One of the Guys Read online

  ONE OF THE GUYS

  LISA ALDIN

  SPENCER HILL CONTEMPORARY

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Aldin

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Contemporary / Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: February 2015

  Lisa Aldin

  One of the Guys: a novel / by Lisa Aldin – 1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary: A tomboy rents out dates with her male friends to students at an all-girl prep school and ends up falling for her best friend.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: ChapStick, Christmas Vacation, Cloverfield, Darth Vader, Diet Coke, Discovery Channel, Dr. Pepper, Dunkin’ Donuts, Family Guy, Fight Club, Ford Focus, Ghost, Go Fish, GoPro, Hello Kitty, Home Alone, Honda Civic, Ice Spiders, Indianapolis Colts, James Bond, Junior Mints, King Kong, Mario Brothers, Mario Kart, Maxima, McRib, Moby Dick, Monday Night Football, Mountain Dew, My Bloody Valentine, New England Patriots, No Country For Old Men, Pale Blue Dot, Peach, Post-It, Road House, Skittles, Snickers, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Proposal, Titanic, Tupperware, Tweety Bird, VW Bug, White Castle, Yoshi

  Cover design by Jenny Zemanek

  Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic

  Author Photo by Christopher Aldin

  ISBN 978-1-939392-63-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-939392-64-0 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Chris and Charlotte

  one

  I LOVE THE BEGINNING OF A HUNT. No one is tired or hungry or complaining yet. Plus the start is so full of maybes. Like maybe we’ll capture our town’s legendary lake monster on film tonight. Maybe we’ll put to rest any doubts of his existence. Maybe we’ll become the legend.

  As Lake Champlain wrinkles with miniature waves, I imagine Champ swimming underneath, looking up at us and smiling. My knees bounce with the excitement of a kid waiting to see Santa. I can’t sit still. But the guys are so relaxed and quiet, staring off into the night, waiting. The gentle slosh, slosh, slosh of water petting the side of Ollie’s pontoon boat rises and falls. The scent of algae lingers.

  Come on, Champ. Show yourself. I dare you.

  I look up clouds and hope for rain. After a hunt, I like to walk into my house smelly and soaked. The night somehow feels wasted unless I’m dragging mud into the living room.

  I wish I knew what would entice the old monster to appear. Bread crumbs? Serenading the water with an enchanting song? Performing some weird dance? We’ve tried it all, but we haven’t spotted Champ since the summer before fifth grade. The summer that forged our friendship. The summer all four of us noticed the giant, black tail grazing the surface of the lake.

  A massive belch escapes me. Loch shifts in the driver’s seat and shoots me a stern look over his shoulder, his plain white T-shirt flapping in the breeze. I smile sheepishly. Not the best time to showcase my talent.

  Strike one. After three noise violations, we will end the hunt. Champ likes quiet. Why else would he hide at the bottom of a lake for centuries?

  “Sorry,” I whisper, holding back another burp. Maybe I should lay off the Mountain Dew.

  After a moment, Loch smiles and mouths the words, “Good one.”

  I stifle a laugh. Yeah. The best ones sometimes come out of nowhere, as my dad would say.

  Ollie slaps his arm. “Stupid bugs,” he grumbles.

  I sigh. Let the complaining begin. I could sit here all night without saying a word, bugs swarming, heat crawling up my neck, but Ollie can barely go thirty minutes without whining about something. I dig through my duffel bag of monster-hunting goodies until I find the bug spray and toss the bottle across the boat to Ollie.

  “Thanks, McRib,” he whispers. He sprays his arm until it shines with wetness.

  Cowboy coughs and whispers, “Take it easy with that poison.” He scoots a few inches away from Ollie, covering his mouth and nose.

  “Bugs carry diseases.” Ollie leans over to spray his thick hairy legs. He should really consider shaving those things. They look like fuzzy caterpillars. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  “This coming from the kid who flies down mountains on a board for fun.” Cowboy rests his elbows on his knees. A huge bug crawls between strands of his blond hair. He casually shakes his head, and the bug vanishes into the dark.

