Perfect (Book Two)

Eight: Even Typical Rosewood Boys Soul-Search.

Calm down, she told herself. It's just rain. She took two cleansing breaths, stuck her fingers in her ears, and started singing "Frere Jacques"—for some reason, the French version did the trick. After she went through three rounds, the spots began to disappear. The rain had let up from hurricane-force to merely torrential. What she needed to do was walk back to the farmhouse she'd passed and ask to use their phone. She thrust open the car door, held her Rosewood Day blazer over her head, and started to run. A gust of wind blew up her miniskirt, and she stepped in an enormous, muddy puddle. The water seeped right through the gauzy straps of her stacked-heel sandals. "Damn it," she muttered.

She was only a hundred feet from the farmhouse when a navy-colored Audi passed. It splashed a wave of puddle water at Aria, then stopped at the dead Subaru. It slowly a wave of puddle water at Aria, then stopped at the dead Subaru. It slowly backed up until it was right next to her. The driver's window glided down. "You okay?"

Aria squinted, raindrops dripping off the tip of her nose. Hanging out the driver's side was Sean Ackard, a boy in her class. He was a typical Rosewood boy: crisp polo, moisturized skin, All-American features, expensive car. Only he played soccer, not lacrosse. Not the kind of person she wanted to see right now. "I'm fine," she yelled.

"Actually, you're soaked. Need a ride?"

Aria was so wet, she felt like her face was pruning. Sean's car looked dry and snuggly. So she slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.

Sean told her to throw her soaked blazer into the back. Then he reached over and turned up the heat. "Where to?"

Aria pushed her matted-down, fringey black bangs off her forehead. "Actually, I'll just use your cell phone and then be out of your way."

"All right." Sean dug through his backpack to find it.

Aria sat back and looked around. Sean hadn't plastered his car with band stickers like some guys did, and the interior didn't reek of boy sweat. Instead, it smelled like some combination of bread and a freshly shampooed dog. Two books sat on the passenger-side floor: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Mainstenace and The Two Tao of Pooh.

"You like philosophy?" Aria moved her legs so she wouldn't get them wet.

Sean ducked his head. "Well, yeah." He sounded embarrassed.

"I read those books, too," Aria said. "I also got really into French philosophers this summer, when I was in Iceland." She paused. She'd never really spoken to Sean. Before she left, Rosewood boys terrified her—which was probably partly why she hated them. "I, um, was in Iceland for a while. My dad was on sabbatical."

"I know." Sean gave her a crooked smile.

Aria stared at her hands. "Oh." There was an awkward pause. The only sound was the hurtling rain and the windshield wipers' rhythmic whaps.

"So you read, like, Carmus and stuff?" Sean asked. When Aria nodded, he smirked. "I read The Stranger this summer."

"Really?" Aria jutted her chin to the air, certain he hadn't understood it. What would a typical Rosewood boy want with deep philosophy books, anyway? If this were an SAT analogy, it would "typical Rosewood boy: reading French philosophers :: American tourists in Iceland: eating anywhere but McDonald's." It just didn't happen.

When Sean didn't answer, she dialed her home number into his cell phone. It rang and rang, not going to voice mail—they hadn't set up the answering machine yet. Next she dialed her dad's number at school—it was almost five, and he had posted his 3:30-5:30 office hours on the refrigerator. It rang and rang too.

The spots started to flash in front Aria's eyes again as she imagined where he could be...or who he could be with. She leaned forward over her bare legs, trying to breathe deeper. Frere Jacques, she chanted silently.