Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series) Read online

  “Hey Camie, you almost ready?” Jillian asked, skipping into my bathroom and taking up residence next to me in front of the mirror.

  “Yeah, I guess so. You think Mom and Dad would freak out if I wore some makeup?” From a teenager’s point of view, my parents rock and most of the time they rock hard. They’re cool about a lot of stuff, but their daughters wearing overly tight clothes and unnecessary cosmetics are two things they are not big fans of.

  “Probably. You don’t need it anyway…you lucked out with the really dark eyelashes,” she said as she ran a brush through her uncommonly long, blonde hair.

  As is most often the case, Jillian is right. I have this kind of light Mediterranean skin coloring, and my eyelashes are so dark it looks like I already have mascara on. So according to my parents, essentially all makeup falls into the unnecessary category for me. My sister, however, is allowed some light mascara and blush, although she practically never wears either. She and I share one physical trait and that’s our eye color. We both have brown eyes flecked with gold and green, and we get that unusual mix from our dad. I’ll have to check the little box next to brown or hazel when I get my driver’s license in January, even though neither of those are really right, but whatever.

  Now I’m not conceited, but I’ve been called beautiful my entire life so I don’t really worry about my looks, I’ve just taken everyone’s word for it and left it at that. I think I’ll blend in okay, though, and be able to make friends in time, but I think Jill’s looks will eventually cause problems for her. Most girls will probably be jealous of her, and not just because she’s so smart, which she is—scary smart. But the fact is, boys are going to swarm around her like bees on steroids. Seriously. If you want a good idea of what Jillian will look like when she’s sixteen, just picture Malibu Barbie.

  Physically, Jillian and I aren’t all that similar, especially with the difference in complexion, hair and backside. Her—truthfully—slightly wavy, light blonde hair stretches all the way past her cute, perky butt and she has the good fortune of being able to tan amazingly well for being so blonde, just like our mom. I mean I can tan really well, too, but I’m not blonde like she is, so it makes her stand out even more. Anyway, I’m about 5’6” and she’s around 5’4” or 5’5”, but I think she’ll end up being a little taller than me when we’re done growing. And at the rate she’s going, I bet her boobs will be bigger than mine as well. Seriously, the next time you’re in Target, go look at the Barbie dolls…

  “I know, but I’m afraid I’m already gonna stick out like a sore thumb. I was thinking maybe if I wear a little makeup, I won’t feel so out of place.”

  “Well whatever, it’s your funeral. I don’t think you should upset Mom though,” Jill said bluntly, this being one of those times she’s chosen to be direct, which she does from time to time. I guess I shouldn’t complain though; I find her cryptic mode of communication even more irritating.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Again. “Are you nervous?”

  “No. Honestly, I’m afraid I’ll be bored outta my skull. I wish Mom and Dad would’ve let me go into ninth grade like I placed.” She sounds totally exasperated—and for good reason.

  You see, one of the problems with going into the public school system after being homeschooled your whole life is the likelihood you won’t really be taught anything you don’t already know, because when you’re homeschooled, you tend to learn more at an earlier age and at a faster pace than the kids who are educated traditionally. And trust me when I say that my mom has given us a very thorough education up to this point. In fact, you’ll probably find that I lean towards using a vernacular that is more often than not, non-standard in relation to the majority of my peers. More simply put, I know a lot of big words and I like using them. However, I do understand that regardless of their years on this earth, not everyone understands what the hell I’m saying when I feel so inclined as to demonstrate my extensive vocabulary, so, I try making a concerted effort to be understood by toning it down in my everyday speech and talking like everyone else does.

  That being said, I’m fairly advanced scholastically, although I’m fifteen going into my sophomore year like I would be if I hadn’t been homeschooled, mainly because I don’t test well. Not like Jillian. According to her age she should be in seventh grade, but the truth is…she’s a flippin’ test-taking genius. And I’m not exaggerating about the genius thing either. You ever hear of Mensa? Yeah well, she doesn’t boast about being a member of that elite group of intellectuals, but the fact remains, she is one.