  “You can’t get a disease from snowboarding,” Ollie adds, his whisper growing louder. I cringe, wishing he’d keep it down. It’s too early to scare off the monster.

  Cowboy rests his head back and closes his eyes. Is he bored? How could anyone find this boring? We’re monster hunting! An uneasy feeling bubbles in my stomach, like I’m watching my favorite movie but it’s nearing the end. And I can’t rewind.

  “Careful,” I say, keeping my voice low. A mosquito lands on my elbow and proceeds to chow down. “You’ll scare Champ away with your paranoia, Ollie.”

  “I prefer winter.” Ollie wipes his hands on his cargo shorts. “Bugs hate winter.”

  “Champ hates the talking,” Loch whispers, fidgeting with the GoPro dangling around his neck.

  “Agreed,” Cowboy says softly, eyes still closed.

  Everyone shuts up. I scratch at my bug bite and breathe a little easier, pleased with the silence, however fleeting it may be. But Cowboy is irritating me. I mean, this is ridiculous. His eyes are closed. On a monster hunt. How does he expect to see anything?

  I take a deep breath. Try to relax. I don’t want to scare Champ away with any bad vibes. As the breeze ripples the water, my gaze wanders to the mountains surrounding the lake. I bet those mountains have seen Champ a million times over hundreds of years. Witnessed every sighting. Every story. The mountains know our story, too. If only they could talk. Because no one believes what we saw.

  Eventually my gaze lowers to Loch. His fingers rest on the wheel, guiding the boat with ease. I never get tired of seeing him in his natural habitat, on the hunt for a legendary beast, working to prove skeptics wrong. After a few minutes, he cuts the engine, stands, and slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  On second thought, this is my favorite part of a hunt. Watching Loch hold his breath. Studying his lips as they move in a prayer-like fashion. I know he isn’t really praying, though. He’s talking to Champ, making deals and promises with the monster in exchange for a glimpse.

  “Hey, McRib. Can you toss me a bag of sour cream and onion chips?” Ollie asks.

  The request startles me. Ollie doesn’t even bother whispering anymore. I pull my stare away from Loch and fumble through the bag. No chips. Oh, right. I ate them on the way here. I throw over a can of delicious Mountain Dew instead. Now the silence can continue. I hope.

  “Hey,” Cowboy says, his voice soft and quiet, but not quite a whisper. “Throw me one?”

  Or maybe not. I should probably just hand Cowboy his drink, but I’m too lazy to get up. I’m comfy. So I toss it. But the can slips from Cowboy’s clumsy hands and hits the floor of the boat with a thud before rolling toward me. Quickly, I step on it. Loch’s shoulders tense. His dark eyes focus on the dark water.

  Strike two.

  Suddenly, there’s a splash behin
d me. Ollie and Cowboy jump up and peer over the edge of the boat so quickly I think someone might go overboard. Cursing, I search the bag while Loch aims his flashlight and GoPro at the water. After I find my flashlight, the two pale strips of light roll over the water together.

  My heart pounds.

  I hold my breath.

  The only sound is the slosh, slosh, slosh of the waves.

  Wedged between Ollie and Cowboy, I smell the stench of bug spray on Ollie’s arms mixed with Cowboy’s eye-stinging cologne. I suspect Cowboy wears the cologne on hunts because he secretly hopes we’ll run into Katie Morris, his long-time crush. Like she’d happen to be out monster hunting one night.

  A few minutes pass as we search the water for the source of the splash. Maybe Champ will show us his face this time? Or a shoulder? A claw? That’d be sweet.

  Ollie steps back from the railing, sighing. My heart drops. No. Don’t give up yet. He’s under there. Just wait. Seconds later, Cowboy plops down and opens his dented Mountain Dew can. The pop of the tab echoes. I cringe again. Strike three? I look to Loch. Not yet. His tall body’s a statue.

  Loch and I remain fixated on the lake. I don’t understand why Ollie and Cowboy have given up already. It’s freaking early. We’ve survived so many false alarms over the years. Big deal. False alarms don’t mean we just give up.

