now, him speaking had two effects on me. First, it was nice to know he knew my name. Second, oh, no, he knew my name. Only person I’d ever heard of with my first name was that chick on TV, and she had a cool English accent that counter-balanced having such a dumb name.

  I clutched the edges of my shirt together. “Apparently, falling at your feet.”

  He started laughing again and wiped the corners of his eyes. “You kill me.”

  But the only one dying here was me. After all, I’d just done an earth dive in front of Carter Pruitt.

  Then my mom walks up and makes the whole thing worse. “Daphne? What did you do to your pants?”

  Why are parents like that? Not, “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself? Let me check your knee,” but worry over my pants, as if they needed to be revived or something.

  “I fell,” I said.

  “You fell?” She said it like she had doubts.

  I wanted to say, Gees, Mom, look at me. But I didn’t.

  Then she notices Carter standing there. “Oh, you’ve made a friend.”

  Sigh. Little kids make friends. Teenagers do not make friends. And girls especially do not make friends with boys by busting their kiester.

  “This is Carter. We go to school together,” I said.

  She lowered her shades, peering out over the top. “Well, that’s perfect. You two can spend time together.”

  No sooner had she said that than my dad walked up. Now, Dad, was on an average day a complete embarrassment to me. But give him the week off, take him to the beach, and he becomes the epitome of parental horror. He had on these khaki shorts, the puffy kind with front pleats that made him look even fatter, a red floral Hawaiian shirt with dolphins swimming between the blossoms, and mandals.

  Dear Lord, I hate mandals.

  As if that’s not bad enough, he’s lugging the suitcase – 1972, yellow, hard plastic you could drive a car over and it’d not burst – and beneath his elbow, my mom’s car pillow. He stopped short at the sight of Carter and negotiating his hold on the two objects, stuck out his hand. “Hello, Son.”

  Carter was trying his best not to laugh, and I can’t say as I’d’ve blame him if he had because there we were Geek Family #6. Mom in her sundress and little white sandals. Dad looking like a clown. And me – skinned knee, missing buttons, and all. But fortunately for my pride, he didn’t. Instead, he offered to help tote stuff, and Dad, being himself, took him up on it.

  “Why, that’s kind of you.”

  And I thought the already awful start to things wasn’t going to get worse, so I led Carter to the car where he reached into the trunk, and of all the things he chose to take out, he picked my clothes bag.

  Why? Why? Why … did I use that bag?

  Frayed straps, jiggy zipper, hole in the bottom. Hole in the bottom. Oh, yeah, did I mention there was a hole in the bottom? A hole that became a hatchway to release a week’s worth of undies all over Carter’s shoes.

  If my face wasn’t several shades of red, it sure seemed like it. My ears burned. My cheeks flamed. I threw myself down on my knees, forgetting one was cut and remembering it instantly, and scrabbled at my underthings. I thought I’d pick them up real fast, and we’d both act like nothing happened.

  Only one pair got caught on his toe, and my mortification was complete. This was officially the worst day of my life.

  ***

  Staring at Daphne Merrill’s backside while she picked up her underwear from the pavement was the highlight of Carter’s day, especially since he’d thought this week would be boring.

  But things were never boring when she was around. She’d proved that within minutes of climbing out of her car. Tripping over the curb, she’d sprawled face-down on the sidewalk and hopped up to display a nice view of pink lace and pale skin.

  She rose from her kneeling position, cramming her underthings in her pockets as hard as she could, and all he could do was smile and ogle the gap at the front of her shirt, something she rectified by mashing her hand flat to her chest.

  She curled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I knew better,” she said, minutes later.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Knew better than what?”

  “Than using that bag.”

  “Oh.” he shrugged. “It happens.”

  “And I’m sorry about them.” She jerked her chin toward her folks. “My mom gets carried away. You probably got plans and all.”

  He slouched on one hip, his hands at his waist. “No, no plans. I was gonna ask anyhow.”

  This wasn’t strictly true. He was originally going to say hello, but given an opening, he’d jump through it.

  Her eyes spread wider. “Y-you were gonna ask? Wait.” She paused and narrowed her gaze. “Ask me what?”

  “What do you mean what? I’m here. You’re here. And there’s the whole week to blow.”

  “So you wanted to ask me?”

  He eyed her and laughed. “Sure. I wanted to ask.”

  “But …”

  Bending over into the trunk, he lifted a couple grocery bags. “But what? And where’s your room?”

