Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
---|---|---|
Searching... Bayport Public Library | TEEN FICTION DES | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Oakdale Library | TEEN FICTION DES | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... R.H. Stafford Library (Woodbury) | TEEN FICTION DES | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Stillwater Public Library | TEEN FICTION DES | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
A New York Times bestseller
Luke is the perfect boyfriend: handsome, kind, fun.
He and Emaline have been together all through high school in Colby, the beach town where they both grew up. But now, in the summer before college, Emaline wonders if perfect is good enough.
Enter Theo, a super-ambitious outsider, a New Yorker assisting on a documentary film about a reclusive local artist. Theo's sophisticated, exciting, and, best of all, he thinks Emaline is much too smart for Colby.
Emaline's mostly-absentee father, too, thinks Emaline should have a bigger life, and he's convinced that an Ivy League education is the only route to realizing her potential. Emaline is attracted to the bright future that Theo and her father promise. But she also clings to the deep roots of her loving mother, stepfather, and sisters. Can she ignore the pull of the happily familiar world of Colby?
Emaline wants the moon and more, but how can she balance where she comes from with where she's going?
Sarah Dessen's devoted fans will welcome this story of romance, yearning, and, finally, empowerment. It could only happen in the summer.
"Completely engaging, infused with moments of sweetness, humor and major epiphanies." -- Kirkus Reviews
Also by Sarah Dessen:
Along for the Ride
Dreamland
Just Listen
Keeping the Moon
Lock and Key
Someone Like You
That Summer
This Lullaby
The Truth About Forever
What Happened to Goodbye
Author Notes
Sarah Dessen was born in Evanston, Illinois on June 6, 1970. She graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1993 with a degree in English with an emphasis in creative writing. Her first book, That Summer, was published in 1996. She mainly writes for young adults. Her books include Someone Like You, Just Listen, Along for the Ride, Keeping the Moon, Dreamland, What Happened to Goodbye, Saint Anything, and The Moon and More. She also teaches creative writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Emaline has grown up happily in the quiet beach town of Colby, N.C. (a setting that will be familiar to Dessen's many fans), where she lives with her mother, stepfather, and stepsisters. She's been dating a handsome local boy, Luke, for four years; they both work for her grandmother's property rental company and plan to attend East U in the fall. Then Emaline's quasi-estranged birth father and her 10-year-old half-brother, Benji, show up, as does another out-of-towner-an ambitious and romantic filmmaker's intern named Theo-upending Emaline's life and aspirations. Family, self-discovery, and change have always been key themes in Dessen's (What Happened to Goodbye) work, and they take center stage. Even though Emaline has two boys falling in and out of love with her, what's most at stake for her is figuring out what she wants for her future and deciding who to prioritize within her highly populated and very busy life. Dessen is as skilled as ever at turning out steady, satisfying stories about teens that are easy to fall for. Ages 12-up. Agent: Leigh Feldman, Writers House. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Horn Book Review
For Emaline, the summer between high school and college is filled with transitions, bringing new possibilities as well as difficult goodbyes. Working at the family business, Colby Beach Rentals, means regular run-ins with her loud but loving sisters, her grandmother, and her parents -- Mom, who had Emaline when she was a teenager, and Dad, Emaline's caring stepfather who raised her from age two. She also has plenty of time to spend with her best friends, Daisy and Morris, and her gorgeous longtime boyfriend, Luke. Things get complicated after her estranged birth father inexplicably pulls his offer to pay for an Ivy League education and arrives in town with her little half-brother in tow. A sudden, unexpected breakup with Luke is immediately followed by the stirrings of a new romance, leaving Emaline simultaneously grieving for her past relationship and excited about a new one. Exploring both family and romantic relationships, this quintessential Dessen novel sets Emaline's time of self-discovery in a beach-town summer of sunny, sandy days and soft, warm nights filled with promise. lauren adams (c) Copyright 2013. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
Emaline is on that precipice familiar to most new high-school grads: knowing where you come from, anticipating where you're heading, and struggling to reconcile the two. She's a lifer in the small beach town of Colby (the setting of two of Dessen's previous novels), comfortable with her longtime boyfriend, Luke, her chaotic blended family, and a job at Colby Realty. But when NYU student Theo and his boss arrive to film a documentary about reclusive local artist Clyde Conaway and Emaline's biological father and half brother come to town summer takes unexpected twists. On the same day that it's over with Luke, Emaline kisses Theo; but is he just a summer fling, or could he be something more? Dessen returns to familiar crowd-pleasing territory here, offering up perfect beach weather, plenty of romance, and a capable protagonist coming to terms with change. As always, she explores YA-relatable themes, from divorce to absentee parents, in nuanced and thought-provoking ways ( You think it's all obvious and straightforward, this world. But really, it's all in who's doing the looking ). Fans will be waiting; after all, it's not summer without Dessen. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: A national author tour and major media campaign ensure that this is as well received as Dessen's previous best-selling titles.--Kelley, Ann Copyright 2010 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
