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here. She turns to where Lance is weighing a puck in each hand and blushes six ways to Sunday when he catches her eye and gives a quick head nod.
    Ah, young love. I’m so happy I don’t have to worry about any of that. So, so, soooo happy. Happi est , really.
    â€œExcusez-moi, pirate girl. Eez ziss where I can pay for zee shuffleboard game?”
    I tip my head back in my chair to see who in Sandpiper Beach would be talking with a French accent and am suddenly staring into the warmest pair of espresso-bean/Labrador-puppy/brown-as-melted-hot-chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen. Attached to a boy. A my-age boy. And when my head tip turns into something more like a crane, I topple backward in my beach chair and end up with my Dread Pirate boots waving in the air at Mr. Oh-My-Gosh-He’s-French.
    â€œAre you . . . Can I help you?” he asks, as he crouches down and gently extracts Polly Want a Cracker’s claws from my shoulder.
    â€œMmmmm-ffffffff,” I answer. What? Like anyone in my position would manage anything better. He’s French and he’s cute. There should be a law against that. You should be allowed to be one or the other. Not both. Sooooo not both.
    Vi giggles and tugs me up. “Sorry about Becca. She must have hit her head when she fell.” She elbows me, and I regain the ability to form a sentence.
    â€œArrrr.”
    Okay, well, maybe not a sentence, but at least a word. Sort of.
    â€œI thought Talk Like a Pirate Day wasn’t until next week, Becs.” Vi’s still grinning like she thinks this is the funniest situation in the world. Like I am not standing in front of a French hottie while wearing a seventeen-sizes-too-big Dread Pirate costume and mumbling incoherent phrases. Words. Whatever.
    I’ll be killing her later.
    â€œI’m Philippe,” the cute boy says. Of course he is. Of course he has a perfect French name to match his perfect French accent. What is it with me and accents? They’re like my kryptonite. First there was Ryan this summer, who was visiting from Ireland. Even now, when we Skype to work on songs together, his accent still does this weird flip-floppy thing to my stomach, although we are a thousand percent just good friends.
    Philippe has his hands in his pockets, and he’s rocking back and forth a tiny bit on the balls of his feet, with this confident little smile in the corners of his mouth. Daddy says boys with corner smiles are trouble. Well, Daddy says all boys are trouble. He doesn’t really make distinctions. But still.
    You know what? It’s a totally good thing I’ve sworn off boys, then. Yup, totally, totally good thing. Plus, tourist boys = not worth my time. They just pack up and leave at the end of the summer. Although the end of the summer happened weeks ago, so France must have extra-weird vacation schedules. But whatever.
    Once I remember the tourists-aren’t-worth-it thing, I can totes be myself again. Phew!
    â€œHi, Philippe. I’m Becca. This is Vi. Are you entering the tournament?”
    â€œYes, I am. I thought eet would be a good way to meet zee ozzer kids in my new hometown.”
    New hometown? New hometown??
    Um . . . say what now?

Vi
    PIZZA ROLLS
    The best thing about this recipe is that you don’t have to measure anything!
    Ingredients:
    1 roll of crescent dough
    olive oil (to brush on the dough)
    pizza sauce
    basil
    oregano
    mozzarella cheese (shredded)
    your favorite pizza toppings: pepperoni, mushrooms, green pepper pieces, anything!
    Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Unroll the crescent dough and separate it into rectangles (two crescents per rectangle). Brush each rectangle with a little olive oil; then sprinkle them with just a little basil and oregano. Spoon a very thin layer of pizza sauce on each rectangle (not too much, or it will leak out as the rolls bake!). Then layer on the cheese and each of your favorite ingredients. Remember not to put too much