  Now I’m not positive and I’m not about to ask, but I don’t think Jillian knows our mom and dad asked the school not to give her any placement tests past the ninth grade. She could’ve easily placed as a senior if not tested out of school entirely. I overheard our parents one night and after talking about it, they decided she isn’t ready for high school, but what I really think they meant was, high school isn’t ready for her. Jillian is highly confident, exceptionally smart, and she takes great pleasure in her devious tendencies. Not a good mix. And with all that being so, you really want to stay on her good side because she also has a temper. I also think they kept Jill in eighth grade to give me a year on my own. I completely love my sister but after being with her everyday for the last twelve years, a year to myself sounds pretty good to me. We’ll see how I feel about that, though, when I’m eating lunch alone.

  “I’m not so concerned with being bored…I’m more worried about not knowing anyone.” Seriously, I don’t know a freaking soul at my school and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that to be a little scary.

  “Yeah... You know, this whole thing really bites,” Jillian said, showing what I find to be the proper amount of attitude towards our really crappy lifestyle change.

  “I know, especially today. It’s gonna be a huge suck-fest…like Buffy meets Twilight,” I agreed.

  For unto every generation a vampire phenomenon is born, one that girls and even some women will obsess over endlessly. For my mom it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I get the Cullens. Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoyed the books and everything, but just because they both have vampires, it does not make them the same. Buffy is just classic. It had everything…cute boys, mass drama, love stories, but best of all, it was freaking hysterical.

  “Nice comparison, but it’s gonna suck even more if we don’t leave right now…we’re gonna be late.”

  I heard my mom calling us from downstairs and then my dad honked the horn. “Crap! Well, good luck Jilly. I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep busy today,” I told her, giving her a big hug.

  “You too, Camie. At least you have one AP class, so that should be interesting,” she replied, hugging me back.

  Like I said, I don’t test well but, I really am sort of advanced. I was able to scrape into a junior level, honors literature class by the skin of my teeth. I’m prepared to be bored in the rest of my classes, though, except for maybe geometry. I hate math. Jillian and I are of like minds about this one thing, but again, she’d probably be in AP calculus if she were in high school.

  We grabbed our school backpacks, yet another new thing for us, and flew down the stairs. My mom was waiting, holding the front door open while wearing what was previously normal school attire for my sister and me—pajamas, slippers and a bathrobe.

  “Bye Mom! I love you!” Jillian and I said in unison and we each gave her tight, but quick hug. Neither of us wanted to look into her face because we were afraid of becoming emotional.

  “Bye girls, I love you too. Oh! Have a good first day!” My mom hollered from the porch as we clambered into the car.

  Backing out of the driveway, my dad blew my mom a kiss and I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at her. She’d moved onto the front lawn to watch our progress and had the fingers of one hand pressed to her lips and she was waving with the other. Shit. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t put any makeup on after all…I’d just end up looking like a clichéd raccoon before the short, fiv
e-minute drive to school was over.

  2.

  Insert Choice Expletive Here

  Crossing the street to school with a herd of other kids whose parents dropped them off like my dad had with me, I felt not so much like cattle, but a black sheep. I know most of my trepidation about not fitting in with other kids is only in my head, after all, I do fill the requisite teenager status, but there are just so many of them and they all seem like they know each other. They might not all be friends, a perfect example – and one totally responsible for “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses blaring in my head now – is the small group of girls yelling at each other on the front lawn of the campus. But, at least they still know each other. I mean seriously, how am I supposed to break into an established group that will accept me as one of their own? I really need to do that, too, if I want to survive my high school experience without needing therapy when it’s over. Looking at the somewhat defined cliques around me, I figure that if I don’t pick the right group, I’ll end up needing professional help anyway.

