Starstruck Read Online Free PDF Page A

wearing short shorts and a T-shirt and had a bag slung over her shoulder and was shivering in excitement (or perhaps because it was a bit nippy and her shorts went all the way up her butt crack) as she waited for her best friend Becca’s mom to pick her up. She even practiced some tosses and moves she learned at cheerleading camp this summer, just to make sure she “still had it” or something. The old ladies in the store smiled at her, then growled at me for not getting their Danishes fast enough.
    It’s ironic that it’s Labor Day, because what have I been doing for my last day of freedom before my junior year? Working. Working like crazy. Because of Evie’s extracurriculars, I’ve been picking up the slack at the bakery the entire weekend. I know there are child labor laws that prevent this, but there must be a loophole in there that says if the child belongs to you—i.e., you pushed said child out your hoohah—you may disregard any regulations designed to prevent said child from collapsing in exhaustion.
    Here it is, the day before school starts, and I look like a zombie. A zombie who has eaten half the junior class, but a zombie nonetheless. Yeah, Billy totally let me down. I’ve been working out with him and his cult every night for an hour, and I’ve gained three pounds! And with my triangle hair, I’m sure to make everyone jealous tomorrow.
    When Wish sees me, that will really make my life complete.
    My mother comes in from the back, looking seriously put out. She has her hands on her hips and there’s flour dotted in her hair. “They’re not here yet?”
    I shrug. “Who?”
    She looks at me, clearly disappointed that I don’t breathe this business the way she does. “The winter help.”
    I check the clock. It’s one exactly. “What time were they supposed to be here?”
    She puckers her lips. “One.”
    “It’s one right now.”
    “So. If they walk through the door right now, or anytime later, that means they’re officially late. And what kind of example does that set, if they can’t even show up on time on the first day of work?”
    Knowing the type of people my mom has gotten to be the winter help for the past few years, I think the woman probably got her walker stuck in a crack on the sidewalk or lost her direction because of Alzheimer’s. We have to get new help year after year, because our winter help always dies from old age over the summer. It’s not my mom’s fault; those are the only people around during the winter, because this island becomes a graveyard. All the rich people with kids usually move to their winter homes on the mainland, so I end up taking the short bus to school.
    The bell on the door jingles. Standing in the doorframe, his head directly in front of the Fresh Baked Bread! sign, is a kid with so many tattoos on his arms I can’t even be sure he has skin. He’s darting his chin back and forth as if watching a tennis match, and he looks a little lost, not like he wants a cruller. His hands are clenched over a paper bag, and he’s wearing army fatigue pants and a rumpled, sleeveless tie-dyed shirt. I turn to my mom and mouth, “Is that him?”
    She gives me a worried look and nods.
    “He, um, looks like an escaped convict,” I whisper.
    She tightens her lips and says, “They promised me he didn’t do anything bad,” and before I can ask her who she meant by “they,” and what she meant by “bad,” she’s giving him her famous fake smile. “Chris?”
    Oh, no. My mom hired a criminal. She must have killed off all the old people on the island, and this was her only option.
    He nods and gives a slow, easy smile, one that means he either wants to rip her head off or buy a puppy. I can’t tell which, because his eyes are completely covered by a mass of black pseudodreads. “Christian,” he mutters.
    She turns businesslike. “I’m Tammy Reilly. This is my daughter Gwen. She’ll give you a feel for your duties.”
    I expect him to get hung up on the space