SUMMER is here, and with it the search for the perfect beach book, a pithy, plotty page turner that can be discussed with confidence at any cookout or party since everyone seems to be reading the same thing. Best of all is stretching out on the sand with a beach book that is actually set at the shore; somehow it heightens our delight in the transient joy of summer. Sarah Dessen, a seasoned young adult author, and the bold newcomer Leila Howland present readers with two different visions of sun and surf. While each features a young woman struggling to make the right decisions about life and love, one reads as smoothly as a rowboat ride across Central Park Lake while the other tumbles you like a rolling Coney Island wave. In "The Moon and More," 18-year-old Ematine is trying to savor her last summer in Colby, a fictional beach community that is a familiar destination to Dessen's fans. Like every teenager, Emaline longs for both security and adventure. While most people in Colby "either wanted to stay forever (and usually did) or couldn't wait to get gone and never look back (ditto)," Emaline wants to have her beach and leave it, too. "It seemed like things either stayed just the same or changed irrevocably. And like most times I found myself with hard choices, I just wished there was something clear and easy, right in between." But even as Emaline clings to what is comfortable, she also begins to push against the confines of her sheltered life. After discovering that her longtime boyfriend is cheating, she breaks up with him and begins dating an aspiring filmmaker named Theo, one of the suspect "summer people." She confronts her birth father about his failure to come through with the college funds he promised and takes on a new job as an executive assistant as a way to break free of her family's beach rental business. In short, she grows up, coming to the mature if prosaic conclusion that "for a life to be real, you need it all: good and bad, beach and concrete, the familiar and the unknown, big talkers and small towns." Dessen's writing is so assured that it sometimes has the effect of blunting the sharp corners of Emaline's multiple conflicts. While the story sails along smoothly on Dessen's polished prose, it also feels tame. And it isn't just a matter of style: Emaline's risks are safe ones, her college attendance is guaranteed (even if she's not going to her first choice) and her supportive family stands at the ready with a life preserver. The stakes are never high, but sometimes that's exactly what we want in a beach book: a beloved author returning to a familiar setting with an everygirl character we can settle down in the sand with like an old friend. Not so with Howland's debut, "Nantucket Blue." When we first meet 17-year-old Cricket Thompson, she's face down in the dirt after being socked in the jaw with a lacrosse stick in a championship game. Instead of bursting into tears, Cricket gets back on her feet to score the goal that puts her team on top. The opposite of Emaline, Cricket doesn't waffle. Her parents, who teach at the exclusive private school she attends in Rhode Island, are divorced, and don't "have enough money for a summer place or European vacation." If she wants something, she has to go for it with gusto. That's why, when her best friend Jules's mom dies unexpectedly and Cricket's invitation to stay with Jules's family on Nantucket is rescinded, Cricket decides to go anyway, even if she has to work as a chambermaid at a bed-and-breakfast to do so. She wants to be there for Jules, but, at the same time, she's eager to see more of Jay, a boy she's had a crush on since eighth grade, who is also vacationing on Nantucket. Her summer dreams sour when Jules abruptly shuns her, Jay turns cold and Cricket finds herself awkwardly attracted to Jules's younger brother, Zach. Suddenly the fearless lacrosse player is on shaky ground. "What was this feeling, anyway? This need to move? This need to get a little more air, cross my legs, squeeze something? ... I wasn't supposed to be feeling this way about Zach." Death, devastating betrayal and a brief but sexy skinny-dipping scene let you know you're not in Colby anymore. Unlike Dessen, who doesn't miss a stroke in her measured novel, Howland sometimes drops her paddle but still manages to steer straight. While the pacing loiters a bit after the bang-up beginning, catchy similes like "The horn sounded, the ferry launched, and my summer swung open like a saloon door," stick with you. And though Howland doesn't make enough use of her colorful cast of secondary characters, she evokes the Nantucket setting vividly, from the "quaint, preserved, one of a kind" streets to the ocean, "a million different shades at once, changing with the few clouds that floated above, darkening with depth, reflecting the deep canyons and sandbar stripes below the surface." Howland and Dessen offer different kinds of summer pleasures, but when it comes to indulgent beach reading, sometimes it's more fun to get pushed over by a wave than to stay safely on your towel. Jennifer Hubert Swan is the middle-school librarian at the Little Red School House and Elisabeth Irwin High School. She blogs at Reading Rants. Jennifer Hubert Swan reviews two books for young readers ages 12 and up: "The Moon and More," by Sarah Dessen, and "Nantucket Blue," by Leila Howland.
