name.
“Got it. Here.” Blue Cap Guy shoved a plastic card with the number nineteen at me.
The number looked kind of blurry. “What’s this for?”
“Stick it on,” he told me. Then he looked at Mauve and said, “Next, please.”
I turned over the number, trying to decide where to place my number. What was it for, anyway? I’d ask Mauve when she was done talking to Blue Cap. I waited, my skin stinging from the warm sun and my throat dry. I kept sipping my drink — until I looked down and saw that it was empty. I must have spilled it. Oops. Oh well. Someone handed me another one.
Then Mauve bounced over, excitedly waving her number-twenty sticker. “I am so going to score and rock this beach.”
I held my number nineteen and squinted at it. It seemed an odd way to sign up to play volleyball but then what did I know about sports? As long as there wasn’t running involved, I should do okay. Anyone could hit a ball, right?
“I’m not really good at this,” I told Mauve.
“Don’t be modest. I’ve seen you in action before and you’re a natural.”
“I am?” Hmmm, was Sharayah a jock? Her body seemed too skinny, not toned enough for an athlete.
“Copy everyone else and flaunt your assets.”
“Flaunt?” That seemed an odd word to use for volleyball. “What if I fall down?”
“The crowd will go wild and you’ll score big.”
“You get points by falling? Beach volleyball must really be different than what I played in school.”
Mauve stared at me, then sputtered with laughter, spilling the bubbling amber liquid from her red cup to her sneakers. But she didn’t seem to notice, she was cracking up so hard. When she came up for air, she gave me a hug.
“You’re hilarious, Rayah! If I didn’t know how much you’ve been looking forward to this, I’d almost believe you didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“We’re not playing volleyball?”
“Yeah, right.” She snorted. “You need to take off your bra and change into a tight shirt. Let’s go. We’re competing in a wet T-shirt contest.”
* * *
I sobered up fast.
All the way to the car, I tried to talk Mauve out of the contest. If she backed out, then I could cancel too without breaking any GEM rules. But Mauve was determined. She was excited about the prizes, too — eager to win schwag like sunglasses, beach towels or passes to Universal Studios. In my opinion, free stuff wasn’t worth being drenched on stage and paraded half naked in public.
Yet this is what Sharayah planned to do, so as her temporary replacement, it was my mission to experience this for her. No matter how humiliating.
“Hurry! Change into something sexy,” Mauve told me as she popped the trunk of Sadie’s car.
“Sexy?” I stared at her like she was speaking to me in a foreign language.
“Wear your
“A thong! You can’t be serious?”
“It’ll look like a bikini bottom.”
“I’ll be practically naked!” I protested.
“If you got it, flaunt and shake it.”
“I’m shaking already,” I grumbled.
But hey, this was supposed to be fun. Living the college-girl life, finding out what it was like to be older, mature and … terrified. How was I ever going to find the nerve to get through this? An even bigger question — which one of the suitcases was mine?
Frowning, I studied the trunk crammed tight with a black, a red, and a blue suitcase, plus several bags and a red overnight case. Which one was mine? I was trying to figure out how to ask Mauve when I noticed the initials SR on the black suitcase. One problem solved. Relieved, I clicked it open.
The clothes had been randomly tossed in: shirts, jeans, bras, undies, etc. When I found the purple thong Mauve mentioned, I dangled the micro-tiny suit on one finger and groaned. How was I supposed to fit my ass into this? There wasn’t enough material to cover one cheek, much less two.
“Hurry up, Rayah!”
“I’m hurrying already,” I snapped.
“Do you hear that cheering, Rayah?” Mauve asked. “The contest is starting without us! You’d better get —”
But I’d stopped listening to her because I’d found something small, round and startling at the bottom on the suitcase. My body went from chilled to burning to numb as I lifted up a tiny silver ring.
I stared at the two-word inscription etched in the band:
10
If the ring was real, the dream was real.
And if the dream was real …
Gabe was a monster.
Sharayah had been too trusting. If only she’d listened to Eli’s suspicions about Gabe. Then she wouldn’t have gone through a horrible betrayal high on that remote ocean cliff. She’d loved him so much, she’d been ready to take off her silver ring and commit to him. So why had Gabe turned violent? Sharayah would have eagerly done anything he asked. It just didn’t make sense. She loved him and he seemed to feel the same way about her … until he pulled out the tape.
What was that about? Definitely not love.
I touched my cheek, remembering Gabe reeling back with his hand as if to strike Sharayah. But instead of hurting her, he’d been the one falling over the cliff. What had happened next? Had he survived? And what about Sharayah? She might not have physical injuries, but there were scars buried inside. Sharayah’s heart — the depths of her soul — had been broken. And if Gabe had died, she’d had to live with the guilt of his death. I didn’t know the complete horror of what had happened on that cliff, but I was beginning to understand the reason for Sharayah’s crisis.
“Rayah!” Mauve smacked her hand impatiently on the side of the car. “Are you ready?”
I jerked around, forgetting where I was until I focused on Mauve’s face and the real world rushed back with sounds of voices and surf and traffic. It was jarring to fit the pieces of my memory with all the spring break craziness on the beach. But the silver ring proved I was here for a reason. I slipped it on and made a new promise, both to Sharayah and myself. I would restore her confidence and show her that life could be fun again — even if part of that fun meant competing in a wet T-shirt contest. Heaven help me (and I meant that literally … Grammy, I could have really used some help!).
By the time I’d changed into the purple thong and the T-shirt Mauve insisted I wear and we reached the stage, number sixteen and her obviously surgically enhanced breasts were shaking up a dripping-wet storm. The crowd — even other girls — hooted for her to take it all off. To my surprise, she did!
“Strategic move. She’ll take first place,” Mauve grumbled beside me. “I’ll have to flash the crowd, too, if I want a chance at winning.”
I wrapped my arms around my sheer T-shirt. “Don’t even say that.”
“What’s the harm in a little flash?”