  I don’t really care about being popular per se, not that I’d shun the attention, but it has to be good attention, you know? Not the kind that comes from tripping, dropping your stuff all over the quad, and falling flat on your face. No lie; this is what I’m thinking about when a kid next to me does exactly that. And everyone starts laughing.

  “Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” I asked and bent down to help gather all the papers escaping his binder. I’m also pretty pissed again. I mean the nerve of all the kids who are laughing and pointing…how would they feel if it were one of them? Mean people just suck.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks,” he answered and took the papers from me.

  His name is Paul Matthison. How do I know that, you ask? Well, I read it upside down on a page of his physics homework. “Hi. I’m Camie. I’m new.” This is as good a time as any, right? It’s too bad Paul isn’t at all cute.

  “Oh. Yeah, hi. My name’s Paul,” he said awkwardly.

  He looked embarrassed and then his face flushed even brighter when someone over by “the blue stage” yelled, “Hey new girl! Be careful, Paulitis is contagious!” and a new chorus of vicious laughter spewed forth.

  I was trying to screw up my courage to holler some suitable profanity mixed with a nice string of one hundred dollar words from my extensive vocabulary at the offending crowd, but I should’ve heeded their warning instead. As we shuffled ahead, I hooked the toe of one of my sandals on a crack in the pavement and pitched forward. I would’ve for sure done a very graceful faceplant but a hand firmly grabbed my arm to keep me from flying to the ground. I was so grateful to him that I was about to throw my arms around Paul’s neck and hug him in front of God and everyone—including the disdainful gaggle of teens that would condemn me to the bottom of the social barrel for sure if I did. I turned to face him and realized with a sizzling jolt of over-active and under-used hormones, it wasn’t Paul who was deserving of my intended, full-body expression of thanks.

  WHOA. Insert choice expletive here_____, because I got nothin’. In fact, I consciously told myself to close my mouth and then I surreptitiously checked my chin for slobber.

  “Hey Paul, you forgot this back there,” the most gorgeous real-life guy I’ve ever seen in all my fifteen years and nine months of life said, brushing against me and causing my skin to tingle as he handed a beat up Isaac Asimov paperback to Paul. Honestly, I imagine that’s what a lightning rod might feel like when it’s struck.

  I’m gonna take a minute here because you seriously need to understand how magnificent this guy is. He’s tall—like probably at least 6’2”—super tan, and he has sort of long, sun-streaked, light brown hair that’s kind of a layered mess, so I’m thinking surfer right about now. This makes sense because he’s got a ridiculously powerful physique, but not bulky like a football player’s. His chest is really wide and he has well defined arm muscles. And just so you know, I can totally see the outline of his pecs and six-pack abs through his supremely well-fitted H2O Polo team t-shirt. To top it off, he’s got these amazing, sparkling, cerulean blue eyes that are fringed with thick lashes. Truthfully, I’ve never seen blue eyes like his. I mean he’s YU-UM-MY!

  “Hey, thanks Tristan,” Paul said, shoving the book under his arm and looking around us to see if he’d dropped anything else.

  “No problem, man,” Tristan (OMG!) called over his shoulder as he casually walked away from us, going up and over the blue stage, across the lawn, down a ramp to the lower quad, and out of my most-excellent boy stalking sight.

  Other than keeping me from falling, Tristan completely ignored me. But I’m good with that, because hey! He touched me!! I’m chanting that and doing a happy dance in my head when I suddenly thought; damn. Now I really wish Jillian were here. She’s totally the go-to girl if you need some reconnaissance done. Since she’s not, I’m obviously going to have to fend for myself. So, I focused the kaleidoscope of my Tristan tunnel vision enough to take note of the fact that he waved a lot and called out a bunch of “Heys” to people before he disappeared. No one razzed him when he helped me either, or even when he was talking to Paul.