  “Upstairs. 223. And … but you don’t talk to me at school.”

  He glanced at her over the edge of the paper bags. “I wanted to. Does that count?”

  “You wanted to? For real?”

  He juggled the bags and started up the stairway. “Yes, for real.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” She followed so close her breath blew hot on his neck.

  Arriving on the landing, he took a left and entered an open door labeled 223. Daphne’s mom looked up from the tiny corner kitchen. “Oh, thank you, Carter. Put those right here.”

  Lowering the bags, he dusted his hands and shoved them in his pockets.

  “Well?” Daphne asked.

  “Well … Peer pressure?”

  She frowned. “Really? What kind of reason is that? Am I funny looking, or do I have horns on my head that I’d ruin your reputation?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  She’d forgotten about her shirt again, and he wasn’t about to remind her. He did, however, leave the apartment. Outside on the landing, he leaned over the rail. A half dozen cars sat in the parking lot.

  She followed his gaze and then looked back along the landing. “Where’s your room?”

  “Downstairs. 125.”

  “You here with your mom?”

  He nodded. His mom and her boyfriend. He kept that to himself. Henry Kozecky was an all right guy, friendly enough, but his being here was … wrong. Complaining about it, however, was fruitless.

  Carter held his breath in hope Daphne would move on. She did, and he exhaled.

  “So when we get back to school, you’re going to talk to me. Right? I mean, ‘cause you can’t exactly speak to me all week and turn around and not speak to me.”

  He glanced at h

er. “Sure.”

  “Pinky swear?”

  His right eyebrow shot up. Was she serious? But she was. Hand out, pinky crooked, she waited. Shaking his head, he laughed. Daphne always made him laugh, and this week that was a good thing.

  “Pinky swear,” he said at last, and he hooked his finger with hers.

  ***

  So, okay, I admit the pinky-swear thing was childish, but having Carter agree to it was worth my saying it. And he didn’t appear to mind because he simply went back to be himself – casual and eye-poppingly cute. Something enhanced by the backdrop of sand and waves and overheated parking lot.

  He glanced away from me and I was treated to a fine view of the back of his head. You’d think that’d be disappointing but it wasn’t. Being the well-ignored girl I was, I routinely saw the backs of boys’ heads and had actually catalogued them by shape and hair color. Carter’s fit all the top criteria. First, it wasn’t round. I hated a guy with a basketball-shaped head. Second, it wasn’t narrow either, but the perfect oval. Third, he had black hair, and I was a sucker for black hair.

  Black hair and brown eyes, the color of a good glass of iced tea.

  I indulged myself in a vivid daydream of running my fingers through that hair, only to have my dad ruin it.

  “Poppet,” he said. “Need you to help your mother.”

  Carter turned back toward me, one eyebrow arched.

  Yeah … Poppet. I rolled my eyes at my dad’s affectionate name for me.

  The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up.

  “Guess I gotta go,” I said.

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  I turned my back on him and went to move indoors. But he called out from behind.

  “Hey, you wanna swim later?”

  Well, duh, I was at the beach. Of course, I wanted to swim. Then I realized I’d be swimming with Carter Pruitt and that made me all nervy. But no way was I gonna act like it or be stupid and say no.

  “Like three?” I asked.

  “Three’s good,” he said.

  And with that I entered the apartment and shut the door.

  I was instantly glad the door was closed because the sight that met me would’ve only added to my day’s embarrassment. I took in the scene and suppressed a shudder. My dad had claimed the couch. Dad, tiny green throw pillows wadded beneath his head. Dad, large, hairy feet propped on the far arm. Dad, mouth open, eyes at half-mast. He was fast on his way to an afternoon nap, but apparently my presence woke him up.

  His eyelids flipped open and he focused his gaze on me. “You help your mother yet?”

  “I’m going,” I said.

  That apparently satisfied him because he returned to his sleep-driven state.

  I walked through the mishmash of living room furniture, which I might add was typical of a beach rental – wicker chair, glass topped table, 1980s gold-framed watercolor of a pelican – and down the short hall to the bedrooms where I found my mom well entrenched in the closet.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  This startled her. She stood up, whacked her head on the hangers, and the closet door shut on her bum. I giggled.

  “Well, that was wrong,” she said, reopening the door. She moved to the bed where she’d laid out their things and lifted a stack of shirts. “If you could open the drawer.”

  I could and I did. We spent the next ten minutes putting away their things, at which point she dismissed me to do my own. So I whipped around the corner and into the tiny pocket that was the other room and had a revelation.

