One Moment in Time by Lauren Barnholdt Page A

it.”
    I’m close to the ocean now, and water sloshes over my bare feet. It’s pretty cold, but I don’t even notice. A feeling of dread is taking over my body. “So just ask Mom where the letter is,” I say. “And then tell her you’re going to send it to me in Florida.”
    â€œShe went back to work,” he says. “And she’s not answering her cell.”
    At that moment, someone taps me on the shoulder. I’m so on edge that I almost shriek out loud. I turn around, half expecting to see my mom standing there, holding the letter out to me with a disapproving look on her face, demanding answers and explanations.
    But it’s not my mom.
    It’s a guy I’ve never seen before. He looks a couple of years older than me, maybe nineteen or so, with dirty-blond hair. He’s wearing a pair of navy-blue board shorts and a soft-looking gray T-shirt.
    â€œHey there,” he says.
    â€œUm, hi,” I say.
    He gives me a smile, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “How are ya?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Neal demands.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I say. “Just some random guy on the beach.”
    â€œA random guy on the beach is hitting on you?” Neal asks. “I’ll kill him.”
    â€œAre you here with the school trip?” the guy asks.
    â€œYes,” I say, not sure if I should be admitting that. He looks like he’s up to no good. He’s probably friends with that vagrant who came by our room earlier and sold Paige and Celia beer. In fact, he might be the vagrant who came up to our room earlier and sold Paige and Celia beer.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “I’m not interested in any beer.”
    â€œBeer?” the guy repeats, looking at me in shock. “At this time of day?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To ask me if I want to buy beer?”
    â€œYou think I look like the type of guy who comes up to random underage girls and asks them if they want to buy beer?”
    I think about the question. He actually does kind of look like that guy. He has that beach slacker thing going on, like maybe he spends his days surfing and his nights trolling the island for women. Not that he probably has any troublefinding women—he’s very good-looking. Not my type, but still very good-looking. “Kind of,” I say honestly.
    â€œWow, I’m offended,” he says. But he doesn’t seem offended. He’s still smiling. He has a very nice smile. Very comforting. He probably uses it when he’s out trolling for women. “What’s your name?”
    â€œDon’t talk to him!” Neal instructs. “He’s probably a murderer or a kidnapper. Like that guy who took Natalee Holloway.”
    â€œLulubell,” I say, because who gives their real name out to a random stranger? “What’s yours?”
    â€œDon. Don Donson.”
    â€œDon Donson?” I repeat. “Your name’s Don Donson?”
    â€œSounds like a fake name!” Neal yells. “Stay away from him, Quinn.”
    â€œYeah,” he says, and shrugs. “What’s wrong with that name?”
    â€œIt sounds made up.”
    â€œSo does yours,” he counters.
    â€œThat’s because mine is made up.”
    â€œSo is mine.”
    â€œYou gave me a fake name?”
    â€œSo? You did, too.”
    I shake my head, wondering how the hell I got involved in a conversation with an obviously unstable person. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But what is it that you wanted?”
    â€œI wanted to invite you to a party we’re having tonight at the club where I work.” Aha! I knew I had him pegged—he does spend his days surfing and his nights working at some club where he trolls for women. He holds a hot-pink flyer out to me, and against my better judgment, I take it.
    â€œA party? ” Neal’s