  Hmmm…a smokin’ hot guy who’s both popular and nice? When I get home I think I’ll check the weather channel to see if they’re ice-skating in Hell. In the meantime, I decided to walk with Paul a bit further and tried my best to covertly learn information about Tristan without sounding like a complete lovesick puppy.

  “That was pretty cool of him...you know, returning your book and stopping me from falling and everything,” I said as an opener.

  “Who? Tristan?” Paul asked, looking at me like I was from outer space.

  Hellooo? Alien life form to Paul... YES, Tristan! Did you see anyone else save me from being completely mortified? I didn’t. I also noticed you didn’t help me either. Thanks for that by the way. “Yeah, whatever his name is,” I answered, inwardly rolling my eyes with my sorry attempt at nonchalance.

  “Oh. Yeah, he’s okay I guess. He can be real jerk sometimes though,” he said absently. I was getting the feeling Paul was really uncomfortable talking to a girl. His eyes kept darting all over the place like he was trying to avoid looking at my face.

  “What do you mean, a jerk in what way?” Damn it, I am not going to let my only source of Tristan Trivia get out of dishing up some goods that easy—Jillian would never let me live it down if I did.

  “I dunno. He’s usually pretty cool to me, but only because we’re cousins.”

  Oooh…jackpot! I have a blood relative to pump for information. “That’s the only reason he’s nice to you? That sucks.” Just as I suspected...Hell is still warm and toasty.

  “Well, I guess he’s not bad if he’s on his own or if you’re a girl… I just don’t like his friends and the popular crowd he hangs with. Most of them are real assholes,” he explained, still looking around.

  “Are you guys the same age?” I’m thinking, jeez Paul, you’re like Fort Knox with the info, buddy. Then I thought it might be my dreadful lack of skill in giving the third degree with subtlety. I also mentally thanked my dad for not providing a Y chromosome in the making of me.

  “No, I’m older. He’s a junior,” Paul returned with a modicum of smug self-pride. His eyes lit up when a kid with red hair, who’s wearing—I’m so not kidding about this—a pocket protector in his plaid button-up shirt, came running towards us. “Hey, I gotta go. Eric and I gotta go over some homework and the bell is gonna ring any time. See ya around,” he said and took off at a trot towards the P.P.P.K.—Plaid Pocket Protector Kid, otherwise known as Eric.

  Well alrighty then. At least I got some kind of information out of the vault that is Paul. Tristan, my beloved, is a junior, which, I’m afraid, puts him firmly out of reach for me. I think. I don’t actually know for sure, I’m just guessing. Add this to the rapidly growing list of things I’ve never had to be concerned with before.

  I sighed and headed into my first class of the day. Much to my substant
ial disgust, it’s geometry. That damned bell went off just as I walked through the door and what did I do? Yes, that’s right…I squeaked, and jumped about two feet off the ground. I dropped my backpack, too, which made a loud thunk! sound and caused about thirty heads to snap around to stare and snicker at me. Fabulous. While I’m at it, I might as well resign myself to having been inflicted with “Paulitis.” I wonder if the school nurse can inoculate me with a shot or something so I don’t catch any other social disease.

  After calling the much-evil kind of attention to myself in geometry, I made it through the rest of my first four classes without incident, happy to discover my new illness apparently runs its course rather rapidly—I’m thinking it probably needs constant exposure to cause permanent damage. I even made plans to meet up with a girl named Michele and some of her friends at lunch. She seems nice and is in my second period history class as well as my fourth period biology class. And although Michele’s moving to Sacramento next month, I was excited about having made a friend on my first day. I was patting myself on the back for that and looking forward to the thirty-minute parole for food when I walked into my honors English class early. I stuttered to a stop and looked around, thinking I had the wrong cellblock (whoops, I meant to say “room”) because big, overstuffed pillows in five distinct groups were in place of desks. Thank God I’m early because if I’m in the wrong place, I want ample time to find where I should be…I cannot be late to an AP class. That would reflect really poorly on me.