School Library Journal Review
Gr 9 Up-Dessen does not stray from her usual formula in this latest novel (Viking, 2013). Emaline, a highly motivated type A personality, lives in Colby and, over the summer, must deal with family and love life issues. It is the author's lyrical and evocative use of language that keeps this story from feeling stale. Allie has been with her boyfriend Luke all during high school. It's the summer before college, and Emaline meets Theo, a filmmaker, and she begins to question her small town life and her future possibilities. Characters from Dessen's previous novels show up in small roles throughout the book, and listeners will have fun trying to remember where they last met each of them. Narrator Allie Gallerani maintains a slow, easy pace throughout and provides well-matched vocal interpretations for the long list of characters by changing inflection, pitch, and volume. Fans of the author and newbies will embrace this latest offering and look forward to another visit to Colby in the near future.-Shari Fesko, Southfield Public Library, MI (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
A high school graduate realizes that having a near-perfect life means not always having the best of everything. It's Emaline's last summer in her hometown of Colby, a seaside tourist mecca where nothing ever changes. But there're big changes in store for Emaline, and what starts out as a happily predictable summer turns into one of emotional twists and turns. Accepted at Columbia, her dream school, Emaline must instead settle for the lesser, local college when her chronically absent father reneges on his offer to pay. Then her perfect, steady boyfriend suddenly begins behaving imperfectly. Another curveball comes in the form of Emaline's burgeoning relationship with Theo, a sophisticated, go-getting film student from NYU who comes to Colby to shoot a documentary and who urges Emaline to aim for greatness. But she is torn, weighing the comfort of her family and the familiarity of small-town life against her belief that her potential rests only in bigger, better things. In the end, Emaline's plans seem almost as surprising to her as they might be to readers. Dessen's characters behave as deliciously unpredictably as people do in real life, and just as in real life, they sometimes have to make difficult choices with not-so-predictable outcomes. Luckily for her readers, it also makes for good fiction. Completely engaging, infused with moments of sweetness, humor and major epiphanies. (Fiction. 12 up)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
HERE THEY COME. "--or I promise you, we'll turn right around and go back to Paterson!" the woman behind the wheel of the burgundy minivan was shouting as it pulled up beside me. She had her head turned towards the backseat, where I could see three kids, two boys and a girl, staring back at her. A vein in her neck was bulging, looking not unlike the interstate, thick and unmissable, on the map held by the man in the passenger seat beside her. "I am serious. I have had it ." The kids didn't say anything. After a moment of glaring at them, she turned to look at me. She had on big sunglasses with bedazzled frames. A large fountain drink, the straw tinged with lipstick, was parked between her legs. "Welcome to the beach," I said to her, in my best Colby Realty employee voice. "May I--" "The directions on your Web site are garbage," she informed me. Behind her, I saw one of the kids frog-punch another, who emitted a stifled shriek. "We've gotten lost three times since getting off the interstate." "I'm so sorry to hear that," I replied. "If you'd like to give me your name, I'll grab you your keys and get you on the way to your rental." "Webster," she told me. I turned, reaching into the small rattan bin that held all the envelopes for that day's check-ins. Miller, Tubman, Simone, Wallace . . . Webster. "Heron's Call," I read off the envelope, before opening it to make sure the keys were both in it. "That's a great property." In reply, she stuck out her hand. I gave the envelope to her, along with her complimentary beach bag full of all the free stuff--Colby Realty pen, giveaway postcard, area guide, and cheap drink cooler--that I knew the cleaning crew would most likely find untouched when they checked out. "Have a great week," I told her. "Enjoy the beach!" Now she gave me a wry smile, although it was hard to tell if she was truly thankful or just felt sorry for me. After all, I was standing in a glorified sandbox in the middle of a parking lot, with three cars lined up behind her, most likely full of people in the exact same kind of mood. When the final stop on a trip is paradise, being the second to last is no picnic. Not that I had time to really think about this as they pulled away, signal already blinking for their turn onto the main road. It was three ten, and the next car, a blue sedan with one of those carriers on top, was waiting. I kicked what sand I could out of my shoes and took a deep breath. "Welcome to the beach," I said, as they pulled up beside me. "Name, please?" "Well," my sister Margo