  A thick branch floats by the pontoon on a wave. Loch turns off the flashlight and scratches the stubble on his chin. I sigh and turn off my flashlight, too. If Loch’s given up, the hope is dwindling. His shoulders slumped, he returns to the driver’s seat. I feel like saying something encouraging, anything, but I’m afraid the hunt will officially end if I do.

  Before I sit down, I give the water one more good look. Nothing.

  Ollie chuckles. “Hey, Loch. You could add that to your hours of floating twigs footage.”

  I sink further into my seat, annoyed. And there it is. Strike three.

  Loch starts up the engine. “That shouldn’t count,” I say, sighing.

  “Champ could be swimming circles around us and we’d miss it,” Loch says, steering the boat back to the dock. “What’s the point of being out here if we’re scaring the guy away every two seconds?”

  I look down, press my lips together, and fidget with my black basketball shorts. I hate the end of a hunt. Everyone’s so crabby and pessimistic.

  Cowboy yawns. “Maybe we just saw an eel or something that day, you know? Maybe we’re wasting our time with this.”

  Ollie nods. “Yeah. Like maybe my eleven-yearold imagination saw a giant tail, but in reality, it was probably just a stick.”

  No. No. No. These are not the maybes I love. I snort and try to lighten the mood with a stupid joke. “Good point, Ollie. You do like to pretend certain snake-like things are larger than they actually are.”

  Cowboy laughs, squirting Mountain Dew out of his nose. Ollie breaks into a grin and shakes his head, swatting at a bug. I look to Loch for his reaction. He curls his fingers around the wheel over and over again, lost in thought, quiet. I’m kinda hurt. Loch usually laughs at my lame jokes.

  No one speaks for a while. Of course. Now everyone is quiet. The hum of the boat’s engine sounds. For a second, I think the hunt might be salvaged, but Loch doesn’t turn around. The dock grows closer.

  “We’ve spent almost the whole summer doing this,” Ollie says. “Searching for monsters. Bigfoot. Champ. Batboy. Giant cats. And for what? This is our senior year, guys. We can’t keep chasing after something we thought we saw when we were eleven. We can’t chase things that aren’t real anymore.”

  “We’ll get the evidence on film,” Loch says. “We just need to pay attention at the right time.”

  “We were all there.” Cowboy runs his slim fingers over the collar of his short-sleeved flannel. “We all remember. What’s the big deal about proving it to everyone else?”

  Loch pauses. His voice lowers. Shadows play across the profile of his face. “Because some of us are forgetting.”

  When we arrive at the dock, Ollie and Cowboy jump off first and tie up the boat. I really want to say something to Loch about hope and all, but he won’t look at anyone as he climbs off the boat. So I let it drop.

  I’m last off the pontoon. The boys are still bickering about Champ so I hang back a little, annoyed. By my feet, I notice our four names—real ones, before any of the nicknames caught on—carved into the wooden dock, laid out like a welcoming mat, each letter jagged and sloppy.

  Toni. Micah. Luke. Justin.

  When I look up, the guys are halfway down the pier leading to the parking lot, still arguing about whether or not Champ even exists. Last year we had all undeniably believed in the monster beneath the water. What’s changed?

  “Hey! It’s still early,” I call out, rocking from foot to foot.

  “I’m done looking for monsters,” Ollie yells over his shoulder. “So unless you’ve got a better idea, I’m headed home.”

  Cowboy stops, turns, looks at me. He smiles and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts. “I’ve got to finish Moby Dick anyway.”

  He starts walking again. Each boy gets smaller, farther away, and suddenly it feels like this is it. The last hunt. Our ending. Not the one I had hoped for.

  “I have a plan!” I announce. “It’s epic! Huge! Exciting! Different!”

  The boys stop, turn. All eyes are on me now. Sweat forms under my armpits as I search for a lie to feed them. Anything to keep them from leaving. I take a deep breath and march forward.