  Standing there over the lumpy mattress, yanking my underwear from my pockets, counting pairs of shorts and tanks I’d packed, it hit me. I’d forgotten the one thing you should definitely have at the beach. The one thing every girl picks out, careful it flatters her figure. The one thing I’d, in particular this year, made sure was absolutely perfect.

  Yep, my suit.

  ***

  “You forgot your swimsuit?” Carter slouched on one hip, his hand perched on his side, and eyeballed my outfit.

  Short-shorts, pink tank top.

  “Yeah.”

  He gave me a half grin. “Nice.”

  “So I thought I’d swim in this.” I added.

  His eyebrows lifted. “Your mom and dad don’t care?”

  Well, they’d care if they knew, but I kinda hadn’t told them I was going swimming. I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Cool.”

  With that we set out for the sand. Down the stairs, past the ice machine, our feet echoing in the downstairs hallway, through the pool area, out the slightly-rusted iron gate, and smack into foot-burning, eye-searing white sand. I yelped, and Carter halted.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Walk quick,” he said.

  Not exactly what I wanted him to say. Or do. I was more hoping for chivalry, him lifting me up, tucking me against his chest, and toting me to the water. Yeah … No. Instead, he did what most boys do, he kept walking, and I was forced to follow.

  Yet the reward came at the end. Hopping from foot to foot ‘til I got to the waves and there, sinking calf-deep in the sloshing surf, I turned my head, and I swear on the hair on my head if time didn’t stop and one of those romantic rock songs didn’t play. Because standing in front of me, shirt off, suntan-lotion coated, was Carter Pruitt.

  God Almighty, he was fine. Sunlight, clear-skies, ninety-eight degrees fine. Mind-blanking, lost-in-my-thoughts, fine. Which was unsafe for a simple girl like me since with my head empty and my eyes bugging out of my head, I made the biggest mistake you can make at the Gulf.

  I forgot to do the stingray shuffle.

  CHAPTER 2

  Daphne’s shrieks and her constant hopping on one leg put Carter in mind of a bird in distress. This was his first thought. His second was he ought to do something, so he rushed forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. That changed her shrieking to an incessant babbling of random words.

  “Hurts. Forgot. Shuffle. Help. Please.”

  “Let me get you out of the water,” he said, thinking that was what she must be trying to say. He hobbled with her onto the sand where she plopped down in a heap.

  She extended her leg, rolling her ankle upwards to reveal a tiny spot oozing blood. “Pain. Ow. Mom. Carter.” At his name, she grasped his arm and dug her fingernails into his skin.

  He winced. “I’ll go get your mom,” he offered, again interpreting.

  She gave him a look of gratitude, spouting another stream of unconnected words, most of which sounded like ow and laid back on the sand.

  He retraced their steps across the beach, through the pool area, and up the stairs to her apartment, knocking on the door. The door swung open to reveal her dad. A large man, he took up the entire opening.

  “Carter,” he said.

  “It’s Daphne,” Carter blurted. “She’s stepped on a stingray.”

  This brought a noise from deeper inside, a cross between a wail and a screech, and then the words, “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear,” repeated in much the same manner Daphne had been speaking only moments ago. Obviously her mother.

  She followed it up with, “Howard, go with the boy,” evidence she was actually thinking and not falling apart.

  Her dad went back into the apartment. “Find my shoes,” he mumbled. He returned a minute later and motioned toward the water. “Lead the way.”

  Carter turned his steps toward Daphne.

  Her dad panted as he walked and the material of his shorts rubbed together, giving a kind of whoosh-puff, whoosh-puff with each step. His shoes also squeaked, adding to the melee. Whoosh-puff-screee. Whoosh-puff-screee. Until they exited onto the sand then he floundered, dragging one foot out only to have the next sink back in.

  So it was a good five or six minutes before they got back to Daphne. Who for all accounts looked passed out. She revived, however, at the sound of her dad’s approach.

  “Daddy.”

  “Poppet. What did you do?” Her dad sat down beside her with an oomph.

  She rolled herself into his chest. “It hurts.” She sounded close to tears now.

  He patted her shoulders and stroked her head.

  “Where’s Mom?” she asked.

  Carter looked back the direction they’d came, and there, flapping her arms wildly, her feet skewing this way and that, was Daphne’s mother wading through the sand. Behind her was an Asian man who Carter recognized as the guy from the hotel office.