said when I came into the office, sweat-soaked and depleted, two hours later. "How did it go?" "I have sand in my shoes," I told her, going straight to the water cooler, where I filled up a cup, downed it, and then did the same with two more. "You're at the beach, Emaline," she pointed out. "No, I'm at the office ," I replied, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "The beach is two miles away. People will get to the sand soon enough. I don't see why we have to have it here, too." "Because," she replied, in the cool voice of someone who had spent the day in air-conditioning, "we are one of the first impressions our visitors get of Colby. We want them to feel that the moment they turn into our parking lot, they are officially on vacation." "What does that have to do with me standing in a sandbox?" "It's not a sandbox," she said, and I rolled my eyes, because that's exactly what it was, and we both knew it. "It's a sandbar, and it's meant to evoke the majesty of the coast." I didn't even know what to say to this. Ever since Margo had graduated from East U the year before with a double degree in hospitality and business, she'd been insufferable. Or more insufferable, actually. My family had owned Colby Realty for over fifty years; our grandparents started it right after they got married. We'd been doing just fine, thank you, before Margo and her sandbox or sandbar, or whatever. But she was the first one in our family so far to get a college degree, so she got to do whatever she wanted. Which was why, a few weeks earlier, she had this sandbox/Tiki Hut/whatever it was made and put it in our office parking lot. About four feet by four feet, with waist-high walls, it was like a wooden tollbooth, with a truckload of playground sand dumped in and around it for good measure. Nobody questioned the need for this except me. Then again, no one else had to work in it. I heard a snicker, muffled, and looked over. Sure enough, it was my grandmother, behind her own desk, making a phone call. She winked at me and I couldn't help but smile. "Don't forget about the VIP rounds," Margo called out, as I headed in that direction, chucking my cup in the trash on the way. "You need to start promptly at five thirty. And double-check the fruit and cheese platters before you deliver them. Amber did them and you know how she is." Amber was my other sister. She was in hair school, worked for the realty company only under duress, and expressed her annoyance by doing everything in as slipshod a way as possible. "Ten-four," I replied, and Margo exhaled, annoyed. She'd told me ten times that it sounded so unprofessional, like trucker talk. Which was exactly why I kept saying it. My grandmother's office was right at the front of the building, with a big window looking out onto the main road, now packed with beach traffic. She was still on the phone but waved me in when she saw me in her doorway. "Well, yes, Roger, I sympathize, believe me," she was saying as I pushed some brochures aside to sit down in the chair opposite her desk. It was messy as always, piled with papers, file folders, and several open packs of Rolos. She always misplaced one after opening it, only to do the same with the next, and the one after that. "But the bottom line is, in rental houses, door handles get a lot of use. Especially back door handles that lead to the beach. We can fix them as much as possible, but sometimes you just have to replace the hardware." Roger said something, his voice booming from the receiver. My grandmother helped herself to a Rolo, then extended the pack to me. I shook my head. "The report I received was that the handle fell off, inside, after the door was locked. The guests couldn't get back in. That's when they called us." A pause. Then she said, "Well, I'm sure they could have climbed in through a window. But when you're paying five grand for a week, you can claim certain privileges." As Roger responded, she chewed her Rolo. The candy wasn't the best habit, but it was better than cigarettes, which she had smoked up until about six years earlier. My mother claimed that when she was a kid, a constant cloud had hung in this office, like its own personal weather system. Weirdly enough, even after multiple cleanings, new curtains and carpet, you could still smell the smoke. It's faint, but it was there. "Of course. It's always something when you're a landlord," she said now, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her neck. "We'll take care of it and send the bill. All right?" Roger started to say something else. "Great! Thanks for the call." She hung up, shaking her head. Behind her, another minivan was pulling into our parking lot. "Some people," she said, popping out another Rolo, "should just not own beach houses." This is one of her favorite mantras, running a close second to "Some people should just not rent beach houses." I've often told her we should have it needlepointed and framed, not that we could hang it up anywhere in this office. "Another busted handle?" I asked. "Third one this week. You know how it goes. It's the beginning of the season. That means wear