Sing by Vivi Greene Page A

dent on one side. As Tess wraps him in a hug, my eyes meet his, and the back of my neck goes hot and scratchy.
    It’s the guy from the intersection.
    â€œSammy, Bird, this is Noel,” Tess says, her face lit up. “He’s the only reason I survived my summers here.”
    Noel smiles, shaking Sammy’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know about that.” He turns to me and his smile slowly fades. “Hello,” he says gruffly.
    Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Hey,” I say much too loudly.
    Tess looks skeptically from Noel to me. “You two know each other?”
    â€œNot really,” Noel says, pulling down the tailgate of his truck. “Wasn’t much time for small talk while she was demolishing my truck.”
    Tess furrows her dark brow, glancing at the dent behind the door. “You did this?” she asks me. “I thought you said it was a fender bender.”
    Before I can make an excuse, J.T. cuts me off. “Holdup.” He laughs. “You got into a fender bender with Lily Ross, and this is the first we’re hearing of it?”
    Noel shakes his head, lugging a few crates from the truck’s bed. He pushes them into J.T.’s chest. “Easy, fanboy,” he teases. “We’re late.”
    Tess and Sammy laugh as Latham helps us all into the back of the boat. “ We’re late?” J.T. is still ribbing Noel. “You’re the one who took his sweet time getting over here this morning. What happened, you get rear-ended by Madonna?”
    Noel flashes the easy smile of someone who could have the last word but chooses not to and lowers the last of the traps into the back of the boat.
    â€œEveryone ready?” Noel asks. He starts the engine without waiting for an answer and we sputter away from the dock, the harbor and the town receding into the distance.
    Sammy and I squeeze onto a small bench seat toward the back, the salty spray of the ocean misting our faces. J.T. and Latham are crouched over a pair of giant coolers, spearing thick slabs of bait with what look like giant barbeque skewers. Tess stands next to Noel, chatting. The roar of the engine and whoosh of the wind make it impossible to hear anything, so I just stare out at the water. The sun beats down in shimmering strokes, but the air is crisp as we pickup speed, and I’m grateful for my giant, if far-from-flattering, sweatshirt.
    I haven’t been on a boat like this since I was little. My grandpa used to take me fishing every summer, when we stayed at their house on the lake. There’s a particular feeling you get, surrounded by water, with the sky so big and full overhead. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it.
    After a while, Noel cuts the engine and we stop at an orange buoy with two white stripes. The guys get to work, their movements a carefully choreographed routine. They pull up the buoy and hook it to a pulley that hangs off one side of the boat. A giant metal trap splashes out of the water. They swing it into the back of the boat as Sammy and Tess and I hover around the perimeter, water sloshing around our feet.
    â€œNot bad.” Latham grins, lifting the hatch. The trap is crawling with blue-black lobsters of various sizes, their prehistoric-looking claws hinging slowly open and shut. The guys toss the lobsters into giant coolers stashed beneath the benches.
    As we pull up to the next buoy, Noel gestures impatiently for more bait. He peels off his rubber gloves and walks to the back of the boat, brushing past me without so much as a look. Something about his active disinterest makes me bristle. “What have you guys beendoing back here?” he shouts, peering into the cooler of bait. “Daydreaming?”
    J.T. starts setting the traps as Noel hurriedly slaps some more chunks of slimy flesh onto the skewers. I watch him for a moment, that same stubborn instinct bubbling up inside of me. From the time I was a kid, I’ve had this