Starcrossed

everything on. But trust me, even knowing he’s down the street while I shop for underwear is excruciating,” she said, a smile on her reddening face.
    “It can’t be all that painful. It’s not like you ever try to buy anything sexy. Jeez, Lennie, do you think you could dress more like my grandma?” Claire held up a pair of white cotton briefs. Helen snatched the granny panties and shoved them to the bottom of the bag while Claire stretched out her magnificent laugh.
    “I know, I’m such a big geek it’s gone viral,” Helen replied, Claire’s teasing instantly forgiven, as usual. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch a fatal case of loser from me?”
    “Nope. I’m so awesome I’m immune. Anyway, geeks are the best. You’re all so deliciously corruptible. And I love the way you blush whenever I talk about underpants.”
    Claire was forced to adjust her stance as a couple of picture-takers barged in close to them. Working with the momentum of the deck, Claire nudged the tourists out of the way with one of her ninja balance moves. They stumbled aside, laughing about the “choppy water,” clueless that Claire had even touched them. Helen fiddled with the heart necklace she always wore and took the opportunity to slouch down against the railing to better meet her friend’s small stature.
    Unfortunately for achingly shy Helen, she was an eye-grabbing five feet nine inches tall, and still growing. She’d prayed to Jesus, the Buddha, Muhammad, and Vishnu to make it stop, but she still felt the hot splinters in her limbs and the seizing muscles of another growth spurt at night. She promised herself that at least if she topped six feet she’d be tall enough to scale the safety railing and throw herself off the top of the lighthouse in Siasconset.
    Salespeople were always telling her how lucky she was, but not even they could find her pants that fit. Helen had resigned herself to the fact that in order to buy affordable jeans that were long enough she had to go a few sizes too big, but if she didn’t want them to fall off her hips, she had to put up with a mild breeze flapping around her ankles. Helen was pretty sure that the “wicked jealous” salesgirls didn’t walk around with chilly ankles. Or with their butt cracks showing.
    “Stand up straight,” Claire snapped automatically when she saw Helen slouching, and Helen obeyed. Claire had a thing about good posture, something to do with her super-proper Japanese mother and even more proper, kimono-wearing grandmother.
    “Okay! On to the main topic,” Claire announced. “You know that huge kazillion-dollar compound that the New England Patriots guy used to own?”
    “The one in ’Sconset? Sure. What about it?” Helen asked, picturing the house’s private beach and feeling relieved that her dad didn’t make enough money at his store to buy a house any closer to the water.
    When Helen was a child she had very nearly drowned, and ever since had secretly believed that the Atlantic Ocean was trying to kill her. She’d always kept that bit of paranoia to herself . . . though she still was a terrible swimmer. To be fair, she could tread water for a few minutes at a time, but she was rotten at it. Eventually, she sank like a rock no matter how saline the ocean was supposed to be and no matter how hard she paddled.
    “It finally sold to a big family,” Claire said. “Or two families. I’m not sure how it works, but I guess there are two fathers, and they’re brothers. They both have kids—so the kids are cousins?” Claire wrinkled her brow. “Whatever. The point is that whoever moved in has a bunch of kids. And they’re all about the same age. There are, like, two boys that are going to be in our grade.”
    “And let me guess,” Helen said, deadpan. “You did a tarot reading and saw that both of the boys are going to fall madly in love with you and then they’ll tragically fight to the death.”
    Claire kicked Helen in the shin. “No, dummy. There’s one for each of us.”
    Helen rubbed her leg, pretending it hurt. Even if Claire had kicked Helen with all of her might, she still wouldn’t be strong enough to leave a bruise.
    “One for each of us? That’s uncharacteristically low drama of you,” Helen teased. “It’s too straightforward. I don’t buy it. But how about this? We’ll each fall in love with the same boy, or the wrong boy—whichever one doesn’t love us back—and then you and I will fight each other to the