and tear." She started digging around on her desk, knocking papers to the floor. "How did check-in go?" "Fine," I said. "Only two early birds, and both their places were already cleaned." "And you're doing the vips today?" I smiled. The VIP package was another one of Margo's recent brainstorms. For an added charge, people who were renting what we called our Beach Palaces--the fanciest properties, with elevators and pools and all the amenities--got a welcome spread of cheese and fruit, along with a bottle of wine. Margo first pitched the idea at the Friday Morning Meeting, another thing she'd instituted, which basically forced us all to sit around the conference table once a week to say everything we'd normally discuss while actually working. That day, she'd handed out a printed agenda, with bullet points, one of which said "VIP Treatment." My grandmother, squinting at it without her glasses, said, "What's a vip?" To Margo's annoyance, it stuck, and now the rest of us refused to call it anything else. "Just leaving now," I told her. "Any special instructions?" She finally found the sheet she'd been looking for and scanned it quickly. "Dune's Dream is a good regular client," she said. "Bon Voyage is new, as is Casa Blu. And whoever's in Sand Dollars is there for two months." " Months ?" I said. "Seriously?" Sand Dollars was one of our priciest properties, a big house way out on the Tip, the very edge of town. Just a week would break most budgets. "Yep. So make sure they get a good platter. All right?" I nodded, then got to my feet. I was just about to the door when she said, "And Emaline?" "Yes?" "You looked pretty cute in that sandbox this afternoon. Brought back memories." I smiled, just as Margo yelled from outside, "It's a sandbar , Grandmother!" Down the hallway in the back storage room, I collected the four platters Amber had assembled earlier. Sure enough, the cheese and fruit were all jumbled up, as if thrown from a distance. After spending a good fifteen minutes making them presentable, I took them out to my car, which was about a million degrees even though I parked in the shade. All I could do was pile them on the passenger seat, point every A/C vent in their direction, and hope for the best. At the first house, Dune's Dream, no one answered even after I rang the bell and paged them from the outside intercom. I walked around the extensive deck, peering down. There was a group of people around the pool below, as well as a couple walking down the long boardwalk to the beach. I tried the door--unlocked--and stepped inside. "Hello?" I called out in a friendly voice. "Colby Realty, VIP delivery?" When you had to come into people's houses--even if they'd only just moved in, and then just for the week--you learned not only to announce yourself but to do so loudly and repeatedly. All it took was catching one person unaware and partially clothed to bang this lesson home. Yes, people were supposed to let it all hang out on vacation. But that didn't mean I wanted to see it. "Colby Realty? VIP delivery?" Silence. Quickly, I moved up to the third-floor kitchen, where the views were spectacular. On the speckled granite island, I arranged the platter, chilled bottle of wine, and a handwritten card welcoming them to Colby and reminding them to contact us if they needed anything at all. Then it was on to the next house. At Bon Voyage, the door was locked, the guests most likely out for an early dinner. I set up the platter and wine in the kitchen, where the blender was still plugged in, the carafe in the sink smelling of something sweet and tropical. It was always so weird to come into these houses once people were actually staying there, especially if I'd just been in the same morning to check after the cleaners. The entire energy was different, like the difference between something being off and on. At Casa Blu, the door was answered by a short woman with a deep tan, wearing a bikini that was, honestly, not really age appropriate. This was not to say I knew how old she was as much as that, even at eighteen, I wouldn't have attempted the same skimpy pink number. There was a white sheen of sunscreen on her face, a beer in a bright yellow cozy in her free hand. "Colby Realty, VIP delivery," I said. "I have a welcome gift for you?" She took a sip of her beer. "Great," she said, in a flat, nasal tone. "Come on in." I followed her up to the next level, trying not to look at her bikini bottom, which was riding up, up, up as we climbed the stairs. "Is it the stripper?" someone called out as I stepped onto the landing. It was another woman around the same age, midforties, maybe, wearing a bikini top, a flowy skirt, and a thick, gold braided necklace. When she saw me, she laughed. "Guess not!" "It's something from the rental place," Pink Bikini explained to her and a third woman in a shorty bathrobe holding a wine glass, her hair in a messy topknot, who were looking down from the deck at something below. "A welcome gift." "Oh," the bathrobe woman said. "I thought this was our present." There was a burst of laughter as the woman who let me in walked over to join them, looking