  “Get in the car.” I grin. “This is gonna be a night you won’t freaking forget.”

  two

  THE PASSENGER’S SEAT OF LOCH’S old Honda Civic knows me well. As Loch drives, I sink into the frayed fabric and fidget with the loose thread beside my knee, careful not to pluck it out. I don’t actually have a plan. I’m bluffing big time, and I wonder how long I can keep this up before the guys realize I’m stringing them along just because I don’t want to say goodnight yet.

  But this is the summer before our senior year. A time to hold on to everything—not to let go. Next fall, too much will change. We should savor what we have now. For as long as we can.

  “Which way?” Loch asks, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as we roll up to a stop sign.

  “Left.” I raise my chin and try to speak with confidence, but my voice wavers. The rattling dashboard drowns out the faint sound of the radio. I punch the volume button a few times, but it’s eternally stuck at low.

  My seat jostles as Ollie leans forward from the backseat and asks, “So where we going, McRib?”

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” I watch the dark tree-lined street outside. Hot air causes sweat to form along the back of my neck. On occasion, the Honda’s air conditioner will grace us with its presence, but tonight isn’t one of those nights.

  Cowboy sits next to Ollie in the back, his forehead pressed against the window, his nose stuck in a book. Tonight he’s reading my torn copy of Moby Dick, a summer assignment for our English class in the fall.

  “Let me ask you something, Cowboy,” Ollie says, leaning back. “Are you a masochist?”

  I glance at the rearview mirror. Cowboy doesn’t look up from his reading as he replies, “I know what we can do tonight. We can play the quiet game.”

  “That book is torture,” Ollie continues. “Pure torture. Like anyone needs to read hundreds of pages about sperm whales.”

  “Moby Dick has one of the best monsters in all of literature,” Loch says, shaking his head. “Don’t knock it.”

  Ahead, the movie theater appears, the marquee aglow with this week’s cinematic choices. Instantly, I think of all of the times my dad took me to weeknight shows. I ignore the knot in my stomach, but it’s not an entirely bad knot. Good memories are tangled with it, but I miss my dad. It’s been three years since his death, yet his presence remains strong, especially in familiar places such as this.

  “Um, turn here,” I order.

&n
bsp; Loch steers the car into the parking lot, the pavement still shiny from that afternoon’s rain. He parks the car in an empty spot near the entrance. I rest my elbow on the door and play with a strand of hair that’s fallen free from my ponytail. I think about all the times Dad and I would scoop up old movie posters on Thursday nights before they were thrown away, many of which decorate my bedroom now. I hate time. It can really screw things up.

  “So I got a serious question to ask you guys,” Ollie says.

  I turn around, wondering if he’s feeling the same thing that I am, that this year doesn’t have to be an ending. It could be a promise. A promise to always be there for each other. A promise to stay the same when so much else seems to change.

  Ollie pauses, takes a deep breath, and asks, “Who farted?”

  He rolls down the window and attempts to wave the stale air into the outside world. I chuckle and glance at Loch, who just smiles and drums his fingers along the steering wheel.

  “That’s classic car smell,” he says. “Either that or the milkshake I spilled in here last week.”

  “Is this the big plan?” Cowboy glances up from his book. “A movie? We could watch one in Loch’s basement. My turn to pick. I choose The Proposal.”

  Ollie high-fives him. “Agreed! Such a good movie.”

  Loch groans. “Oh, man. Shoot me now.”

  “Better than those horror movies you and McRib are obsessed with,” Cowboy says.

  “Please, Toni. Save me from the dreaded romantic comedy,” Loch says, glancing at me. “Tell me you’ve got something else up your sleeve.”

  I sigh, ready to admit defeat, I’ve got nothing here, until someone I recognize exits the movie theater. Principal Rogers stands at the curb, illuminated by the glow from the building behind him. He wipes his glasses on his blue polo shirt and examines the clear night sky. He slides his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and then runs a hand through his thick, gray hair.

  “Principal Rogers.” Ollie sounds intrigued, spotting him. “Wow. He exists outside the halls of Burlington High.” He playfully kicks at my seat. “So what’s the plan here, McRib?”

  “There is no plan,” Cowboy states. “You do all realize that, I hope.”