The Guy Not Taken by Jennifer Weiner

suited her: a very skinny blond girl in a white string bikini sharing a blanket with two short, swarthy, heavyset men whose chests and backs were thick with hair and whose necks and wrists were festooned with gold.
    “Ew,” I whispered. Nicki motioned me to be quiet, and helped me spread out our blanket.
    “Drama!” she said, her brown eyes sparkling.
    “Enjoy,” I told her. I smeared sunblock on every body part that wasn’t covered by my extra-large T-shirt and plodded past the palm trees down to the edge of the ocean. Maybe I could call the financial aid office on Nicki’s behalf, I thought as the blue-green water churned and waves sent grit and seaweed splashing over my ankles. Or call the bank where I’d gotten my loan and see if they could arrange one for my sister. Or maybe I’d just drop out and give her my loan, and start again next year. My roommate would undoubtedly be delighted to have our double to herself.
    When I got back to the blanket my calves and thighs were aching, and Nicki was full of news. She rolled over to face me, words tumbling over one another as she filled me in on the tenants of the blanket next to ours. “The girl—her name’s Dee Dee,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, as if spies from People magazine were lurking in the palm trees, waiting to catch every word. “Well, she went up to their hotel room to get some Cool Ranch Doritos, and as soon as she was gone, they both started talking about all the action they were getting. Not from her.”
    I looked over at the hairy guys with new interest. One of them was asleep on his back, his mouth lolling open and his hands loosely cradling his hairy belly. The other was lazily flicking through an issue of Playboy. Dee Dee sat between them, her bony chest dusted with Cool Ranch Dorito debris, smoothing suntan lotion over her arms. “You should hear how she pronounces Bain de Soleil!” Nicki whispered. She fished the ten dollars Nanna had given us out of her pocket. “Now go buy me a hot dog.”
    “Don’t you want to come with me?” I asked. Nicki flapped her hands impatiently, waving me away. “I wish I had binoculars”was the last thing I heard her say as I headed off down the boardwalk.
    When I returned with lunch, my sister had torn a page from the back of Madame Bovary and was busy composing a letter. “Dear Dee Dee,” she’d written. “Your boyfriend is seeing other women. Ban de Soleil is not pronounced exactly the way it is written. You can do better than Richie.”
    “How do you know his name is Richie?” I asked. Nicki nibbled daintily at her hot dog.
    “Because I am a champion spy.”
    “But of course,” I said. I pulled off my T-shirt and put my head down for a nap.
    When I woke up two hours later my face was drool-glued to my forearm and my back was on fire. I looked around for Nicki, whose own skin was an unhealthy maroon. “You need sunblock,” I said, grabbing the bottle.
    “Oh, no,” she said, wriggling to the far edge of the blanket. “No unnecessary touch!”
    “It’s not unnecessary. You’re getting burned and so am I, and we’re sisters!” I tossed her the bottle. She flung it back.
    “Forget it.”
    I knew when I was beaten. I slathered myself as best I could, stretching my hands as far as they’d reach down my back. Then I put my shirt back on, pulled the blanket over my legs, and read until pickup time.
    When Nanna arrived at four p.m., she was deeply displeased. “I told you two not to get too much sun!” she scolded from underneath her own wide-brimmed sun hat. She pointed one manicured fingertip at me. “Make sure you get the sand off that blanket before you put it in my car!”
    I shook the blanket vigorously toward the street. “Nicki wouldn’t touch me.”
    Nanna was bewildered. “What? But she’s your sister!”
    “Doesn’t matter,” said Nicki, hissing as her legs hit the cream-colored leather of the backseat.
    “Meshuggenah!” Nanna snorted.
    “Oy vey!”