as well. I arranged my platter and bottle, put up the card, and was about to leave discreetly when I heard one of them say, "Wouldn't you just love to take a big bite of that, Elinor?" "Mmmm," she replied. "I say we dump dirt in the pool, so he has to come back tomorrow." "And the next day!" Flowy Skirt said. Then they all laughed again, clinking their glasses. "Enjoy your stay," I called out as I left, but of course they didn't hear me. Halfway down the stairs to the front door, I glanced out one of the big windows, spotting the object of their ogling: a tall, very tan guy with curly blond hair, shirtless, wielding a long, awfully phallic looking pool brush. I could hear them still whooping as I went out the door, easing it shut behind me. Back in the car, I pulled my hair up in a ponytail, secured it with one of the elastics hanging around my gearshift, and sat for a moment in the driveway, watching the waves. I had one more stop and plenty of time, so I was still there when the pool guy let himself out of the fence and headed back to his truck, parked beside me. "Hey," I called out, as he climbed up into the open bed, coiling a couple of hoses. "You could make some big money this week, if your morals are loose enough and you like older women." He grinned, flashing white teeth. "Think so?" "They'd devour you, given the chance." Another smile as he hopped down, shutting the tailgate, and came over to my open window. He leaned down on it, so his head was level with mine. "Not my type," he told me. "Plus, I'm already taken." "Lucky girl," I said. "You should tell her that. I think she takes me for granted." I made a face. "I think it's mutual." He leaned in and kissed me. I could taste the tiny bit of sweat above his lip. As he pulled back, I said, "You're not kidding anyone, you know. You are fully capable of wearing a shirt when you work." "It's hot out here!" he told me, but I just rolled my eyes, cranking my engine. Ever since he'd taken up running and got all cut, you couldn't keep a top on the boy. This was not the first house that had noticed. "So we still on for tonight?" "What's tonight?" "Emaline." He shook his head. "Don't even try to act like you've forgotten." I thought hard. Nothing. Then he hummed the first few bars of "Here Comes the Bride," and I groaned. "Oh, right. The cookout thing." "The shower-slash-barbecue," he corrected me. "Otherwise known as my mother's full-time obsession for the last two months?" Oops. In my defense, however, this was the third of four showers that were being held in preparation for the wedding of Luke's sister Brooke. Ever since she'd gotten engaged the previous fall, it had been all wedding all the time at his house. Since I spent much of my time there, it was like being forced into an immersion program for a language I had no interest in learning. Plus, since Luke and I had been together since ninth grade, there was also the issue of everyone making jokes about how we'd be next, and his parents should go ahead and get a two-for-one deal. Ha, ha. "Seven o'clock," Luke said now, kissing my forehead. "See you then. I'll be the one with the shirt on." I smiled, shifting into reverse. Then it was back down the long driveway, onto the main road, and up to the end of the Tip, to Sand Dollars. This was one of the newer houses we managed, and probably the nicest. Eight bedrooms, ten and a half baths, pool and hot tub, private boardwalk to the beach, screening room downstairs with real theater seats and surround sound. It was so new, in fact, that only a couple of weeks ago there had still been a Porta-John outside, the contractor rushing to finish the last inspections before the season began. While they did punch-list and turnkey stuff, Margo and I had been putting away all the utensils and dishes the decorator had bought at Park Mart, bags and bags of which had been left in the garage. It was the oddest thing, furnishing a whole house all at once. There was no history to anything. All rental houses feel anonymous, but this one was where I'd felt it the most. So much so that even with the pretty view, it always kind of gave me the creeps. I liked a little past to things. As I came up the drive, there was a lot of activity. A white van with tinted windows and an SUV were parked out front, the van's back doors open. Inside, I could see stacks of Rubbermaid bins and cardboard boxes, clearly in the process of being unloaded. I got out of my car, collecting the VIP stuff. As I started up the stairs to the front door, it opened, and two guys about my age came out. Within seconds, we recognized each other. "Emaline," Rick Mason, our former class president, called out to me. Behind him was Trent Dobash, who played football. The three of us were not friends, but our school was so small you knew everyone, whether you liked it or not. "Fancy meeting you here." "You're renting this place?" I was shocked. "I wish," he scoffed. "We were just down surfing and got offered a hundred each to unload this stuff." "Oh," I said, as they passed me, moving down to the open van. "Right. What's in the boxes?" "No idea," he replied, lifting