“I’m so sick of working every summer of my life,”
Celeste moaned. “I mean, I would’ve loved to go to that creative writing program I told you about, but—”
“What?” Devon’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “I thought you hadn’t said anything because you didn’t get in.”
“I didn’t even apply.” Celeste dropped her head on her friend’s shoulder. “It wasn’t worth it—Mom and Dad would never let me go. ‘You have to save money for college,’” she mimicked. “Besides, I’d feel guilty for aban-doning them during high season anyway.”
Devon shook her head. “You’re incredible. I’m lucky if I remember to say hi to my mom when I see her for the five minutes a day we’re both in the house.”
Celeste went on. “And I only have eighty-nine days until Travis leaves for Arizona State, and I’m not going to see him all summer! Then he’ll go off to college and leave me behind, and meet tons of gorgeous sorority girls and never come to visit and forget all about me.”
She folded up her program and fanned her face. Not that it would do any good. The heat would have been unbearable even without the aid of whoever had doused themselves in Coco Mademoiselle perfume.
“Well, don’t feel too sorry for yourself, drama queen.
I’m going to be here too.” Devon had a job as Pinyon’s guest relations rep. She’d been wait-listed at a super-exclusive acting program in Scotland, so Celeste had convinced her to spend the summer making as much money as possible.
Thank God, Celeste thought a little guiltily. She knew how much Devon wanted to go to Glasgow, but at least she’d have someone around this summer other than her crazy parents.
The girls stopped talking as a tall man with a long red neck and a prominent Adam’s apple appeared from
behind the screen and made his way to the podium. He began harrumphing into the microphone.
“Hello? Hello? Is this on?” The microphone responded to his voice with an angry feedback whine. The audience covered their ears.
Mr. Ransick was the school board president. Every year, he and his wife spent their anniversary at the resort.
They always ordered up champagne and strawberries, and Celeste, unfortunately, was usually the one to deliver them, which conjured up all sorts of images she’d rather forget.
A guy at a soundboard in the back fiddled with some dials and then nodded at Mr. Ransick.
“Okay!” Mr. Ransick said. “First of all, welcome to the sixtieth commencement exercises for the graduating class of Longbrook High School!” He paused to let a little ripple of applause scatter throughout the audience.
Celeste opened her knockoff burgundy Marc Jacobs bag and checked her iPhone to see if Travis had texted.
Nothing. She shifted on the hard plastic seat and surrep-titiously tried to peel her dress off the back of her legs.
Devon was tapping away on her BlackBerry.
“Who are you writing?” Celeste hissed.
“Stefan!” her friend whispered back. “I’m asking if he’ll be at Kevin’s after-party.” A woman with a helmet of blond hair turned around and glared at them. Celeste shot her a gold-plated smile straight from Pinyon customer service.
Up front, Mr. Ransick was blathering on about commitment to their school’s core values of equality, liberty, and paternity or something, and people were starting to shift around in their seats. Beside them, the white-haired lady took another picture of her lap.
“And without further ado …” Mr. Ransick seemed to be winding down. Celeste looked up. “Please welcome this year’s graduating class.” He gestured at the frizzy-haired school orchestra director at the front of the patio.
The director raised her arms and the band struck up that perennial graduation favorite, “Pomp and Circumstance.”
Celeste sat up in her seat, trying to spot Travis in the wobbly line of black-gowned seniors now gathered at the foot of the stage steps. Devon gasped.
“Look!” She pointed a pale pink–manicured finger at the stage.
A golf cart crammed with five guys wearing rubber monster heads and striped terry-cloth bathrobes acceler-ated up the wheelchair ramp onto the stage. A loud murmur rustled through the audience and a few people laughed. The music trailed to an uncertain halt as the orchestra director’s waving arms wilted.
Celeste squinted her eyes. “What the hell?”
Devon was laughing next to her. “It’s gotta be the senior prank! I can’t believe they waited until the last possible day!”
The golf cart jerked to a halt in the middle of the stage. The five guys jumped out and lined up. In unison, they tore off their bathrobes and exposed matching purple, rhinestone-encrusted thongs. Mr. Ransick and the principal, Dr. Weaver, stood as if turned to stone. The microphone dropped from Mr. Ransick’s slack hand and thumped to the floor with a loud whine. There was a moment of dead silence, and then all the students in the audience erupted with cheers. People started climbing onto their chairs and whistling. Some of the parents tried not to laugh, with varying degrees of success. The little old lady beside Celeste was sitting up very straight and frantically pressing every button on her camera as she finally aimed it toward the stage.
Celeste climbed up on her chair too, trying not to break her ankle in her wobbly espadrilles. “Woo-hoo!”
she yelled and took a couple of shots with her iPhone.
Suddenly, Celeste shrieked. She recognized two
things a little two well: the swirling Pinyon Ranch logo across the side of the shiny white golf cart and the perfectly muscled chest of the tallest guy on stage, the one right in the middle.
Celeste shook Devon. “It’s Travis!” she hissed, pointing frantically at the stage. “And that’s our golf cart!”
“Oh my God,” Devon said, gasping for air.
Mr. Ransick suddenly snapped out of his trance and ran toward the steps leading up to the stage. “Stop!” he shouted. He slipped on the pages of his speech, which had scattered across the stone patio, and fell heavily on his rear. “Call