one of the bins out and handing it to Trent. "Could be drugs or firearms. I don't care as long as I get my money." This was exactly the kind of sentiment that had made Rick such a lousy class president. Then again, his only competition had been a girl who recently moved from California whom everyone hated, so it wasn't like we had a lot of options. Inside the open front door, another guy was moving around in the huge living room, organizing the stuff that had already been brought in. He, however, was not from here, something I discerned with one glance. First, he had on Oyster jeans--dark wash, with the signature O on the back pockets--which I hadn't even known they made for guys. Second, he had a knit cap pulled down over his ears, even though it was early June. It was like pulling teeth to get Luke or any of his friends to wear anything but shorts, regardless of the temperature: beach guys don't do winter wear, even in winter. I knocked, but he didn't hear me, too busy opening up one of the bins. I tried again, this time adding, "Colby Realty? VIP delivery?" He turned, taking in the wine and the cheese. "Great," he replied, all business. "Just put it anywhere." I walked over to the kitchen, where a couple of weeks ago I had been pulling price tags off spatulas and colanders, and arranged the tray, wine, and my card. I was just turning to leave when I caught a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye. Then the yelling began. "I don't care what time it is, I needed that delivery today! It's what I arranged and therefore what I expected and I won't accept anything else!" At first, the source of this was just a blur. A beat later, though, it slowed enough for me to make out a woman wearing black jeans, a short-sleeved black sweater, and ballet flats. She had hair so blonde it was almost white, and a cell phone was clamped to her ear. "I ordered four tables, I want four tables. They should be here in the next hour and my account is to be adjusted accordingly for their lateness. I am spending too much money to put up with this bullshit!" I looked at the guy in the Oyster jeans, still busy with the bins across the room, who appeared to not even be fazed by this. I, however, was transfixed, the way you are whenever you see crazy people up close. You just can't look away, even when you know you should. "No, that's not going to work for me. No. No. Today, or forget the entire thing." Now that she was standing still, I noted the set of her jaw, as well as the angular way her cheek and collar bones protruded. She was downright prickly, like one of those predator plants you see in deserts. "Fine. I'll expect my deposit to be refunded on my card by tomorrow morning or you'll be hearing from my attorney. Goodbye." She jabbed at the phone, turning it off. Then, as I watched, she threw it across the room, where it crashed against the wall that just had just been painted on Memorial Day weekend, leaving a black mark. Holy shit. "Idiots," she announced, her voice loud even in this big room. "Prestige Party Rental my ass . I knew the minute we crossed the Mason-Dixon Line it would be like working in the third world." Now, the guy looked at her, then at me, which of course made her finally notice me as well. "Who is this?" she snapped. "From the realty place," he told her. "VIP something or other." She looked mystified, so I pointed at the wine and cheese. "A welcome gift," I said. "From Colby Realty." "It would have been better if you'd brought tables," she grumbled, walking over to the platter and lifting the wrap. After peering down at it, she ate a grape, then shook her head. "Honestly, Theo, I'm already wondering if this was a mistake. What was I thinking?" "We'll find another place to rent tables," he told her, in a voice that made it clear he was used to these kinds of tirades. He'd already picked up her phone, which he was now checking for damage. The wall, like me, was ignored. "Where? This place is backwoods. There's probably not another one for a hundred miles. God, I need a drink." She picked up the wine I had brought, squinting at the bottle. "Cheap and Australian. Of course." I watched her as she started pulling open drawers, obviously looking for a corkscrew. I let her look in all the wrong places, just out of spite, before I finally moved over to the wet bar by the pantry to get it. "Here." I handed it to her, then grabbed the pen and paper we always left with the housekeeping card. "Prestige has a habit of screwing up orders. You should call Everything Island. They're open until eight." I wrote down the number, then pushed it towards her. She just looked at it, then at me. She didn't pick it up. As I started towards the stairs, where Rick and Trent were banging up with another load, neither of the renters said anything. I was used to that. As far as they were concerned, this was their place now, with me as much scenery as the water. But when I spotted a price tag still on a little wicker basket by the door, I stopped and pulled it off anyway. Excerpted from The Moon and More by Sarah Dessen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.